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Title: The Catholic World, Volume 8
       October, 1868, to March, 1869.

Author: Various

Release Date: February 24, 2018 [EBook #56631]

Language: English

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{i}

       The Catholic World.

       A Monthly Magazine

              of

  General Literature And Science.

          ----------

          Vol. VIII.

  October, 1868, TO March, 1869.

          ----------

New York:
The Catholic Publication House,
126 Nassau Street.

1869.

{ii}


John A. Gray & Green,

Printers,

16 And 18 Jacob Street, New York.

{iii}

           Contents.

           ----------

American College in Rome, The, 560.
Apostolic Letter from the Pope, 721.
A Legend for Husbands, 824.

Basilica of St. Saturnin, The, 101.
Bretons, The Faith and Poetry of the, 123.
Brittany, Its People and its Poems, 598.

Church of the Future, The, 143.
Catholicity and Pantheism, 181, 360, 565, 657, 811.
Curé d'Ars, Statue of, 200.
Catholic Congress? Shall we have a, 224.
Canadian Customs, 246.
Charities of New York, The, 279.
Catholicity, Creative Genius of, 406.
Christmas Gifts, 546.

Dante Alighieri, 213.

Education, Catholic View of, 686.
Earl Derby's Homer, 740.

Flaminia, 76.

Galileo-Galilei, 321, 433.
Good old Time and our own, The, 380.
Genius of Catholicity, The Creative, 406.
General Convention of the Protestant Episcopal Church, 461.
General Council, The Approaching, 796.

Hospitality, Legend of, 68.
Holy Grayle, The, 137.
Hyacinthe, Rev. Père, Discourse of, 188.
Hypnotics, 289.
Heremore-Brandon, 522, 663, 784.
Human Will, Teaching of Statistics concerning, 643.
Homer's Iliad, by Earl Derby, 740.
Husbands, A Legend for, 824.

Ireland's Martyrs, 838.

Kaulbach and the Era of the Reformation, 56.

Massacre of St. Bartholomew, 1.
Maria von Mörl, 32.
Marcel, The Story of, 254, 347, 494.
Middle Ages, Ignorance of the, 598.

Out of the Depths have I cried, 453.
O'Reilly's Irish Martyrs, 838.

Philosophy and Science, The Present Disputes in, 229.
Purgatory, Treatise on, 266.
Protestant Episcopal Church, General Convention of, 461.
Protestantism a Failure, 503.
Pope Pius IX., Letter Apostolic of, 536.
"Poor Mara!" 637.
Porter's Human Intellect, 671, 767.
Progress of Nations, Seaman's, 724.

Religion Medically Considered, 116.
Rings, 129.
Right Path found through the Great Snow, The, 370.
Ritualism, The Future of, 828.

St. Bartholomew, Massacre of, 1.
Sisters of the Poor, The Little, 100.
School-Room, In the, 132.
Schaff's Church History, 417.
Scientific and Revealed Truth, The Unity of, 485.
Sun, Eclipse of, in 1868, 697.
Seaman's Progress of Nations, 724.
St. Michael the Hermit, The Legend of, 853.

The Invasion, 18, 162, 301, 473, 619, 746.
Talleyrand, 88.
The Little Sisters of the Poor, 110.
The Faith and Poetry of the Bretons, 123.
Tuscany, Glimpses of, 196, 316.
The Great Snow, The Right Path found through, 370.
The Poor? Who shall take care of, 703, 734.
The Iliad of Homer, 740.

Who shall take care of our Sick? 42.
Who shall take care of the Poor? 703, 734.

Ximenes, Cardinal, 577.

----------

      Poetry.


Aspirations, 222.
A Door, Inscription on, 636.

Count de Montalembert, 128.
Christmas, 471.

Dante, Sonnet from _Vita Nuova</i> of, 545.
Discipline, 641.
De Profundis, 853.

Friendships, 187.

Indian Summer, 405.

Lines, 745.

Mine Enemy, 73.

Penitence, 421.
Primrose, The Evening, 521.
Pius IX., The Volunteers for, 635.

Summer Shower, A, 40.

The Silent Clock, 733.

{iv}

    New Publications.


Alton Park, 143.
A Psyche of To-day, 143.
A Becket, Life of, 428.
Asmodeus in New York, 429.
A Book about Dominies, 719.
A Few Friends, 856.

Barrington's Sketches of his own Times, 287.
Beginning German, 574.
Beginner's French, 576.
Biarnois's Theoretical French, 718.
Bottala, Rev. Paul, on the Pope, 283.

Cardinals, Lives of the English, 139.
Cradle Lands, 422.
Criminal Abortion, 573
Charlie Bell, 860.

Dalgairns on the Holy Communion, 430.

Excelsior, or Essays on Politeness, 288.
Emmet, Life and Times of, 430.

Father Cleveland, 141.
Fay's Outlines of Geography, 429.

Gropings after Truth, 429.
Gayarré's Philip II. of Spain, 570.
Greeley's Recollections, 571.
Gayarré's History of Louisana, 716.
Gray's Botany, 860.

Herbert's Cradle Lands, 422.
Hebrew Grammar, New, 426.
Historical Gazetteer of Vermont, 428.
Hopkins's Law of Love, 858.
Hayden's Light on Last Things, 838.

Illustrated Family Almanac, 572.

Kelly's Dissertations on Irish Church History, 856.

Logic for Young Ladies, 143.
Leaf and Flower Pictures, 286.
Life of Blessed Spinola, 859.

Mühlbach's Goethe and Schiller, 141.
Modern Women, 143.
Mrs. Sadlier's MacCarthy More, 288.
Mignon, 288.
Moore's Poetical Works, 431.
Moore's Memoir of Sheridan, 431.
Mark's Lessons in Geometry, 431.

New Adam, The, 427.
Newman's Verses, 574.
New Illustrated History of Ireland, 720.

O'Leary, Rev. Arthur, Works of, 287.
O'Shea's Juvenile Library, 573.
Outlines of Composition, 859.

Plain Talk about Protestantism, 288.
Plain Chant, A Grammar of, 857. 8

Roman Martyrology, The, 430.
Rural Poems, 573.
Report of New York University, 575.
Robertson's Lectures on Burke, 717.

Symbolism, by Moehler, 285.
Sunday-School Library, Illustrated, 286.
Shiel's Sketches of the Irish Bar, 287.
Sydnie Adriance, 430.
South America, A Thousand Miles across, 431.
Synodus Dioecesana Baltimorensis, 432.
St. John's Knowledge and Love of God, 573.
Sadlier's Almanac, 718.

The Works of Burns, Scott, Milton, etc., 142.
The Lily of the Valley, 287.
The Bird, 425.
Tablets, 426.
The Two Women, 432.
Taine's Ideal of Art, 572.
The Little Gipsy, 574.
Tobacco and Alcohol, 719.
The Conscript, 859.

Willson's Histories, 141.
Webster's Dictionaries, 144.
Winninger, Rev. F. X., on the Pope, 285.

----------
{1}

        The Catholic World.

    Vol. VIII., No. 43 October, 1868.

----------

  The Massacre Of St. Bartholomew--its Origin And Character.
  [Footnote 1]

    [Footnote 1: _The Massacre of St. Bartholomew: preceded by
    a History of the Religious Wars in the Reign of Charles
    IX._ By Henry White. London: John Murray. 1868. 8vo, pp.
    xviii.-505.

    _La St. Barthélemy, ses Origines, son Vrai Caractère, ses
    Suites_. Par George Gandy. _Revue des Questions
    Historiques_. Tome ier, pp. 11-91, 32-391.]

Few historical events have been more persistently used in
arguments against the Catholic Church than the massacre of
Admiral Coligny, and a great number of Protestant nobles and
people, at Paris, on St. Bartholomew's day, 1572, by orders
emanating from the court.

Isolated from the religious wars in which it is but one of the
darkest episodes, this affair has been set forward as an
independent act--a deliberate scheme of the Catholic party in
France--king, nobles, and clergy--to extinguish Protestantism at
a single blow. The numbers of the victims have been exaggerated
to an extent incompatible with all contemporary statistics of
population; and the massacre of St. Bartholomew has thus been
transmitted, as if by a series of distorting mirrors, from the
pamphlets of the time to the histories, sermons, periodicals, and
school-books of our days, each reflection but a distortion of the
last, and so exceeding it in unreality that at length truth had
become utterly hopeless.

In fact, we might as well expect to have Bibles throw out the
long-sanctioned misprint of "strain at a gnat," and print,
correctly, "strain out a gnat," or omit the intrusive words at
the end of the Lord's Prayer, which all Protestant Biblical
scholars admit to be spurious, as to expect popular accounts of
St. Bartholomew's day to come down to what is really certain and
authentic.

Even among writers of a higher stamp, there seemed to be a
disposition to avoid research that would break the charm.
Historical scholars made little effort to free the subject from
the mists and fables with which it has been encompassed, and set
down only well-attested facts with authorities to sustain them.
{2}
It is, therefore, with no less surprise than gratification that
we find in the recent work of Henry White a laborious and
thorough examination of the evidence still extant as to the
originators of the dark deed, their motives and object, the
extent of the slaughter, and the reasons assigned at the moment
and subsequently. It is one of those subjects in which no work
will be accepted entirely by readers of an opposite faith,
inasmuch as it is almost impossible to avoid drawing inferences,
and ascribing motives for acts, to real or supposed modes of
thought in the religious body to which the actors belonged.

  "Respecting the massacre of St. Bartholomew there are also two
  theories. Some contend that it was the result of a
  long-premeditated plot; and this view was so ably maintained by
  John Allen, in the _Edinburgh Review_, (vol. xliv.--1826,)
  that nothing further was left to be said on the subject. Others
  are of opinion that it was the accidental result of a momentary
  spasm of mingled terror and fanaticism, caused by the
  unsuccessful attempt to murder Coligny. This theory has been
  supported by Ranke, in a review of Capefigue's _Histoire de
  la Réforme_; by Soldan; by Baum, in his _Life of Beza;_
  and by Coquerel, in the _Revue Théologique_, in 1859."

Such is White's statement of the position of the question; and
his work has been justly styled "able and unpretentious."

In France, the anti-Christian writers of the last
century--Voltaire and his school--were all loud in denunciation
of the affair, and painted it in its worst colors. It was too
good a weapon, in their war against religion, to be easily laid
down; and it was made to do such good service that later Catholic
apologists have till recently scarcely ventured on any
examination of the question that would seem at all favorable. The
discussion by Gandy is, in extent and research, as well as in
soundness of principle, by far the best review of the subject.
Yet, as a close historical argument, the force is sometimes
destroyed by the citation of comparatively weak and undecisive
authorities.

In English, the best Catholic tract on St. Bartholomew was that
of Dr. Lingard.

Some of his positions were not well taken, and do not stand when
confronted with authorities brought forward by later research.
Yet his essay compelled a real historic investigation by
subsequent writers, and has led, indirectly at least, to the work
of Mr. White.

This writer says, not inaptly (p. 200): "It is easy to prove any
historical untruth by a skilful manipulation of documents." This
skilful manipulation need not be done with the consciousness of
guilt. It may be the result of prejudice, party spirit, bias; and
he himself is not free from objection. With an evident endeavor
to be impartial, his education and prejudices lead him to slur
over some acts and expatiate on others; to ascribe to exalted
piety all the deeds of one party, and deny to the other any real
religious feeling.

This taints all his introductory chapters on the religious wars
in France, prior to 1572, giving a false light and color to the
whole. It gives the impression that real piety, devotion,
religious feeling, were not to be found at all among the
Catholics of France, but were the peculiar attributes of the
disciples gained by the emissaries sent from Geneva by Calvin.

{3}

Biassing the reader thus, he keeps back the real exterminating,
destructive, and intolerant spirit of the Huguenots, and, while
detailing here and there excesses, treats as insignificant the
conspiracy of Amboise, Coligny's complicity in Poltrot's
assassination of the Duke of Guise, Queen Jane's ruthless
extirpation of Catholicity, the Michelade, and the fearful
butchery enacted by Montgomery at Orthez, a small place where,
nevertheless, the Catholic victims numbered, according to his own
figures, three thousand, halt what he claims as the number of
Protestant victims at Paris on the bloody day of St. Bartholomew.

Nor is he more happy in depicting the theories and ideas of the
two parties.

Compare the Protestants in France with the early Christians and
the difference will be seen. The Reformers everywhere were
aggressive and intolerant. They did not ask merely liberty to
adopt new religious views and practise them. They did, indeed,
raise the cry of religious freedom--freedom of worship--freedom
of conscience; but what did these words really mean? They meant
the suppression of the Catholic worship, the extermination of the
priesthood and religious orders, the pillage and defacing of
Catholic churches, and the destruction of paintings, statues,
relics, and crosses. When this was done, they proclaimed
religious liberty. Thus, at Lyons, in 1562, "the Mass was
abolished, liberty of conscience proclaimed," in two consecutive
clauses.

The utter absurdity of such a connection does not strike Mr.
White, nor will it strike many English readers as it does a
Catholic ear. The Protestant spirit has so falsified ideas that
we constantly hear the same inconsistency. The enthusiastic son
of New England claims that the Puritan fathers established
"freedom to worship God according to the dictates of conscience,"
when, in fact, they claimed only the right to worship for
themselves and denied it to all others; the son of Rhode Island
claims Roger Williams as the real founder of toleration, and yet
his fanatical opposition to the slightest semblance to
Catholicity was such that he exhorted the trained bands not to
march under the English flag because it had the cross on it; the
historian of New York, or the more elaborate historian of the
Netherlands, will claim for Holland the honor of establishing
religious freedom, and we read their pages with the impression
that the people of the Netherlands were Protestant, as a unit;
and that the republic established after throwing off the Spanish
yoke made the land one where all creeds met in harmony, and all
men were equal in the eye of the law in their religious rights.
Yet what is the real fact? From that time till the present nearly
one half of the people of the Netherlands have been Catholics.
The Protestants, possessing a slight numerical advantage, ruled,
and to the Catholics their rule was one of iron. They were
deprived of all churches, prohibited from erecting others,
confined to certain quarters, subjected to penal laws. Where then
was the freedom of worship? In the reformers' minds these words
had no application to Catholics.

Now, it was this aggressive, intolerant spirit of the reformers
that made the civil governments in countries which elected to
remain Catholic so severe on the new religionists. The moment a
foreign emissary from Geneva gathered a few proselytes, enough to
form a body of any size, then began coarse songs, ridiculing and
scoffing at the holiest doctrines of the Catholics; then crosses
would be broken down, crucifixes, statues of the blessed Virgin
and the saints, defaced or destroyed; as their numbers grew,
priests would be driven from their churches or shot down, and the
edifices themselves plundered and appropriated to the new creed.
{4}
That such things could be borne tamely was impossible. In France
the government was weak and vacillating. The humbler and less
instructed portions of the Catholic body retaliated in the same
measure that they saw meted out, and resisted a creed that used
abuse and violence, by abuse and violence. They had not the cant
of their antagonists, but true religion is not to be measured by
that standard.

Alarmed by the excesses of the Reformers elsewhere, the French
government attempted to repress their entrance into France by
penal laws, a course that seldom attains the end proposed. The
progress of error was to be checked by more assiduous teaching of
the people by their pastors, by zeal in reforming morals, by
institutions practically exercising the spiritual and corporal
works of mercy.

Yet, while conceding the general deficiency of power in penal
laws to check the progress of religious opinions, it must be
remembered that the destructive tenets we have alluded to made
the increase of the Calvinists a danger to the peace and
well-being of France. Beza, in his _Profession of Faith_,
(v. Point p. 119,) advised the extermination of priests. Calvin
(_Apud Becan_, t. v. opusc. 17, aph. 15, De modo propagandi
Calvinismi) declares that the Jesuits must be killed or crushed
by falsehood and calumny. The destruction of all representations
of Christ and his saints was the constant theme of the reformed
preachers, and under this war against idols, as they termed them,
they included insult and outrage to the remains of those
illustrious men of the past whose exalted virtues had endeared
them to the Christian people.

From that day to this Protestantism has sanctioned the outrages
thus advised and thus committed. The right of Protestants to
demolish, on any slight pretext, Catholic churches, convents,
shrines, monuments, or pictures, seems even now a sort of
self-evident axiom, its exercise being regulated merely by
grounds of expediency. England and the United States can show
their examples of this, even in the present century; in the last,
the outrages committed by New England troops in Canada and Acadia
whenever a Catholic church fell into their power; the careful
aiming of cannon at the monastic buildings in the siege of
Quebec; the expedition against Louisburg, with the chaplain
bearing an axe to demolish the idols; at once suggest themselves
to the mind.

That Catholics possessed any right to their own churches, their
own ideas of worship, was never entertained for a moment.

The civil law might justly repress such men, if not on the simple
ground of teaching false doctrines, at least for their claim of
right to destroy the liberty of those who professed the religion
of their ancestors.

For some years the reform gained slowly in France, the emissaries
of Calvin never relaxing their efforts, and finally winning to
their side Queen Jane of Navarre, the Prince of Condé and the
three famous brothers of the house of Chatillon, D'Andelot,
Admiral Coligny, find the profligate Cardinal Odet. By this time
the Protestant churches, true to their aggressive character,
assumed a military organization, as White (p. 23) and Fauriel, a
recent French Protestant author, admit, and aimed at the
overthrow alike of Catholicity and royalty. This secret
preparation for an armed attempt to secure the mastery of France
had, by 1560, attained its full development.[Footnote 2]
{5}
The moment had come for a grand effort which was to exterminate
Catholicity from France as utterly as it has been from Sweden,
where not even gratitude for their foremost struggle for
independence saved the Catholic Dalecarlians from annihilation.

    [Footnote 2: Consult _Mémoires de Saulx Tavannes_,
    p. 29; Lavallée, _Histoire des Français_, i. p. 575;
    Fauriel, _Essai sur les Evénements qui ont précédé et
    antené le St. Barthélemy_, p. 19-]

The position of affairs in France justified the hopes of the
reformers. There were three parties in the state--the earnest
Catholic party, headed by the Guises of Lorraine; the Huguenot
party, directed by Calvin, with Condé in France as its future
king, and Coligny as its master-spirit; and, as usual in such
cases, a third party of weak men, who hampered the Catholics, and
thus strengthened their opponents, by hesitation, uncertainty,
and fitfulness.

The queen mother, Catharine de Medicis, disliked the house of
Lorraine more than she loved Catholicity; and, jealous of the
growing power of the Guises, was not disinclined to see the party
of Condé counterbalance it. Hence, she generally threw her
influence into the third party, in which figured the Duke
d'Alençon, the Montmorencies, Cossé, Biron, and to which men like
the famous Chancellor l'Hopital gave their influence. How little
the true Catholic spirit, as we understand it now, prevailed
among the higher nobility, may be inferred from the fact that the
two great Protestant leaders, Condé and Coligny, were brothers of
cardinals, their close relationship to princes of the Roman
Church exerting no influence. One of these cardinals apostatized,
and, after defying the pope, fled to England, to be poisoned by
his valet; the other was a mere figure in the stirring scenes and
times in which he lived.

Francis II., husband of Mary, Queen of Scots, on ascending the
throne, placed the control of affairs in the hands of his uncles,
the Cardinal of Lorraine and the Duke of Guise. This meant a firm
government, not one to tolerate an _imperium in imperio_--a
power able to put in the field, as Coligny boasted, one hundred
and fifty thousand men.

Encouraged by the edict of January, 1560, the masses of the
reformed party were, everywhere that their numbers permitted it,
seizing Catholic churches and monasteries, expelling the inmates,
demolishing every vestige of the ancient faith. While they were
thus committing themselves, and overawing the Catholics, the
leaders formed the celebrated plot of Amboise to assassinate the
Guises, seize the person of the king, and, of course, the control
of the government. In spite of his disavowal, made after it had
failed, Calvin really approved of it at first. This White denies,
(p. 82;) but the letter to Sturm, cited by Gandy, (p. 28,) is
decisive; and in the very letter where he seems to condemn his
followers, he says: "Had they not been opposed, in time our
people would have seized many churches; ... but there, too, they
yielded with the same weakness." (_Bulletin de la Société de
l'Histoire du Protestantisme Français_, i. p. 250.) Coligny's
complicity is as evident. The ostensible leader was Bary de la
Renaudie, "whose enmity to Guise," says White, "probably made him
renounce his religion and join the reformers."

Protestant writers all admit that the plot of Amboise would, if
successful, have overthrown Catholicity for ever in France. The
Guises saw the danger to themselves, to Catholicity, and to
royalty, and acted with promptness and energy.
{6}
Every road and avenue leading to the place was guarded, and the
separate bands of the conspirators as they came up were met and
crushed, la Renaudie, the ostensible leader, being slain.

Then followed a series of terrible criminal proceedings. The
partisans of the rebellion were tried, condemned, and executed
with as little mercy as English rulers ever manifested to Irish
rebels. White puts the number executed at one thousand two
hundred, but cites no authorities to justify so large an
estimate.

After this affair at Amboise, "the political character of the
Huguenots," as White admits, "became more prominent, and proved
the temporary destruction of French Protestantism." The reformers
committed many outrages on the Catholics after the failure at
Amboise, especially in the districts where Montbrun and Mouvans
swept through with the hand of destruction, till the latter
perished miserably at Draguignan. Then followed a new Huguenot
plot, formed by Condé and his brother Anthony, but Francis II.
raised a considerable force, and, marching down, overawed them.
Condé and the other Huguenot leaders were summoned to appear
before him. D'Andelot fled; Condé appeared, was tried, and
condemned; but before any other steps were taken Francis II. died
in November. "Did you ever hear or read of anything so opportune
as the death of the little king?" wrote Calvin; and Beza gloried
over "the foul death of the miserable boy."

Charles IX. became king, with his mother, Catharine de Medicis,
as regent, and she sought to weaken the power of the Guises.
Condé was released from prison, his brother Anthony made
lieutenant-general of the kingdom. An assembly of the Three
Estates was convened, but dissolved without effecting any good.
Throughout the land, the Huguenots employed abuse and violence,
drawing on themselves fearful punishment.

Still, under Catharine's fickle favor, the Huguenots were
steadily gaining ground, and the Colloquy at Poissy, in 1562,
where Beza appeared in person, was, in its actual result and in
moral effect, a victory to the reformers. The countenance of the
court gave them boldness. The Catholic party saw the evident
danger and were loud in their complaints, but this only made
collisions more frequent: one party elate with hope and triumph,
the other seeing naught but treachery and violence.

It needed but a spark to kindle a conflagration; at last it came.
On Corpus Christi, in 1561, as the procession of the blessed
sacrament moved through the streets of Lyons, a Huguenot rushed
upon the officiating clergyman and endeavored to wrest the
consecrated host from his hands. So daring an outrage roused the
Catholics to fury. In an instant the whole city was in arms, and
the innocent atoned in blood for the madness of one. Even in
Paris itself similar riots took place, and fifty Catholics were
killed or wounded at the church of St. Medard, into which
D'Andelot rode on horseback at the head of the Huguenots.

The edict of January, 1562, came at last to effect a peace. By
its provisions the Protestants were to restore the churches they
had seized, to cease their abuse of the Catholic ceremonies in
print or discourse, and, in return, were allowed to hold meetings
unarmed outside the city, but their ministers were not to go from
town to town preaching.
{7}
The measure of toleration thus granted may not seem excessive,
but it was far greater than any Protestant power then, or long
subsequently, granted to such subjects as preferred not to change
their creed.

The measure, however, failed to produce tranquillity. The
Huguenots, far from restoring what they had seized, continued
their acts of violence. At Nismes the churches and convents were
attacked and profaned, while in Gascony and Languedoc the
reformers had established such a reign of terror that for forty
leagues around no Catholic priest durst show himself.
Montpellier, Montauban, and Castres beheld similar profanations
of churches.

Coligny, a prototype of Cromwell in apparent fanaticism, in
military skill, in relentless cruelty toward the Catholic clergy,
like the Puritan leader of the next century, looked beyond the
Atlantic. He had projected a Protestant colony of refuge in
Brazil; its failure did not prevent his renewing the attempt in
Florida. In the month following that in which the edict was
issued, he despatched John Ribaut to lay the foundation of a
French colony in America. He seems to have been planning a
retreat against sudden disaster in the war they were rapidly
preparing. The fate of that colony is well known. At Vassy, in
March, a Huguenot congregation came into collision with the Duke
of Guise; accounts differ widely as to the details. The duke
asserted that his men were attacked. On being struck in the face
with a stone, he cried to his men to show no quarter, and,
according to White, fifty or sixty were killed and two hundred
wounded.

In a moment the affair was taken up and echoed through France. It
was worth an army to the cause of rebellion. The military
churches rose. So complete was their organization that almost
simultaneously thirty-five cities were taken, the Cevennes, the
Vivarrais, and the Comté Venaissin were in revolt. Everywhere the
Catholic worship was suppressed, the churches stripped, the
clergy banished, while the riches torn from the shrines and
altars enabled them to maintain the war.

The shrine of St. Martin of Tours, venerated and enriched by the
piety of France during a thousand years, gave Condé, prince of
the blood, a million two thousand livres to devastate France. To
add to their strength, the Huguenots then formed the treaty of
Hampton Court with Elizabeth, and by it agreed to restore Calais
to England.

As we have seen, they took Lyons, and, after massacring priests
and religious, abolished the Mass, and with the same breath
declared that every one should be free in his religion. As the
Catholics were unprepared, city after city fell into their hands,
till no less than two hundred were swept by these devastating
hordes, fiercer than Goth or Vandal. The history of every French
city marks at this epoch the destruction of all that the past had
revered. Orleans, Mans, Troyes, Tours, Bayeux, all repeat the
same story. Everywhere priests, religious of both sexes, Catholic
laity, were butchered and mutilated with every barbarity. The
Baron des Adrets stands forth as the terrible butcher of this
period, who made his barbarity a sport, and trained the mind of
France to savage inhumanity. In the little town of Montbrison, in
August, 1562, he slaughtered more than eight hundred men, women,
and children.

The recent French historian, Martin, whose work is in process of
publication in this country, glosses over this period by merely
alluding to the profanation and pillage of the Catholic churches
and religious houses.
{8}
Every local history in France, however, attests the slaughter and
mutilation of the clergy, the last infamy always popularly
ascribed to the order of Coligny. Beza, writing in January, 1562,
admits that the Protestants of Aquitaine, though enjoying full
religious liberty, massacred priests and wished to exterminate
their enemies.

This sudden rebellion was the work of Coligny, who, with his army
of religious enthusiasts, and "all the restless, factious, and
discontented, who linked their fortunes to a party whose triumph
would involve confiscation of the wealth of the church," with
German mercenaries and English plunderers, swept through the land
with prayer on his lips and treason in his heart.

He cloaked his treason under the hypocritical pretext that he was
in arms not against the king, but against the king's advisers.
White allows himself to be deluded by this hypocritical sham, and
in several places censures the _treasonable_ conduct of the
Cardinal of Lorraine and others, who wrote to the King of Spain
soliciting his aid to save Catholicity in France, while Coligny,
in arms against his king, making treaties with Elizabeth of
England, introducing into France English and German mercenaries,
is never branded as a traitor at all. And if Condé and Coligny
merely sought to banish the Guises, how was that to be effected
by pillaging Catholic churches? They took up arms to exterminate
the leaders of the Catholic party and the clergy, suppress the
Catholic worship, and place Condé on the throne. White, too,
censures the pope for interfering, but neglects to put before his
reader the fact that part of France, the Comté Venaissin, then
belonged to the Holy See, and that in that part the Huguenots
were committing the same ravages. Meanwhile the royal armies
rallied; and, as a first step, endeavored to induce the Huguenot
leaders to lay down their arms. Condé was so far influenced by
the offers made, that he agreed to leave France if Guise would do
the same, but Beza traversed the projects of peace. He besought
the prince, says White, "not to give over the good work he had
begun, which God, whose honor it concerned, would bring to
perfection."

Negotiation failing, the royal troops began the campaign to
recover the conquered cities. Blois, Tours, Poitiers, Angers,
Bourges, and Rouen were at once retaken, and Orleans, the
stronghold of reform, besieged. In the battle of Dreux, fought on
the 19th of December, the rebels were utterly defeated, Condé
remaining a prisoner in the hands of the royal forces.

While besieging Orleans, (February 18th,) Guise was assassinated
by Jean Méré de Poltrot, a man whom Coligny aided with money, and
who had revealed to that nobleman his project of murder. White's
endeavor to exculpate Coligny is very lame. He deems it
suspicious that Poltrot was executed at once without his being
confronted with Coligny; as though the rebel general would have
come into court for the purpose, in the very heat of the civil
war. He finally, however, admits: "This leaves no doubt that
Coligny assented, if he did not consent, to the crime. He was not
unwilling to profit by it, though he would do nothing to further
it. This may diminish the lofty moral pedestal on which some
writers have placed the Protestant hero; but he was a man, and
had all a man's failings, though he may have controlled them by
his religious principles. Nor was assassination considered at all
cowardly or disgraceful in those days; not more so than killing a
man in a duel was, until very recently, among us."

{9}

As he knew the project and gave money, it is hard to see how "he
would do nothing to further it." That he had all a man's failings
is a very loose form of speech; so loose and broad that, if
assassination was not then deemed cowardly or disgraceful, the
subsequent killing of Coligny himself, "a man with all a man's
failings," can scarcely be deemed cowardly or disgraceful. In
fact, at the time, the Protestant party openly defended the
murder of Guise, and Beza, not exempt himself from suspicion of
complicity, "conferred on Poltrot the martyr's crown."

The Catholic party, thus deprived of its best military leader,
(for Montmorency was a prisoner, and St. Andre was butchered in
cold blood after the battle of Dreux,) again inclined to peace. A
negotiation, opened through Condé, resulted in the pacification
of Amboise, March 19th, 1563. This gave each man liberty to
profess the religion of his choice in his own domicile, but
restricted public worship of the Protestants more than the edict
of January had done.

The conference at Bayonne between the French and Spanish courts
has often been represented as a plot for the utter extermination
of the Huguenots. White shows that it was but a series of
festivities; and though the troubles were spoken of, neither
court counselled violent measures. Even Alva went no further than
suggesting the seizure of the most turbulent leaders.

Charles himself, favorable at Bayonne, became embittered against
the reformers, as White himself states, by what he saw as he
returned through the states of the Queen of Navarre, who had,
with relentless fury, extirpated Catholicity from her territory.

The pacification could not restore peace to the excited public
mind while the two antagonistic parties stood face to face. The
favor shown to Condé after he joined in expelling his English
allies from Havre, as well as to Coligny, whom Montmorency
summoned to garrison Paris, emboldened the reformers. The
remaining Catholic churches began to undergo the terrible
profanation that visited so many, and with this came retaliation.
The Protestant princes in Germany at this time appealed to
Charles to show lenity to their fellow-believers in his kingdom.
The French monarch rebuked their intermeddling, and added, "I
might also pray them to permit the Catholics to worship freely in
their own cities." And White admits that the Catholics there
fared no better than the Huguenots in France.

Meanwhile the Huguenot party was preparing for a new effort to
obtain complete control. A force raised to watch the Spanish
movements in the Low Countries was made the pretext. A plot was
formed to seize the king and his mother, and Coligny, to blind
the court, remained superintending his vineyards. But on the 28th
of September, 1567, all France was in flames. Fifty towns were
seized, and a strong force of Huguenot cavalry dashed upon Meaux
to seize the king. Charles, nearly entrapped by the specious
L'Hopital, reached Paris, protected by a body of gentlemen under
the Duke de Nemours, but Condé pressed so close that Charles more
than once turned on his pursuers, and fought at the head of his
little body-guard.

As before, the Catholics were without union or plan, while the
Huguenots were an organized body of secret conspirators, acting
on a well-concerted plan.

{10}

Protestant allegiance to a Catholic monarch has never been very
strong; indeed, it seems simply a creature of circumstance, not a
matter of obligation. The attempt to set aside a Catholic
sovereign after the death of Edward VI. and of Charles II. has
never been treated as a crime. In the same spirit, White sees
nothing wrong in Condé except failure: "His failure (to seize the
king's person) made him a traitor as well as a rebel." And yet,
with that strange perversity of ideas that seems inherent in his
school, he at once brands the Cardinal of Lorraine as a traitor
for inviting in the King of Spain, as Condé had Elizabeth.

The battle of St. Denis, under the walls of Paris, cost the royal
party the life of Montmorency, while it gave them a doubtful
victory. The usual horrors again desolated France. Nismes, in
1567, witnessed its famous Michelade, or massacre of the
Catholics. It was a deliberate act. White says none has attempted
to justify it. He puts the number of victims at seventy or
eighty, but cites no authority. Mesnard, in his _Histoire de
Nismes;_ and Vaissette, in his _Histoire Générale de
Languedoc_, make it from one hundred and fifty to three
hundred.

The military operations continued until Catharine visited the
Huguenot camp, and effected the treaty of Longjumeau, (March
20th, 1568.) But this peace was as hollow as the rest. White
charges that the Catholics put numbers of Protestants to death.
The Huguenots certainly continued their destruction of Catholic
churches. "Brequemant, one of their leaders," says White,
"cheered them on to murder, wearing a string of priests' ears
around his neck."

At last the Catholics saw the necessity of organizing, and in
June, 1568, a Christian and Royal League was formed at Champagne,
"to maintain the Catholic Church in France, and preserve the
crown in the house of Valois, so long as it shall govern
according to the Catholic and Apostolic religion."

This White qualifies as "a formidable league that shook the
throne, and brought France to the brink of destruction:" while he
has no such terms to apply to the military organization of the
Huguenot churches, which was endeavoring to seize the government,
and raise Condé to the throne under the name of Louis XIII.

The Catholics did not act too soon. The Huguenots were again ripe
for action. The leaders retired to Rochelle, and France was again
in arms. Elizabeth sent to Rochelle men, arms, and money; the
Prince of Orange also promised aid.

The first great battle was fought at Jarnac, March 13th, 1569,
where Condé was defeated and killed. Andelot died soon after, in
May, and Duke Wolfgang, of Deux Ponts, who brought fourteen
thousand Germans to swell the Huguenot ranks, soon followed.
Coligny gained some advantage in the action at Roche Abeille,
showing terrible cruelty to the prisoners; but in the battle of
Moncontour his army of eighteen thousand was scattered to the
winds, scarcely a thousand being left around him. Then cries for
quarter were met by shouts of "Remember Roche Abeille!"

Retreating, Coligny was joined by Montgomery, fresh from that
terrible massacre of Orthez, before which St. Bartholomew itself
pales, three thousand Catholics having been butchered, without
regard to age or sex, and the river Gave being actually dammed up
by the bodies of the Catholics. The indecisive action of Arnay le
Due led to negotiations resulting in the treaty of St. Germain,
August, 1570.

{11}

These treaties are differently viewed. The proposal for them
always came from the court, and followed every victory gained by
the Catholic party. White would make them out to be traps laid by
Catharine; Gandy seems to lean to the same solution in
attributing them to her, though he makes her object to have been
to prevent the Guises from being complete masters.

But may we not suppose the Catholic party sincere in their wish
for peace? They were never first to take up arms; they were
unorganized; the court was wavering, and always contained a
number of secret allies of the Huguenot cause. That the Huguenot
leaders, after a defeat, should through these raise a peace party
at court would be a matter of course. The peace gave them all
they needed--time to prepare for a new campaign.

Charles IX. was sincere in his wish to make the treaty of St.
Germain a reality. In the interval of tranquillity he married,
and turned his thoughts to foreign affairs, proposing to aid the
Netherlands against the King of Spain. But the Huguenot leaders
kept together in the strong city of Rochelle, ready for prompt
action. At last, however, Coligny, in September, 1571, repaired
to court, where he was received by Charles with great cordiality.
Two marriage schemes were now set on foot to strengthen the
Protestant cause--the marriage of Henry of Navarre with Margaret,
sister of Charles IX., and the marriage of his brother,
D'Alençon, to Queen Elizabeth. Even Jane, Queen of Navarre, came
to Blois to negotiate in regard to the marriage of her son.

Coligny so far gained Charles that a French force took Mons, and
an army under Genlis, marching to that place, was defeated by the
Spaniards, under Don Federigo de Toledo. The marriage of Henry
took place on the 18th of August, and seemed to confirm Coligny's
paramount influence at court.

This influence, thus suddenly acquired, is in itself a great
mystery. Why Charles should thus take to his confidence a man who
had so recently and so repeatedly organized armed treason, who
had ravaged and desolated half his kingdom, who had laid in ruins
nearly half the churches and religious establishments of France,
has never been satisfactorily explained.

That Charles was a mere hypocrite, and that his conduct was part
of a concerted plot, does not seem at all warranted by any
evidence that deserves consideration. That he could really have
conceived so sudden an attachment, confidence, and respect for
the admiral can be explained only as one of the sudden freaks of
a man whose mind was eccentric to the very verge of insanity. But
Coligny really ruled in the councils of France; the Guises were,
in a manner, banished from court. Catharine and Anjou saw their
influence daily decrease. Coligny insisted on war with Spain, and
plainly told Charles that he must fight Spain or his own
subjects--use the Huguenots to aid Holland against Philip II., or
behold civil war again ravaging France.

Catharine strongly opposed this warlike spirit, and sought means
to regain her lost power.

The arrogant attitude of Coligny was fast uniting all whom
jealousy or personal interest had divided. As often happens, it
needed but a spark to kindle a vast conflagration.

One of the great historical questions has been as to the
premeditation of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. The Huguenot
pamphleteers of the day, followed by the overrated De Thou,
Voltaire and his school, and the less temperate Catholic writers,
maintain that the plot was long before concerted.
{12}
White, by his chain of authorities, shows that it was at first
aimed at Coligny only, and that the general massacre was not
premeditated.

Anjou expressly states that, finding the influence of the admiral
dangerous to himself and his mother, they determined to get rid
of him, and to concert means with the Duchess of Nemours, "whom
alone we ventured to admit into the plot, because of the mortal
hatred she bore to the admiral," in her mind the real murderer of
her husband, the Duke of Guise.

This statement of Anjou is supported by the testimony of Michieli
(Baschet, _Diplomatie Venetienne_, p. 541) and of the nuncio
Salviati.

This makes the first move one of the court party against Coligny
personally. The Catholic party, then a recently formed
organization, had no part in it; and yet, if we may credit the
statement of Cretineau Joly, who has never deceived as to a
document he professes to possess, Catholicity in France was in
imminent peril, Coligny having, in a letter of June 15th, 1572,
to the Prince of Orange, given notice of an intended general
execution of the Catholics in September. If a general massacre
was plotted, the Catholic party were to be victims, not actors.

Coligny's death having been decided on, Henry de Guise was
admitted to the plot, and the execution assigned to him. It
needed little to stimulate him to shoot down one who had been
privy to his father's assassination. An officer, either Maurevert
or Tosinghi, was stationed in a vacant house belonging to Canon
Villemur, and as Coligny rode past fired at him, cutting off the
first finger of the right hand, and burying a ball in his left
arm.

Charles was, as all admit, not only not privy to this act, but
was deeply incensed at it. He ordered the assassin to be pursued,
and, in despatches to other parts of the kingdom, gave assurance
of his intention to adhere to the edict of pacification and to
punish all who infringed it. Accompanied by his mother and his
brother Henry, he went, that same afternoon, to see the admiral.
There a long private conversation ensued between the king and
Coligny. White gives this at length from a life of Coligny,
published in 1576, but which cannot surely be held as authority.
It rests probably on no better source than the _Mémoires de
l'Etat de France._

Charles, in his letter to the French ambassador at London, tells
him that this "vile act proceeds from the enmity between
Coligny's house and the house of Guise. I will take steps to
prevent their involving my subjects in their quarrels."

Whether the interview changed the king's mind as to the source of
the attempt, of course is only conjectural. Still acting in good
faith, he appointed a commission of inquiry, including members of
both religions, the Huguenots apparently suggested by Coligny.

Charles returned to his palace moody and incensed. He ordered
guards to protect Coligny against any further violence, and by
his demeanor alarmed his mother and Henry. The Duke d'Aumale and
Henri de Guise, foreseeing a tempest, withdrew to the Hotel de
Guise, and shut themselves up.

The position of affairs was strange enough. The admiral was not
wounded so as to excite any alarm as to his recovery; the loss of
a finger and a bullet-wound in the arm, injuries not requiring,
one would suppose, the nine physicians and eleven surgeons called
in.
{13}
But it was an attempt on the life of the leader of their party,
and the Huguenots determined to pursue it at all hazards. The
more violent of them marched through the streets in military
array, threatening not only the Guises, who were considered the
prime movers, but Anjou, the queen-mother, and even the king
himself. They passed the Hotel de Guise with every mark of
defiance, and proceeding to the Louvre, made their way to the
king's presence as he sat at supper, fiercely demanding
vengeance: "If the king refuses us justice," they cried, "we will
take the matter into our own hands."

This violence could not but have had its effect on the king. At
all events, it must have made him ready to credit any charge of
violence brought against them. Catharine was clearly overjoyed at
the false step of the Huguenots, as offering her a means of
escape from her critical position.

On Saturday, after dinner, a cabinet council was held, and here,
according to Tavannes, Anjou, and Queen Margaret of Navarre, it
was for the first time proposed to Charles to put an end to all
the troubles by cutting off Coligny and the leaders of the party.
The council was composed, it is said, of Catharine, Anjou,
Nevers, Tavannes, Retz, and the chancellor Birague. Of Catharine
and Anjou, afterward Henry III., we need say nothing. Tavannes
was little but a soldier, ready for action. The rest, strangely
enough, were Italians. Louis de Gonzaga, Duke of Nevers by
marriage, was timid and easily led; Albert de Gondi, Marshal de
Retz, foster-brother of the king, was a schemer; René de Birague
is represented by Mezeray as one who bent before every breath of
wind from the court.

Not only in this council was there no one of the Huguenot party
so recently restored to favor, but no one of the moderate party,
none even of the old French nobility. All but Tavannes were bound
to Catharine, and would naturally support her.

According to Anjou and Tavannes, Catharine urged the necessity of
the blow to prevent a new civil war, for which the Huguenots were
preparing, having sent for ten thousand Germans and six thousand
Swiss, their object being to place Henry of Navarre on the
throne. Margaret states that they made the king believe his life
in danger. The nuncio Salviati, in his despatch of September 2d,
also ascribes the king's ultimate action to the instigation of
Catharine, impelled by her fears.

Charles hesitated long, and at last yielded, crying: "Kill all,
then, that none may live to reproach me." The words of 'the weak
king, wrought to madness by his perplexities, seem to have been
accepted at once; and the scheme of murder took a wider scope.
The Huguenots were doomed.

The question arises, Had Catharine any ground for charging the
Huguenots with a plot against the king? A despatch of the Duke of
Alva had been received, announcing it. White derides the idea as
preposterous. Gandy examines the subject, and admits that the
charge lacks all requisite proof. He ascribes the whole to fear.
But this does not seem to explain it sufficiently.

The fact of a plot formed after Coligny's wound must have been
established in some degree at least, to have brought the king to
the policy of the queen-mother. The bed of justice on the 26th,
the solemn declaration of Charles, the action of the Parliament,
may have been rash and unsupported by proper testimony, but were
to all appearance sincere.
{14}
Charles was not a hypocrite. The declarations of Bouchavannes as
to what was proposed at Coligny's house were doubtless more than
justified by the loud threats of some of the leaders, like De
Pilles and Pardaillan, whose words and deeds make La Noue call
them stupid, clumsy fools.

The solution of this historical question is made the more
difficult from the speedy termination of the house of Valois.
That family and the League come down to us under a heavy cloud of
odium; the succession of Henry IV. to the throne made them the
only parties on whom all might safely lay the burden of an act at
once a crime and a blunder, while it was equally necessary to
shield the party with which Henry then acted from any charge of
conspiracy. Interest raised up apologists for him and his
associates: there was none to do reverence to the name of
Catharine or the fallen house of Valois.

Once that the council had decided on its bloody course, the
action was prompt. Guise, from being a prisoner in his house, was
summoned to command. To the leaders of the people of Paris he
repeated the charge of a Huguenot conspiracy against the king, of
Swiss and German invaders, adding the approach of a force under
Montmorency to burn the city. At four in the afternoon Anjou rode
through the streets. At ten, another council was held, to which
Le Charron, provost of the merchants, was summoned. To him the
king repeated the same charges, giving him orders to put the
able-bodied men in each ward under arms, and take precaution for
the safety of the city.

Meanwhile, Huguenot gentlemen entered the palace as usual, and
Catholics mingled with the Huguenots who called upon Coligny.

White makes an observation that must strike all: "It is strange
that the arrangements in the city, which must have been attended
with no little commotion, did not rouse the suspicion of the
Huguenots."

At midnight another council was held in the palace. Charles was
violent and wavered, but Catharine held him to his decision, and
Guise went forth to complete the work.

Between three and four in the morning, Guise, Aumale, Angoulême,
Nevers, with some German and Italian soldiery, proceeded to
Coligny's house. Admission was gained in the king's name, and
Carl Dianowitz, or Behm, ran the admiral through, others
finishing him as he fell to the floor. The body was then thrown
from the window, where Guise and Angoulême treated it
contemptuously. Petrucci cut off the head. The mob mutilated the
body, as priests had been, by the admiral's orders, and it was
finally hung on the public gallows at Montfauçon. All the
occupants of the house were slain but two, Merlin and Cornaton.
In the adjoining dwellings were Teligny, Rochefoucault, and
others, who were all slain.

Then came the signal from Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, and the
massacre became general. The Huguenot gentlemen in the Louvre
were slain before the eyes of the king to the number of two
hundred, says White in his text, although his footnote, citing
Queen Margaret's account, says her estimate of thirty or forty is
more probable.

In the city, the houses in which Huguenots lodged had been
registered, and were thus easily found. The soldiers burst in,
killing all they found; but the citizens seem to have gone too
far.
{15}
At five in the afternoon, they were ordered to lay down their
arms, although the work of blood was continued for two days by
the soldiery.

The details of the massacre would extend this article much too
far.

Among the questions that have arisen, is the alleged firing of
Charles on the drowning Huguenots thrown into the Seine. It is
asserted in the party pamphlets, the _Réveille-Matin_, 1574,
_Le Tocsin_, 1579, but rests chiefly on what Froude calls
"the worthless authority of Brantome."

A more important point is the number of victims. The estimates
differ widely:

  La Popelinière, a Huguenot contemporary...1,000

  Kirkaldy of Grange, in a letter to Scotland at
  the time, and the _Tocsin_, a pamphlet of the
  day, as well as Tavannes, a main actor in the
  slaughter...2,000

  Aubigné, another Huguenot author, and Capilupi...3,000

  The estimates of ambassadors at Paris are higher.

  Alva's bulletin...3,500

  Gomez de Silva, and the Simancas archives...5,000

  Neustadt letter...6,000

  _Réveille-Matin_, a party pamphlet...10,000

White bases his estimate on a curious calculation. An entry in
the registers of the Hôtel de Ville states that on the 9th of
September certain persons received 15 livres for burying dead
bodies, and on the 23d the same men received 20 livres for
burying 1100. He concludes that the 15 livres represented 1500,
by what rule he does not explain, "giving," he says, "a known
massacre of 2600." Even on his basis, 35 livres would really
represent only 1925. But according to Caveirac, who first cites
this entry, 35 livres were paid for interring 1100, which would
give only about 1600 in all.

Gandy concludes his view of the matter by giving 1000 or 1200 as
the nearest approach to the truth; but the estimate of Tavannes,
an actor, Kirkaldy, a witness, and the _Tocsin_, a Huguenot
pamphlet, would seem to be most authentic.

Thus fell the great admiral, the Cromwell of France, in religion
less fanatical than hypocritical, a soldier of a high order,
aiming under Calvin's teaching to make France a commonwealth with
a religious tyranny that would brook no opposition. A man who
occupied long a prominent position as one of the high nobility
and rulers of the land, but who was simply a destroyer, not a
creator; for no great work, no line of sound policy, no important
reform, is connected with his name. His life was most injurious
to the country, and but for the cowardly and cruel circumstances
attending his death, he would occupy but a subordinate place in
French history. Few other victims were eminent: Peter Ramus, the
learned professor, Pierre de la Place, President of the Court of
Ans, and some say Goujon, the sculptor. In fact, the more able
leaders of the party had not come to Paris, and this renders the
deed indefensible even on the ground of policy. The few nobles
who hastened to bask in the sunshine of the court, were not the
men most to be dreaded. The slaughter of men and women belonging
to the lower classes could but rouse the sympathies of Europe.

The work of blood was not confined to Paris. Throughout France,
as the news spread of a Huguenot conspiracy against the king, the
scene was reenacted. Of this, White remarks: "The writers who
maintain that the tragedy of Saint Bartholomew's day was the
result of a long premeditation support their opinion by what
occurred in the provinces; but it will be found, after careful
examination, that these various incidents tend rather to prove
the absence of any such premeditation."

{16}

Were orders sent from court to massacre the Huguenots? White, on
the authority of Davila, De Thou, and expressions in certain
letters, inclines to the opinion that verbal orders were sent.
Gandy as positively asserts that no such orders were given. The
provincial registers show no trace of such orders. Yet he admits
secret orders, subsequently recalled by Charles, and gives a
letter addressed to Montsoreau, dated August 26th, which is
explicit. The massacres took place as follows: Meaux, August
25th; La Charité, August 27th; Saumur and Angers, August 29th;
Lyons, August 30th; Troyes, September 2d; Bourges, September
15th; Rouen, September 17th; Romans, September 20th; Toulouse,
September 23d; Bordeaux, October 3d; Poitiers, October 27th. They
were thus continued from time to time for two months; long after
Charles formally revoked any secret orders given on the spur of
the moment. This point is involved in as great obscurity as any
other connected with the affair.

Several letters current as to the matter, including those of De
Tende and Orthez, are manifest forgeries. As to Saumur, White
represents Montsoreau as killing _all_ the Huguenots in that
town. The only authority, _Mémoires de l'Etat de France_,
says he killed all he could, and the whole charge rests on this
feeble foundation. There is similar exaggeration elsewhere.
White, speaking of Lyons, says: "In this city alone 4000 persons
are estimated to have been killed;" but in his note adds that one
authority says that they were all killed in _one_ day,
"which is not probable." He then cites another contemporary
brochure setting down the total at Lyons at 1800; and he corrects
the error of De Thou, who asserted that the Celestine canons
allowed Huguenots to be killed in their monastery, when
Protestant authorities admit that the religious saved the lives
of those very fugitives.

What was the number slain in the provinces? The martyrologies, by
a detailed estimate, make those killed in Paris 10,000, elsewhere
5168, and names 152 as identified in Paris, 634 in the provinces;
but the estimate for Paris is of the very highest, and should, as
we have seen, not exceed 2000. The very fact that, with
researches and personal recollections, only 152 names could be
recalled, being one in a hundred out of 10,000, while elsewhere
one in eight was known, is very suspicious. Taking his figures
for the provinces, it would reduce the whole number in France to
about 7000.

After giving the calculations or guesses of various authors,
ranging from 2000 to 100,000, White says: "If it be necessary to
choose from these hap-hazard estimates, that of De Thou is
preferable, from the calm, unexaggerating temper of the man." De
Thou's estimate for all France was 30,000. Gandy thinks the
number given by Popelinière (2000) nearer the truth.

Under the examination of impartial history, the massacre of St.
Bartholomew dwindles really to far less in numbers, extent, and
brutality than the massacre of the Irish Catholics under
Cromwell; and does not greatly exceed the number of victims of
the Huguenot outbreak in 1563.

One other point remains. Charles, on the 25th, represented the
massacre in Paris as a collision between the houses of Guise and
Chatillon; but from the 26th he uniformly charges a conspiracy
against his person. This he announced to all the foreign courts
in explanation.
{17}
His letter to Gregory XIII. announced the escape of the royal
family and the punishment of the conspirators. The nuncio
Salviati, in his letters, shows a belief in the reality of the
plot. At Rome, the Cardinal of Lorraine, brother of the murdered
Guise, was high in influence. What his views and feelings would
be on the receipt of the tidings of the discovery of a plot, and
the sudden action of the king, it is easy to conceive. In his
eyes it was a triumph of justice, religion, loyalty, and law. The
pope received the same impression, and under it proceeded to
chant a _Te Deum_ at Santa Maria Maggiore. Processions
followed. A medal, well known from its frequent reproduction, was
struck. But in all this there is nothing to show that Rome knew
of the intended massacre or counselled it. Gregory XIII. approved
it, only as represented in the brief despatches of Charles IX.
and the verbal statements of Beauvillé, to which they refer.

Nor did the clergy in France take any part. No bishop shared in
the council, no priest or religious roused the minds of the
people. They figure, indeed, in romances, but history is silent.
Even in the most virulent pamphlets of the time only three are
ever mentioned, the Bishop of Troyes, Sorbin, king's confessor at
Orleans, and Father Edmond Auger, at Bordeaux. The Bishop of
Troyes is charged with having approved the massacre there, but
White does not even name the bishop in connection with the
murders at that place, and says they were done by a drunken mob,
and "filled the humane Catholics with horror."

At Orleans, White reduces the 1850 of the _Martyrologe_ to
1400, and gives details, but is silent as to any action of
Sorbin, or the terrible Franciscan who insulted the Huguenots,
received their abjuration, and said Mass for them. Evidently,
White found the charges against these clergymen too frivolous
even for a stray allusion.

He attributes the massacre at Bordeaux to the preaching of Father
Auger, but cites no authority. Fortunately, Auger is not an
unknown man. His life has long been in circulation. He was a
missionary, known for years among the Protestants, amid whom he
had prosecuted his labors. He had suffered imprisonment for the
faith; he had even been led to the gallows by order of the Baron
des Adrets. So notorious were his charity, his virtue, and his
merit, that the voice of Protestant and Catholic alike was raised
to save him. Are we to believe on the vaguest of grounds that
such a man suddenly became a monster of intolerance? White
blushed to give his authority; he should have been ashamed to
make the charge.

But it would scarcely do to let his book go forth without lugging
in at least one priest. Of the proceedings at Rome he makes more
capital. After stating what was done, and mistranslating a Latin
phrase to make Charles IX. an angel, he says: "With such damning
evidence against the Church of Rome, a recent defender of that
church vainly contends that the clergy had no part in the
massacre, and that the rejoicings were over rebels cut off in the
midst of their rebellion, and not heretics murdered for their
religion." The logic of this is admirable. The pope and cardinals
ordered rejoicings on receiving despatches from the King of
France, announcing that, having discovered a plot against his
life and throne, he had put the rebels to the sword;
_therefore_ the Catholic clergy had a part in the massacre.

{18}

Apply the same to Drogheda. Parliament thanked God for Cromwell's
massacre of the Irish after granting quarter, and rewarded a
captain for throwing prisoners overboard at sea; _therefore_
the Puritan clergy had a part in the massacre, and the evidence
is damning.

The labors of Mr. White, however, on the whole, will do good. The
wild assertions that fill our school-books and popular histories
must give place to statements that will be justified by his work.
It gives a standard to which we may appeal, and, if not all that
we would claim, is so far on the way to impartiality that we may
feel thankful for it.

It is not little to have wrung from the London _Athenaeum_
the admission that the common view of St. Bartholomew is "one of
the great historical errors which has been transmitted from
teachers to taught during a long course of years."

----------

         From the French of Erckmanm and Chatrian.

            The Invasion; or, Yegof The Fool.



                     Chapter I.

If you would know the story of the great invasion of 1814, even
as the old hunter, Frantz of Hengst, related it to me, you must
accompany me to the village of Charmes, in the Vosges. Thirty
cottages, ranged along the bank of the Sarre, and roofed with
slate and dark green moss, compose the hamlet; you can see the
gables garlanded with ivy and withered honeysuckle--for winter is
approaching--and the leafless hedges separating the little
gardens from each other.

To the left, crowning a lofty mountain, rise the ruins of the
ancient castle of Falkenstein, a fortalice, dismantled and
demolished two hundred years ago by the Swedes. It is now but a
scattered heap of stones, only approached by an old
_schlitte_, or road for transporting felled trees, which
pierces the forest. To the right, on the mountain-side, is seen
the farm of Bois-de-Chênes, with its barns, stables, and sheds,
on the flat roofs of which are placed great stones, to enable
them to resist the furious northern blasts. A few cattle stray
upon the heather, and a few goats clamber among the rocks.

Everything is silent. Children in gray trousers, bare-headed and
bare-footed, are warming themselves around little fires, kindled
near the edge of the wood, and the blue smoke curls slowly
through the air; heavy white and gray clouds hang motionless over
the valley, and far above these rise the sterile peaks of
Grosmann and Donon.

You must know that the last house of the village--that with two
glazed dormer windows upon the slanting roof, and the low door
opening upon the muddy street--belonged, in 1813, to Jean-Claude
Hullin, an ancient volunteer of '92; but since his return from
the wars, the shoe, or, rather, sabot-maker of the village, and
enjoying a large share of the esteem of the mountaineers.
{19}
He was a stout, strongly built man, with gray eyes, thick lips, a
short nose, and heavy, grizzled eyebrows. He was jovial and
tender-hearted, and unable to refuse anything to his adopted
daughter, Louise, whom he had obtained, when an infant, from a
band of those miserable gypsies who, without hearth or home
themselves, wander from door to door, soldering spoons and pans,
and mending broken china. He, however, looked upon her as his own
daughter, and never remembered her as the child of a strange
race.

Besides this, his affection for his little girl, stout
Jean-Claude had a few others. Next in order, he loved his cousin,
the venerable mistress of Bois-de-Chênes, Catherine Lefevre, and
her son, Gaspard, a fine young fellow, betrothed to Louise, but
whom the conscription had carried off, leaving the two families
to await the end of the campaign and his return.

Hullin often recalled, and always with enthusiasm, his campaigns
of the Sambre-and-Meuse, of Italy and of Egypt. He often mused
upon them, and sometimes at evening, when his day's work was
done, he would wander to the saw-mill of Valtin, a gloomy
building, formed of logs covered with the bark, which you see
yonder at the bottom of the gorge. There he would sit, in the
midst of coal-burners and wood-cutters, before the huge fire made
of saw-dust, and while the heavy wheel kept turning, the sluice
thundering, and the saw cutting, would he discourse of Hoche, of
Kleber, and of General Bonaparte, whom he had seen a hundred
times, and whose thin face, piercing eyes, and aquiline nose he
drew over and over again.

Such was Jean-Claude Hullin, one of the old Gallic stock, loving
strange adventures and deeds of heroic emprise, but bound by the
feeling of duty to his toil from New-Year's day to Saint
Sylvester's.

Louise, his gypsy daughter, was slight and graceful, with long,
delicate hands, and eyes of so tender a blue that their glance
seemed to melt their way to the depths of your soul; her skin was
white as snow, her hair a gold-shot flaxen, soft as silk, and her
shoulders drooped like those of some sweet sculptured saint at
prayer. Her guileless smile, her musing brow, her whole form,
seemed to recall the antique lay of Erhart the Minnesinger,
wherein he says: "I saw a ray of light flash by, and mine eyes
are yet dazed with its lustre. Was it the moon glancing through
the leaves? Was it morning smiling beneath the woods? No, no! It
was Edith, my love, who passed; and still mine eyes are dazed."

Louise loved the fields, the gardens, and the flowers. In spring
she eagerly listened for the first notes of the lark, or sought
the bluebells beneath the bushes, or watched for the return of
the sparrows to the corners of the windows on the roof. She was
ever the child of the wandering gypsies, only a little less wild
than they; but Hullin forgave everything; he understood her
nature, and often cried, laughing:

"My poor Louise, with the booty you bring us--your bunches of
flowers and little birds--we should all die of hunger in a week."

But she would only smile, and he, as he returned to his work,
exclaim:

"Bah! why should I scold? She is right to love the sunlight, and
Gaspard will labor for both!"

So reasoned the good man, and days, weeks, and months rolled by
in patient waiting for Gaspard's return.

But Gaspard returned not, and now for two months they had had no
tidings of him.

{20}

One day, toward the middle of December, 1813, between three and
four o'clock in the afternoon, Hullin, bent over his work-bench,
was finishing a pair of spiked sabots for Rochart, the
wood-cutter. Louise had placed her flowers near the little stove
which crackled on the hearth, while the monotonous tick-tack of
the old village clock marked the seconds as they flew, and
occasionally the tramp of clogs upon the frozen earth was heard
without, and a head covered with a hat or wrapped in a hood
passed the window. At length, Hullin, glancing through the panes
of the window, suddenly stopped his labor, and stood with both
eyes wide open, as one gazing at some unusual sight.

At the corner of the street, just opposite the tavern of the
Three Pigeons, a strange figure was advancing, surrounded by a
crowd of jumping, laughing boys, each vying with the other in
shouting at the top of his voice: "King of Diamonds! King of
Diamonds!" In truth, a stranger figure could scarcely be
imagined. Fancy a man with a grave face and red beard; a gloomy
eye, straight nose, eyebrows meeting, a circlet of tin upon his
head, an iron-gray shepherd dog-skin flapping upon his back, the
two fore-paws knotted around his neck; his breast covered with
little copper crosses, his legs with a sort of gray stuff
trousers, and his feet bare. A large raven with lustrous black
wings was perched upon his shoulder. One might think, from the
majesty of his air and gait, that an ancient Merovingian king had
come back to earth; and, indeed, he carried a short stick cut to
the shape of a sceptre, while with his right hand he gesticulated
magnificently, pointing to the skies and apostrophizing his
attendants.

Every door opened as he passed, and curious faces were pressed
against every window-pane. A few old women upon the outside
stairs of their cottages called to him, but he deigned no reply;
others descended to the street and would have barred his passage,
but he, with head erect and brows haughtily raised, waved them
aside.

"Hold!" said Hullin, "here is Yegof. I did not expect to see him
again this winter, it is contrary to his habit; and what can he
mean by returning in such weather as this?"

Louise, laying aside her distaff, ran to look at the King of
Diamonds; for the appearance of the fool in the beginning of
winter was quite an event, and the source of amusement to many
who were glad to kill time in the taverns, listening to the story
of his imaginary power and glory; others, especially women, felt
a vague fear of him; for the ideas of fools, as everybody knows,
are sometimes drawn from another world than this--to them is
confided the knowledge of the past and future; the only
difficulty is in understanding them, for their words have always
a double sense--one for the ears of the coarse and vulgar, and
one, far different, for wise and lofty souls. Moreover, the
thoughts of Yegof, above those of all other fools, were
extraordinary--not to say sublime. No one knew whence he came,
whither he went; he wandered through the land like a soul in
pain; he vaunted the greatness of long extinct nations, and
called himself Emperor of Austrasia, of Polynesia, and other
far-off places. Volumes might be written of the strength and
beauty of his castles, his fortresses, and his palaces, the
number and grandeur of which he related with an air of much
modesty and simplicity. He spoke of his stables, his coursers,
the officers of his crown, his ministers, counsellors, and
intendants, and never did he mistake their names or attribute the
particular merits of one to another; but he complained bitterly
of having been dethroned by an accursed race, and Sapience
Coquelin, the wise old woman of the village, as well as others,
wept whenever he referred to the subject. Then would he, lifting
his hand toward heaven, cry out:

{21}

"Be mindful, O women! The hour is at hand! The spirit of darkness
flees afar! The ancient race, the masters of your masters, come
sweeping on like the billows of the sea!"

Every spring he wandered for weeks among the ruins which crown
the Vosges at Nideck, Geroldseck, Lutzelbourg, and
Turkestein--former dwellings of the great ones of earth, but now
the refuge of bats and owls. There would he declaim on the long
past splendor of his realms, and plan the subjection of his
revolted people.

Jean-Claude Hullin laughed at all this, not being fond of
approaching the invisible world; but the fool's words troubled
Louise exceedingly, especially when the hoarse voice and flapping
wings of the raven added to their wild effect.

Yegof marched majestically down the street, turning neither to
the right nor the left, and the girl, seeing that his eyes were
fixed upon her habitation, exclaimed:

"Father, father! he is coming here!"

"Very likely," replied Hullin. "He, no doubt, needs a pair of
sabots in a cold like this, and if he asks them I should be sorry
to refuse."

Yegof was some fifty paces from the cottage, and the tumult
continued to increase. The boys, pulling at his strange garment,
shouted, "Diamonds! Spades! Clubs!" till they were hoarse, when,
suddenly turning round, he raised his sceptre, and cried
furiously, though still with an air of majesty:

"Away! accursed race! away--or my dogs shall tear ye!"

This threat only redoubled the cries and shouts of laughter; but
at this moment, Hullin appearing at the door with a long rod, and
promising its speedy application to the backs of five or six of
the noisiest, the band soon dispersed in terror, for many of them
had felt its weight. Then turning to the fool, he said:

"Come in, Yegof, and take a seat by the fire."

"Call me not Yegof," replied the latter, with a look of offended
dignity. "I am Luitprand, King of Austrasia and Polynesia."

"True, true, I remember," said Jean-Claude; "but, Yegof, or
Luitprand, come in. It is cold; try to warm yourself."

"I will enter," answered the fool, "for reasons of state--to form
an alliance between two most puissant nations."

"Good! Let us talk over it."

Yegof, stooping in the doorway, entered dreamily, and saluted
Louise by lowering his sceptre. But the raven refused to follow.
Spreading his broad black wings, he swept around the cottage and
then dashed against the windows, as if to break them.

"Hans!" cried the fool, "beware! I am coming."

But the bird of ill omen fastened its pointed talons in the
leaden sash, and flapped its wings until the window shook, as
long as his master remained within. Louise gazed affrightedly at
both. Yegof seated himself in the large leathern armchair behind
the stove as on a throne, and throwing haughty glances around,
said:

"I come straight from Jerome to conclude an alliance with thee,
Hullin. Thou art not ignorant that the face of thy daughter hath
pleased me. I am here to demand her in marriage."

{22}

Louise blushed, and Hullin burst into a peal of laughter.

"You laugh!" cried the fool angrily. "You will live to regret it!
This alliance alone can save thee from the ruin which threatens
thee and thine. Even now my armies are advancing; they cover the
earth, numberless as the forest leaves in summer. What will avail
the might of thy people against that of mine? Ye will be
conquered, crushed, enslaved, as for centuries you were, for I,
Luitprand, King of Austrasia and Polynesia, have willed it. All
things shall be as they were, and then--remember me!"

He lifted his hand solemnly on high.

"Remember the past. You were beaten, despised serfs; and we--the
old nations of the north--we trod your necks beneath our feet. We
burdened your backs with heavy stones that our strong castles and
deep dungeons might be built. We yoked you to our ploughs; you
fled before us like chaff before the tempest. Remember, and
tremble!"

"I remember it all well," replied Hullin, still laughing, "but
you know we had our revenge."

"Ay," said the fool, knitting his brows, "but that time has
passed. My warriors outnumber the sands of the shore, and your
blood shall flow like rivers to the ocean. I know ye, and for a
thousand years have marked ye!"

"Bah!" said Hullin.

"Yes, this arm vanquished ye when we first sought the hearts of
your forests. This hand bent your necks to the yoke, and will
again. Because you are brave, you think that you will be for ever
masters of France; but we have divided your fair land, and will
again divide it between ourselves. Alsace and Lorraine shall
again be German; Brittany and Normandy shall again belong to the
Northmen; Flanders and the South, to Spain. France will be a
petty kingdom girdling Paris, with one of the ancient race its
king, and you will not dare to murmur--you will be very patient--
ha! ha! ha!"

Yegof laughed loudly in his turn.

Hullin, who knew little of history, was astounded at the fool's
learning.

"Bah!" he exclaimed again. "Enough of this, Yegof. Try a little
soup to warm your blood."

"I do not ask for food," replied the fool; "I ask your daughter
in marriage. Give her willingly, and I will raise you to the foot
of my throne; refuse, and my armies shall take her by force."

As he spoke, the poor wretch gazed on Louise with looks of the
deepest admiration.

"How beautiful she is!" he murmured. "How her brow will grace a
crown! Rejoice, sweet maiden, for thou shalt be Queen of
Austrasia."

"Listen, Yegof," said Hullin: "I am flattered by your preference;
and it shows that you know how to appreciate beauty; but my
daughter is already betrothed to Gaspard Lefevre."

"Enough!" cried the fool, rising angrily, "we will now speak no
more of it; but, Hullin," he continued, resuming his solemn tone,
"this is my first demand. I will twice renew it. Hearest thou?
Twice! If you persist in your obstinacy, woe, woe to thee and thy
race!"

"Will you not take your soup, then, Yegof?"

"No!" shouted the fool; "I will accept nothing from you until you
have consented--nothing!" And waving his sceptre, he sallied
forth.

Hullin burst into another peal of laughter.

{23}

"Poor fellow!" he exclaimed; "his eyes turned toward the pot in
spite of himself; his teeth are chattering; but his folly is
stronger than even cold and hunger."

"He frightens me," said Louise, blushing, notwithstanding, as she
thought of his strange request.

Yegof kept on the Valtin road. Their eyes followed him as his
distance from them grew greater. Still his stately march, his
grave gestures, continued, though no one was now near to observe
him. Night was falling fast; and soon the tall form of the King
of Diamonds was blended with and lost in the winter twilight.


                   Chapter II.

The same evening, after supper, Louise, taking her spinning-wheel
with her, went to visit Mother Rochart, at whose cottage the good
matrons and young girls of the village often met, and remained
until near midnight, relating old legends, chatting of the rain,
the weather, baptisms, marriages, the departure or return of
conscripts, or any other matters of interest.

Hullin, sitting before his little copper lamp, nailed the sabots
of the old wood-cutter. He no longer gave a thought to Yegof. His
hammer rose and fell upon the thick wooden soles mechanically,
while a thousand fancies roamed through his mind. Now his
thoughts wandered to Gaspard, so long unheard of; now to the
campaign, so long prolonged. The lamp dimly lighted the little
room; without, all was still. The fire grew dull; Jean-Claude
arose to pile on another log, and then resumed his seat,
murmuring:

"This cannot last; we shall receive a letter one of these days."

The village clock struck nine; and as Hullin returned to his
work, the door opened, and Catherine Lefevre, the mistress of the
Bois-de-Chênes farm, appeared on the threshold, to the
astonishment of the sabot-maker, for it was not her custom to be
abroad at such an hour.

Catherine Lefevre might have been sixty years of age, but her
form was straight and erect as at thirty. Her clear, gray eyes
and hooked nose seemed to resemble the eyes and beak of the
eagle. Her thin cheeks and the drooping corners of her mouth
betokened habits of thought, and gave a sad and somewhat bitter
expression to her face. A long brown hood covered her head and
fell over her shoulders. Her whole appearance bespoke a firm and
resolute character, and inspired in the beholder a feeling of
respect, not untinged with fear.

"You here, Catherine?" exclaimed Hullin in his surprise.

"Even I, Jean-Claude," replied the old woman calmly. "I wish to
speak with you. Is Louise at home?"

"She is at Madeleine Rochart's."

"So much the better," said Catherine, seating herself at the
corner of the work-bench.

Hullin gazed fixedly at her. There was something mysterious and
unusual in her manner which caused in him a vague feeling of
alarm.

"What has happened?" he asked, laying aside his hammer.

"Yegof the fool passed last night at the farm."

"He was here this afternoon," said Hullin, who attached no
importance to the fact.

"Yes," continued Catherine, in a low tone; "he passed last night
with us, and in the evening, at this hour, before the kitchen
fire, his words were fearful."

"Fearful!" muttered the sabot-maker, more and more astonished,
for he had never before seen the old woman in such a state of
alarm. "What did he say, Catherine?"

{24}

"He spoke of things which awakened strange dreams."

"Dreams! You are mocking me."

"No, no," she answered. And then, after a moment of silence,
fixing her eyes upon the wondering Hullin, she continued:

"Last evening, our people were seated, after supper, around the
fire in the kitchen, and Yegof among them. He had, as usual,
regaled us with the history of his treasures and castles. It was
about nine o'clock, and the fool sat at the corner of the blazing
hearth. Duchene, my laborer, was mending Bruno's saddle; Robin,
the herdsman, was making a basket; Annette arranging her dishes
on the cupboard; and I spinning before going to bed. Without, the
dogs were barking at the moon, and it was bitter cold. We were
speaking of the winter, which Duchene said would be severe, for
he had seen large flocks of wild geese. The raven, perched on the
corner of the chimney-piece, with his beak buried in his ruffled
feathers, seemed to sleep."

The old woman paused a moment, as if to collect her thoughts; her
eyes sought the floor, her lips closed tightly together, and a
strange paleness overspread her face.

"What in the name of sense is she coming at?" thought Hullin.

She resumed:

"Yegof, at the edge of the hearth, with his tin crown upon his
head and his sceptre laid across his knees, seemed absorbed in
thought. He gazed at the huge black chimney, the great stone
mantel-shelf, with its sculptured trees and men, and at the smoke
which rose in heavy wreaths among the quarters of bacon. Suddenly
he struck his sceptre upon the floor, and cried out like one in a
dream, 'Yes, I have seen it all--all--long since!' And while we
gazed on him with looks of astonishment, he proceeded:

"'Ay, in those days the forests of firs were forests of oak.
Nideck, Dagsberg, Falkenstein--all the castles now old and ruined
were yet unbuilt. In those days wild bulls were hunted through
the woods; salmon were plenty in the Sarre; and you, the
fair-haired race, buried in the snows six months of the year,
lived upon milk and cheese, for you had great flocks on Hengst,
Schneeberg, Grosmann, and Donon. In summer you hunted as far as
the banks of the Rhine; as far as the Moselle, the Meuse. All
this can I remember!'

"Was it not strange, Jean-Claude?" said the old woman. "As the
fool spoke, I seemed, too, to remember those scenes, as if viewed
in a dream. I let fall my distaff, and old Duchene and all the
others stopped to listen. The fool continued:

"'Ay, it was long ago! You had already begun to build your tall
chimneys; and you surrounded your habitations with palisades
whose points had been hardened in the fire. Within you kept great
dogs, with hanging cheeks, who bayed night and day.'

"Then he burst into a peal of crazy laughter, crying:

"'And you thought yourselves the lords of the land--you, the
pale-faced and blue-eyed--you, who lived on milk and cheese, and
touched no flesh save in autumn at your hunts--you thought
yourselves lords of the mountain and the plain--when we, the
red-bearded, came from the sea--we, who loved blood and the din
of battle. 'Twas a rude war, ours. It lasted weeks and months;
and your old chieftainess, Margareth, of the clan of the
Kilberix, shut up in her palisades, surrounded by her dogs and
her warriors, defended herself like a she-wolf robbed of her
young.
{25}
But five moons passed, and hunger came; the gates of her
stronghold opened, that its defenders might fly; and we, ambushed
in the brook, slew them all--all--save the children. She alone
defended herself to the last, and I, Luitprand, clove her gray
head, and spared her blind father, the oldest among the old, that
I might chain him like a dog to my castle gate.'

"Then, Hullin," said the old woman, "the fool sang a long
ballad--the plaint of the old man chained to his gate. It was
sad, sad as the _Miserere_. It chilled our very blood. But
he laughed until old Duchene, in a transport of rage, threw
himself upon him to strangle him; but the fool is strong, and
hurled him back. Then brandishing his sceptre furiously, he
shouted:

"'To your knees, slaves! to your knees! My armies are advancing.
The earth trembles beneath them. Nideck, Haut-Barr, Dagsberg,
Turkestein, will again tower above you. To your knees!'

"Never did I gaze upon a more fearful figure; but seeing my
people about to fall upon him, I interposed in his defence. 'He
is but a fool,' I cried. 'Are you not ashamed to mind his words?'
This quieted them, but I could not close my eyes the entire
night. His story--the song of the old man--rang through my ears,
and seemed mingled with the barking of our dogs and the din of
combat. Hullin, what think you of it? I cannot banish his threats
from my mind!"

"I should think," said the sabot-maker, with a look of pity not
unmixed with a sort of sorrowful sarcasm--"I should think,
Catherine, if I did not know you so well, that you were losing
your senses--you and Duchene and Robin and all the rest."

"You do not understand these matters," said the old woman in a
calm and grave tone; "but were you never troubled by things of
like nature?"

"Do you mean that you believe this nonsense of Yegof?"

"Yes, I believe it."

"You believe it! You, Catherine Lefevre! If it was Mother
Rochart, I would say nothing; but you--!"

He arose as if angry, untied his apron, shrugged his shoulders,
and then suddenly, again seating himself, exclaimed:

"Do you know who this fool is? I will tell you. He is one of
those German schoolmasters who turn old women's heads with their
Mother Goose stories; whose brains are cracked with overmuch
study, and who take their visions for actual events--their crazy
fancies for reality. I always looked upon Yegof as one of them.
Remember the mass of names he knows; he talks of Brittany and
Austrasia--of Polynesia and Nideck and the banks of the Rhine,
and so gives an air of probability to his vagaries. In ordinary
times, Catherine, you would think as I do; but your mind is
troubled at receiving no news from Gaspard, and the rumors of war
and invasion which are flying around distract you; you do not
sleep, and you look upon the sickly fancies of a poor fool as
gospel truth."

"Not so, Hullin--not so. If you yourself had heard Yegof--"

"Come, come!" cried the good man. "If I had heard him, I would
have laughed at him, as I do now. Do you know that he has
demanded the hand of Louise, that he might make her Queen of
Austrasia?"

Catherine could not help smiling; but soon resuming her serious
air, she said:

{26}

"All your reasons, Jean-Claude, cannot convince me; but I confess
that Gaspard's silence frightens me. I know my boy, and he has
certainly written. Why have his letters not arrived? The war goes
ill for us, Hullin; all the world is against us. They want none
of our Revolution. While we were the masters, while we crowned
victory with victory, they were humble enough, but since the
Russian misfortune their tone is far different."

"There, there, Catherine; you are wandering; everything is black
to you. What disturbs me most is not receiving any news from
without; we are living here as in a country of savages; we know
nothing of what is going on abroad. The Austrians or the Cossacks
might fall upon us at any moment, and we be taken completely by
surprise."

Hullin observed that as he spoke the old woman's look became
anxious, and despite himself he felt the influence of the fears
she spoke of.

"Listen, Catherine," said he suddenly; "as long as you talk
reasonably I shall not gainsay you. You speak now of things that
are possible. I do not believe they will attack us, but it is
better to set our hearts at ease. I intended going to Phalsbourg
this week. I shall set out to-morrow. In such a city--one which
is, moreover, a post-station--they should have certain tidings
of what is going on. Will you believe the news I bring back?"

"I will."

"Then it is understood. I will start early to-morrow morning. It
is five leagues off. I shall have returned by about six in the
evening, and you shall see, Catherine, that your mournful notions
lack reason."

"I hope so," said she, rising; "indeed I hope so. You have
somewhat reassured me, Jean-Claude, and I may sleep better than I
did last night. Good-night, Jean-Claude."


                   Chapter III.

The next morning at daybreak, Hullin, in his gray-cloth Sunday
small-clothes, his ample brown velvet coat, his red vest with its
copper buttons, his head covered with his mountaineer's slouched
hat, the broad brim turned up in front over his ruddy face, took
the road to Phalsbourg, a stout staff in his hand.

Phalsbourg is a small fortified city on the imperial road from
Strasbourg to Paris. It commands the slope of Saverne, the
defiles of Haut-Barr, of Roche-Plate, Bonne-Fontaine, and
Graufthal. Its bastions, advanced works, and demi-lunes run
zigzag over a rocky plateau; afar off you would think you could
clear the walls at a bound; a nearer approach shows a ditch, a
hundred feet wide and thirty deep, and beyond the dark ramparts
cut in the rock itself. All the rest of the city, save the
town-hall, the two gates of France and Germany with their pointed
arches, and the tops of the two magazines, is concealed behind
the glacis. Such is the little city, which is not lacking in a
certain kind of grandeur, especially when we cross its bridges,
and pass its heavy gates, studded with iron spikes. Within the
walls, the houses are low, regularly built of cut stone in
straight streets. A military atmosphere pervades everything.

Hullin, whose robust health and joyous nature gave him little
care for the future, pushed gayly onward, regarding the stories
of defeat and invasion which filled the air as so many malicious
inventions.
{27}
Judge, then, of his stupefaction when, on coming in sight of the
town, he saw that the clock-tower stood no longer, not a garden
or an orchard, not a walk or a bush could he see; everything
within cannon-shot was utterly destroyed. A few wretches were
collecting the remaining pieces of their cottages to carry them
to the city. Nothing could be seen to the verge of the horizon
but the lines of the ramparts. Jean-Claude was thunder-struck;
for a few moments he could neither utter a word nor advance a
step.

"Aha!" he muttered at last, "things are not going well. The enemy
is expected."

Then his warrior instincts rising, his brown cheeks flushed with
anger.

"It is those rascal Austrians, and Prussians, and Russians, who
have caused all this," he cried, shaking his staff; "but let them
beware! They shall rue it!"

His wrath grew as he advanced. Twenty minutes later he entered
the city at the end of a long train of wagons, each drawn by five
or six horses, and dragging enormous trunks of trees, destined to
form a block-house on the Place d'Armes. Between drivers,
peasants, and neighing, struggling, kicking horses, a mounted
_gendarme_, Father Kels, rode grimly, seeming to hear
nothing of the tumult around, but ever and anon saying, in a deep
base voice:

"Courage! my friends, courage! We can make two journeys more
before night, and you will have deserved well of your country."

Jean-Claude crossed the bridge.

A new spectacle presented itself within the walls. All were
absorbed in the work of defence. Every gate was open. Men, women,
and children labored, ran, or helped to carry powder and shot.
Occasionally, groups of three, four, or half a dozen would
collect to hear the news.

"Neighbors," one would say, "a courier has arrived at full speed.
He entered by the French gate."

"Then he announces the coming of the National Guard from Nancy."

"Or, perhaps, a train from Metz."

"You are right. Sixteen-pound shot are wanting, as well as
canister. They are breaking up the stoves to supply its place."

Some of the citizens, in their shirt-sleeves, were barricading
their windows with heavy beams and mattresses; others were
rolling tubs of water before their doors. Their enthusiasm
excited Hullin's admiration.

"Good!" he cried, "good! The allies will be well received here!"

Opposite the college, the squeaking voice of the sergeant,
Harmantier, was shrieking:

"Be it known that the casemates will be opened, to the end that
each man may bring a mattress and two blankets; and moreover,
that messieurs the commissioners are about to commence their
round of inspection to see that each inhabitant has three months'
provisions in his house, which he must show: Given this twentieth
day of December, one thousand eight hundred and thirteen. Jean
Pierre Meunier, Governor."

Strange scenes, both serious and comic, succeeded every minute.

Hullin was no longer the same man. Memories of the march, the
bivouac, the rattle of musketry, the charge, the shout of
victory, came rushing upon him. His eyes sparkled and his heart
beat fast, and the thoughts of the glory to be gained in a brave
defence, a struggle to the death with a haughty enemy, filled his
brain.

"Good faith!" said he to himself, "all goes well! I have made
clogs enough in my life, and if the time has come to shoulder the
musket once more, so much the better. We will show these
Prussians and Austrians that we have not forgotten the roll of
the charge!"

{28}

Thus mused the brave old man, but his exultation was not of long
duration.

Before the church, on the Place d'Armes, were fifteen or twenty
wagons full of wounded, arriving from Leipsic and Hanau. Many
poor fellows, pale, emaciated, with eyes half-closed and glassy,
or rolling in agony, some with arms and legs already amputated,
some with wounds not yet even bandaged, lay awaiting death. Near
by, a few worn-out horses were eating their scanty provender,
while their drivers, poor peasants pressed into service in
Alsace, wrapped in their long, ragged cloaks, slept, in spite of
cold, on the steps of the church. It was terrible to see the men,
wrapped in their gray overcoats, heaped upon bloody straw; one
holding his broken arm upon his knee; another binding his head
with an old handkerchief; a third already dead, serving as a seat
for the living. Hullin stood transfixed. He could not withdraw
his eyes from the scene. Human misery in its intensest forms
fascinates us. We would see how men die--how they face death; and
the best among us are not free from this horrible curiosity. It
seems to us as if eternity were about to disclose its secrets.

On the first wagon to the right were two carabineers in sky-blue
jackets--two giants--but their strong frames were bowed with
pain; they seemed two statues crushed beneath some enormous mass
of stone. One, with thick red mustaches and sunken cheeks, glared
with his stony eyes, as if awakened from a frightful nightmare;
the other, bent double, his hands blue with cold, and his
shoulder torn by a grape-shot, was becoming momentarily weaker,
but from time to time started up, muttering like one in a dream.
Behind, infantrymen were stretched in couples, most of them
struck by bullets. They seemed to bear their fate with more
fortitude than did the giants, not speaking, except that a few,
the youngest, shrieked furiously for water and bread. In the next
wagon, a plaintive voice--the voice of a conscript--called upon
his mother, while his older comrades smiled sarcastically at his
cry.

Now and then a shudder ran through them all, as a man--or mayhap
several--would rise, and with a long sigh fall back. This was
death.

While Hullin stood silent, the blood frozen in his heart, a
citizen, Sôme, the baker, came forth from his house, carrying a
large pot of boiled meat. Then you should have seen those
spectres struggle, their eyes glance, their nostrils dilate; a
new life seemed to animate them, for the poor wretches were dying
of hunger.

Good Father Sôme, with tears in his eyes, approached, saying:

"I am coming, my children. A little patience, and you will be
supplied."

But scarcely had he reached the first wagon, when the huge
carabineer with the sunken cheeks plunged his arm to the elbow in
the boiling pot, seized a piece of meat, and concealed it beneath
his jacket. It was done like a flash, and savage cries arose on
all sides. Men who had not strength enough to move would have
strangled their comrade. He pressed the precious morsel to his
breast, his teeth were already in it, and he glared around like a
wild beast. At the cries which arose, an old soldier--a
sergeant--sprang from a neighboring wagon; he understood all at a
glance, and without useless delay tore the meat from the
carabineer, saying:

"Thou deservest to have none. Let us divide; it will make ten
rations."

{29}

"We are only eight," said a wounded man, calm in appearance, but
with eyes glistening in his bronzed face. "You see, sergeant,
that those two there are dying; it is no use to waste food."

The sergeant looked.

"You are right," he replied. "Eight parts."

Hullin could bear no more. He fled, pale as death, to the
innkeeper, Wittmann's. Wittmann was also a dealer in leather and
furs, and cried, as he saw him enter:

"Ha! it is you, Master Jean-Claude; you are earlier than usual. I
did not expect you before next week." Then, seeing him tremble,
he asked: "But what is the matter? You are ill."

"I have just been looking at the wounded."

"Ah! yes. The first time it affects one; but if you had seen
fifteen thousand pass, as I have, you would think nothing of it."

"A glass of wine, quick!" cried Hullin. "O men, men! you who
should be brothers!"

"Yes, brothers until the purse gives out," replied Wittmann.
"There, drink, and you will feel better."

"And you have seen fifteen thousand of these wretches pass," said
the sabot-maker.

"At least; and all in the last two months, without speaking of
those that remained in Alsace and on the other side of the Rhine;
for, you know, wagons could not be procured for all, and it was
not worth while removing many."

"Yes, I understand. But why are those unfortunates there? Why are
they not in the hospital?"

"The hospital! Where are there hospitals enough for them--for
fifty thousand wounded? Every one, from Mayence and Coblentz to
Phalsbourg, is crowded; and, moreover, that terrible sickness,
typhus, kills more than the enemy's bullets. All the villages in
the plain, for twenty leagues around, are infected, and men die
like flies. Happily, the city has been for three days in a state
of siege, and they are about to close the gates, and allow no one
to enter. I have lost my uncle Christian and my aunt Lisbeth, as
hale, hearty people as you or I, Jean-Claude. The cold has come,
too; there was a white frost last night."

"And the wounded were in the street all night?"

"No; they came from Saverne this morning, and in an hour or
two--as soon as the horses are rested--they will depart for
Sarrebourg."

At this instant, the old sergeant, who had established order in
the wagon, entered, rubbing his hands.

"Ha, ha!" he said, "it is becoming cooler, Father Wittmann. You
did well to light the fire in the stove. A little glass of cognac
would not be amiss to take off the chill."

His little, half-closed eyes, hooked nose, separating a pair of
wrinkled cheeks, and chin, from which a red tuft of beard hung,
all gave the old soldier's face an expression of good humor and
jollity. It was a true military countenance--hale, bronzed by
exposure, full of bluff frankness as well as of roguish
shrewdness--and his tall shako and gray-blue overcoat,
shoulder-belt, and epaulettes seemed part of himself. He marched
up and down the room, still rubbing his hands, while Wittmann
filled him a little glass of brandy. Hullin, seated near the
window, had, in the first place, remarked the number of his
regiment--the sixth of the line. Gaspard, the son of Catherine
Lefevre, was in the same. Jean-Claude would, then, have tidings
of Louise's betrothed; but when he attempted to speak, his heart
beat painfully. If Gaspard were dead! If he had perished like so
many others!

{30}

The old sabot-maker felt strangled. He was silent. "Better to
know nothing," he thought.

Nevertheless, in a few moments he again tried to speak.

"Sergeant," said he huskily, "you are of the Sixth?"

"Even so, my burgess," replied the other, returning to the middle
of the room.

"Do you know one Gaspard Lefevre?"

"Gaspard Lefevre? Parbleu! that do I. I taught him to shoulder
arms; a brave soldier, i' faith, and good on the march. If we had
a hundred thousand of his stamp--"

"Then he is alive and well?"

"He is, my citizen--at least he was a week ago, when I left the
regiment at Fredericsthal with this train of wounded; since then,
you understand, there has been warm work, and one can answer for
nothing--one might get his billet at any moment. But a week ago,
at Fredericsthal, Gaspard Lefevre still answered roll-call."

Jean Claude breathed.

"But, sergeant, can you tell me why he has not written home these
two months back?"

The old soldier smiled and winked his little eyes.

"Do you think, my friend, that a man has nothing to do on the
march but write?"

"No; I have seen service. I made the campaigns of the
Sambre-and-Meuse, of Egypt and of Italy, but I always managed to
let my friends at home hear from me."

"One moment, comrade," interrupted the sergeant. "I was in Italy
and Egypt too, but the campaign just finished was in every
respect peculiar."

"It was a severe one, no doubt."

"Severe! Everything and every one was against us; sickness,
traitors, peasants, citizens, our allies--all the world! Of our
company, which was full when we left Phalsbourg the twenty-first
of January last, only thirty-two men remain. I believe that
Gaspard Lefevre is the only conscript left living. The poor
conscripts! They fought well, but exposure and hunger did their
business."

So saying, the old sergeant walked to the counter and emptied his
glass at one gulp.

"To your health, citizen. Might you, perchance, be Gaspard's
father?"

"No; I am only a relative."

"Well, you can boast of being solidly built in your family. What
a man he is for a youth of twenty! He held firm while those
around were sent by dozens to mount guard below."

"But," said Hullin, after a moment's silence, "I do not yet see
what there was so extraordinary in this last campaign, for we,
too, had our sickness and traitors--"

"Extraordinary!" cried the sergeant; "everything was
extraordinary. Formerly, you know, a German war was finished
after a victory or two; the people then received you well; drank
their white wine and munched their sauerkraut with you; and, when
the regiment departed, every one even wept. But this time, after
Lutzen and Bautzen, instead of becoming good-natured, they grew
fiercer than ever: we could obtain nothing except by force; it
was like Spain or La Vendée. I don't know what made them hate us
so.
{31}
But if we were all French, things would after all have yet gone
well; but we had our Saxon and other allies ready to fly at our
throats. We could have beaten the enemy, even if they were five
to one, but for our allies. Look at Leipsic, where in the middle
of the fight they turned against us--I mean our good friends the
Saxons. A week after, our other good friends the Bavarians tried
to cut off our retreat; but they rued it at Hanau. The next day,
near Frankfort, another column of our good friends presented
themselves, but we crushed the traitors. If we only foresaw all
this after Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland, Wagram!"

Hullin stood for a moment silent and thoughtful.

"And how do we stand now, sergeant?" said he, at length.

"We have been driven across the Rhine, and all our fortresses on
the German side are blockaded. All Europe is advancing upon us.
The emperor is at Paris, arranging his plan of campaign. Would to
heaven we could get breathing time until the spring!"

At this moment Wittmann arose, and, going to the window, said:

"Here comes the governor, making his tour of inspection."

The commandant Jean-Pierre Meunier, in his three-cocked hat, with
a tri-colored sash around his waist, had indeed just made his
appearance in the street.

"Ah!" said the sergeant, "I must get him to sign my marching
papers. Excuse me, messieurs, I must leave you."

"Good-by, then, sergeant, and thank you. If you see Gaspard,
embrace him for Jean-Claude Hullin, and tell him to write."

"I shall not fail."

The sergeant departed, and Hullin emptied his glass.

"Do you intend to start at once, Jean-Claude?" asked Wittmann.

"Yes, the days are growing short, and the road through the wood
is not easily found after dark. Adieu!"

The innkeeper watched the old mountaineer from the window, as he
crossed the street, and muttered as he gazed at the retreating
figure:

"How pale he was when he came in! He could scarcely stand. It is
strange! An old man such as he--a soldier too! I could see fifty
regiments stretched in ambulances, and not shake so."

                  ----------
{32}

  Translated From The Historisch-politische Blätter.

                  Maria Von Mörl.


In the beginning of this year a remarkable human life came to a
close. That wonderful being whose name and fame travelled from
South Tyrol all over Germany, and made her residence become a
frequented pilgrimage without her will--but for the great
consolation of multitudes during a whole generation--that
extraordinary woman is no more. Maria von Mörl died on January
11th, 1868, in the fifty-sixth year of her age, and in the
thirty-sixth of her ecstatic life.

It is now over a score of years since the masterly pen of Görres
sketched, in his _Mystik_, so striking a portrait of Maria
von Mörl, and still the attention of the believing world is
attracted to the life of the ecstatic virgin. Since then
thousands have gone to the South Tyrol markets to behold as a
reality what would sound legendary to read or hear, and to bear
testimony to the truth of what Görres wrote about the stigmata of
that holy woman. All the pilgrims found his statements perfectly
correct. Although Görres, in describing the phenomena, abstained
from a definitive judgment regarding her sanctity, according to
the rule that no one must be called a saint before death, we are
not restrained any longer from expressing our convictions, now
that she is no more. Her happy and holy death is the strongest
confirmation of her unimpeachable life.

We have now all the necessary documents to form a correct
estimate of her holiness. Let us glance at the most interesting
events in her life, and sum up briefly and simply the chief
traits of her inner and exterior character.

Three miles south of Botzen, in a charming landscape, with a
prospect extending over a wide and smiling valley, lies the
vine-crowned spot in which Maria Theresa von Mörl first saw the
light of day, on October 16th, 1812. She was the daughter of a
reduced, but noble, vine cultivator in Kaltern, [Footnote 3]
Joseph von Mörl, of Mühlen and Lichelburg, who was blessed with a
very large family, but not with sufficient means to raise them as
became their blood.

    [Footnote 3: Kaltern is the German for the Italian
    Caldaro.--Tr.]

Maria received from her good, sensible mother, whose maiden name
was Selva, a pious and simple education; and the young girl grew
up in virtue, modest and gentle, affectionate and obliging to
all, of good understanding, but with no great powers of fancy.
She was an expert little housewife, and aided her mother in the
management of their domestic affairs. Frequent illness, which
began to trouble her as early as her fifth year and continued to
affect her through life, as it had its seat in her blood,
rendered her, even at an early age, rather grave, and increased
her zeal in prayer, which showed itself especially in her love
and veneration for the Blessed Sacrament. This was her character
until, in the year 1827, her beloved mother was taken from her by
death; and she, at the age of fifteen, was left in sole charge of
the family, her father being unable to provide better for the
care of her eight younger sisters.
{33}
Maria undertook the task of their bringing up with courage and
readiness. She sought among her increasing labors and
responsibilities, more than ever, consolation in religion, and in
the frequent reception of the sacrament of the altar.

But the burden was too heavy for her young shoulders, and she
sank under it. In her eighteenth year she fell into a wearisome
sickness, which was increased in painfulness by reason of violent
cramps, which broke down her constitution. Only by slow degrees
was her pain alleviated, without the disease having been
completely driven out. She never became perfectly sound again.
Yet she bore all her afflictions with heroic resignation,
although to her physical torments mental struggles were often
added temptations of the devil; and troubles of soul which we
cannot dwell upon here. [Footnote 4]

  [Footnote 4: Görres describes them fully in his _Christliche
  Mystik_, band iii.]

Such was her condition during about two years, when her
confessor, Father Capistran, a quiet, prudent man, and for years
a true friend of the distressed family, observed "that at certain
times, when she was interrogated by him, she did not answer, and
seemed to be out of herself." When he questioned her nurses and
others on this point, they informed him that such was always the
case when she received the holy communion. This was the first
symptom of her _ecstatic_ state, into which she entered in
her twentieth year, and which soon became more and more striking.
On the feast of Corpus Christi, 1832, which in Kaltern, as
throughout the whole Tyrol, is celebrated with unusual solemnity,
Father Capistran, for special reasons, gave her the holy
sacrament at three A.M., and immediately she fell into an ecstasy
which lasted, to his personal knowledge, for several hours! He
left her to attend to other duties; and when he returned, at noon
on the following day, he found the ecstatic still kneeling in the
same place where he had left her thirty-six hours before; and
heard, to his astonishment, that she had remained the whole time
thus undisturbed in contemplation. The good Franciscan now
comprehended for the first time that ecstasy had become almost a
second nature to her; and undertook the regulation of this
supernatural condition of his saintly penitent.

The power of the perceptive faculties increased wonderfully with
her ecstasies, as several presentiments and prophecies
demonstrated in a surprising manner. Her fame was soon noised
abroad. The report of her ecstatic kneeling and prayer spread
through the Tyrol, and great excitement was created throughout
the whole land. Crowds of people flocked to see her, and to be
edified by the sight. From different and distant places numbers
came as pilgrims to Kaltern. During the summer of 1833, more than
forty thousand persons, of all classes, visited her, without the
slightest disorder or scandal, although sometimes two or three
thousand people in a day passed through the room of the rapt
maiden, kneeling undisturbed in contemplation. Many sinners were
moved and converted by the spectacle.

No one could explain the sudden and extraordinary commotion
excited in a whole people. The civil and ecclesiastical
authorities wished to prevent the concourse; so it was announced
that no further pilgrimages would be allowed. They gradually
ceased. The priests, however, bore testimony to the good results
which had flowed from those pilgrimages.
{34}
In the autumn of the same year, Francis Xavier Luschin,
Prince-Bishop of Trent, caused an investigation to be made, and
the witnesses to be examined on oath, regarding the state of the
ecstatic virgin, to prevent any further proceedings and
annoyances on the part of the police, but especially to remove
all suspicion of pious fraud. The prince-bishop, who was
impartial enough not to give a final decision, informed the civil
authorities "that the sickness of Maria von Mörl was certainly
not holiness, but that her undoubted holiness could not be called
a sickness."

All this excitement was unknown to the cause of it, who remained
undisturbed by the throngs who came to see her. Her inner life
seemed to be completely developed in the year 1834, when she
received the _stigmata_. How this happened is best told in
the words of Görres himself: "In the fall of 1833, the
father-confessor occasionally remarked that the centre of her
hands, where the wounds appeared at a later date, began to fall
in, and the places became painful and troubled with frequent
cramps. He suspected that _stigmatization_ was about to
happen, and the result justified his expectations. At early Mass,
on February 4th, of the year 1834, he found her wiping her hands
with a cloth in childish astonishment. When he perceived blood on
it, he asked her what was the matter. She answered that she did
not well understand what it was; that she must have cut herself
in some strange way. But it was the stigmata, which from that day
remained unchangeably in her palms, and soon appeared in her feet
also, as well as in her side. So simply did Father Capistran act
in the whole affair, and so little desirous of wonder-seeking did
he show himself, that he never asked her what were her interior
dispositions or phenomena immediately before the reception of the
wounds. They were almost round, slightly oblong, about two inches
in diameter, and appearing on both the upper and under parts of
her hands and feet. The size of the lance stigma in the side,
which only her most intimate female friends saw, could not be
determined. On Thursday evenings and on Fridays, clear blood
flowed in drops from the wounds; on the other days of the week, a
dry crust of blood covered them, without the slightest symptoms
of inflammation or the slightest traces of pus ever appearing.
She concealed most carefully her state, and all that might betray
her interior emotions. But on the occasion of a festive
procession, in 1833, she fell into an ecstasy in the presence of
several witnesses. She appeared like an angel, blooming like a
rose. Her feet scarcely touching the bed, she stood up, with arms
outstretched in the shape of a cross, and the stigmata in her
palms manifest to all beholders." [Footnote 5]

  [Footnote 5: _Christliche Mystik_, ii. 501.]

Maria von Mörl became a sister of the Third Order of St. Francis,
and, in virtue of the obedience due to him, her confessor
undertook to keep her ecstasies within due bounds. She promised
him complete obedience. A word from him recalled her to herself.
But his experience was very little. No one at home paid much
attention to her. She was left very much alone. Her confessor was
a sensible man, but very simple and not at all inquisitive. The
circle of her spiritual phenomena rolled round within the
ordinary limits of the feasts of the church. Father Capistran did
not interfere at all in the singularities of her interior
condition, or even try to investigate their nature with
curiosity.
{35}
"If she is not questioned," wrote the good and simple confessor
to Görres, "she says very little, and seldom speaks at all; thus,
for instance, it is only to-day that I learned completely her
vision of St. Paul--on the feast of his conversion. Only now and
then does she tell a particular circumstance, which I listen to
quietly; and if she says nothing, I do not trouble her with
questions. She sometimes says to me, 'I cannot properly express
what I see by word of mouth or by writing; and perhaps I might
say something false.' My direction is extremely plain: I want her
to be always humble and devout to God; and I am satisfied when
she prays so fervently to God, and intercedes for others, for
sinners as well as for the just. It always seems to me that it is
not the will of God that I should inquire too curiously about her
visions and revelations, as Brentano did with Emmerich." Thus
wrote Father Capistran, who describes himself in his letter
better than our pen could do it.

In September, 1835, Görres came to Kaltern, in the Southern
Tyrol, where he saw frequently the _stigmatized_ girl, whose
health was becoming every day worse. He found her in her father's
house, lying in a neat, plain, whitewashed room, on a hard
mattress, and covered with clean white linen. At the side of her
bed was a little family altar; behind it, and over the windows,
were a few religious pictures. She had a delicate figure, of
medium height, and somewhat emaciated from the use of sparse
diet, yet not unusually thin. When he saw her for the first time,
she was in an ecstasy, kneeling on the lower part of her bed.
Görres describes her thus: "Her hands, with the visible stigmata,
were folded on her breast; her face turned to the church, and
slightly raised; her eyes having a look of complete absorption
which nothing could disturb. No movement was perceptible in her
kneeling form for a whole hour, except a gentle breathing,
occasionally a muscular action of the throat as in swallowing,
and sometimes an oscillatory movement of the head and body. She
seemed as if looking into the distance, gazing in rapture at God,
like one of those angels who kneel around his throne. No wonder
that her appearance produced such a great effect on the
beholders, so as to bring tears to the eyes of the most hardened.
During her ecstasy she contemplated the life and passion of
Christ, adored the Blessed Sacrament, and prayed according to the
spirit of the season of the ecclesiastical year. This we are told
by her spiritual director. Her visions and revelations had all
reference to something holy and ecclesiastical; and, unlike
somnambulists, she remained entirely blind, like other persons,
to her own bodily state." (II. 504.)

In her natural condition, Maria von Mörl left the impression of
her being a simple and candid child on those who visited her.
Görres gives a characteristic description of her: "No matter how
deeply she may be lost in contemplation, a word of her confessor,
no matter in how low a tone it may be uttered, recalls her from
her rapture. There seems to be no medium condition; only
sufficient time elapses to make her conscious of the word having
been spoken, before she opens her eyes and becomes as
self-possessed as if she were never in ecstasy. Her appearance
becomes immediately changed into that of a young child.
{36}
The first thing she does on awaking from her ecstasy, if she
perceives spectators, is to hide her stigmatized hands under the
bed-clothing, like a little girl who soils her hands with ink,
and tries to conceal them at the approach of her mother. Then she
looks curiously among the crowd, for she is now accustomed to the
sight of multitudes, and gives every one a friendly greeting. As
she has been dumb for some time, she tries to make herself
understood by gestures; and when she finds this method
unsuccessful, she turns her eyes entreatingly, like an
inexperienced child, to her confessor, to ask him to help her and
speak for her. The expression of her dark eye is that of joyous
childhood. You can look through her clear eyes to the very bottom
of her soul, and perceive that there is not a dark corner in her
nature for anything evil to hide in. There is nothing defiled or
deceitful in her character; no sentimentalism, no hypocrisy, nor
the slightest trace of any pride; but all in her is childlike
simplicity and innocence." (II.508.)

Clement Brentano bears a similar witness to her virtue when he
visited her at Kaltern, in 1835, and again in the harvest of
1837. In one of his letters he says of her: "Here lives the
maiden Maria von Mörl, who is now in her twenty-third year. She
is a lovely, pious, and chosen creature. She is incessantly rapt
in ecstasy, kneeling in bed, her hands outstretched or folded.
She is so wonderfully lengthened during her ecstasy, that one
would take her for a very tall person, though really she is quite
short. Her eyes remain open and fixed, and though the flies run
over her eyelids, she moves them not. She is like a wax figure,
and her look is striking. Now and then her spiritual director
interrupts her visions, and immediately she settles into repose
on her couch, but after a few minutes rises to her knees again.
She makes no effort to rise; she seems carried by angels into a
kneeling posture. The whole appearance of this extraordinary girl
is moving, yet not shocking, for the moment the priest commands
her to resume her natural state, she becomes like one of the most
simple and innocent of children, as if she were not seven years
old. The moment she perceives persons around her, she hides
herself to the very nose under the bed-clothes, looks timorous,
yet smiles on all around, and gives them pictures, preserving
always a serene and attractive countenance, like that of the
blessed Emmerich." [Footnote 6]

    [Footnote 6: Clemens Brentano, _Gesammelte Briefe_, band
    ii. 326. He caused a likeness of her to be painted.]

Like a child, she was fond of children, of birds and flowers. It
was observed that birds seemed to have a great liking for her.
They sang in flocks around her windows, and if they were brought
into her room they flew to her. On one occasion three wild doves
were given to her, and although they never allowed any one to
fondle them before, they alighted on her, two of them on her
arms, and the third on her clasped hands, putting its bill to her
mouth as she prayed. This beautiful scene was repeated for
several days, until the doves were driven away. The same thing
happened with a chicken which a little sister of Maria's, a child
of nine years old, accidentally brought into her chamber.

If friends were around her, she could sometimes remain mistress
of herself and take part in their conversation; but this was only
for a short time, and she fell again into ecstasy. The passion of
our Lord seemed to be the special object of her contemplation,
and on Fridays especially she suffered agony in her mystical
life. In the forenoon her sufferings began to be noticeable.
{37}
As the great drama of the crucifixion proceeded, its traces were
visible in her; her pains increasing until the hour of the death
on the cross, when her whole person became as if it were
lifeless. Görres paints, in his usual graphic style, all these
phenomena, even to the most minute details. (P. 505-508.) For the
sake of brevity, we shall quote only Brentano's words. As he was
an eye-witness of what he narrates, he is perfectly reliable: "I
have never seen anything more awful and astounding; all the
patience, anguish, abandonment, and love of Jesus dying was
represented in her with inexpressible truth and dignity. She is
seen dying by degrees; dark spots cover her face, her nose
becomes pinched, her eyes break, cold sweat runs down her person,
death struggles in her trembling bosom; her head is raised, while
her mouth opens in pain; her neck and chin form almost a straight
line, her tongue becomes parched, and is drawn up as if withered;
her breathing is low and slightly gurgling; her hands fall
powerless to her side, and her head sinks on her bosom. A priest,
to whom Father Capistran, who was present, gave authority,
commanded her to repose. In a moment she lay fatigued, but calm
on her bed, and after about three minutes rose again to her
knees, and returned thanks for the death of the Lord."

These phenomena were repeated every Friday throughout the year.
Her sufferings became more and more extraordinary. In the year
1836, it was observed that, on the Fridays after the ascension of
Christ, when she finished her mystical agony, beginning at three
P.M., she fell into a new ecstasy which lasted until half-past
four o'clock. Her body lay extended on her couch as on a cross,
her arms outstretched as if powerfully wrenched; her head hung on
one side, bent somewhat back off her pillow, and unsupported by
anything. Thus she remained sometimes two hours as if dead, and
could not be recalled without violent and painful convulsions.
But when she came back to her natural state, she was ever the
same innocent and gentle girl, as if she had never been blessed
by God with extraordinary visitations.

So much had ecstasy become a second nature to her, that she was
self-conscious only at intervals and by great efforts of the
will. During Görres's stay at Kaltern, Maria was asked to stand
godmother for a newly born child. She accepted the invitation
with great joy, and took the most lively interest in the
ceremony; but during it she became ecstatic several times, and
had to be repeatedly recalled from her trance.

Yet with all this, she did not neglect the care of her family as
far as it lay in her power, and with the direction and counsel of
her good confessor. Two o'clock in the afternoon was the hour
appointed by him for her to attend to her household affairs. At
that hour she was commanded by him to leave her trance, and then,
with the greatest diligence, and with the care of a mother, she
directed business matters, dictated letters, and arranged all the
necessary temporal concerns with great prudence and good sense.

In the year 1841, she left her father's house, and went, in the
beginning of November, to live in the convent of the Sisters of
the Third Order of St. Francis, where, as one of its members, she
received a separate dwelling next the church. Here she enjoyed
great repose, for access to her became less easy, as visitors
were required to procure permission from the ecclesiastical
authorities to see her.
{38}
Still, pilgrimages did not cease; and the good influence
exercised by her increased. Of the deep religious impression
produced by her ecstasies, the Bishop of Terni, Monsignor Vincent
Tizzani, speaks authoritatively in a pastoral letter published
regarding Maria von Mörl in the year 1842. He had seen her, one
Friday, in her ecstasy and agony, and he could not repress his
tears at beholding the text so literally verified, "I live; yet
not I, but Christ liveth in me." His testimony concerning the
stigmata and the circumstances of her supernatural state agrees
in every particular with that rendered by Görres and Brentano
seven years previously. Louis Clarus also, at that time a
Protestant, afterward a Catholic, in his studies on mysticism,
felt compelled to render this witness concerning her. "The force
of truth and reality," says he, writing of his visit to Kaltern,
"impressed me so, that I felt necessitated, like the apostle
John, to announce what I had heard, my eyes had seen, and my
hands touched."

Many others, among them Lord Shrewsbury, attest the same fact,
every succeeding witness confirming the testimony of his
predecessor. [Footnote 7]

    [Footnote 7: _Letter from the Earl of Shrewsbury to Ambrose
    Lisle Phillips, Esq., descriptive of the Estatica of Caldaro
    and the Addolorata of Capriana_. London 1842.]

A whole generation has passed since then, and no one has been
able to contradict their statements, or explain the phenomena on
any _natural_ principles. For thirty years every one could
behold her in ecstasy or agony, and see the wounds plainly on her
hands and feet, while she remained ever humble, meek, modest as a
child, and intensely pious and holy. Her history could be written
in two words: "_She suffers, and contemplates_." She was a
passion-flower clinging to the foot of the cross. In ecstasy she
spent her life, contemplating the sufferings of Jesus Christ,
praying for all, for the church, and for her native land; doing
good to countless poor people, alleviating their sorrows, like
the divine Master who dwelt in the recesses of her soul.

Three years before her death she lost her confessor, Father
Capistran, who had guided her soul for almost forty years. He was
a distinguished theologian, a good priest, and had been judged
worthy to be chosen provincial of his order, the Franciscans. He
died on the 4th of May, 1865. She mourned his death like a child,
and longed more than ever to be dissolved and be with Christ.

Her wish was soon gratified. She became very weak in the autumn
of 1867, and the numerous visits she was compelled to receive, as
well as the frequent requests made of her, completely prostrated
her physical powers. The number of pilgrims to her "Swallows'
Nest," as Görres called her abode near the Franciscan church, was
extraordinary; men, women, priests, and laity, all came to her
shrine.

The measure of her physical suffering was full; but the measure
of her mental anguish was not yet complete. On the 8th of
September, 1867, she was visited by a severe spiritual trouble.
She seemed to be struggling with some power of hell. She became
sad, and as if forsaken by God, to such an extent that until
September 17th, and for weeks after, consciousness seems to have
entirely left her. In this spiritual conflict she saw troops of
demons, which surrounded, attacked her, and threatened to carry
her off to judgment. She saw and heard the fiends blaspheming all
things holy, and trying to bear even the most righteous away to
the abyss.
{39}
She heard the devils scoff at her, and boast that they had the
pope in their power; that they had desecrated churches and
convents, and made wickedness thrive in the land. These
temptations and obsessions lasted from the middle of September to
the middle of October, when peace again returned to her soul.
From the 23d of October she was able to receive the blessed
sacrament regularly; the struggle was over; she had conquered,
and was now at rest. When she was afterward interrogated
regarding these obsessions, she said that, on the night of the
7th of September, as she was praying for the pope and the
emperor, the attack began. It was precisely at this time that the
invasion of the pope's temporal possessions by the Garibaldians,
sanctioned by the Sardinian government, took place. The French
expedition was sent to the pope's relief toward the middle of
October, just when Maria's soul obtained rest from demoniacal
aggressions; so that her personal affliction seems to have been a
participation in the sufferings of the church.

But the light of her life was flickering in the socket. She had a
presentiment of her death before it took place, and prophesied
often that she would never pass the winter on earth. Toward All
Saints' day her weakness became greater, and everything foretold
her dissolution. She could no longer bear nourishment. Lemonade
or water, with the essence of quinces, was almost her only
nourishment for some weeks before her death. When she felt better
on certain days, she ate fruit, bread, or porridge, but never
meat or meat soup. She sometimes spent several days without
eating or drinking. In the last week, especially from Wednesday<
she suffered great torture. But she was full of resignation;
indifferent to life or death, she never repined or murmured. She
was patient and full of calm resignation and infantile love. On
the feast of the Epiphany, five days before her death, she showed
herself in her usual way to the pilgrims; there was a mission at
Kaltern, and the missionaries visited her on that festival, to
bid her farewell. She received them with bland hospitality, and
offered them grapes to eat.

She knew nothing positive about the precise moment of her death,
but only that she should die when everything on her became white.
The stigmata began gradually to disappear, leaving only a blue
spot, which disappeared entirely after her departure. She
received the viaticum on January 6th, in the evening. Every one
thought she would die immediately; but she made known by gestures
that she should not die yet. She remained conscious, and was able
to receive holy communion daily.

At last the day of her demise, January 11th, came. About
half-past two on Saturday morning, two hours after communion, she
passed from this vale of tears to her heavenly home. Her last
agony was easy and calm. She lay quiet, occasionally murmuring
the name of Jesus; and one of the bystanders heard her say: "Oh!
how beautiful; oh! how beautiful." Her breathing grew weaker, and
she fell gently asleep in death.

Her body was exposed in the church for two days, and thousands
visited it. Many felt as if they had lost a member of their own
family. She lay dressed as a bride, clothed in white, with a
white veil on her brow, and a crown of flowers at her feet. Her
face was beautiful to look upon, half-childlike in expression,
yet mingled with the dignity of a matron; her head reclined, bent
toward the left side; her brow and eyes were full of dignity; her
mouth like that of an infant smiling in sleep; her hands white as
alabaster, and ruddy as roses.
{40}
Afterward the veil was taken away and she appeared more angelic
than ever, her rich flowing hair surrounding her noble head. A
look of perfect happiness beamed from her entire countenance.

Her burial was solemn. Surrounded by mourning and edified
multitudes, her body was borne by young maidens from the
catafalque to the zinc coffin prepared for its reception. Her
remains were taken on January 13th to her father's family vault
at Kaltern, where they now rest in peace.

Kaltern lost its jewel in losing Maria; but her virtues will live
for ever in the hallowed spot where she was born, where she lived
and died. Truly did Görres write of her to the Prince-Bishop of
Trent: "God put her like a living crucifix on the cross-roads, to
preach to a godless and dissipated people." She was one of those
lamps lighted by the hand of God himself to shine in the
darkness, when infidelity is abroad robbing and devouring in the
vineyard of Christ. For this purpose she was sent by God, and
hence we may well expect that the wonderful supernatural
phenomena of her ecstatic life will not cease with her death.

                  ----------

                A Summer Shower.


              Welcome, O summer rain;
              To thirsty hill and plain,
    To desolate beds of streams of all their waves run dry.
              We know who sent thee forth
              From out the windy north,
    To trail thy cooling fountains through the sultry sky.

              The parchéd earth drinks up
              The crystal-flowing cup;
    The dusty grasses wash them emerald-green again:
              The sweet, drenched roses sigh
              In fragrant ecstasy;
    The truant brooks foam down their glistening beds amain.

{41}

              The robins, full of glee,
              Answer from tree to tree;
    'Neath dusky boughs the glancing orioles, aglow,
              Mimic the vivid play
              Of lightnings far away,
    That southward toss their fiery shuttles to and fro:

              While at the fall and lift
              Of lights and shadows swift,
    Titanic laughter rolls through all the bending skies,
              And every water-bead
              Trembles, but laughs, indeed,
    And every insect quicklier breathes as low he lies.

              O Heart! whose pity flows
              To cheer the languid rose.
    O Hand! outstretched to wake the brooklet's merry din,
              Behold me like a blot
              Upon this happy spot,
    Where joys knock at my door, but never enter in!

              Behold the arid ways
              Through which my weary days
    Tread with unfruitful steps that wander far from thee;
              The wasted heart and brain,
              All empty, save for pain;
    Behold the hidden thorn which thou alone canst see;

              And while my fainting sighs
              Through nature's hymn arise,
    O Comforter of flowers! leave not me to die!
              But send thy heavenly rain
              Unto my soul again,
    Even to me, as grieving in the dust I lie!

                   ----------

{42}

        Who shall take care of our Sick?


We have taken occasion, in recent numbers of _The Catholic
World_, to present to our readers several of the works of
charity which appeal most strongly to Christian sympathy and ask
for Christian aid. In our articles on "The Sanitary and Moral
Condition of the City of New York"--as but one, however, out of
the many cities of our land with like evils and like needs--we
directed attention to some lamentable features of the situation
of the poor in our midst, and especially of the many thousands of
poor and vagrant children growing up in neglect and consequent
ignorance and vice. The kindred matter of the condition and
proper treatment of the inmates of our jails, prisons, and
penitentiaries was touched upon in our last, under the head of
"Prison Discipline;" and, again, that of the poor and unfortunate
subjects of mental ailments in the article on "Gheel, a Colony of
the Insane." In the present number, we invite attention to
another branch of the subject, suggested by the inquiry at the
head of this article, "Who shall take care of our sick?"

By the sick, we mean all who by infirmity of body or mind are
incapable of taking care of themselves; for the range of our
inquiry embraces the helplessness of infancy, of decrepitude,
insanity, and idiocy, and extends even to prisoners and
criminals.

By _our_ sick, we mean the sick poor, the duty of providing
for whom devolves on collective society.

But as what is everybody's business is nobody's business, and as
society, however imperfectly organized, has many distinct organs
and recognized functions corresponding; it remains to be
determined through what special ministry the suffering members of
humanity shall be succored and the erring reclaimed.

If the rich, and those whose social combinations have been
successful, are succored in their need by their families, their
friends, their servants; who constitute the families, the
friends, the servants, of the poor and isolated? This is a
question which pagan societies have evaded, or insolently
answered, _Vae victis!_ Religion alone, and only in so far
as Christ's spirit has penetrated mankind, has given, through its
orders of charity, a fair and candid answer--an answer in deeds
as well as words. For many centuries in Christendom, this answer
appeared satisfactory in its spirit and intent. Not even the
insane were left out of the Christian fold--witness the Colony of
Gheel--and it only remained to extend, and multiply, and perfect
the works of charity, in proportion as science and art added to
the resources of society.

But the Protestant "Reformation" came, sweeping away the work of
pious ages, confounding uses with abuses, and upset the whole
administration of charity by the servants of Christ, along with
public and religious hospitality: in changing the privileged
orders, it confided to secular hands the doling out of such
pittance to the destitute as the fear of insurrection compelled,
and still compels, from the reluctant economy of self interest.

{43}

A revival of Christianity in Protestant countries now opens the
public mind to the horrors and crimes against humanity
perpetrated, in the name of charity, in their "work-houses,"
"alms-houses," hospitals, and asylums; it leads to the recall and
renewal of religious orders devoted to the care of the sick and
other classes needing charity. This has not been merely a
brilliant corruscation, like the rescue which Florence
Nightingale carried to the British troops in the Crimea. Miss
Nightingale had previously been trained for years in the
religious order of the Kaiserwerth, a normal school of nurses,
and the movement, inaugurated by her, continues in England as the
"Institution of St. John." A number of religious works, of high
merit and extensive usefulness, are described among the
_Charities of Europe_, by De Liefde. [Footnote 8]

    [Footnote 8: Published by Strahan: New York and London.]

In New York, we have the Hospital of St. Luke, ministered to by
pious Episcopal ladies, who, like the _Soeurs Grises_ of
mediaeval Europe, take no vows, and may marry, yet for the time
being perform the same functions as our Sisters of Charity or of
Mercy.

While attesting a tendency in Christendom to recover the ground
lost by the "Reformation," such institutions as we have cited are
still very trivial in numbers and power; and though small
appropriations of public funds have been made to them, neither
they nor the principles which they represent have been officially
recognized by states or cities. There is, on the contrary, a
jealous opposition to admitting, even to the service of the sick
poor, who are mostly Europeans and Catholics, as at Bellevue, the
Sisters of Charity; and one of its most eminent surgeons, who
knows by experience how precious is their aid, has declared to us
with regret his conviction that this salutary measure could not
pass. To obviate the prejudices that withhold the administration
of charity from its own votaries, whose noble emulation would
utilize the differences of sect or order for the common good; to
show that the State will find in this restoration economy, at the
same time with social or moral advantages, while Christ will be
more worthily served; to make it felt that the burden of human
sorrows will be lightened, and the redemption of our race from
evil promoted, by re-allying piety with charity, is the purpose
we have now in view.

"_Suum cuique tribuito,_" "Give to each his own." Two chief
orders of power exist in society--interest and sentiment. The
natural sphere of interest is confined to material property or
goods of the senses; that of sentiment embraces the relations of
_persons_, that is, of beings considered as hearts and
souls; so that sentiment culminates in devotion, and ranges love
and consanguinity, friendship and honor, in the ministries of
religion, expanding the selfhood of the individual by the
consciousness of his solidarity with the race, and through Christ
with our Father in heaven.

Still, practically, the functions of each power are distinct. It
is admitted, in regard to the divers organizations of fire
companies, for instance, that the payment of fixed salaries is an
efficient or adequate motive for the protection of houses. This
service was once confided to public spirit; there was no lack of
heroic devotion in its exercise; but salaried firemen were found
to be more amenable to discipline, and their organizations to be
more permanent and reliable.
{44}
Now, the contrary is true of hospital service and kindred
functions, which employ in some places the religious orders of
charity, in others hired assistants. Physicians, patients, and
inspectors, all proclaim the superiority of the former. Visit our
great secular establishments, such as Bellevue or the Charity
Hospital, where the service is either hired or compulsory by
convicts, and then the hospitals of religious orders, even the
poorest, such as that of the Sisters of the Poor of St. Francis,
which is supported by begging from door to door, not to mention
the more richly endowed hospitals of St. Vincent de Paul or St.
Luke, all free to every needy patient: scent the air of the
wards, share the food of the refectory, feel the human magnetism
of these spheres, take time and mood to appreciate all their
conditions, and you will find their difference amount to a
contrast in many essentials of hygiene, physical as well as
moral, although science is impartially represented at the secular
as at the religious establishments. The former have been largely
endowed by private and public benefaction; energy, ability, and
good will are not wanting among their officers; yet they inspire
such aversion that the decent poor will often rather perish than
resort to them.

The characteristic superiority of religious charities is
historical, and remounts to the earliest epochs of Christendom;
although the secular interest of states in the health and
contentment of their peoples has been the same in all times and
all countries. If their conduct has been different, the reasons
of this difference may be found in the nature of their religions
and the fervor or torpor of their piety.

Conversely, just in proportion as our modern states alienate
their "public charities" from the influence of religion, they
become perverted by the same cruelty and heartlessness that
characterized the behavior of the pagan world toward its
unfortunate classes. Between the philanthropy of the English
workhouse and that of Rome which sent poor slaves to perish on
the "_dismal island_" in the Tiber, the shorter course seems
preferable to us, because less degrading to the soul of the
victim, and because it has the courage, at least, of its crime.

The Emperor Maximianus, who shipped a cargo of beggars out to sea
and drowned them, was still more complete in this economy of
suffering. Disease and misery, decrepitude and helpless infancy,
have each in turn become the object of such elimination, which
ignores tenderness toward the individual; but the process has
never stopped where it might have been justified, in a manner, by
the substitution of healthier and stronger or more perfect, for
less perfect individuals among the representative types of the
species. No; the same spirit that sacrificed the feeblest,
revelled in the destruction of the strongest men in its
gladiatorial arenas. Even in the restricted sense of patriotism,
which had contributed so many devotions on the altar of the
country, in the heroic days of Greece and Rome, solidarity had
ceased to be matter of practical conscience in the pagan world of
the great empire. The Hebrews had developed it only as a tribal
and family principle. Where has it ever been a social life-truth,
unless in the fold of Christ's disciples? and where has this been
practically organized, except by its religious orders?

{45}

The inconsistencies of war excepted, we see life and personal
liberty becoming more sacred from age to age, even amid the
corruptions of advanced civilization in Christendom; whereas, on
the contrary, in pagan civilizations "the springs of humane
feeling in every ancient nation, like the waters of the fountain
of the sun, were warm at dawn of morning, but chilled gradually
as the day advanced, till at noon they became excessively cold."

When the development of intelligence in civilized communities
renders them conscious of needs and of resources outlying the
circles of family providence; one of their first Christian
movements is to care for their disabled members, stricken by
disease or wounds from the army of the working poor.

In our monster cities, the hospital acquires gigantic
proportions, and political economy meets humanity in the research
for a system which shall afford the greatest mitigation of
inevitable suffering and the best chances of restoring the
sufferers to social uses.

In this research, charity has anticipated experimental science,
and to the religious orders belongs the honor of fulfilling the
highest ideal of this sacred function.

The organization of hospitals contains for modern civilization
and for cosmopolite New York problems of the highest practical
import, which especially interest the Christian church.

What has been hitherto effected under the social pressure of
extreme necessity, whether to avert the generation and diffusion
of pestilence, or the shame of allowing millions of the poor to
perish in their squalid misery, is still painfully inadequate to
meet the needs of humanity at points where Europe disgorges her
miseries upon America. New institutions are annually struggling
into existence to supply this demand. Among the most important by
their social and religious nature are those of the Sisters of the
Poor of Saint Francis, which may serve as a type of what we would
urge concerning the superiority of piety and charity--those
daughters of the Christian church--over secular calculations, in
this work.

Few, small, and poor as are the hospitals of this order in
America, they shine by the spirit which animates them, by the
naked purity of their Christian faith, and its works, that
confront the world now, precisely as they did eighteen hundred
years ago. [Footnote 9]

    [Footnote 9: This order of the "Sisters of the Poor of Saint
    Francis" has been introduced already into several of our
    larger cities, and with much promise of success. Houses of
    their order exist in Cincinnati, in Brooklyn, in Hoboken, and
    elsewhere, and, more recently, have been established here in
    New York.

    If they shall have the wisdom--the church's wisdom of old and
    of all time, and the spirit which has always animated and
    characterized her workings--to adapt themselves to the
    country, to its needs and requirements, to its speech, and
    (so far as compatible with piety) to its habits and customs,
    they will doubtless receive vocations, will grow in numbers,
    will be able to accomplish much in alleviating the sufferings
    of humanity, and will do no small share of the great work of
    bringing the Catholic Church rightfully before the American
    people.

    We subjoin the following deserved tribute to their house here
    in New York, which we find in the _Evening Post_, of
    August 13th.:

          "Saint Francis Hospital.

    "To the Editors of the _Evening Post_:

    "I venture to affirm that at least nine tenths of the good
    people of this great city are entirely ignorant of the
    existence of the Hospital of Saint Francis in our midst.
    Indeed, with my long and generally intimate knowledge of the
    various benevolences of the city, I was not at all aware of
    this institution, until a kind lady who has been a warm
    friend of the House of Industry acquainted me with the fact a
    few days since, and in her company I had the pleasure of
    visiting the hospital. For several reasons I beg your
    permission to say a few words about it in the _Evening
    Post_.

    "It is located on Fifth and Sixth streets, between Avenues B
    and C, being the two brick dwellings Nos. 407 and 409 Fifth
    street, and the one immediately in the rear of No. 173 Sixth
    street. It is under the care of the 'Sisters of the Poor of
    Saint Francis,' and is a free hospital for both sexes,
    without distinction as to creed, and its inmates comprise
    Catholics, Protestants, and Jews. The means for purchasing
    this property were obtained by the solicitations of the
    sisters from door to door. I think the order of Saint Francis
    originated in Germany, where it still has its headquarters.
    Most of the sisters here are German, though there are
    certainly one or two exceptions. The accommodations are
    altogether inadequate, and not at all well adapted to the
    purposes. The patients are cheerful and happy, and there is
    every evidence that all the efforts of these sisters arise
    from the most pure and unselfish motives, and that there is
    not the least constraint in regard to religious matters
    resting upon the inmates. There is a very small chapel in the
    establishment, the attendance upon which is wholly voluntary.
    The commonest services are performed by the sisters, and,
    Puritan Protestant as I was educated, I could but admire the
    devotion and kindness of these women. I believe their charity
    is a true and unselfish one; that they are animated by his
    Spirit who went about doing good, and they should be well
    supported in their work.

    "The patients are of all ages and nationalities, perhaps a
    more than usual average of Germans. I was particularly
    interested in two of the wards, one for the 'grandfathers'
    and the other for the 'grandmothers,' both of them filled
    with quite aged people. Many of the patients seemed to be
    incurables, and have a permanent home in the Saint Francis.
    The good sisters have secured a large plot of ground on which
    they purpose erecting a building of much greater capacity
    than those they now occupy, and thoroughly adapted to the
    objects of the institution. For this object they will need
    large contributions, which I earnestly hope will be promptly
    furnished. The following is a general summary of the past
    year:

      Number of patients treated in Hospital,
        (males, 484; females, 108).............593

      Discharged, cured or improved............423

      Died......................................88

      Remaining December 31, 1867...............81

    "I have written out this simple statement, because it is
    always pleasant for me to commend all right agencies working
    for the comfort of the sick poor, and because, comparatively
    isolated as these women are, they have special claim to
    sympathy and assistance; and also, because they are
    Catholics, I am glad of an opportunity to show that
    Protestants can appreciate what is good, no matter who
    originates it.

        "S. B. Halliday."]

{46}

Arrogant, imposing, and splendid in Broadway, the lusts of power
and greed which the poor world now serves show the reverse of the
picture in the indigent swarms which vegetate a little way east
from First avenue. Passing from the hot-beds of luxury and their
exhaustive reactions of improvident misery, enter the Hospital of
the Sisters of the Poor of Saint Francis, on Fifth street, near
Avenue B. Its extreme neatness in the midst of squalor, its
sweetness amid corruptions, atmospheric and social, its severe
simplicity of self-renunciation, shaming the complex artifices of
our cupidity, its devotion so consistent, so persistent, as the
stream of charity ascends toward its fountain-level in the
heights of faith; all smite upon the heart with the manifest
presence of Jesus. Its inmates attest with a grateful enthusiasm
the kindness there lavished upon them. The voices of prayer and
praise consecrate the wholesome food to bodily uses; the
sweetness of fellowship in Christ pervades all its relations and
dignifies the humblest offices. Here are no hired nurses;
life-devotion supplies all. The iniquities of civilization or the
discrepancies between the soul's ideal and the world's possible,
may defeat nature's fondest intentions of personal destiny in
love and maternity for individual lives; but as "the stone which
the builders rejected, the same shall become the head of the
corner," so the career of charity opens to all who live in Christ
a higher sphere of espousals and of motherhood, pure from the
dross of selfishness.

One who observes the practical working of this institution must
soon be convinced that it possesses neither time nor inclination
for other arts of proselyting, than the attractive emanations of
a glowing, earnest life of love and duty. Fourteen sisters
support and care for more than a hundred patients, and even add
to the domestic and ward service that of the pharmacy. The
patients receive daily visits from a physician and a clergyman.
"We know," say the sisters, "that, when the body is sick, the
soul suffers, and that spiritual consolation often does the body
more good than the best medicines." Books are provided for those
able and willing to read. Attendance at the chapel is optional.
There are regular services on Sunday. The patients are of diverse
creeds, as of diverse nations. This hospital is often preferred
by Protestants, and even by Jews; for those who suffer go where
they find hearts to sympathize with and hands to help them.
{47}
They see that the poor sisters have nothing for their labors but
their simple food and clothing. More is not allowed by the rules
of their order, that they may the more disinterestedly apply
themselves to the care of the poor and suffering sick, the
support of whom and other expenses of the institution depend upon
the daily collections and labors of the sisters themselves."
(_Report_ for 1867.) This noble ignorance of all
distinctions of creed and sect is the common attribute of the
Sisters of Charity. Those who serve the Hospital of St. Vincent
de Paul, an older and wealthier charity than that of the Sisters
of St. Francis, one of the most creditable, indeed, in our
country, open its doors alike to sufferers of all denominations.

In regard to the matter of practical economy and saving to the
state, from placing its hospitals, and other like institutions,
under the care of the religious orders, we are permitted to give
the following extract from a letter from a Catholic lady of
Cincinnati:

  "The only public institution we as yet have which is supported
  from the public purse is the prison, managed by the Good
  Shepherds. In his annual report, the mayor always praises their
  economy and excellent management, but he has never had the
  magnanimity to publish the thousands annually saved, in
  comparison with the old _régime_. Their salaries are fixed
  at $100 a year for six sisters--$600, which is $100 less than
  the pay of a single policeman. The sisters have the entire
  management of the prison. The Harris School is in full
  operation. The house can receive no more than about fifty-five.
  Colonel Harris, the founder, a Protestant, always expresses his
  surprise at _the little outlay_. Our own experience shows
  an immense economy, as well as superior moral influence in the
  effects of our charities, so beneficial in softening the hearts
  of the poor."

We may here take occasion to remark that a religious order
affords guarantees of honest administration in a higher degree
than any individual can do by his personal responsibility. The
legal security, or values pledged, may be equal; but in one case
there is at stake only a business responsibility, in which it is
often regarded as smart to outwit a committee of inspection;
while, on the other hand, corporate honor is involved, and the
officer entrusted with funds is doubly responsible to the
committee of inspection, and to the order of which he or she is a
member, under the more extended affiliation of the church.

Moreover, the discipline of the religious orders is very rigorous
on the chapter of economies, and there are not by any means the
same opportunities or temptations for an officer to divert funds
from public to private uses. The inspectors themselves will often
be Protestants.

It behoves us to examine the use of hospitals in the general
system of humanitary functions. The hospital is a corollary of
the city. The city is a gland or glandular system of elaboration
for the social and intellectual secretions of humanity--arts,
sciences, and refinements. But the advantages of the city are
obtained only by great sacrifices; among which is the separation
of great numbers of persons from their local and family
attachments, obliging them to derive their subsistence from
industries more precarious than those of rural life. More wisdom
being required to direct one's course in the complex relations of
the city, more are bewildered, misled, overwhelmed; vast and
powerful currents of crime and of waste are generated, and
restorative measures are needed to counteract them.
{48}
Now, the necessity of cities and that of hospitals being
admitted, how, let us ask, can this kind of help be rendered,
this sort of duty performed, so as most worthily to attest the
principle of human solidarity, so as to benefit most the
recipients of charity, to honor most the organs by which charity
is rendered, and so secure the best kind of service in this
arduous function; finally, how best to economize the resources of
collective society in the adaptation of means to ends?

First, let us consider the expediences of public charity,
especially in reference to the persons or characters of its
organs.

The best interest of society demands that there shall be a place
for every one, and every one in his place; or, in other words,
that as specific vocations are inherent to each type of
character, so _that_ use should be allotted to each for
which nature supplies the aptitudes, and which it embraces with
ardor.

The attractiveness of certain functions< or the aversion
occasioned by them, has very little to do with the impression
they make on the senses of a party indifferent. The cares
required by an infant, for example, which excite maternal zeal in
all its plenitude, appear simply tedious and disgusting to most
men. So it is with the care of the sick, in which science and
affection find powerful attachments insensible to others, who,
good in other ways, feel no vocation for it. Finally, and beyond
all special vocations, there is the enthusiasm of devotion, the
religious instinct to which Christianity appeals, which it
awakens in many souls, and which it justifies in affording to it
the highest spheres of use. The contemplative idealist may try to
escape the normal limitations of his nature in vague aspiration;
but Jesus has provided against this Brahminic perversion by the
culture of charity, in identifying the love of God with the love
of the neighbor, and himself with the least of mankind. "As long
as you did it to one of these my least brethren, you did it to
me." (St. Matthew xxv. 40.)

We do not suppose that Christianity endowed human nature with
philanthropy as a new passion; it gave this aspect, this
evolution, this modality, to what had been patriotism for the
heroic states of Rome, of Greece, and other nations, which had
always sought, and sometimes found, a social channel, but which
Christianity more fully satisfied in the theory and practice of
unity.

There have always been developed, in proportion with the
industrial progress of civilization, wants extraordinary without
being fantastic. Such are the cares of illness. The wisdom of
Christian charity has adapted to these extreme wants vocations
equally extreme, in the devotion of religious orders; and this
duty has devolved especially upon the female sex, because it is
better gifted than the male for the ministry of compassion.

It is feasible, moreover, for religious orders to accept as well
the penitent as the virgin; and shaming the world's intolerance,
to rescue from sin and disgrace a lower world of souls, whom
passion or imprudence had otherwise ruined.

There is no depth of crime, indeed, from which its subjects may
not be rescued by charitable labors; and in proportion as their
organization is extended and perfected, legal as well as simply
moral offences may find here at once their prevention and their
expiation. The brothel and the penitentiary, those two
institutions of hell on earth, may thus be countermined, and the
means of redemption afforded to their victims.
{49}
The salutary influence which the discipline of charitable works
exerts over mental and moral aberrations, may even reclaim not a
few of the insane, or those who, under ordinary circumstances,
are drifting fatally toward the lunatic asylum.

That extraordinary virtue which the impulse and exercise of
active benevolence has in developing the soul and awakening its
latent powers from torpor, may appear from the following incident
lately observed at Mr. Bost's, in Laforce, Dordogne:

One day a poor girl, deaf, dumb, blind, paralytic, and epileptic,
was brought to Bethesda. "It required some courage," says the
narrator, Mr. De Liefde, "to fix one's eyes on that miserable
creature, with her dried-up, contracted limbs, her repulsive
face, the features of which were constantly contorted in the most
hideous manner. Well, an idiot took charge of that child, guarded
and nursed it, and stood by its death-bed to administer to it the
last solace of love! And such was the indefatigable care and even
intelligent thoughtfulness with which she tended her poor
helpless charge that Mr. Bost said, 'When I lie on my death-bed,
I shall count it a blessing to be nursed in this way.' I do not
wonder at such hearts being able to understand what is the
meaning of the simple sentence, 'God loveth you,' long before the
intellect is able to catch the difference between two and three;
nor can I be surprised at what Mrs. Castel told me, that the same
children who do not know whether a shoe ought to be on the foot
or on the head, or who, if not prevented, would, like beasts,
walk on all fours and lick the dirt, may yet sometimes be heard
ejaculating, '_Mon Dieu! prends pitié de moi. J'en at bien
besoin_.'

"Long before they could catch the idea of shifting a piece of
wood from the right hand to the left, they gave evidence of being
pleased by an act of kindness, and of being grateful for a
benefit bestowed on them.

"In the year 1854, a girl who was a perfect idiot stood, one day,
in Mr. Bost's lobby. The aspect of the hideous-looking little
creature was so sickening that Mr. Bost could not permit her to
be taken into the establishment, but still less could he send her
away. If ever there was a subject for compassionate, saving love,
it was here. The power of prayer and the perseverance of charity
could now be put to the test. Mr. Bost resolved to keep the girl
in his own house. The doctors declared it perfect folly. During
three months, all his efforts to strike a spark of intellect out
of this flint proved a total failure. But one evening, at
worship, while the hymn was being sung, he heard an articulate
and harmonious tone proceed from the brutishly shaped mouth. The
child evidently tried to put its voice in accord with the sounds
which it was hearing. Mr. Bost is a musician, and at once applied
his talent to the benefit of his unhappy pupil. Under the
softening and cheering influence of harmony, it was affecting to
see how, first with painful struggles, and then, with growing
ease, the mind of the child emerged from the dark deep in which
it had been confined. By little and little, the idiot succeeded
in uttering articulate sounds, then in uniting them into
syllables, and finally into words. At the same time, her health
improved visibly, her nervous system became less irritable, her
face assumed more and more a rational expression. She began to
show joy and surprise when receiving something that was agreeable
to her. Then tokens of gratitude and of affection followed.
{50}
In short, after a lapse of two years, the idiot had disappeared
to make room for a child which appeared to be behind but a few
years only, when compared with other children of her own age. At
present, that same child, formerly beneath the level of the
brute, speaks well, sews, and knits, and might be the teacher of
children less sunken in idiocy than herself when she first set
foot on Mr. Bost's threshold."

Such was the spirit and such the conduct which determined
mediaeval Europe to entrust the religious orders with vast landed
possessions, and with these the whole care of the poor, of the
sick, and of the wayfarer, duties which they discharged with
greater satisfaction to the people than any secular aristocracy
of privilege known in the records of history.

"For the uncertain dispositions of the rich, for their occasional
and often capricious charity, was substituted the certain, the
steady, the impartial hand of a constantly resident and unmarried
administrator of bodily as well as spiritual comfort to the poor,
the unfortunate, and the stranger."

Now, still the question presses, whether, instead of confiding
our sick to hired nurses, we shall not invite the willing
sisterhood to extend their organization among us, and sustain
them in this devotion. It is well ascertained that none can make
a thousand dollars go so far as they can in the service of their
sick.

It is notorious in America, that public works undertaken by the
government are generally ill done and very wastefully. Hence,
common sense excludes the government from enterprises of internal
improvement, and confides them either to individuals or
companies, without hesitating thus to create privileged orders
and to favor a moneyed aristocracy.

To have a great work well done, passions as well as interests
must be engaged in it; personal character, pride, and ambition,
as well as skill and capital; and where many persons must
co-operate, there is no guarantee of harmony in action and of
successful result so sure as that corporate zeal which religion
employs with so much power, and which religion alone can bring to
bear. This is indeed a holy fire, enkindled and kept alive upon
objects of charity, that purges away dross.

If the Catholic Church has in all ages conducted her enterprises
with the greatest success, it is because she has known how to
enlist the greatest number of motives, the strongest and the
best. On the other hand, it will be readily confessed that the
great public hospitals under secular control do not even bring
into play the common levers of interest which secure results in
the management of railroads, of hotels or banking-houses, nor
those of ambition, which animate the army and navy. Charity, as a
secular business, is always poorly paid, rendered grudgingly,
distastefully, and so as to excite aversion. Many will rather die
than have recourse to it. It always carries with it a certain
stigma of inferiority and contempt. No personal character or
corporate zeal is identified with it, still less can there exist
that unison of feeling and of effort which places the seal of the
divine humanity on such institutions as those of the sisters. We
transcribe from one of the most remarkable works of modern
travel, _The Pillars of Hercules_, by David Urquhart, his
impression of the last remaining hospitals of the religious order
in Spain. Let us note that Mr. Urquhart is an Englishman and a
Protestant:

{51}

  "The Hospicio of Cadiz is at once a poor-house and a house of
  industry, a school, a foundling hospital, a hospital, and a
  mad-house; that is, it supplies the places of all these
  institutions. It is imposing in its form, embellished in its
  interior, and as unlike in all its attributes and effects as
  anything can be to the edifices consecrated to the remedying of
  human misery, by our own charity and wisdom.

    "Hospital De La Sangre, (Seville.)

  "This is a noble edifice, composed of several grand courts and
  of two stories; the lower one for summer, and the upper one for
  winter. I think I may say that to each patient is allotted at
  least four times as much space as in any similar European
  establishment, and the very troughs in which the dirty linen is
  washed are marble: the patients have two changes of clean linen
  in the week. The kitchens are all resplendent with painted
  tiles and cleanliness, and there seemed abundance of excellent
  food. In these institutions, in Spain, the inmates are
  completely at home. Soft and blooming girls, with downcast look
  and hurried step, were attending upon the poor, the maimed, and
  the suffering. The lady-directress had told the servant who
  accompanied me to bring me, after my visit, to her apartment,
  which was a hall in one of the corners of the building; she
  said she had heard that England was celebrated for its charity,
  and asked if our poor and sick were better off than in Spain. I
  was obliged to confess that the reverse was the case. She asked
  me if it was not true that we hired mercenaries to attend on
  the sick, and abstained from performing that duty ourselves;
  and if our charity was not imposed as a tax? She told me that
  there were eight hundred of her order in Spain; that it was the
  only one that had not been destroyed; that none were admitted
  but those of noble birth or of gentle blood; and that they took
  all the vows except that of seclusion, and in lieu of it took
  that of service to the poor and sick. The Saint Isabelle of
  Murillo was the model of their order. The Hospital de la Sangre
  was founded by a woman."

Mrs. Jameson [Footnote 10] pays a just tribute to the Hospital
Lariboissière, in Paris, "a model of all that a civil hospital
ought to be--clean, airy, light, lofty, above all, cheerful. I
should observe," she says, "that generally in the hospitals
served by Sisters of Charity, there is ever an air of
cheerfulness, caused by their own sweetness of temper and
voluntary devotion to their work. At the time that I visited this
hospital, it contained six hundred and twelve patients, three
hundred men and three hundred and twelve women, in two ranges of
building divided by a very pretty garden. The whole interior
management is entrusted to twenty-five trained sisters of the
same order as those who serve the Hôtel Dieu. There are, besides,
about forty servants, men and women, men to do the rough work,
and male nurses to assist in the men's wards under the
supervision of the sisters. This hospital was founded by a lady,
a rich heiress, a married woman too. She had the assistance of
the best architects in France to plan her building, while medical
and scientific men had aided her with their counsels."

    [Footnote 10: _Sisters of Charity,
    Protestant and Catholic_.]

In the _General Report on the Condition of the Prisons of
Piedmont, to the Minister of the Interior_, we find this
paragraph:

{52}

  "It is an indisputable fact that the prisons which are served
  by the sisters are the best ordered, the most cleanly, and in
  all respects the best regulated in the country. To which the
  minister of the interior adds: Not only have we experienced the
  advantage of employing the Sisters of Charity in the prisons,
  in the supervision of the details, in distributing food,
  preparing medicines, and nursing the sick in the infirmaries,
  but we find the influence of these ladies on the minds of the
  prisoners when recovering from sickness has been productive of
  the greatest benefit, as leading to permanent reform in many
  cases, and a better frame of mind always; for this reason,
  among others, we have given them every encouragement.

  "Among the other reasons alluded to, the greater economy of the
  management is a principal one. It is admitted, even by those
  who are opposed to them, that, in the administration of
  details, these women can always make a given sum go further
  than the paid officials of the other sex. Their opposition to
  the sale of wine and brandy to the prisoners, except when
  prescribed by the physicians, is also worthy of note.

  "One of the directors of the great military hospital at Turin
  told Mrs. Jameson that he regarded it as one of the best deeds
  of his life, that he had recommended and carried through the
  employment of the Sisters of Charity in this institution.
  Before the introduction of these ladies, the sick soldiers had
  been nursed by orderlies sent from the neighboring barracks,
  men chosen because they were unfit for other work. The most
  rigid discipline was necessary to keep them in order, and the
  dirt, neglect, and general immorality were frightful. Any
  change was, however, resisted by the military and medical
  authorities till the invasion of the cholera; then the
  orderlies became, most of them, useless, distracted, and almost
  paralyzed with terror. Some devoted Sisters of Charity were
  introduced in a moment of perplexity and panic; then all went
  well--propriety, cleanliness, and comfort prevailed. No day
  passes, said this director, that I do not bless God for the
  change which I was the humble instrument of accomplishing in
  this place. Very similar was the information received relative
  to the naval hospital at Genoa.

  "Another excellent hospital, that of St. John, at Turin,
  contained four hundred patients, male and female, besides its
  ward for sick children, and two for the bedridden and helpless
  poor, the whole being under the management of twenty-two
  religious women with forty-five assistants, and a large number
  of physicians and students. All was clean, neat, and cheerful.
  I was particularly struck by the neatness with which the food
  was served; men brought it up in large trays, but the ladies
  themselves distributed it. There was a little dog with its
  forepaws resting on one of the beds and its eyes steadfastly
  fixed on the sick man, with a pathetic, wistful expression,
  while a girl knelt beside him, to whom one of the sisters was
  speaking words of comfort.

  "In this and other hospitals is an excellent arrangement for
  the night-watch. It was a large sentry-box of octagon shape,
  looking each way, the upper part all of glass, but furnished
  with curtains, and on a table were writing materials,
  medicines, and restoratives, linen napkins, etc. Two sisters
  watched here all night; here the accounts were kept, and
  privacy secured, when necessary, for the ladies on duty.

  "The Marchese A----, one of the governors of the Hospice de la
  Maternité, described to us in terms of horror the state in
  which he had found the establishment when under the management
  of a board of governors, who employed hired matrons and nurses.
{53}
  At last, in despair, he sent for some trained sisters, ten of
  whom, with a superior, now directed the whole in that spirit of
  order, cheerfulness, and unremitting attention which belongs to
  them.

  "We cannot," he said, "give them unlimited means, for these
  good ladies think that all should go to the poor; but if we
  allow them a fixed sum, we find they can do more with it than
  we could have believed possible, and they never go beyond it;
  they are admirable accountants and economists.

  "In the great civil hospital at Vienna, larger even than the
  Hotel Dieu of Paris, the Sisters of Charity were being
  introduced some twelve years ago when Mrs. J. visited it.

  "The disorderly habits and the want of intelligence in the paid
  female nurses had induced the managers to invite the
  co-operation of the religious sisters, though it was at first
  against their will. In the Hospital of Saint John, at Salzburg,
  the same change had been found necessary.

  "At Vienna, I saw a small hospital belonging to the Sisters of
  Charity there. Two of the sisters had settled in a small old
  house. Several of the adjoining buildings were added one after
  the other, connected by wooden corridors. In the infirmary I
  found twenty-six men and twenty-six women, besides nine beds
  for cholera. There were fifty sisters, of whom one half were
  employed in the house, and the other half were going their
  rounds among the poor, or nursing the sick at private houses.
  There was a nursery for infants whose mothers were at work; a
  day-school for one hundred and fifty girls, in which only
  knitting and sewing were taught, all clean, orderly, and, above
  all, cheerful. There was a dispensary, where two of the sisters
  were employed in making up prescriptions, homoeopathic and
  allopathic. There was a large, airy kitchen, where three of the
  sisters, with two assistants, were cooking. There were two
  priests and two physicians. So that, in fact, under this roof,
  we had the elements, on a small scale, of an English workhouse;
  but very different was the spirit which animated it.

  "I saw at Vienna another excellent hospital for women alone, of
  which the whole administration and support rested with the
  ladies of the Order St. Elizabeth. These are _cloistered_.
  All sick women who apply for admission are taken in, without
  any questions asked, so long as there is room for them. I found
  there ninety-two patients, about twenty of whom were ill of
  cholera. In each ward were sixteen beds, over which two sisters
  presided. The dispensary, which was admirably arranged, was
  entirely managed by two of the ladies. The superior told me
  that they have always three or more sisters preparing for their
  profession under the best apothecaries, and there was a large
  garden principally of medicinal and kitchen herbs. Nothing
  could exceed the purity of the air, and the cleanliness, order,
  and quiet everywhere apparent."

Let us remark certain features in these last two examples:

1. The possibility of recreation by a timely change of labors, as
from the hospital to the school, or to the garden, etc.

2. The economy, and guarantee of genuineness, afforded by the
culture and pharmaceutic preparation of medicinal herbs.

3. The unison of action, by fulfilment of sanitary functions by
members of their own body.

{54}

  "It was admitted on all sides in England, when investigations
  were held on the office of hospital nursing, that the general
  management of our hospitals and charitable institutions exhibited
  the want of female aid such as exists in the hospitals abroad--
  the want of a moral, religious, intelligent, sympathizing
  influence combined with the physical cares of a common nurse.
  Some inquiry was made into the general character of hospital
  nurses, and the qualifications desired, and what were these
  qualifications? Obedience, presence of mind, cheerfulness,
  sobriety, forbearance, patience, judgment, kindness of heart, a
  light, delicate hand, a gentle voice, a quick eye; these were the
  qualities enumerated as not merely desirable, but necessary in a
  good and efficient nurse--virtues not easily to be purchased for
  £14 10S. per year! (or hired at $14 a month in New York [Footnote
  11])--qualifications, indeed, which, in their union, would form
  an admirable woman in any class of life, and fit her for any
  sphere of duty, from the highest to the lowest. In general,
  however, the requirements of our medical men are much more
  limited; they consider themselves fortunate if they can ensure
  obedience and sobriety, even without education, tenderness,
  religious feeling, or any high principle of duty. On the whole,
  the testimony brought before us is sickening. Drunkenness,
  profligacy, violence of temper, horribly coarse and brutal
  language--these are common, albeit the reverse of the picture is
  generally true. The toil is great, the duties disgusting, the
  pecuniary remuneration small, so that there is nothing to invite
  the co-operation of a better class of nurses but the highest
  motives which can influence a true Christian. At one moment the
  selfishness and irritability of the sufferers require a strong
  control; at another time their dejection and weakness require the
  utmost tenderness, sympathy, and judgment. To rebuke the
  self-righteous, to bind up the broken-hearted, to strengthen, to
  comfort the feeble, to drop the words of peace into the disturbed
  or softened mind just at the right moment; there are few nurses
  who could be entrusted with such a charge, or be brought to
  regard it as a part of their duty. To this social function
  corresponds the Sister of Charity, as defined by St. Vincent de
  Paul, an ideal so often fulfilled in life and action.

    [Footnote 11: This is the salary of orderlies at Bellevue
    Hospital, where the duties are often so arduous that one
    attendant would be quite inadequate to the care of twenty
    beds but for the aid rendered by patients to each other. The
    night-watch passes but once in two hours.]

  "Can any one doubt that the element of power, disunited from
  that of Christian love, must, in the long run, become a hard,
  cold, cruel machine, and that this must of necessity be the
  result where the masculine energy acts independently of the
  feminine sympathies?

  "All to whom I have spoken, without one exception, bear witness
  to the salutary influence exercised by the lady nurses in the
  Crimea over the men. In the most violent attacks of fever and
  delirium, when the orderlies could not hold them down in their
  beds, the mere presence of one of these ladies, instead of
  exciting, had the effect of instantly calming the spirits and
  subduing the most refractory. It is allowed, also, that these
  ladies had the power to repress swearing and coarse language,
  to prevent the smuggling of brandy and raka into the wards, to
  open the hearts of the sullen and desperate to contrition and
  responsive kindness. 'Even when in an apparently dying state,'
  writes one of these illustrious nurses, 'they would look up in
  our faces and smile.'"

{55}

Dr. H. R. Storer, of Boston, has recently put forth a little book
entitled _Nurses and Nursing_, etc., abounding in
suggestions which may some day be utilized in a hospital more
liberally endowed and more elaborately organized than anything
which now exists, and in which he mentions, with the highest
regard, the Hospital of the Sisters of St. Francis, in Boston, 28
Sansom street. The doctor does well to dedicate his humane
aspirations for a perfect system of nursing to the sisterhood.
From what zeal less earnest, less intelligent, less refined, or
less holy, can we ever expect to find music and flowers, birds,
landscape views, the varied resources of luxury in nature and
society, made tributary to the service of the sick?

A worthy servant of our Master, Mr. Bost, of Dordogne, the
founder and administrator of several important charitable
institutions, having among them departments for the hygienic
treatment of epilepsy, scrofula, consumption, and idiocy, one of
whose cures we have cited, remarks:

  "The best physician, under God, is Nature. I never visit the
  hospitals in our great cities without a feeling of distress.
  What, then, you ask, is wanted? Are the patients not cared for?
  Are there no able medical men, no remedies, no order, no
  cleanliness, no wholesome and abundant nourishment? No doubt
  there is plenty of all that. I have with admiration accompanied
  the medical men on their morning visits. Everything _art_
  could contrive for restoration to health was applied; yet the
  cure was slow, attended with horrible pains, and the case often
  terminated in death. I will tell you what was wanting--the
  country air, the fragrance of the flowers and of the earth, the
  hues of morn and eve, the sunbeams, the harmony of nature, the
  carol and warbling of birds, so adapted to cheer hearts broken
  by suffering, and to which no other recreation is offered than
  the sight of rows of beds upon which sufferers are sighing and
  groaning from morning till evening and from evening until
  morning."

  "It is amazing," writes Mr. Liefde, "to witness the cures which
  simply by the application of natural hygiene, have been
  effected at the establishments of Laforce: Consumption of the
  lungs, in an advanced stage, has quite disappeared in some
  cases, hysteria in others; amputations are prevented; a girl
  sent away from a hospital as incurable from hip disease is
  enabled to walk well. The invalids are occupied in the fields
  or the garden; they go into the stable and see the cattle; they
  are in sight of the works of creation so adapted to raise their
  thoughts to God, who is love, even when his hand presses
  heavily upon them."

If one wish to witness the healing power of the Gospel over both
body and soul, he can do no better than to spend a week at
Laforce.

In conclusion, we would urge it, as a matter of high policy,
duty, and right, upon the church of Christ, to reclaim, as fast
and as far as its means will allow, its primitive position in
regard to the administration of charities in general, and of
hospitals in particular; for we believe it to be the only social
organ adequate to these humane uses. Science cannot remain
neutral, and the trustees, the wardens, orderlies, nurses, the
cooks, and all the persons employed in the hospital service,
should be brothers and sisters of one and the same order, the
voluntary subjects of the same rule, all pervaded by the same
religious sentiment and corporate spirit, while friendly
rivalries obtain between the different institutions.

                   ----------

{56}

      Translated From Le Correspondant.

    Kaulbach And The Era Of The Reformation. [Footnote 12]

    [Footnote 12: Kaulbach's picture of the _Era of the
    Reformation_ now being on exhibition in this country, a
    republication of the above article from the pages of our
    French contemporary has seemed to us not inopportune.--ED. C.W.]

I call up matters still fresh in recollection, in proceeding to
speak here of a work of art which so justly drew to itself the
public attention at the Universal Exposition of 1867. I refer to
the grand cartoon of Kaulbach, which, under the title of the
_Era of the Reformation_, figured in the Bavarian
department.

The purely artistic critic has already fulfilled his mission in
regard to that remarkable composition, and it is not from the
artistic point of view that I permit myself to reopen its study.
I had already, years ago, admired that magnificent fresco, one of
the most beautiful ornaments of the Berlin Museum; and after
having a long while contemplated and meditated upon it, it seemed
to me that one could not too highly praise the vigor of
composition and the marvellous skill with which the artist had
been able to group, within so narrow a space, so many different
personages, and to render living to the eyes of the spectator one
of the most stormy periods of modern times. But in this beautiful
drawing there is something else than a work of art: there is a
thesis. And that thesis is this: That the sixteenth century
belongs wholly to the Protestant Reformation; that that
Reformation is its centre, its heart, its vital principle; that
everything of that period--theology, letters, science, art, the
discoveries of human genius, political and military power--all
came of the Reformation. Hence the name given to the tableau--the
_Era of the Reformation_. Hence, also, the selection, the
treatment, and the grouping of all the personages in it.

And since I cannot avail myself of the help of an engraving or
photograph, I am going to attempt a rapid sketch, as a whole and
in its principal details, of this vast composition.

In the centre, and as the culminating point toward which the
whole movement of the picture converges, is figured Dr. Martin
Luther. The former Augustinian monk holds himself erect, upon the
uppermost step of that temple within whose walls a whole century
is represented as in motion, and he raises aloft above his head,
with both hands, the Bible--the Bible, that world at once both
old and new, which, according to the Protestant hypothesis, the
genius of Luther discovered, buried under the darkness of
ignorance and Roman superstition, as, in like manner, thirty
years before him the bold Genoese navigator, Christopher
Columbus--whom one sees at the left-hand side of the picture,
resting his hand, firm and inspired, upon the map of the
world--had found, in the ocean's midst, the vast continents of
the American hemisphere.

At the left of Luther stand the theologians and pastors who
adhered to his dogmatic teaching: Justus Jonas, and, next to him,
Bugenhagen, who is distributing the Lord's Supper to the two
princes, John le Sage and John Frederic, the two grand patrons of
nascent Lutheranism.
{57}
At the right of the Saxon monk stands Zwingle, holding also the
book of the Scriptures, and Calvin, who is giving the bread and
cup of the Lord's Supper to a group of Huguenots, among whom we
distinguish Maurice of Saxony and Coligny.

The artist does not tell us, it is true--and I own that his
pencil could hardly have told us--whether the Bible which Luther
holds speaks the same language as the Bible placed in Zwingle's
hands; nor how, within a step or two of the patriarch of the
Reformation, Bugenhagen gives a Lord's Supper wherein is really
contained, with the bread and wine, the body of Christ, while,
alike near to him on the other side, Calvin is giving another
Lord's Supper which is only a figure of that same body, and
wherein the faithful partake of the communion of Jesus Christ by
faith only.

A little beneath Luther, in the attitude of a submissive disciple
and admirer, and indicating by a gesture the Wittenberg doctor,
as much as to say, "There is the Master!" stands the mild
Melanchthon, conversing with two savants of the times--Eberhardt
of Tann and Ulrich Sazius. These two men are pressing each
other's hands, as if the artist would express thereby the strange
accommodations to which, in the matter of the Augsburg
confession, the strict Lutherans, on the one side, and those who
had a leaning toward the Zwinglian and Calvinistic ideas, on the
other, lent themselves. [Footnote 13]

    [Footnote 13: It is well known that Melanchthon--who
    personally inclined toward the ideas of Carlostadt and the
    sacramentarians respecting the Lord's Supper; who, moreover,
    upon the question of the outward hierarchy of the church,
    would have willingly lent himself to a compromise with the
    Catholics; who, underneath the whole, did not dare to
    contradict Luther--thought to reconcile all these
    difficulties by putting forth two editions of the Augsburg
    Confession--the edition _invariata_, or strictly
    Lutheran, and the edition _variata_, wherein concessions
    are made to Calvinistic ideas.]

Behind these corypheuses of the Reformation of the sixteenth
century, the precursors of the grand "liberalizing" movement have
not been forgotten.

The Reformation, as is known, holds essentially to having a
tradition--a rise and visible continuation, reaching back to the
earlier ages. Behold them, then, these prophets and forerunners
of the "word of life:" Here, Peter Waldo, Arnold of Brescia,
Wickliffe, John Huss; there, Abelard, the bold metaphysician, the
merciless dialectician, the same whom St. Bernard accuses of
sacrificing faith to reason, and of destroying, by his
explications, the essence of the mysteries; [Footnote 14] next,
by his side, Savonarola and Tauler, the spiritual sons of the
canonized monk of the thirteenth century, (St. Dominic,) to whose
memory classic Protestantism never fails to attach the founding
of the Inquisition, with all its attendant train of horrors:
Tauler, of whom they desire to make one of the precursors of the
new exegesis of the Scriptures; and Savonarola, whose animated
and fiery gesture recalls at once the popular tribune, the
Florentine republican chief, and the head-strong opposer of the
church's hierarchical authority.

   [Footnote 14: St. Bernard, letters 188th and 189th.]

Following upon these, come next in order all those other great
geniuses of the human race, more numerous and prolific than ever
in an age which justly calls itself the age of _renewal_,
(_de la Renaissance_,) and when a thousand favoring
circumstances had imparted mighty impulse to the human mind; and
they all proceed to arrange themselves in a most harmonious
manner around that renovation of Christianity and the church,
which is, as it were, (in the picture,) the heart and the vital
principle of all the movements of the era. Princes, warriors,
statesmen, savants, artists, scholars, jurists, poets, critics,
inventors--all have their place in this grand composition.

{58}

In the train of the haughty Elizabeth of England, but marching at
some distance from that pitiless reformer, as if they desired to
leave place for the gory shade of the unfortunate Mary Stuart,
"Queen of Scots," appear Thomas Cranmer, More, Burleigh, Essex,
Drake, and other gentlemen who represent the English Church.
Another group brings together Albert of Brandenburg, William of
Orange, Barnevelt, and, at the end, Gustavus Adolphus, evoked a
century in advance, it is true, but nevertheless consecrated by
his bold deeds of arms and his premature death as a hero--I was
about to say as a saint--of the Protestant Church militant.

To warriors and statesmen the painter has given only a secondary
place, in a work chiefly designed to glorify intellectual power;
and, after the apostles of the Reformation, the honors of this
grand piece of canvas are meted out to savants, scholars, and
artists.

Bacon of Verulam, with his _Novum Organum_, makes a part of
that group so vigorously designed, where are seen, with
Christopher Columbus, Harvey, Vesalius, and Paracelsus. High up
in the edifice, and properly placed there as in a sort of
observatory, Copernicus, Galileo, Tycho Brahe, and Kepler are
studying the course of the stars, and calculating the laws of
their revolutions. So much for science.

Marsilio Ficino, Giordano Bruno, Campanella, and Nicolas de Cus
represent philosophy, with Pico Mirandola, author of the
celebrated thesis, _De omni re scibili_.

Petrarch, with the crown he received at the capitol, faces
Shakespeare and the immortal author of _Don Quixote_,
Michael Cervantes. The aged Hans Sachs, the popular poet of the
Reformation, is there also, quite at the bottom of the picture,
and bending under the weight of age. He represents that
literature of the people which henceforward will always hold
place growingly by the side of the special literature of the
learned. This latter is personated in Reuchlin and Erasmus; and
the artist has judged most wisely and properly in placing the
latter of these close to Ulrich of Hutten and to Bucer, that is
to say, in company with the brutal enemy of monks, and with one
of those unfrocked monks whom the Rotterdam critic, with such
cutting sarcasm, rallied upon their enthusiasm for a reformation
which so generally, like the never-failing conclusion of a
comedy, ended in marriage.

The painter has taken care not to forget the personages of the
era who ought to be dearer to him than all the others together:
Albert Dürer, Peter Vischer, Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo,
Raphael, and last, with the inspired gesture of a man who feels
himself master of the future, the author of that magnificent
discovery which men will henceforth make use of, alike with their
reason and their freedom, their intelligence and their speech;
here employing it to spread error, to persuade to falsehold, to
sow dissensions; elsewhere, using it to serve for the diffusion
of truth, the advancement of justice, the
amelioration--intellectual, moral, and religious--of the human
race: I mean Gutenberg, the immortal inventor of the art of
printing.
{59}
He holds in his hand that sheet, still fresh, which with deep
emotion he has seen come forth from the first press, and with
which he can speed round the world, crying out with Archimedes,
carried away by enthusiasm, "I have found it! I have found it!"
"[Greek text: Eureka]" And he _has_ found, in fact, the
mighty and formidable lever with which without difficulty he will
lift the world of modern thought.

Such, so far as I have been able to describe it, passing by some
personages or some details of secondary interest, is this famous
picture, which, as a work of art, I admire with the fullest
measure of sympathy, and have found it truly worthy of the high
award made to it. But, I repeat, the artist has not been in it
the artist only. He has also, at the same time, been the
controversialist and the historian. He has not only made a
_chef-d'oeuvre_ of painting: he has wished also to write a
page of the history of Europe. That was his right unquestionably,
and I am far from disputing it with him. I will even add that, if
I was a Protestant, I should be justly proud of the manner, so
intelligent and bold, with which the illustrious author of the
Berlin frescoes has been able to glorify the Reformation.

It is for this very reason, also, that I have profoundly studied
this grand picture. In fact, if a work of art is at the same time
a thesis of history or of theology, it is no longer amenable to
artistic criticism only. Kaulbach has, so to speak, crowned the
work of the Magdeburg centuriators, in making, as he has done,
all the events of the sixteenth century the triumphal
_cortége_ of the Reformation. Historic science has the
right, then, to intervene; and, without being a Baronius, one can
try to answer this thesis, and to point out what there is in it
of the purely systematic and exclusive.

                   II.

I commence by according thus much to it: To compress a whole
century within the frame--narrow and always a little
factitious--of a picture or of a historical representation, is no
easy task. So many diverse facts to bring together, to condense,
or at least to point out; so many movements and collisions of
ideas to depict; so many personages to group together and
arrange; then to gather this multitude into unity, to bring order
out of this seeming confusion; to know precisely how to seize and
place in proper relief that which can be called the culminating
point of the epoch, and to make that point the centre around and
from which shall radiate all the other events of the period--this
is a work which demands at once great power of synthesis, a wide
yet sure range of vision, an accurate sentiment of just
proportions, and, in the case of a historical painting, a
complete divesting of one's self of the spirit of mere system,
and a most scrupulous impartiality.

Now, what strikes one, first of all, in looking at Kaulbach's
grand picture, is the exclusive idea which has presided over the
whole, as well as over all the details, of its composition. Even
the title given by the author to his work is witness to this. It
is not so much the sixteenth century that the artist has desired
to paint as the _Era of the Reformation_; and the
Reformation, moreover, solely as regarded from the Protestant
point of view. Accordingly in the picture everything is treated
with reference to Luther and Calvin; and the choir of great
personages who figure in it serve only, so to speak, as the
retinue of the new gospel and its first apostles.

{60}

But if the unhappy rupture which separated from the Catholic
Church a large part of Northern Europe is one of the most
considerable events of the century, it is not, however, so
exclusively such that it has the right to absorb into itself all
the other events of the period; and it is well known how numerous
those events were in an age which should be regarded as one of
the most eventful epochs in European history.

And it is not solely from the point of view of religious and
artistic history that it is just to make this objection; it
should be made, moreover, in behalf of political history. In
fact, whatever influence Protestantism may have exercised upon
the relations of the civil states among and toward each other, it
is but slight up to the seventeenth century, the beginning of the
Thirty Years' War and the treaties of Westphalia, which caused
new principles to prevail in the public law of Europe. He has
been, therefore, entirely blind to the grandest political contest
of the sixteenth century--that between France and Austria; a
contest that holds too large a place in the history of that
century not to be noticed and made mention of, at least by
introducing into the sketch the princes in whom it was
personified--Charles V. and Francis I.

Francis I., the enlightened patron of letters, the founder of the
College of France, the friend of Benvenuto Cellini and Leonardo
da Vinci, the secret supporter of the Lutherans of the empire,
should have had, by these by-passages of his life, some right not
to be forgotten by the pencil of the German painter. But if state
policy caused him to lend a helping hand to the Protestants of
Germany--the adversaries of Charles V.--that same policy, joined
with religious motives, caused him to sign the edicts of
proscription against the Protestants of his own kingdom; and the
prince who, in despite of his sister's sympathies for Calvin,
refused to drag France upon the precipice of the Reformation,
could scarcely find favor with the panegyrists of Protestantism.

As to Charles V., even had he not joined to his title of Emperor
of Germany the crown of Spain, with all his possessions in the
Low Countries and in the New World, one would have still found it
strange to see him excluded from the _cortége_ of
sovereigns, politicians, and statesmen who gave lustre to the
sixteenth century.

A sketch of the sixteenth century, then, is incomplete without
these two princes, who represent the fierce struggle between the
two most powerful Catholic nations at an epoch in which the
religious revolutions of the European world should have made such
an omission, so it would seem, impossible. Strange antagonism
indeed that between these two nations, who would have been able
by their accord to arrest the political progress of
Protestantism, and to hinder the theology of Wittenberg and
Geneva from becoming subsequently a preponderating influence in
the direction of the affairs of Europe! Strange and restless
antagonism, which occupies a large part of the political history
of the sixteenth century; fills, again, the seventeenth with
Richelieu and Louis XIV.; seemingly is quieted for an instant
when Marie Antoinette shares the throne of Louis XIV. and
Marie-Louise that of Napoleon the First; survives, however, three
centuries of wars, of changes and revolutions of every sort, to
place anew the two peoples in hostile array upon the fields of
Magenta and Solferino, and only seems bound to disappear when it
has arrived at one of its extreme but logical consequences,
namely, the exaltation of the power which most fully represents
upon the European continent the Protestant enthusiasm and the
ancient grudges against France.
{61}
It is, in fact, only since the battle of Sadowa that this
antagonism between these two great Catholic nations has seemed to
give place to mutual intelligence of a common danger, and to that
sympathetic regard which a recent and distinguished visit has
consecrated, so to speak, in the face of Europe, and commended to
the intelligent applause of the people of Paris.

The exclusive glorification of Protestantism in the master-work
of Kaulbach has also been an occasion of another lamentable
omission. It is not enough--be it said without excessive and
immoderate partiality toward our own country--it is not enough
to have made France represented only by Calvin and by Coligny in
the imposing _cortége_ of all the glories of the sixteenth
century. This systematic exclusion is explained even by itself.
In such a composition the places of honor were to be reserved to
the countries which welcomed Protestantism with an enthusiasm so
ardent, or submitted themselves to its dictation with so strange
a docility. One knows, on the other hand, what insurmountable
resistance France opposed to the introduction and establishment
of Protestantism. It cost her, it is true, more than forty years
of continual wars. And what wars those terrible fratricidal and
religious strifes of the sixteenth century were; stirred up and
kept alive on both sides by the most violent passions, and which,
after the unhappy and sanguinary convulsions in which were
consumed the reigns of Henry II., Francis II., Charles IX., and
Henry III., would have ended surely in the breaking up of the
ancient national unity, if Providence had not, at the conclusion
of those frightful dissensions, caused to intervene a prince
pre-destined to pacify the minds, quiet the discords, and close
up and heal the deep wounds of the country! Henry IV. arrives at
the end of the sixteenth century, as it were in order to bring
about union between Protestantism vanquished and Catholicity
triumphant. He gives to the latter the pledge of a public
conversion; to the former, the benefit of a legal existence; and,
especially in rendering sacred the respect due to minorities, he
demonstrates, better than by all arguments, and perhaps for the
very reason that his conversion was less a work of devotion than
of policy, how the genius of the French nation was opposed to the
doctrines of the reformers.

Whatever may be said of the equivocal sincerity of his
Catholicity and of the blemishes of his private life, Henry IV.,
who belongs to the sixteenth century by his birth, by his
elevation to the throne and some of the most considerable
transactions of his reign, worthily represents, at the close of
an epoch so disturbed, some of the highest and most rightful
aspirations of what may be called, right or wrong, the spirit of
modern times. Great prince assuredly was he who could cause to
triumph over passions envenomed by the civil and religious wars
of half a century that love of common country, in which, despite
of all that would divide them, the French people ought to feel
themselves children of the same mother and defenders of the same
flag.

{62}

The exclusion--almost entire--of France from a picture designed
to glorify the sixteenth century, is not the only, nor even the
gravest, reproach which historical criticism has the right to
address to its author.

It is, still further, authorized to demand of him if it is
strictly just to cause this grand composition, artistic,
scientific, and literary, to do honor solely to Luther and
Calvin--a composition which, from a certain and strictly proper
point of view, would have sufficed to the glory of an epoch--and
above all, if it does not do a strange violence to truth to
enroll under the banner of Protestantism such men as Petrarch,
Shakespeare, Christopher Columbus, Michael Angelo, and Raphael?

The name of Shakespeare, indeed, not long since stirred up quite
a lively discussion upon this very subject In the eyes of a
certain school it seemed to import absolutely that, to the honor
of letters, the immortal author of _Hamlet_ and of
_Othello_ did not belong to the Church of Rome--as if
Corneille and Racine sparkled with any the less brilliancy
because they were Catholics, or that the dramatic art had need to
be ashamed of _Polyeucte, Esther_, and _Athalie_.

The question has been examined with all the attention which it
merits, and the conclusion to which a conscientious inquiry seems
to bring us is, that, if Shakespeare belonged by his birth to the
time of the Reformation, it is not, nevertheless, necessary to
ascribe, either to the gospel of Luther and Calvin or to the
Draconian Protestantism of Queen Elizabeth, the masterly
productions of his genius.

As to Christopher Columbus, who does not know, I will not say his
obedience and filial devotion to the Church of Rome, but the
profound piety of his soul and the tenderness of his religious
sentiments? According to the chronicler who has preserved for us
in Latin the admirable prayer made by that great man at that
solemn hour of his life when, triumphant at last over so many
distrusts and so many wrongs, over so many delays and so many
obstacles, conqueror, so to speak, of the elements and of men,
but always submissive to God, he cast himself upon his knees on
the land of the New World, as if to take possession of it in the
name of faith. "O God!" he said, "eternal and omnipotent, thou
hast by thy holy Word created heaven and earth and sea. Blessed
and glorified be thy name; praised be thy majesty which has
deigned by thy humble servant to cause that thy holy name should
be known and proclaimed in this other part of the world."

Now, by whom, think you, had the bold discoverer the intention of
proclaiming and making known the name of Jesus Christ in the New
World? Was it by the Methodist and Quaker missionaries? or by
those apostolic men who, docile to the word of the Roman pontiff,
and like him "fishers of men," went forth to announce the Gospel
to every creature and to "cast the net of the word" amidst all
nations? It is mere idle fancy, then, to connect with Luther and
Calvin that wonderful movement, made up of theoretical science
and of boldness, of learned calculations and of enthusiastic
intuitions, which set out to open to the adventurous genius of
the race of Japheth the vast field of enterprise presented by the
continents of America and the Archipelagoes of Oceanica.
Chronology, moreover, suffices to give the lie very explicitly to
this iniquitous claim. Christopher Columbus discovered America in
1492, and died in 1506: the same year in which Martin Luther
entered as a novice the Augustinian convent of Erfurt, and when
no one looked to see him become one day an adversary of the
Papacy.

{63}

The Papacy! Far rather with _its_ remembrance should be
associated that grand epoch of modern Europe, that new crusadal
enterprise, not to recover the tomb of Christ, but to plant the
cross, to propagate the Gospel, and to accomplish the prophecies
respecting the universality of the church. It was, in fact, a
pope, and that pope an Alexander VI.--the same that proved how
much the grandeur of that institution is independent of the worth
of individuals--it was Borgia, so severely judged by history, who
promulgated the famous bull of 1493, designed to draw the line of
demarcation between the discoveries of the Portuguese and those
of the Spaniards. From that bull, and from the names of the
peoples who bore away the palm from all the rest of Europe in the
career of great discoveries, it follows that the Protestant
Reformation had nothing to show or pretend to in that splendid
episode of the history of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.
All those intrepid navigators were Catholics; and the only power
which intervened to regulate and pacify the feverish movement
that bore them onward was the Church of Rome--the Papacy!

It may be said, perhaps, that the Spaniards, in discovering
America, put to shame the Catholic religion by their sharp
cupidity and the disgraceful severity of their conduct toward the
natives. We have not the slightest intention of transforming the
soldiers of Cortez and of Pizarro into peaceful missionaries. If
the ferocity of those men disgraced the Gospel, so much the worse
for them. But as to the church, if it be insisted on that she
shall be mixed up with the question, she has nothing to lose; for
it was she herself, and she alone, who intervened to moderate the
cupidity of the conquerors, and to defend against it the cause of
the conquered. To her alone belongs the name, ever to be
venerated, of Bartholomew Las Casas, the eloquent pleader in
behalf of Catholicity and of its beneficent action upon society.
As to the great Italian artists of the sixteenth century, and
particularly as to Michael Angelo and Raphael, it is still more
arbitrary, if possible, to have enrolled them in the army of the
innovators. What could be more entirely Catholic than the
inspirations and great works of these men of genius? Not to speak
in detail of the inimitable Madonnas of Raphael, nor of the
gigantic frescoes of Michael Angelo in the Sistine chapel, nor
the many other marvellous works with which they have for ever
enriched Italy and Europe; but of the church of St. Peter, upon
which both had the glory of working, is it not, as it were, the
very personification, at once ideal and plastic, of the entire
Catholic Church? It is the grand church of the popes; it is there
that repose, by the side of the illustrious chiefs St. Peter and
St. Paul, the remains of so many sovereign pontiffs. It is under
its dome that is celebrated, on the grand solemnities of the year
and by the very hands of the vicar of Jesus Christ, the sacrifice
of the Mass. It is from its balcony that is given, on those same
solemnities, that pontifical benediction, preceded by that
absolution and those indulgences, against which for three hundred
years Protestantism never loses an occasion of casting its
anathemas or its sarcasms; save perhaps when one of its children,
assisting on Easter-Day at that wonderful solemnity, and hearing
the sonorous and affecting voice of Pius IX., at the moment of
imparting benediction to the world, mingling itself with the roll
of drums, the discharge of cannon, and the chimes of the thousand
bells of Rome, falls upon his knees in spite of himself, subdued
by I know not what mysterious power, and rises up again with the
confession that the inspirations of Catholicism are far
differently fitted to charm the soul and seize hold upon the
heart than the chilling ceremonial of a Calvinistic Lord's Supper
under the arches of St. Paul's in London.
{64}
In a word, everything of that grand basilica of the Eternal City,
from its corner-stone to the cross which surmounts its dome, all
has been inspired by Catholic thought; and it may be affirmed
with assurance that all the grand artists who worked upon it
could say as Raphael replied to Leo X.: "I love so much the
Church of St. Peter!" [Footnote 15]

    [Footnote 15: Reply of Raphael to the brief of Leo X., naming
    him superintendent of the work of the church. See, further,
    the will of Raphael, (cited in Audin's _Leo X._ t. ii.
    p. 347.)]

Moreover, independently of all individual names, can it not be
said in a general manner that it is going quite counter to
historic truth to attempt to connect the art-movement of the
sixteenth century with the influence of Luther and Calvin? It is
well enough known, in truth, what was the attitude of the
Reformation, especially of the Calvinistic part of it, toward the
beautiful and the divine in the arts. Many of our old cathedrals
in France still bear, after three hundred years, the marks of the
iconoclastic fury of the Huguenots. The literal
interpretation--literal even to barbarousness--of the text in
Exodus, "Thou shalt not make to thyself any graven images," it
translated, especially in its beginnings, into a relentless
proscription; and the statues, pictures, and wonderful great
church-windows, where the middle ages had expended so much of
faith and often so much of genius, disappeared under the blows of
a most savage vandalism.

They are ours, then, altogether ours, those divine men, as the
Greeks would have called them, who have written in the history of
art the immortal pages stamped with the names of Perugino,
Leonardo da Vinci, Brunelleschi, Bramante, Michael Angelo, and
Raphael. It is not around Luther and Calvin that they should be
grouped, but around those Roman pontiffs who gave such a vigorous
impulse to literature and the arts, and who caused all those
beautiful poems of painting or of stone to serve for the
glorification of the Catholic Church. On that point, moreover,
public sentiment has passed judgment for all future time. The
history of the arts does not know the era of Luther; it knows and
will always know the era of Leo X.

                   III.

If it had been given to one of those masters of art of the
sixteenth century to make a synoptical picture of that grand
epoch, he would have singularly modified the perspectives and
enlarged the horizons. In regard to that rebellious monk who
holds up the Bible as a standard of revolt; in regard to those
men who surround him, and among whom are found at the same time
the co-workers and the adversaries of his work; a Melanchthon,
who had been his disciple, and a Zwingle who had been his
rival--strange council, where there is no unanimity except to
attack and deny, and where there is division when the matter to
be treated of is that of affirming and establishing--in this
respect, one would have seen, majestically grouped upon the steps
of a temple based, sixteen hundred years previously, upon
immovable foundations, the Fathers of the Council of Trent, who,
during a term of nearly twenty years, had brought together,
classified, and fixed, in wonderful conformity with the whole
current of tradition, the divers points of the doctrine and the
discipline of the Christian church.

{65}

Five popes [Footnote 16] occupied the See of St. Peter during the
holding of that memorable council. Some among them may, perhaps,
be justly blameworthy for this or that fault, in their
administration; but to have been able to convoke and reunite that
immortal assembly; to have caused it to resume its labors when
they had been interrupted; to have conducted them through so many
obstacles and difficulties, coming from men or things, to their
close; to have, at last, as was done by Pius IV., perpetuated, so
to say, the authority and reformatory action of that oecumenical
assembly by the institution of that _Congregation_ of the
council, whose mission, for three hundred years past, has been to
explain and put into practical execution the decrees passed at
Trent--this is evidently one of the most important pages of the
history of the Reformation within the fold of Christianity, and
is, perhaps, one where the divine power and the supernatural
constitution of the church shine forth most visibly. For neither
the popes who presided over the council nor the bishops who
composed it were, taken individually, men of genius; and it is
permitted to us to say that in great matters where the personal
consideration of man appears the least, there the wisdom and
power of God shine forth all the more strikingly.

    [Footnote 16: Paul III., Julius III., Marcellus II., Paul
    IV., and Pius IV.]

And then, again, around those two centres which mingle themselves
in one--the Papacy and the general council--and which represent
so forcibly, in the face of the precocious divisions of
Protestantism, the grand and living unity of the church of Jesus
Christ, what astonishing fecundity for good, what varied
resources, what fruitful germination of men and deeds! What
souls, those great saints of the sixteenth century, recruited
from among all ranks of society, and to whom Providence seems to
have confided the mission of replying by some beneficent
institution to all the attacks and all the negations of
Protestantism!

Would that, then, be a picture wanting in grandeur, where a
competent artist--wishing to glorify in the sixteenth century not
the warlike Reformation which rent asunder without remorse the
ancient and majestic unity of Christendom, but the peaceful and
fruitful reform which multiplied, according to the needs of a
much troubled and suffering age, grand inspirations and
magnanimous self-sacrifices--should group around the living
centre of the church Ignatius Loyola and his brave companions,
the pastor Pascal Baylon and the grand nobleman Francis Borgia,
St. Philip Neri and St. Camillus of Lelli, St. Charles Borromeo
in the midst of the plague at Milan and St. Francis of Sales
evangelizing the populations of Chablais? And yet this
enumeration must be limited to the names of the more illustrious
only, and to works the most considerable.

Now, in these names are found truly personified the inspirations
which constitute, in its plenitude, the veritable spirit of
Christianity.

First, the spirit of zeal and apostleship. Those who have seen
the frescoes of the church of St. Ignatius at Rome remember with
what just pride a Jesuit painter has represented the triumphs of
the first fathers of his company over heresy and infidelity.
{66}
And unless blinded by incurable prejudices, what a striking
comparison can one make between Melanchthon, the disciple of
Luther, and that student of the Paris University, the friend of
St. Ignatius--that St. Francis Xavier who, setting out for the
Indies in 1541 and dying in 1552, had converted, by himself
alone, more heathen in a dozen years than all the Protestant
missionaries united have been able to convert in a century; that
man whose life would seem but a legend of olden times, were it
not authenticated by most unexceptionable documents, and had it
not appeared in the sixteenth century, which is far less the age
of enthusiasm than that of criticism--that man, in fine, to whom
a Protestant, Baldeus, has had the impartiality to render a
splendid eulogy, closing with that apostrophe so _naïve_ and
nearly as honorable to the writer as to the hero, "Would to God
that, having been what you were, you might be of us!"

If the Company of Jesus represents in so high a degree the spirit
of zeal, behold St. Theresa and St. Peter of Alcantara, who
represent none the less worthily the spirit of penitence--that
essential part of the Christian life, so entirely foreign to the
heroes and the works which spring forth from Protestantism.

In contrast with the rehabilitation of the flesh, openly preached
and practised by Luther, by Henry VIII., by the Landgrave of
Hesse and the principal corypheuses of the Reformation, see how,
in the train of these two Spaniards--that reformer of Carmel and
that son of St. Francis--whole generations follow. They embrace
with enthusiasm that hidden life of the cloister, where the
superficial glance of the man of the world sees only an arbitrary
captivity and aimless mortifications; but where the eyes of faith
discover the secret of those acts and movements of reparation
which preserve from ignominy and ruin the ages dragged along the
dangerous declivity of scepticism and immorality, by teaching men
that, if unbelief and luxury destroy individuals and societies,
it is the force of prayer, united to that of sacrifice, which
alone can raise them up again.

Finally, after the spirit of zeal and the spirit of penitence,
the spirit of charity completes the fulness of the Christian
life.

Now, can Protestantism take any offence, if, in looking over with
it the list of its founders and apostles, we demand of it where
there is to be found, among those ardent adversaries of Roman
superstitions, a single man to whom one can conscientiously give
the title of benefactor and consoler of men?

I see Luther, indeed, presenting the Bible to Germany surprised
and misled; and Calvin administering the cup of the Lord's Supper
to gentlemen of the court of Francis I. or to the rich burgesses
of Geneva. Here, in one place, Reuchlin and Ulrich of Hutten are
jeering, and laughing at the monks, and there, in another,
Gustavus Adolphus is brandishing his valiant sword in defence of
the new gospel; but still, again, among these bold promoters of
the Reformation, among these indefatigable champions of
gospel-christianity, as they proudly entitle themselves, would
that I were shown _one_ of those souls inspired from above
to pour upon the miseries of the age the treasures of divine
consolations! I behold party-leaders, Bible-expounders, soldiers,
politicians, and savants; but of friends of the poor, of
protectors of old age and deserted infancy, of men who sacrifice
all and who sacrifice themselves even, to gain the right, the
privilege, of drying up the tears of the afflicted and of holding
out the helping hand to the unfortunate--of these I see none.
{67}
These are all in the ranks of that church whose privilege it will
always be, and which no sect has ever been able to take from her,
to prove that she alone is the veritable spouse of Jesus Christ,
because she alone is the true mother of men! Behold St. Philip
Neri and his companions of the Oratory of Rome, whose
remembrances still live in the hospital of the Trinity for
pilgrims--St. Philip Neri, whose name, after more than three
hundred years, is always associated in the Eternal City with the
idea of whatever is most tender and good. By the side of St.
Philip, his contemporary and friend, St. Camillus of Lellis,
institutor of a congregation specially devoted to the care of the
sick poor; while, by a like inspiration, the Spaniard, St. John
of God, established, in 1540, that charitable order, spread since
then throughout Christendom, and whose members rival in
self-sacrificing devotion the disciples of St. Camillus in
consecrating themselves to the work of relieving human
infirmities. In fine, if St. Vincent of Paul constitutes the
glory and, more than the glory, the consolation of the
seventeenth century, the sixteenth century has, nevertheless, the
right to claim him in part; for it saw his birth, and it gave to
him the first inspirations of that zeal and charity which draw
down every day upon his name the grateful benedictions of all who
languish and suffer--upon that name at once the humblest and the
most popular of all names.

In conclusion, if, in this picture of the Catholic glories of the
sixteenth century, it were necessary also to find place for men
of the sword and men of law, are there many figures more martial
than that of Bayard, the chevalier "without fear and without
reproach," or those of the admirable Knights-Hospitallers of
Malta, who, in 1585, under the orders of their grand-master, La
Valette, stood as a living rampart, against which all the forces
of Islamism dashed and broke themselves, and who did for
Christian Europe in the sixteenth century what, a century later,
the immortal Sobieski had to do with his brave Polanders?

As to men of law, Catholic France has the right to name with
pride the grand-chancellor Hôpital; and Protestant England has
not the right to claim Thomas More. It was this courageous
magistrate who refused to subscribe to the divorce of Henry
VIII., and who, when entreated by his wife not to expose himself
to capital punishment by opposing the king's wishes, replied in
these beautiful words: "What! Would you have me compromise my
eternity for the sake of twenty years which yet perhaps remain
for me to live?" He died upon the scaffold, the 6th of July,
1535, with the constancy of a martyr; worthy precursor of that
long and illustrious generation of witnesses to the faith, who,
during all the second half of the sixteenth century, watered with
purest of blood the soil of England, and did more honor, it seems
to me, to the ancient renown of "The Isle of Saints" than a
Cranmer, the courtly and apostate archbishop, or an Essex, one of
the numerous lovers of that princess who foully stained with mire
and blood the throne upon which she sat, and that state church of
which she made a mere vassal of that throne.

{68}

After having rectified and completed, so far as it has been given
me to do, this painting, so original and vigorous, but at the
same time so manifestly devoted to a preconceived and
systematized idea, I arrive at a conclusion which is applicable
not to the sixteenth century only, but to all the epochs of
history.

It is that, after the likeness of man himself, each phase of the
life of humanity bears in it two souls, and, as it were, two
humanities. These are the twins that struggled together in the
womb of Rebecca, and on the occasion of which the Lord responded
to the troubled mother: "Two nations are in thy womb, and two
peoples shall be divided out of thy womb, and one people shall
overcome the other." (Gen. xxv. 23.)

Yes, as each one of us bears within him two men, whose unceasing
struggle makes up the whole prize and the whole grandeur of the
moral life, so in like manner each age of the world bears within
it two ages: the one which is the docile instrument of God in the
pursuit of truth and the accomplishment of justice; and the
other, which paralyzes a part of the living forces of humanity by
leading them astray into error, or by putting them to the service
of selfishness and evil.

This grand principle of the philosophy of history, due to
Christian psychology and the true knowledge by man of himself,
has been admirably demonstrated by St. Augustine. One sees, from
numerous passages in his writings, how that holy doctor was
impressed by the perpetual antagonism and irreconcilable
opposition between these two powers, or "cities," (as he terms
them,) who always and everywhere are making war upon each other,
and to whom each succeeding century serves but as a battle-field.

Quite as much and even more than others, does the sixteenth
century present to the look of the observer the militant dualism
of these two principles: the one, calling itself the Reformation
of the church by disorder and violence; the other, wishing to be,
and which has been, the fruitful and pacific renovation of
Christian life by humble zeal and true charity. The Protestant
Reformation claims the sixteenth century as exclusively its own.
I believe I have sufficiently demonstrated that, by its most
beautiful and most enduring parts and characteristics, the
century belongs neither to Luther nor Calvin; but that the
Catholic Church can exhibit it with just pride alike to her
friends and her enemies.

From this study, made in the light of this principle, I would
also deduce a second conclusion and apply it directly to the
times in which we live.

Are we not ourselves witnesses of and actors in a struggle like
or analogous to that which, before our day, divided our fathers?
Yes, our century, soon to complete the third quarter of its term,
itself also is engaged in this struggle between, so to term it,
two opposing cities or communities. For some time past, this
struggle seems to have entered upon a new phase and into a most
sharp crisis.

With whom will victory rest, and which of the two principles
shall carry captive the other in its triumph, so as to decide
definitively the character of this epoch? That is a secret as yet
only known to God, and it is not mine to attempt a reply to so
hidden and mysterious a question. What I do know is, that we
ought to oppose, with all our might, those who, wishing to bring
about a violent retrograde movement in European society, threaten
every day to carry us back to the age of Voltaire, and who
present to us the saturnalia of '93 as the ideal of liberty,
prosperity, and progress!

{69}

What I know, again, is, that but yesterday the antagonism between
these two opposing powers (_des deux cités_) was personified
in two men, upon whom, if I mistake not, the judgment of
posterity has already begun to be made up: One of them, who
represents, in all his serene majesty and with impressive
authority even in his weakness, the force of right--the august
and mild pontiff, whom twenty-two years of revolutions and
ingratitude do not dishearten and dissuade from blessing the
world, and calling down, by his prayers, upon sorely tried and
troubled society, the spirit of wisdom, counsel, and peace; the
other, that incorrigible leader of the antichristian army, the
man of those bold deeds whose ephemeral triumph aspires to build
up right upon force, but which one day, I hope, Italy will
disavow in the name of her religious traditions, as well as in
the name of her true and sound liberal traditions.

No; this nineteenth century, where by the side of so much that is
evil there is so much that is good--so many generous sallies of
self-devotion, so many hidden acts of self-sacrifice, so many
solid virtues--the century which has given us a Curé of Ars and a
Pius IX., an Affre and a Lamoricière, a Lacordaire and a
Ravignan, an O'Connell and a Zamoyski, a Jane Jugan--founder of
the Little Sisters of the Poor--and those students to whom not
only France, but the Catholic world, are indebted for the
institution of the Conferences of St. Vincent of Paul; this
century will never be dragged down to the _gemoniae scalae_
[Footnote 17] of history with the ignominious stamp upon it of
having been the _Era of Garibaldi_. It will triumph over all
the obstacles heaped upon its pathway by scepticism, by false
science, and by the violence of party-spirit. These adverse
forces seem at this hour, it is true, to take up with renewed
energy the struggle which for eighteen centuries nothing has
interrupted; but by so doing they only serve to show us more
clearly our duty, and to urge us on the more strenuously to
fulfil it.

    [Footnote 17: The _gemoniae scalae_ were steps in
    ancient Rome, near the prison called _Tullianum_, down
    which the bodies of those who had been executed in prison
    were dragged and thrown into the Forum, to be there exposed
    to the gaze of the multitude. TRANS.]

                   ----------

            Translated From The French.

             The Legend Of Hospitality.


"Legend or history, history or legend, there are truths to be
culled from each, my friends," justly remarks that charming
writer, Charles Nodier. A beautiful legend creates its own
atmosphere of sweet and moral influences, as a flower exhales its
perfume. Happy they who can discern and appropriate them! It is
in these old and popular legends that oftentimes will be found
infused whatever is most beautiful and pure of a nation's poetry
and of its faith; they being, as it were, the expression of a
people's thought. For a long time, indeed, those simple
traditions of the past constituted, as we may say, the literature
of the people's social gatherings, and served an important part
in keeping firmly cemented the noble principles of family, of
union, and of justice, which formed the triple corner-stone of
all well-regulated society.
{70}
When the trembling voice of the old man was heard, all were
silent, and went forth after his narrative with souls deeply
impressed, on the one hand, by the punishments which struck down
the wicked, or, on the other, softly moved by the justly deserved
reward that so often formed the graceful _dénouement_ of
some touching ballad.

Some of these legends, coming to us, as they do, from afar, have
even preserved the first freshness of the primitive ages. This
is, indeed, their greatest charm. Witness this exquisite legend
of hospitality, which for a long time delighted the simple hearts
of the peasants of France.



In the days of Jesus, there lived on the banks of the Jordan an
old man, who might well have been taken for a patriarch of an
ancient tribe, whom Death seemed to have forgotten. His name was
Philomen, and in his lowly cabin he subsisted solely on the fruit
of his little garden, and the milk furnished him by his goat.
Now, one quiet evening, some one tapped gently at his door, and
an old man, though younger than he, entering, claimed his
hospitality.

"Most willingly, my friend. My cottage is not large; my garden
yields not much fruit; my goat gives but little milk; but, even
so, I share it cheerfully with all who cross my threshold in the
name of hospitality. Enter, then, good friend, and rest after the
fatigue of the day."

"But," said the traveller hesitatingly, "I am not alone. I have
twelve companions with me, overpowered by weariness and parched
with thirst, for we have just crossed the desert."

"Let them all come; you are all welcome. All who come hungry to
my door are welcome to all I possess."

Then the stranger made a sign to his companions, who were
silently standing at the door; and he found that they were Jesus
and his twelve apostles, whom St. Peter led on their journey,
ever walking in advance, he who was one day to open the gates of
Paradise.

They entered, partook of his simple fruit, drank the milk
furnished by his goat, and rested for a time on his rough mat.
When day dawned, St. Peter said to him, "Before going hence, hast
thou no petition to make to us? Hast thou not some wish? Ask
whatever thou wilt in return for thy hospitality. All that thou
shalt ask shall be granted unto thee."

Then the old man made three wishes, and said: "My sweet Lord, I
love life so well, grant me yet five hundred years to live; the
days pass so quickly in this peaceful cabin."

"Granted," said a sweet and touching voice, which seemed to come,
as it were, from the midst of the group. "What else wilt thou
have?"

"My good Lord, I have a beautiful fig-tree in my garden, which
bears such fine fruit that they are often stolen from me. Grant
me, then, that whoever climbs into it may not be able to descend
until I give him leave; thus I will ensnare the thief."

Jesus smiled as he heard this quaint wish, and, bowing his fair
head, said: "It shall be done as thou wishest. Hast thou more
still to ask? Speak freely, for thou seest that I grant thee all
that thou hast wished for."

"My dearly loved Lord, I have a wooden chair, on which my friends
sit when they come sometimes at night to talk with me. Grant me
that whoever rests on it may not be able to rise, and must remain
there as long as I shall please."

{71}

And Jesus approved again, because he loved this guileless old
man, who was so simple of heart and made such modest wishes. St.
Peter then thanked him, and went forth, followed by his twelve
companions, among whom Jesus loved to conceal himself.

Years passed by one after the other. One century passed, then
another, until finally the last day of the last year arrived, and
the venerable Philomen saw the grim traveller Death enter his
cabin, who said to him:

"Come along, old man! Thou hast eluded me this long time--thanks
to an especial favor. Thou hast reached the years of Mathusale.
If every one lived as thou hast, I would have no work on earth.
Come along, quick. Regulate thy affairs, bid farewell to thy
garden, because, with the setting sun, I lead thee forth with
me."

"O my good dame! if you would but pity me! Ah! yes, if you would
have some pity, you would let me live some few days more--only
_one_ day, then. It is so good to live!"

"No, nothing; not one moment more," replied the sinister guest in
a harsh and dry voice.

"At least, then, let me once more eat of the fruit of my
fig-tree. I have loved them so well; it will be a last
consolation to me. But I am too weak to shake the tree, and too
old to reach those highest branches. Do you go up, and gather me
that fig up there; it is so thoroughly ripened by our eastern
sun."

"Most willingly. See, old man, I will show thee that Death is not
as surly as 'tis said she is."

Then placing her hour-glass and scythe at the foot of the tree,
the unlucky dame climbed up; but scarcely had she pressed her
foot upon the branches, than, lo! they sprang up as if from her
tread, closed around and so shut in the impudent wight that she
could not even stir. She called; she cried aloud, then moaned and
supplicated. Philomen renewed his humble petition, but she
persistently refused.

"Very well! I only want five hundred years, five centuries more!"
And raising his head menacingly, he took up the hour-glass and
scythe, quietly returning to his cabin. Every morning he
returned, imposed his conditions of release, which Death,
becoming more and more irritated, as obstinately refused. Then he
would go back patiently to his cabin. On the third night he saw a
dark figure, with glittering eyes, prowling round the foot of his
tree. He listened, and heard this conversation. Now, you must
know that this was the Devil, who came to make his complaint:
"What dost thou there, thou idler? Thou no longer sendest me work
to do. I am ruined by thy delay."

But the terrible accomplice could do nothing; because he who
binds on earth as he binds in heaven had bound her so firmly that
Death herself could not undo it.

Next morning, after a fresh dispute with Philomen, she yielded,
and consented to let him have five hundred years added to his
life. But as Death is treacherous, he sought his tablet, and
before she came down he made her sign the treaty. After that he
set her free, restored her baggage, her hour-glass and scythe,
and let her depart, threatening and raging as she went, vowing to
cut off, at the very moment of the promised time, the life of one
who had so pitilessly ridiculed her.

{72}

Years again passed by, one by one; the centuries were
accomplished; and yet Philomen did not grow old. Ten times had he
seen pass by that unhappy pilgrim condemned to wander for ever
round the world. Each journey marked one century as this
wandering Jew crossed the Jordan, near his little cabin, on the
road to Jerusalem, that, ascending Golgotha, he might sue for
mercy on the very spot where the blood had been shed of him whom
he had despised! The centuries had all now passed, and one
evening, when Philomen sat quietly by his hearth, the dark
traveller entered once more. Midnight was the fatal hour. She
rudely accosted him: "Come along now, old man! Thou shouldst long
since have been in thy grave. No mercy for thee this time! Thou
wouldst but mock me again, could I show pity for thee. Oh! how
tired I am; so tired, so worried! To-day I have killed nearly
three thousand Christians, then a whole race of infidels, and
decimated an entire kingdom, with my well-tempered weapon,
pestilence. Rich and poor, prelates and priests, I have upturned
everything--everything. But I am horribly tired, and while
awaiting the expiration of thy time, I will rest me a little
here." Saying these words, she threw herself on the wooden stool
that Jesus had gifted with supernatural powers. Then she began to
jeer at the old man, speaking to him of the joys of life, of
youth, of love, etc. When midnight tolled, she attempted to rise
from the chair and spring at Philomen, who had wisely placed
himself beyond her reach; but, nailed down upon this wonderful
seat, she could not move! In vain she shook her glass, made
deadly thrusts with her scythe! Then the good man went to his
hearth, and kindled such a fire as nearly roasted her even at
that distance. Her hour-glass was about falling to pieces, the
handle of her scythe was nearly reduced to ashes, when, after a
most vigorous dispute, she granted Philomen a new lease of five
centuries more of life!

Now, this was, as you know, the second time she had been caught
in the same trap, and more enraged than ever, she went forth
crying aloud that she should not be caught again; and good old
Philomen lived on through the long years obtained by this trick.
But everything of time must end; everything falls; everything
dies; everything passes away. And these five centuries, too, were
gathered with all that had gone before. But Death had learned
prudence now, and did not venture near, sending a shaft from afar
that pierced the good old man and sent him at once from life to
death. But as he had lived so innocently and ever observed the
laws of holy hospitality, God had a place prepared for him in his
own beautiful Paradise.

Now, it happened that before going there our Philomen wished to
see, just a little, what was going on in hell. Since the night
that he overheard the dispute between Death and Satan, he had
cherished a great desire to do so. He quietly entered the abode
of the condemned, and when the Devil came to meet him, and would
have seized upon him, Philomen cried out: "Stop there! I am not
for thee! I am of the kingdom of the elect, and come here only to
see if all that is said of thee in the kingdom of the living be
true. Lead me everywhere!" When, conducted by his dark guide, he
had visited the bowels of the earth and witnessed all manners of
torture, he proposed to him to stake his own soul against some of
the most fearfully punished among the damned who were uttering
most terrific shrieks. The dice were brought, and shaken by each
in turn.
{73}
Philomen gained twelve souls; then Satan became fearful he might
lose all with this mysterious partner, and refused to play on.
Philomen then took the road to Paradise, and, reaching the gate,
tapped gently. Saint Peter came to open for him. He at once
recognized him, and, smiling, said, "Pass on, we have expected
you all this time." "Oh! very well," said the acute old man,
"but, like you formerly, I am not travelling alone: I have with
me twelve companions, who claim your hospitality." "This is but
fair," said St. Peter, once more smiling, "so come in." And so
Philomen and his twelve ransomed souls all went to join the
throng of the blessed who will for ever sing the glory of God.

It is thus the good old man lived fifteen hundred years, and
practised the holy rules of hospitality. And it is thus that our
pious ancestors taught their children never to refuse entrance to
those who knocked at their doors, imploring shelter; and thus we,
too, see how religiously and beautifully hospitality was
practised in the former ages, in the chateaux of the rich as well
as in the more humble dwellings of the poor.

         ----------

         Mine Enemy.


  If he could stand against me now,
  With other eyes and an alien brow;
  If I could break the spell that still
  My will entangles with his will;

  If he could laugh the while I weep;
  If I could wake, and he asleep;
  Could I uncoil the mystery
  Where he is I, and I am he:

  Then might I hide me from his face;
  Or strike him down within his place;
  And so, at last, my life be free
  From his tormenting company.

  But no; his blush my forehead burns,
  His the pallor my pale cheek turns,
  And when he sees the thing I do,
  'Tis mine own eyes that he looks through.

  When I would hate this tiresome mate,
  He teaches me the way to hate;
  When from his presence I would flee,
  He, taunting, flies along with me.

{74}

  But best I like his baser slips,
  His angry eyes and impious lips;
  For then, half-wrenched away from me,
  Almost it seems he leaves me free.

  'Tis then I raise aloft my cry:
  St. Michael, to the rescue fly!
  'Tis then almost my foot is prest
  Upon the monster's struggling breast;

  'Tis then I feel my shoulders glow
  With hints of wings they yet may know,
  And breathe as slaves pant, wild and sweet,
  Whose chains are falling to their feet!

  'Tis then I nestle, safely bound
  By wings of angels circling round,
  And feel the drawing of the cord
  That holds my anchor in the Lord!

  And most I fear when cunningly
  He crouches, hidden from mine eye,
  And breathes into the pipes whose keys
  Hold all my spirit's melodies.

  When I his hiding would betray,
  He holds the lamp, and leads the way;
  When I would break his hardihood,
  He wields the lash that draws my blood.

  So deep his guile, I scarce can know
  From whose intent my actions grow;
  So brightly do his tear-drops shine,
  I oft mistake his grief for mine.

  When veiled emotions, swift and strong,
  Run all my trembling nerves along,
  If 'tis his sigh or mine whose swell
  Upheaves my breast, I cannot tell.

  When friendship frowns, I turn to see
  My foe's eyes beaming tenderly;
  When friendship harshly speaks, I hear
  His dulcet tones wooing mine ear.

  When God is slow to hear my cry,
  Behold th' insidious list'ner nigh!
  When thirst has parched my vitals up,
  His hand presents the sparkling cup.

{75}

  If I would reason with my foe,
  He lets the high-piled logic grow,
  And lowly bends, in humble guise,
  With silent mouth and drooping eyes.

  But as, o'erflowing with content,
  I view my stately monument,
  Nor guess the thoughts lie side to side
  In subtle, weak cement of pride,

  With sudden flash of mocking wit
  He plays about and shatters it,
  Or some volcanic underthrust
  Levels my structure with the dust.

  And straight, ere I can speak for pain,
  He builds my chang'd thoughts up again
  In airy stretches, bright or dim,
  With flower-woven cornice-rim;

  With domes that melt into the sky,
  Like piles of snowy cumuli;
  And pinnacles where fancy sees
  Stars cling and swim, like golden bees;

  With long-drawn wings whose cloudy tips
  The sunset kisses with red lips;
  And cloudy-curtained windows bright,
  Whence pours a flood of rosy light.

  And with it come bewildering tunes,
  Where heavenly airs bear hellish runes;
  And, calling sweet and calling clear,
  The voice that most I long to hear.

  But if, lured by this temple fair,
  Dazzled, I seek to enter there,
  It clings, and burns with lurid light,
  Like Glauce's bridal-garment white.

  Then since my foe so potent is,
  And I so weak, lest I be his,
  Some friend I need, stronger than he,
  To stand and keep my heart for me.

  And since, though driven forth with pain,
  Ever he stealeth back again,
  More need have I of heavenly light
  To make his lurking-places bright.

{76}

  And since I stand unarmed, indeed,
  Before his wrath, great is the need
  I should invoke, with prayerful word,
  Saint Michael of the fiery sword!

  That night and day I still should cling
  Beneath my hovering angel's wing;
  And ne'er let slip the golden cord
  That holds my anchor in the Lord!

                   ----------

  Translated From The Revue Du Monde Catholique.

                  Flaminia.

            By Alexandre De Bar.


                  Concluded.


"You will not be surprised to see that Flaminia was ignorant of
the veritable nature of the affection that she felt for Albert;
but you will be astonished to learn that he shared entirely her
ignorance, although he had seen much of life. Yet think that it
is to know nothing of the most impetuous passion of our soul if
we have only learnt the theory; for as to know the world we must
have lived in the world, so to know the heart one must have lived
by the heart; if such has not been one's experience, all is
obscurity and one takes a false route. Now, Albert had lived out
of the world, and had not yet loved aught but a glorious renown.
Besides all this, if you will look back upon that fair time of
youth which has now fled from us, you will remember that the
descent which allures us is often so gentle that we follow it
without attention; until the day when an unforeseen event, and
often even an unimportant circumstance, arouses us, and permits
us by a glance to see the road that we have already glided down.
Albert, too, descended that charming declivity, gathering the
perfumed flowers which hung on the shrubs, and intoxicating
himself with perfumes, with light and songs. His soul happy, his
heart pure, dazzled by the celestial gleams which irradiated him,
how could he see where all this was conducting him? This is how
he first became aware of his position: There was at the bottom of
the gardens of the palace Balbo a long alley, that was covered by
the thick foliage of the vines, whose stems, black and distorted,
clung to and spread up the stone pillars on each side. Here and
there the jasmines displayed the silver stars of their flowers,
which shone out of the deep shade of their leaves. From that
alley the eye gazed upon a vast horizon, bounded by two large
sheets of azure, the sea and sky, between which the mountains
lifted their imposing masses, gilded by the rays of the setting
sun. It was in this perfumed gallery that, each evening, Albert
was conducted by his hosts, as soon as the refreshing breeze of
evening blew across the sea.
{77}
Often it was the arm of Flaminia that aided his yet feeble steps
in this exercise. How many charming hours thus passed for them
during the calm of those evenings, when the noises of the day
ceased one by one, until the ear brought but the sound of the
whispering breeze, pure and sweet as the breath of a sleeping
child, to the touched and softened soul! One day, the fever
seemed struggling to regain its power over the form of Albert;
his wounds were scarcely closed, and the emotions that he
experienced reacted most powerfully upon his health. Sir, man is
born for suffering, and not for joy. His body can support an
immense weight of sorrow and pain without giving way; but it is
worn out by pleasure, and joy kills it. Giovanni, uneasy about
his friend, strictly forbade his leaving his room, and that
evening the family went alone to their walk. Albert returned
sadly to the saloon, become more desert for him than the sands of
Sahara, in company with Giovanni, who, in the hope of distracting
his loneliness, talked to him of battles and of victories;
although had he known how far the mind of his friend was from all
such subjects, he might have given himself far less trouble with
an equally good result. Little caring then for glory, Albert's
heart was with Flaminia under the perfumed shade of the vines and
jasmines. At their return, Flaminia held out to Albert a spray of
jasmine covered with flowers, saying to him: 'You like these
flowers, so I bring you them.' When Albert had retired to his own
room, he took this bouquet and covered it with kisses: he
listened with delight to the voice that issued from those flowers
and that told him such sweet words. A flame seemed to mingle with
their perfumes that carried a new life to his heart; but it
carried there also the light. Another voice made itself heard and
showed him the truth, and he fell from the regions of happiness
where his dream had carried him, into the implacable reality; for
he then discovered with what sort of an affection they were both
animated. And he a knight of the Order of Malta! If absence could
have given the repose of forgetfulness to Flaminia, Albert would
not have hesitated to have left her at once. But if there exist
attachments so slight that the simple absence of their object is
sufficient to cure them, so there are others which may be likened
to those long-lived plants that extend their roots in all
directions and all depths; so that one cannot tear them from the
soil in which they have once gained a hold. Such affections as
these resist all human efforts, and absence but serves to render
their wounds more poignant and more lively. Albert understood too
well the character of Flaminia not to know that their destiny was
irrevocably fixed. Divine Providence seemed to have drawn them
together in this world but to make them merit, by a sacrifice of
their affections, the happiness that was destined for them in the
next. The ordinary remedy of absence would have been useless in
their case. Albert understood this, and the idea of getting
himself absolved from his vows of knighthood came to him. This
thought he repelled. It was not that he believed the success of
such a measure impossible, but that he saw in it a desertion of
his duty; he felt that his conscience would not be in
tranquillity, and that it would perpetually remind him that one
cannot thus break his engagements with God. He knelt down
piously, and that which passed in his soul during that cruel
night, and that which he suffered during that struggle, ever
rested a secret between him and God.
{78}
For you, scholar of the eighteenth century, it is an unpardonable
weakness that of placing one's self humbly on one's knees before
the Divine Majesty. Yet, thanks only to this weakness, Albert, in
all the force of youth, resisted without failing before the most
impetuous, the most irresistible of all our passions, and came
forth victorious out of the rudest combat that he had ever given.
He loved, passionately, Flaminia: Flaminia, beautiful, rich in
heart and soul, full of all the merits, of all the virtues, that
can entrance at the same time the heart, the soul, and the
senses; Flaminia, who loved him with an equal ardor, and who
confided herself to him absolutely and without reserve. He had
over her an absolute power, and, far from using it, he subdued
his passion, and, directing by a determined will the tumultuous
waves of his heart, he traversed without shipwreck those tempests
that are more ungovernable than the rage of the ocean. The
strength with which he aided himself was that same weakness which
makes you smile. Had he trusted only in himself, he would have
fallen, because he was but a man; he implored the aid of him who
is strength itself, and he vanquished. Faith was for him what the
fortifying oil was with which the athletes rubbed their bodies
before the struggle; and, not content with aiding him to overcome
himself, she knew also how to dry his tears by the blessed aid of
hope. For, at the same time that she showed him in all their
barrenness the painful paths of duty, she let him see at the end
of the journey, and as the price of his victory, that eternal
union of souls which time itself is powerless to break. I know
you to be prejudiced, my dear Frederick, on all that which
touches religious questions; but, at the same time, I know you to
be of too good faith not to acknowledge that there is truly
something superhuman in a doctrine which gives such victories;
neither shall I insist on the detail of the events which occurred
during the six months that Albert yet passed by the side of
Flaminia, for they would have no value in my recital. It would
not, perhaps, be without a certain interest to follow the
developments of that affection, so completely purified from all
earthly thoughts; but, as there are certain situations where a
look, a smile, takes the proportions of a veritable event, it
would be necessary for me to enter into the very slightest points
of its psychology. On learning the gravity of the wounds of his
brother, Adolph Shraun had come in all haste to the palace Balbo.
Antonia failed not to produce in his heart an impression as
profound, but more decisive, than that which Flaminia had already
aroused in his brother. As he knew that the project of an
alliance would be joyfully received in the two families, Antonia
was not long without knowing the sentiments which she had
enkindled. The frank, impetuous, and lively character of Adolph
had already predisposed her in his favor, so that she quickly
shared the same sentiments and hopes as himself. Joy renders us
much more disposed to confidence than does sorrow, and Antonia
did not fail to feel the need of confiding to some one both her
secret and her love. This need caused her to seek in Flaminia for
sympathy, and the reciprocal confidence which was due between
these two young hearts, so well formed to love and sustain each
other, was then established for ever. The _naïve_
confidences of her sister enlightened Flaminia on her own
sentiments, and carried into her soul the light that she had but
caught glimpses of before.
{79}
She then understood the nature of her destiny, and, like Albert,
she accepted it without a murmur. She took refuge in the
consoling thought that their union would be accomplished in those
celestial regions where only reign the eternal laws of love; and
thus placing her hopes upon a sure basis, she resigned herself to
her cross, prayed, and awaited God's will. I think that I have
quite sufficiently instructed you upon the state of these noble
hearts; so that I can arrive at that which is the object of my
story--namely, to tell you how it was that my great-grandfather,
Adolph, saw, one day, two souls." The Baron Frederick could not
here repress a deep sigh of satisfaction, and the count, who
noticed nothing, continued: "The hours, which their separation
was soon to render so long, passed away with a cruel rapidity;
the moment approached when Albert ought to leave Flaminia, that
he might report himself to the Grand-Master Coroner, who was then
preparing an expedition directed against Napoli of Roumania, and
the few days they had yet to pass together made them feel still
more strongly the happiness that they were about to lose.
Giovanni had announced his intention of following his friend, and
their approaching departure had cast a shade of sadness on that
household, lately so joyous that it had seemed a nest hidden from
the world, where alone happiness dwelt. One evening, when,
according to their usual custom, they were all grouped together
under the shadow of the vines, the conversation took a melancholy
form, and the fear that reigned in all their hearts expressed
itself by words: they were talking of death. 'Come, come,' said
the Prince Balbo, after a few minutes of discussion on the
subject, 'what is the use of these fears? When duty calls, we
must obey, not only by action, but in heart, and without regret.
Besides,' he added, 'the hour of our death is not in our own
choice; and none are protected from his stroke when God calls the
angel of death and says, "Strike!" I have, like you, my children,
incurred many perils in my life, and yet sixty winters have
whitened my head; and how many have I not seen of those whose
life was peaceable--of flourishing youth--sheltered from all
harm, who have been struck down before their time! Let us confide
in God, my children; let us resign ourselves beforehand to his
will, which is always just, always good--since he is eternally
just and good.'

"Flaminia, crushed by the grief of a separation that snatched
away from her for ever the half of her soul, had, until these
last words of her father, remained silent; but then, lifting her
head and leaning slightly toward Albert, said to him in a tone
that was audible only to him, 'Yes, happily, one dies at every
age.'

"Albert understood her thought.

"'Do you not, then, think on the grief of those who are left?'
answered he, in a voice of low reproach.

"'Oh!' replied she quickly, 'if I die first, I will come to seek
you.'

"Before that cry, uttered from the heart, before that affection
that felt itself sufficiently strong to vanquish the laws of
death, sufficiently holy that God should grant it a miracle,
silence could be the only answer; but a glance of Albert replaced
with all the eloquence of the heart the powerless word. On the
morrow of that evening, Albert left Flaminia. I will not paint to
you their affliction. It was immense. But a hope that is too ill
known in this, our century, sustained their courage and energy.
{80}
At the moment of an adieu so cruel to both, not a tear fell from
their eyes. That they did flow, and most abundantly and bitterly,
there is no doubt, since grief never loses its rights, and human
force, even the best sustained, has its bounds; but they flowed
in silence and in secret, and he who was their only witness
treasured them up. The days, the months, the seasons passed on;
three times the trees had lost their foliage and renewed their
leaves; three times had the alley of vines seen the winter's sun
pass unobstructed through their naked branches. All had changed
around them; their hearts alone changed not. The renown of Albert
grew each day, with his valor, more brilliant; but it was no
longer renown that he sought, it was a death that would have
opened before him that wide field where impatience dies away
before the eternity that then commences; death that he desired
because it would have brought him near to Flaminia; and death
would not listen to him. In vain did he fling himself into the
thickest of the danger; in vain did he accomplish prodigies that
had caused the bravest to turn pale; he passed through all these
without even a wound. Although he had but very rare occasion of
knowing what passed in that cherished spot where ever rested his
heart and thoughts, still he doubted not but that the tenderness
of Flaminia was as lively and as deep as his own; nor did he
deceive himself. Flaminia had refused under different pretexts
the offers that had been made to her; and notwithstanding all the
desire they felt to establish their daughter, I would dare to
affirm that it was not without a certain secret joy that the
Prince and Princess Balbo looked upon the prospect before them,
the hope of keeping her always by their side. Do not blame them
too quickly, my friend; for it is a painful thought that during
twenty years a child should have been the object of your
affection and of your solicitude; that she should have taken the
best and largest portion of your life and heart, in order that,
one day, a stranger, under the title of a new-born love, should
carry away from you all your joy; leaving you to see your
much-loved child place herself under another protection than
thine, and quit without regret the house where she leaves a blank
that nothing else can fill.

"I had almost forgotten to tell you that Antonia had married
Adolphus, and lived happy and peaceful in this same castle where
we now are finishing our career. Albert, tired of war, and freed
from all further illusions of glory, had come, after having
refused the highest distinctions of the order, to seek some
repose by his brother's side. Ambition was dead in him; his soul,
that had been so severely proved, had need of recollection and
calm; and he found this by the side of him whom, after Flaminia,
he loved the best in the world. Moreover, although he himself
scarcely ever spoke of her who filled all his thoughts, still he
felt a lively pleasure in hearing her spoken of so frequently by
his brother and his wife. Albert was then calm and composed; he
marched courageously forward in life as does the traveller who
climbs with difficulty the bare paths of a desolate and arid
mountain, sure to find in the evening the joys of the fireside
and the shelter of his friends' roof.

"Three years, day by day, had passed away since the moment when
Albert had quitted the palace Balbo. It was the evening; Adolphus
and Antonia were by his side, in this same saloon where we now
are.
{81}
Contrary to his custom, Albert, for whom that anniversary was a
day of mourning, felt his soul full of a penetrating and serene
joy, when ten o'clock sounded from that same clock that--"

Here the recital of the count was interrupted by the sound of the
clock which resounded in the vast apartment. One would have said
that it affirmed the words of the count, by repeating the ten
strokes which it had caused to be heard at the moment of which he
was speaking. That metallic sound seemed to have in it an unusual
power; there was something solemn in its grave slowness; in the
deep noise of the wheel drawn round by the falling lead, which
accompanied with its heavy base the more piercing sound that
traversed the thick oaken case. Both the count and his friends
were seized by an impression which they did not seek to dispel or
resist. Both instinctively uncovered their heads, and while the
count waited almost respectfully until its last vibrations were
lost in silence, the baron, more moved than perhaps he was
willing to show, placed on the table his pipe, yet fully charged
with tobacco, and, an event that certainly had not occurred with
him once in ten years, he left that inseparable companion of his
leisure hours, without touching the tankard that in vain offered
to his gaze its brown and golden tints.

"Ten o'clock had then sounded," continued the count, "and that
being the moment when each was accustomed to separate for their
bedrooms, Adolphus had got up and looked at his brother, who had
been for some time previous motionless and in an attitude of
profound attention, resembling a man who follows with his ear the
scarcely perceptible sounds of some distant harmony.

"All is finished,' murmured Albert at the moment when the clock
had finished striking; and, placing his hand on his brother's
arm, 'Remain here,' said he, and turning toward Antonia: 'Pardon
me, my sister, if I thus detain Adolphus; but I have need of him
to-night, and to-morrow it will be too late.'

"'You frighten me,' answered Antonia; 'what then is going to
happen?'

"'You will know very soon,' replied Albert. 'Poor sister! your
eyes will shed many a tear; but they will be dried by the thought
that the motive which causes them to flow assures for ever the
happiness of those who are dear to you.'

"He then kissed her forehead, and, followed by Adolphus, went to
his own room, the same which is now yours, dear Frederick.

"'What is the matter with you?' asked Adolphus of his brother, as
soon as they were alone.

"'I am sad and happy at the same time; sad because I am going to
leave you alone for a short time; but very happy because I go at
last to rejoin her, and for this time not again to leave her!'

"'Explain yourself; why do you leave us?'

"'Listen: for that you may understand what is going to happen
here this night, it is necessary that you should know what I have
felt and suffered during the past three years.'

"Albert then told him of all that which I have just described to
you; of his love for Flaminia, of his struggles, and of his
victory, over himself; and Adolphus, who already knew through his
wife of what Flaminia had suffered, saw with astonishment that
all which had been felt by the one had also been by the other, in
the same degree and at the same moment. Never had the most
profound sympathy established between two beings a more complete
identity of sensations and thoughts; near or separated, their two
existences had formed but a single life, as their two souls
seemed to form but a single soul. When Albert had finished his
recital, he added:

{82}

"'"If I die first, I shall come to seek you!" Flaminia had told
me, and now Flaminia has just died. Do not ask me how I know it,
for I am ignorant myself of the reason; but I do know it. I have
followed, moment by moment, the progress of her death; at the end
I have felt her die, and now I await her coming. In a few
instants more she will be here, and we shall depart together for
that blessed home where nothing can again oppose itself to our
eternal union. It seems to me that already I feel my soul
disengaging itself from its bonds; I no longer regard the
sufferings that I have endured, except with that sentiment of
thankfulness and joy which one feels at the recollection of
perils that have been overcome; my past sufferings have no longer
their sting, my tears no longer their bitterness! At the solemn
moment when I am about to quit a life that has been most painful
in its trials for the happy life of triumph, I have wished to
have you by my side, that I might say to you my last farewell in
this world, and press for a last time your hand before going to
await you in eternity.' I leave you to think, my dear Frederick,
what must have been the astonishment of Adolphus at receiving
this strange confidence.

"'I have too much confidence in the firmness of your reason,' he
answered to his brother after a short silence, 'to believe that
it has become weakened, were it only for a moment; but do you not
fear to have been the victim of some mental illusion, and to have
taken for a reality that which was in reality only the dream of
your heart exalted by sadness and solitude?'

"'I understand your incredulity,' answered Albert, 'for I have
myself shared in it. Each time that the recollection of that
promise presented itself to my memory, my reason revolted against
such an evident impossibility; the soul cannot again appear in
this world once that it has quitted it, thought I, and yet I
counted on the premise even while I disbelieved its possibility.
Only an hour ago, I yet doubted, but now that doubt has passed
away, since the moment when her dying voice sounded in my ears
uttering her last words: "You have waited for me; I am here!"
Then I understood that it was not merely the strong desire of a
soul overexcited by the desire to be reunited to the second half
of itself that I felt, but that it was really a mysterious
warning; and the accomplishment of a promise that God himself had
blessed, and that he permitted to be fulfilled.'

"'But how to explain this miracle?'

"'I am unable to explain it; I tell you what is about to happen,
that is all that I can do. In a few minutes Flaminia will be
present, and in seeing her you will believe me. For the rest,'
added he, after a moment's pause, 'all is a mystery in this
world, but the grand end of all is sufficient to enlighten our
paths. Do you think that it would be more easy for me to tell you
how it is that, notwithstanding we have never said anything to
each other that could divulge the mutual state of our hearts, we
have yet, in spite of our separation, lived by the same life and
the same love? That you cannot believe me, I know, but only wait
a little time, and you shall see.'

{83}

"In truth, Adolphus did not believe, although the evidently
profound conviction of Albert shook his mind and caused in him an
impression that he would gladly have shaken off, so contrary to
reason did it seem to him. 'Let us make haste, the time presses,'
said Albert. He then arranged in order, with rapidity and calm,
several important affairs with which he was charged, relating to
the principal commanderies of Germany; then, kneeling down, he
offered up a short prayer; scarcely had he finished, than, rising
up quickly, he seized the hand of his brother, and cried: 'Look!
she is come.' Adolphus turned round, and saw Flaminia standing by
the side of Albert. You who have lost some one who was dear to
you, Frederick, you have remarked that, at the moment when the
last sigh escapes and before the work of decay begins, the face
is possessed of a calm beauty, supernatural and indefinable in
its expression, that inspires an awed respect for that now
lifeless form which just a moment before contained a soul. Such
looked Flaminia; her figure, surrounded by a luminous atmosphere,
had received from immortality an august expression. It was
perfectly the form of Flaminia, such as Adolphus had known her,
but it was no longer the creature that is imperfect, and subject
to the attacks of time and life. It was the being imperishable
who, coming forth victorious from her many trials, bore in her
all the splendors of her glory. Her beauty was not that which
charms by the uniformity, more or less complete, of its
lineaments; no, it was the celestial beauty whose type is graven
in ourselves; the beauty a single ray of which suffices to
illuminate the face that hides a pure soul: this was the beauty
sublime that enveloped her with its divine wings, and
transfigured her face while changing its lineaments. Adolphus
bent his knee before the vision. 'Had I not told you that she
would come?' said Albert to his brother. 'Yes!' replied a
harmonious voice, which issued from the then incorruptible lips
of Flaminia. 'Yes! our love was too pure not to merit its
recompense. God has permitted it; you waited for me, and I am
come.' She bent slightly toward him to whom she at length was
about to be united, and, surrounding him with her arms, she drew
his face closer to her own, that gleamed with a celestial joy.
Behind them, and contemplating them, stood Death, not under the
form of fleshless skeleton, but as a radiant angel who changes
bitterness into joy, and tears into smiles. His beautiful face
bore the impress of grave majesty rather than of severity,
softened by that infinite mercy which gives hope to repentance.
The mercy and goodness of the Master who sends him shone in his
look, which is so sweet to the contemplation of the soul wearied
by the painful journey of life. The hour was come! At the moment
when Flaminia, in a manner, took possession of Albert, the angel
of Death drew near him, and while with one hand he touched his
shoulder, with the other he pointed toward heaven. Albert's body
fell back into the arm-chair, which, living, he had just
occupied; and when Adolphus, drawn forward by an instinctive
motion, ran to support him, he saw by the side of Flaminia the
form of his brother, that shone forth surrounded by the same
glory and the same joy. He passed the rest of the night by the
side of his brother's body, and wept, though not over him whom he
had just seen pass away to heaven. The man whom faith sustains
with its sweet consolation weeps not the loss of his friend, but
his absence.
{84}
He wept because every separation, even the shortest, is a grief,
and his tears were dried by the certainty that Albert was in the
possession of a happiness that could neither diminish nor fade,
and which he hoped one day to share with him."

The count here left off his story. The baron had listened to him
with a sustained attention, and although he preserved his
imperturbable calm, yet the recital had so much moved him, that
he remained silent; and the count, after waiting a few minutes,
continued: "Such is the history of my great-uncle Albert, as it
has been transmitted to us by him who was the witness. Do you
find it, then, surprising that the faith should be hereditary in
a family where such facts happen? What can you reply to this
history?"

"Nothing," answered the baron, "except that, to draw the
consolations which it contains, one must have the faith; and
besides, in supposing that God, if he exists, interferes with the
affairs of this world, he is unjust, since he refuses to me the
consolation that he gives to others."

"Have you ever asked him for it?" answered the count with a
friendly severity. "Have you not, on the contrary, repulsed by a
determined obstinacy the solicitations of divine Providence?
Pardon me, my friend, if I awaken a painful recollection for you,
but have you not even resisted the awful voice of Death?"

"What is the good of my asking?" replied the baron, eluding the
second part of his friend's demand. "If faith be necessary, God
owes it to me without asking him."

"Food is also necessary," answered the count, "and does man find
it ready for him, unless he works? No, no, my friend; labor and
prayer, such is the destiny of man upon the earth. His material
life is bought by the sweat of his brow, as his spiritual life is
the price of his efforts. 'Seek, and you shall find; knock, and
it shall be opened unto you,' has said the divine Master. Ah! if
you had ever knelt before that God whom you blaspheme; if you had
with perseverance exposed to him your doubts, your miseries, you
would have known that he never leaves without help the soul that
sincerely implores him; you would have known that he never hides
himself from him who seeks him with a humble and contrite spirit
and a pure heart. Pray, my dear Frederick, pray, I tell you, and
you will feel that he is near to you; that his arms are open to
receive you, and his hands ready to shed on you all the sweet
consolations and hopes with which they are filled!"

It was now late; the two friends then separated, and, without
doubt, the count that night in his prayers demanded with more
than usual fervor the conversion of the man he so warmly loved.
Ordinarily, on gaining his room, the baron was accustomed to
install himself as comfortably as possible in an immense old
leathern arm-chair, whose age dated back for two or three
centuries, which he placed in front of the wood fire that burnt
noisily on the hearth; and after having again lit his pipe, that
inseparable friend, he used to take a book, and, stretching out
his feet upon the copper fire-dogs, wait until he felt sleepy,
which invariably occurred as soon as there remained no more
tobacco in the sculptured wooden bowl of his pipe.

{85}

But on that night he cast around him many a curious look, and
examined with as great an attention, one after the other, the
several pieces of antique furniture with which his room was
furnished, as though it had been the first time that he had seen
them; then, in place of sitting down in that ancient arm-chair,
which he preferred to all the others on account of its large
dimensions, he placed it in front of him, and, sitting down on
the most modern of his chairs, he regarded with a questioning
curiosity and certain respect that mute witness of an adventure,
the mere recital of which had caused so great a trouble in his
mind; seeming to ask of it a solution to his doubts and fears.
After a long and silent contemplation, he let fall his forehead
on his hands, and, plunging his fingers among his hair, whitened
rather by sorrow than by age, began to meditate profoundly. The
agitation of his mind was so great, and the flow of his thoughts
so rapid, that, without knowing it, he began to think aloud. "If
what he said were true, if there were something within us that
outlived our bodies, I could see thee again, my dearest and
best-beloved Gertrude; and I could again find the joys of our too
short union, and this time for always, unchanging and eternal!
And ought I to repulse that thought through the childish fear of
abandoning myself to a false hope? Of these two ideas were it not
better to follow that which gives us consolation and causes us to
live, rather than that which thickens around us the already too
profound shades of life, and changes our grief into despair? What
consolation have I ever found in the reason of which I am so
proud? None! If pride has withheld my tears before men, yet since
twenty years they have flowed on in silence without their source
being yet dry. If I have blushed to let my weakness be seen by
men, have I not felt it a thousand times within me, implacable,
and terrible, before my vain revolts against a destiny that broke
my heart and that I was forced to submit to? When beside her
death-bed I felt but a sterile despair, when my will, my love,
were powerless to retain for a single moment the last sigh of
that life that I would have been willing to prolong at the
expense of my own days, what have I been able to do? Nothing! not
even to die! Since twenty years I implore the oblivion which
flies before me! Since twenty years, I recoil before the thought
to precipitate myself therein! Is it fear that hinders me? No! I
have faced the peril when my duty demanded it, and I would do it
again: I have too often seen Death to fear him. The reason is
that a secret voice speaks within me higher than all the sophisms
of my grief, and tells me that I have not the right to destroy
the life which I did not give myself. Yet if there is nothing
beyond the tomb, why should I fear it, and what have I to dread
from oblivion? Have I not the most absolute right on myself,
since all ends but in a dreamless sleep? Is it really a sleep?
Ah! there is the truth, both for me and for all others; it is
that in secret I doubt as often of that oblivion that I so loudly
affirm, as I do whether that God does not exist whose existence I
so deny. Yet again, if God is but an imaginary being, and if
immortality is but a dream, what does one risk to have thought
the contrary? One would have lived fortified against the ills and
crosses of this life by a thought that sweetens, even the terrors
of death. One would not even feel the loss of that hope, since
the hour of our disenchantment would be the one which should
plunge us into the deep repose of oblivion! The lie, then, would
have done that which the truth could not do; it would have given
us happiness. If, on the contrary, immortality is not a vain
chimera, but a reality, is it not a terrible responsibility to
have shut one's heart to its evidence and to have misunderstood
the sublime Author of all things?
{86}
Yes! in truth terrible; for in that momentous question, doubt is
not to be permitted. On all human questions indifference follows
uncertainty, but here indifference is itself a fault--one must
deny or believe. But how am I to believe? When from earliest
childhood you have had your aspirations broken or wounded under
the repeated blows of contempt, and when you have been taught but
to laugh at in others that faith whose absence you shall one day
so bitterly deplore, how then to believe? Pray, he told me. Pray!
Can I pray? Oh! happy are they who, arrived like me at that sad
epoch in life when one drags painfully along the burden of one's
worn-out days, have not to curse those who held them away from
that source of strength and consolation! Yes, they are happy whom
a pious mother taught from their cradle to bend the knees and
join the hands in prayer! Gertrude also, she too prayed; and many
a time have I felt myself touched in seeing her bend her head
before the God of whom she asked for me the light of the faith.
How many times have I not felt the desire to share her belief,
and to kneel down like her and say: 'My dear Gertrude, there
exists no place on this earth where we ought to be separated;
there is not a thought, a belief, an affection, that ought not to
be shared by us. Whatever may be the destiny that awaits us after
the destruction of our being, whether it be oblivion or
immortality, I wish to share it with you. Let your convictions be
mine also, even as your life is mine. After having given me
happiness in this world, show me the road that leads to that
eternity I wish to believe in because you believe; make me to
know that God whom I wish to love because you love him!' But
alas! held by a false shame, I resisted that voice which spoke in
the depth of my heart, and which, perhaps, was the voice of God:
for is it not possible that such feelings as these are those by
which Providence calls us to the truth? And I, how have I
responded to that voice? Why, by rallying her on her belief. I
caused her tears to flow, the only ones most certainly, but today
they fall heavily upon my heart. And now friendship speaks to me
this day the very same language that did of old her love. Shall I
yet remain deaf? Ought I to cede to or resist the voice which now
speaks to me? O Albert! you on whom was accomplished, in the room
where I am, and in that arm-chair that I now look on, so
incomprehensible a mystery, cannot you come in aid of the most
faithful friend that your family ever had!" And the excellent
baron, letting himself be carried away by his emotion, found
himself, without knowing how, on his knees before that chair in
whose arms Albert had died; and the head covered by his hands,
and the heart filled with the thirst for truth, he prayed: "O my
God!" prayed he, "if it is true that you are not a vain creation
of the weakness or of the pride of man; if it is true that you
continue to watch with solicitude over the creature who has
issued from your hands, you will not see without pity the heart
full of trouble that I lift up toward you. Led astray by the
habits begun in childhood, I have perhaps followed error thinking
to follow the truth; but I have done it in all sincerity and
through love of the truth. If I am deceived, O God! enlighten my
trembling soul, dissipate the doubt which is crushing me, and
draw toward you the soul that seeks you and desires you! And you,
Gertrude, dear companion too soon lost to me, if you see my
regrets that time cannot extinguish; and the tears that your
memory costs me, ask of your God that he make himself known to
me; ask him that I may adore him as you adored him, and, above
all, ask him that I may again be united to you."

{87}

His voice died away then, and yet his prayer continued. His soul,
overexcited with the emotions of that night, poured itself out
before God without following any line of thought. It was an
immense lifting up of his whole being toward the truth--an ardent
thirst for hope; it was the twenty years of a mute despair that
resumed itself into a supreme cry; it was the heart, so pure and
so good, of that worthy man, that opened itself completely and
mounted full of desires and tears, carrying with it the most
fervent prayer that had ever reached the immovable throne of the
Eternal. At last the baron arose, but in place of at once laying
himself down to sleep on the bed, whose soft pillows vainly
invited him to repose, he retook his former position and began to
reflect. The thoughts pressed so tumultuously in his brain,
ordinarily so calm, and succeeded each other with so great a
rapidity, that he could but vaguely seize them. His eyes, fixed
upon the light flame that yet burned on the hearth, saw not that
they expired one by one. The last played yet some time on the log
covered with white ashes, disappearing for a moment to again
reappear in another spot; at length it died out. The lamp burned
with a reddened glare through its lack of oil, and yet the baron
did not move. How long he had rested in that state of semi-sleep
is what he never knew himself, when to the dying gleam of the
lamp succeeded so brilliant a light that the baron always
maintained that one so intense had never before shone on mortal
eyes; at the same time brilliant and soft, it penetrated all
objects without causing them to cast any shadow, and, as it were,
drowned them in a sea of light. The baron lifted up his head at
this unexpected brilliancy; he wished to speak, and his voice
expired on his opened lips; but he distinctly heard these words:
"Frederick, the prayers of your beloved Gertrude have been at
length heard; the straight-forwardness and simplicity of your
heart have found grace before the throne of the Eternal Master;
he smiles on those who imitate him. He loves those who, like him,
bear their cross with courage, and drink without feebleness the
chalice of bitterness that is offered to all, without exception,
in this life of probation. If it has been that, until now, you
have rested deaf to the warnings that divine Providence sent you,
at least you have listened with docility to that which was
contained in the recital of your friend, and it was not without a
reason that he was inspired to tell the true legend of the loves
of Flaminia and Albert to you this night. The faith that
strengthens the soul in the midst of the calamities of life
descended into your heart and penetrated it with its salutary
ardors at the moment when, breaking your pride before your will,
you have knelt down before the Lord and asked of him the light;
you could not remain always out of the truth; you, the devoted
friend, the faithful husband; you whose entire life has been but
a long research for the rarest virtues, and who feel, beating in
your breast as noble and loving a heart as ever animated a human
form." Here the brilliant light faded slowly away. The lamp was
extinguished, and the blackened, logs gave forth no glimmer of
light.
{88}
The baron gained, by feeling his way, his bed, and laid himself
on it, feeling himself full of an unknown joy, understanding the
duties of a Christian, and resolved to perform them. He fell
asleep in thinking of that happy day when should be restored to
him that wife whom he had never ceased to love. The next morning,
when he descended to the saloon where all the family were united,
he embraced his friend's wife, and kissed, one after another, her
children and grandchildren, who were all there that day at the
castle; and all this with a demonstration of joy so contrary to
his usual phlegmatic manner that it for the moment gave cause to
fear for his reason; and then, approaching the count, who
regarded him with stupefaction, he embraced him vigorously, and
said to him, while wiping his eyes, humid with tears of joy: "Ah!
you are right, my dear friend; I shall see again my Gertrude!"

                  ----------

                  Talleyrand,
          by Lytton Bulwer.[Footnote 18]

    [Footnote 18: _Historical Characters. By Sir Henry Lytton
    Bulwer, G.C.B. Two vols., 8vo. Richard Bentley, New
    Burlington street, London_. 1868.]

Sir Henry Lytton Bulwer has presented the public with sketches of
some eminent men, and has done his work well. It is not a series
of biographies, but rather a finished outline of their prominent
characteristics and of their achievements. In advance of the
memoirs of Talleyrand, written by himself, and now in course of
publication, this illustrious Frenchman is placed among the
number, and in a new light. He is no longer the inscrutable being
he appeared to his contemporaries, and as he has appeared since
to their children. His name has been intimately associated with
the great men and events of the last years of the unfortunate
reign of Louis XVI. of France, near the close of the last
century. Still more prominently is the memory of him associated
with the convocation of the States-General and the National
Assembly. By accident, he had the good fortune to be free from
the odium attached to the Legislative Assembly and the atrocities
of the National Convention, with the attendant horrors of the
Committee of Public Safety in the Reign of Terror.

He fled from France in all haste as an _émigré_, and yet was
lucky to avoid being classed with the aristocrats and so-called
enemies of his country. He was prominent in the Revolution,
without the stain of a regicide; he was a fugitive with the loyal
crowd, without being stigmatized as a royalist. No amount of
human foresight could have served him as a safe guide to shun the
dangers which beset his fame and security on either side. His
success was altogether fortuitous; but his friends attribute all
to his superior sagacity and wisdom, while his enemies ascribe it
to his remarkable cunning and prudence. When the days of danger
and of blood passed by, Talleyrand returned to Paris with
_prestige_, and was immediately employed by the Directory.
When that went down, he floated to the surface with Bonaparte in
the consulate and empire. Upon the fall of the empire, with the
entrance of the allied armies into the capital he was their
trusted counsellor.
{89}
The restoration of the Bourbons was at once accompanied with the
restoration of Talleyrand to the foreign office and to the head
of affairs. When the Bourbons were expelled, in 1830, he was
again reinstated by Louis Philippe, under whose reign he died in
1838, with that sovereign an attendant at his death-bed.

In truth, the same good fortune set in his favor when he was a
boy: but it came in the guise of a calamity. Neglect on the part
of a nurse resulted in a slight lameness for life in his legs,
and in consequence a family council was convened wherein it was
decided he should be deprived of his rights of primogeniture, of
his high station as a nobleman, and of the wealth which went with
them. His younger brother was substituted, while Talleyrand was
destined for the priesthood. But such is the waywardness of fate
that in a few years nobility was abolished, its privileges
destroyed, and the nobles themselves were in exile, with his
impoverished brother among the number. On the other hand,
Talleyrand entered the church; he became a bishop, and in turn he
deserted the church and his diocese when the road to greater
worldly success and distinction led through desertion. He was
excommunicated by the pope when papal censure and condemnation
could only, for the time being, add to his popularity.
Subsequently these were removed by the pontiff, when a brief to
that end, with the turning tide of events, was all that was
wanting to increase his _prestige_.

To what peculiar talent, quality, or skill he was indebted for
his happy career has always been an open question; nor is it yet
completely solved. Sir Henry does not undertake to discuss the
problem, although he must entertain an opinion on the subject.
But it is much better that he declined to propound any theory of
his own; for in doing so the readers of his book would have
misgivings that he tampered with some facts, or suppressed others
altogether, in order to maintain it. His work in its present
shape invites confidence, imports greater accuracy, and imparts
additional satisfaction. No one can distrust his historical
integrity, or doubt the extent of his inquiries and research in
an honest endeavor to enlighten the public, or fail to appreciate
the information obtained. It is a decided accession to
biographical literature.

Nor are the opinions of the author, interspersed through the
pages, the least interesting part of his performance; for these
opinions on the mighty men and events of the period to which he
refers may be taken as a reflex of the sentiments now current in
the continental diplomatic corps, of which Sir Henry is an old
and constant member of high standing. In his expositions, it is
entertaining to compare the slow, lagging judgment of Europe on
those times with American impressions, which are far more
correct, enlightened, and advanced. The great idol which the
foreign diplomatic community adores is success: Paris is its
peculiar shrine; and Parisian society are fellow-worshippers.
But, until success is attained and established, their fetich
image is only one in the rough, to be hewed and hacked as cheap
lumber. Napoleon and Talleyrand, during the long wars of the
consulate and empire, were not deemed by neighboring states as
much better than misshapen monsters of the human species: while
the brilliancy of their achievements was dazzling the sight,
bewildering the imagination, and extorting applause or admiration
on this side of the Atlantic.

{90}

When the sanguinary contest closed in Europe, the exhibition of
its continuous blaze of glory had lost much of its novelty in
America; the ardor of our people commenced to cool down; they
began to make a more dispassionate, and, consequently, a more
rational estimate of their late heroes. This examination in some
of its aspects was not favorable to the character of the
republicans and of Napoleon. His genius, indeed, could not be
denied; his deeds were marvellous; the splendor of his course had
never been surpassed in ancient or modern ages; his individual or
personal popularity was not in the least impaired. But on the
whole, had his life been a blessing or otherwise to mankind? Had
it been beneficial or injurious to progress? Had he or the
preceding government of the Convention in the Reign of Terror
promoted the welfare of France? Reluctantly but surely the
American mind came to the conviction that the wars of the emperor
had been as useless as they were prodigal of life, more
desolating than the bloody guillotine worked by Robespierre. That
decision will not soon be reversed; in all probability it will be
confirmed and strengthened by time. On the eastern continent,
however, this stage of enlightenment has not been reached by the
mass of the intelligent population; but they are coming up to it.
Napoleon as the scourge had there to be withdrawn, before he
could reappear transformed into a hero, and from a hero into a
great beneficent political being. His wars were there pronounced
productive of good, as a destructive fire that had consumed the
vermin of class abuses; that had extirpated the noxious weeds
strangling civilization, which could not be eradicated by
peaceful means; that the Reign of Terror had been a terrible
tempest, to be sure, but a tempest, nevertheless, which, in the
oratorical figure of Lord Erskine, had driven away pestilence and
purified the atmosphere. At this point European sentiment now
stands.

In republican America, the next stride will be still in the
advance to the further conclusion, that Napoleon, in his martial
policy, evinced only the cold-blooded, inordinately selfish
despot, whose love of country was centred in self-love, whose
patriotism for the State was unbounded when he was the State, for
which he would sacrifice as much as Louis XIV. in a dazzling
reign equally disastrous to the happiness of his subjects. But in
Europe, to condemn the warlike propensities of Napoleon, is at
the same time to condemn the hostile coalitions that promoted or
provoked them. The measures adopted by inimical and rival powers
to overthrow the French empire originated in passions and for a
purpose fully as absurd and damaging to their own people. Both
sides wanted war, without counting the cost, and now both are
counting the loss, when war is no longer wanted. The losing
figures present the longest columns to contemplative countenances
the most elongated. In this showing, the picture is not inviting
to monarchical perceptions; they are unwilling to acknowledge the
fidelity of the portrait. England was always first in heart and
soul in these conspiracies against the peace of Christendom, and
England ever since has felt also, both first and last, the evil
effects from the heaviest debts to be borne in consequence. Hence
the dispiriting consciousness in the best of British circles,
that France under Robespierre and Napoleon was matched in its
foolishness by England under Pitt and Castlereagh.
{91}
Something like even-handed retributive justice was meted out to
all four: Robespierre attempted self-destruction when the
executioner at the guillotine awaited him; Castlereagh cut his
own throat; Pitt pined away and died as he closed the map of
Europe with his finger pointing to the fatal field of Austerlitz;
Napoleon lingered out a miserable life on a barren rock. The
administrations of these men are now understood in the American
republic, and have received the American condemnation. Talleyrand
was an inferior personage to them in power, but only one degree
less; he was the greatest in importance, and in position of the
second grade. He is not so well comprehended. They did not know,
until now, he had said to Montalvert:

  "You have a prejudice against me, because your father was an
  imperialist, and you think I deserted the emperor. I have never
  kept fealty to any one longer than he has been obedient to
  common sense. But if you judge all my actions by this rule, you
  will find that I have been eminently consistent." (P. 408.)

The cause of his success was generally found in his strict
adherence to the maxim that

  "The thoughts of the greatest number of intelligent persons in
  any time or country are sure, with a few more or less
  fluctuations, to become in the end the public opinion of their
  age or community." (P. 442.)

He profited by this experience and knowledge; he understood men;
he consulted public opinion, and followed it.

For these revelations and for these reasons, every line in the
volume of Sir Henry Lytton Bulwer attracts attention and invites
scrutiny. Sir Henry's style, turn of thought, opinions, even his
words, must be weighed and studied, not only to gather the import
of their meaning, but the exact shade of meaning. In this
critical examination, it will be discovered Sir Henry adheres to
no fixed method or standard of composition. Sometimes he is easy,
smooth, and flowing as Joseph Addison; again he is terse as Dean
Swift; sometimes he is turgid and rambling as a plenipotentiary
who has particular instructions to communicate nothing in very
verbose sentences long drawn out, wherein he is neither choice in
his language nor correct in the common rules of grammar. Now,
diplomacy admits of all these varieties of writing, and Sir Henry
tries them all. No pent-up uniformity contracts the powers of his
rhetoric or vocabulary. In one paragraph he exercises the
precision of an algebraic formula; in another he wanders astray
in the collocation of phrases with unguarded looseness. For him
to write in his vernacular idiom must be something of an effort,
although he can write well when on his good behavior; but it is
evident he thinks in French. His ideas, thoughts, and some of his
opinions and principles have consequently a Gallic tinge, and
read like a translation; while others, if more cosmopolitan, are
limited to the tone pervading the diplomatic circle; and
diplomatists have among themselves a professional cant or set of
political dogmas, which in a class less polished and select would
be mistaken for a species of slang.

It is interesting and instructive to be made familiar with their
proverbial philosophy, but it does not follow the infallibility
of their proverbs must be recognized. Many of Sir Henry's
opinions, therefore, may meet with dissent on this side of the
water; much of his free and easy continental code he himself
would abhor if made applicable to British interests, British
politics, or British domestic ethics. In the cultivated opinion
of the United States, the continental standard of justifiable
policy is even more detestable, and ought to be in all climes and
countries, in every latitude and longitude on the face of the
earth.

{92}

Charles Maurice Talleyrand de Périgord was born in 1754, of one
of the most noble and ancient families in France. He was sent to
the Collége d'Harcout, where he gained the first prizes;
transferred to the Seminary of St. Sulpice, his talents for
disputation and composition were long remembered; and when, at
last, sent to the Sorbonne, he was equally remarkable, although
destined for the church, as a very clever and a very profligate
young gentleman. He made no secret of his dislike to the
profession chosen for him, but it was not doubted among those who
knew him that he would reach its highest honors. In 1773, he
entered the Gallican priesthood. When twenty years of age, his
countenance was peculiarly attractive. It was indicative of
softness, yet of boldness; of imperturbability, yet of humor and
wit. When somewhat older, his features wore a long, oval
appearance; his eyes were blue, deep, and variable; his lips
usually compressed with an ironical smile, but not of ill nature;
his nose, with clear-chiselled nostril, was delicate and slightly
turned up; his voice deep toned, almost sepulchral. In five years
he was chosen to the distinguished post of agent-general of the
French clergy, where he administered with great success the
ecclesiastical revenues of immense amount, and where he first
exhibited his financial abilities in the clearness and neatness
of his statements and reports. He became Bishop of Autun in 1789.

  "'He dressed,' says one of his many biographers, 'like a
  coxcomb, he thought like a deist, he preached like a saint. At
  once active and irregular, he found time for everything: the
  church, the court, the opera. In bed one day from indolence or
  debauch, up the whole of the following night to prepare a
  memoir or a speech. Gentle with the humble, haughty with the
  high; not very exact in paying his debts, but very scrupulous
  with respect to giving and breaking promises to pay them.'" (P.
  31.)

Early in life introduced into the salons of Paris, he readily
caught their spirit, and soon obtained the friendship of the
leading encyclopaedists and philosophers of scientific and
historical fame; he was on intimate terms with many well known in
letters and in the arts. The celebrated wits of both sexes, the
beauties, the belles, courted his society; the charm of their
brilliant conversation, their versatile accomplishments, and
their winning manners were fascinating and irresistible. These
divinities imagined they moved and had their being in a
sublimated atmosphere far above and beyond the aspiration of
common mortals; their sentiments breathed of perfect
philanthropy, expressed in terms and in tenderness befitting
persons divinely inspired. Every allurement that could inspire
the imagination, every blandishment entrancing the senses, every
grace, talent, every ornament which could enhance the form or
ennoble the intellect, was cultivated and appreciated. Luxury in
dress, in gems, in furniture, in equipage, in banquets, in music,
in flowers, in painting, in frescoes, in sculpture, was displayed
with excess of prodigality which vied with the purest taste. An
ambrosial flavor of expression abounded in a common salutation; a
delicate oriental perfume seemed to permeate every compliment,
nor was any remark deemed appropriate unless it contained a
compliment; eloquence was discarded because it was tinctured with
too much external exhibition of feeling; it, moreover, took up
too much precious time.
{93}
But a higher art was attained in its stead--the art of
epigrammatical brevity, to communicate in a half-line what an
oration could not teach in a half-hour; nor was an epigram deemed
perfect when its wit was rare and its sense profound, unless it
tended to a sneer at religion or goodness in mankind, or told a
scandalous lie.

The pervading object, the avowed purpose in this society, was to
seek pleasure, to declaim against abuses in institutions, moral,
political, and Christian, in the public at large, in domestic
habits and manners, in the state, and in the church. But these
refined creatures were not good, nor moral, nor pure, nor
Christians themselves; they made no pretensions to any of these
virtues; they were not proselyting reformers; they were in no
sense radicals; they made no active exertions to pull down,
neither did they aim to build up, nor to improve the world, but
were content to deplore human evils and to rail at everybody. If
a choice had been given to them to abolish institutions, or only
to remove their abuses incident to all things of human creation,
they would have preferred to abolish the institutions, provided
the abuses were permitted to remain intact. But as they could not
be rid of the beneficial advantages of the substance without the
banishment of the evil shadow, they were content to tolerate the
nuisance of what was a blessing to the nation, in order to
possess for themselves the parts pernicious which were of sinful,
comfortable consideration in their sight. They supposed their
mission fulfilled when they talked and did nothing. If one of the
coterie had turned patriot and aspired to usefulness, he would
have been deemed a harmless traitor, and commiserated for the
folly of his desertion. His efforts would have subjected him to
their lamenting sympathy, their smiling mockery, their laconic
brevities, which, although seemingly soothing, would be as
scorching as they were short. Because he had accomplished
something commendable or attempted its accomplishment, they would
decide he had fallen from grace, had rendered himself liable to
their biting condolence, and laid himself open to the piercing
shafts of their pity. Voltaire, still lingering in his senility
as head and chief priest of this highly refined and deeply
depraved community, had sent forth a parting rescript to the
faithful in their infidelity, that "one who has done nothing is
possessed of a terrible advantage; but he must not abuse it."

Talleyrand, at the age of thirty-six, was fast rising to great
prominence, if not pre-eminence in this unholy set. When Voltaire
should be called to his last account in another world, and his
mortal remains repose in the Père-la-Chaise or Parthenon, it was
generally supposed the young Bishop of Autun would by common
consent be raised to the place of the old philosopher of Ferney.
But had it been thus, had the reign of the Bourbons been
prolonged, Talleyrand would have betrayed and mocked the
irreligious of the Palais Royal and St. Germain, as he bartered
away the pious interests of his diocese. In some respects he
resembled Voltaire, but in many more they widely differed. In
general he was in mind unlike to him, as he was in morals
dissimilar to the late bishop. Voltaire was always in search of
flattery; Talleyrand despised it. Voltaire was pleased with petty
scheming and petty intrigues; Talleyrand pushed them aside.
Voltaire betrayed and lampooned his friends; Talleyrand did not
deceive his, nor slander. Voltaire was much feared for his
malicious sarcasm; Talleyrand was well liked for his bounteous
humor.
{94}
The one was a judge of books, as the other was a judge of men;
the one was always grumbling from his failures, the other always
content with his success; the one injecting a telling point into
a falsehood, the other imparting force to a truth. Both were
great in epigrammatic hits in their own way; with this
difference, however, that Voltaire, being soured with the world,
exposed his asperity in his jests; while Talleyrand, pleased with
it, concealed all vexation and rounded his remarks with an easy
smile. Voltaire was a spoiled child of society; society was a
plaything for Talleyrand. In a word, the graceless bishop,
intellectually, morally, socially, was the superior, and far
outshone the snarling philosopher. Voltaire could never, in
playing long whist and counting his points, if informed that an
old lady had married her footman, have drawled out, "At nine
honors don't count;" nor could he in pleasantry have said to
Frederick of Prussia what Talleyrand remarked to Louis XVIII.:
"There is something inexplicable about me which brings ill luck
on the government that neglects me."

Before the death of Voltaire, the young Bishop of Autun had
discovered, with his preternatural clearness of mental vision,
that the scoffers who were the embodiment of science,
philanthropy, and refinement, joined to profligate professors and
shameless women, formed an institution, with its abominations
also, like all others; just as the holy church had its sacred
virtues scandalized by some glaring abuses among a portion of the
clergy. The bishop must have felt that he constituted in himself
a type of what was good and of what was bad in each: he ardently
loved science, art, and whatever was refining and progressive, as
he conscientiously revered the revealed truths of the Catholic
faith. But he could not resist the enticements and adulations of
society; nor refuse the temptation to raise himself to political
power by laying sacrilegious hands on the property of the church.
Not for one moment, however, was he deceived by the sophistries
or jargon of the infidel school that reigned supreme in polite
circles, and only once was his sound judgment found wanting in
fidelity to his religious order, of which he was a most unworthy
representative. He confounded the abuses in the state, the
depravity of the aristocracy, the irregularities among the
clergy, as one common class of grievances to the nation which
ought to be ended; but he did not desire to witness the sovereign
beheaded, the mob supreme, nor the idol of Reason enthroned in
the house of God.

His aim in life seems to have been the possession of unrivalled
_prestige_ in Parisian society. To reach that pinnacle for
his ease, comfort, and earthly happiness, he did or was willing
to do whatever would promote his purpose: he left undone whatever
would militate against it. He understood the requisites for its
attainment, but would not sacrifice present tranquillity, the
absolute satisfaction now, for the shadowy anticipation in the
future. Intellectual exertion was a pleasure to him at all times.
He desired wealth, rank, power, fame, as passports into the magic
circle of his ambition; but he held himself on a level with the
great, while he treated the unfortunate, the weak, the
unsuccessful, with undiminished attention. He was keenly
sensitive to censure, for censure impaired his _prestige_.
{95}
Pozzo de Borgo, a celebrated and rival diplomatist, once said of
him: "This man has made himself great by placing himself always
by the side of the little and among those who most need him." In
truth, he was willing to aid any one, powerful or weak, who could
now or hereafter aid him. But he never deceived those whom he was
serving, nor cringed, nor intrigued, nor betrayed them; he was
always true to his country, and always sound in his judgment in
deciding by what line of conduct the interests of his country
could be best promoted.

In one instance only did he make a mistake, but that mistake was
terrible; it was, moreover, unfortunate for France as for
himself; it produced the only bad luck that befell him in his
very long life and invariably prosperous career. It was in not
discriminating between the clergy, as trustees of the church
property, and the property itself entrusted to their keeping. He
viewed the temporalities as absolutely their own, their
inheritance, instead of perceiving that these possessions were
only a charge delivered to them for safe keeping and
transmission, which could not descend to their heirs but must go
to their successors. He confounded their duties as administrators
of the estate with the rights of the persons for whom the estate
was formed. If the clergy were willing, therefore, to take a
bribe to betray their trust, Talleyrand supposed the nefarious
bargain amounted to a fair and honest purchase of the trust
property. The estate was not created for them, but they were
created for the estate.

A few months after Talleyrand was installed Bishop of Autun, he
was elected a representative to the States-General. Of his
peculiar fitness for the place, Sir Henry Bulwer brings forward
some striking and convincing testimony.

When the States-General met, they formed themselves into the
National Assembly; they resolved to legislate in one and the same
hall, the nobles and the clergy, mixed with the commonalty, and
all three merged into one body. The Three Estates were no more;
it was only the Third Estate that remained. The impending danger
from immediate bankruptcy of the nation being the vital as it was
the first subject for discussion, the high reputation possessed
by the Bishop of Autun for financial abilities and practical
skill easily gained for him the first place as a man of business,
as the first rank in social position was already accorded to him.
He spoke well, sensibly, to the point. Mirabeau was the greater
orator, it is true, but Mirabeau was the orator for the commons;
Talleyrand was no orator at all; he was a fluent speaker, never
indulging in meretricious or ornamental embellishments, never
appealing to the vulgar passions: he was the pride and glory, the
great favorite of the nobles and clergy. His sphere had been more
select, more exalted, more refined, where the declamation,
passionate appeals, rounded periods, startling antitheses of
Mirabeau would have been deemed low and voted down. Mirabeau was
unable to shine in the Parisian salons frequented by the choice
aristocracy, while Talleyrand despised making a figure of himself
for the applause of the _bourgeoisie_ of the Third Estate.
But what the Third Estate was wanting in elegance of manners, in
wit and cultivation, they supplied in the strength of their
numbers, and in the corresponding determination to absorb all
political power. It was evident the nobles and the clergy would
be compelled to succumb. At last they gave way, and not only
yielded up whatever political rights or immunities were their
own, but whatever also was confided by others to their keeping.
To quote from Sir Henry:

{96}

  "On the 4th of August ... almost all the institutions and
  peculiarities which constituted the framework of government and
  society throughout France were unhesitatingly swept away, at
  the instigation and demand of the first magistrates and nobles
  of the land, who did not sufficiently consider that they who
  destroy at once all existing laws (whatever those laws may be)
  destroy, at the same time, all established habits of thought;
  that is, all customs of obedience, all spontaneous feelings of
  respect and affection, without which a form of government is
  merely an idea on paper. In after times, M. de Talleyrand, when
  speaking of this period, said, in one of his characteristic
  phrases: '_La Révolution a désossé la France_,' 'The
  Revolution has disboned France.' ... The Bishop of Autun was
  undoubtedly among the foremost in destroying the traditions
  which constitute a community, and proclaiming the theories
  which captivate a mob." (P. 55.)

This extract is a fair specimen of the false statement of facts,
and of the fallacious reasoning in the diplomatic body, on
popular events. It is as destitute of truth as it is of logic, or
a correct understanding of the principles upon which civil
government is constituted. In all that was done so far, only
antiquated, effete, feudal, or petty provincial privileges were
surrendered; privileges which properly belonged to the state for
the benefit of the nation whenever the state might deem it proper
to demand them or to destroy them; for, long before, they ought
to have been abolished. The aristocracy now chose voluntarily to
relinquish them gracefully. They removed thereby great grievances
from the public, and many intolerable burdens from the peasants.
The laws which were repealed at the same time were only customs
or statutes which had protected the privileges given up, and
became obsolete when nothing was left for them to protect.
Instead of dissolving society, the relinquishment of petty
political rights was the removal of pernicious, detestable
rubbish. All laws were not abrogated; nor was one destroyed,
altered, or amended which protected the person or preserved
property.

The next step of progress in the right direction was a vigorous
effort to induce the king to be equally generous and patriotic in
relinquishing some of his odious antiquated prerogatives. But
Louis XVI. was unwilling to conform to the public wishes; he
refused, because compliance would trench upon the sovereignty
which he had received untouched from his royal ancestors, and
which he resolved to transmit untarnished to his posterity. But
when the pressure for a written constitution began to threaten
his personal safety, he yielded with a mental reservation that he
had given way to superior force; he conscientiously, but
erroneously and fatally, believed his consent was not binding on
him or his heirs. The representatives of the nation now
maintained, that ministers having the national confidence should
be called into the royal cabinet. To this reasonable request, the
king refused his consent; but he temporized by reluctantly giving
audience to Mirabeau, Talleyrand, and some others of the liberal
party, leaving them under the mistaken impression that he would
listen to their advice. But the king did not adopt their
counsels; he did not intend that any of them should become his
counsellors.

Louis granted them a hearing in order to conceal his intentions.
It was only a blind to cover his purpose, which was to resume, at
the first opportunity, what he had relinquished, and to send
Mirabeau and Talleyrand, with their friends the
_sans-culottes_, adrift.
{97}
These liberals were consequently deceived; in truth, they aided
in their own deception; they could not imagine the king would
prove a traitor to his own interests. The king, however, was only
playing over again the losing game practised by Charles I., and
by his son, James II., of England. The stake in both countries
was the same: it was, whether sovereignty should repose in the
crown, as in ancient times, or in the people, in accordance with
modern ideas. The prize cannot be divided, as some supposed; it
can never be divided; in its very nature it is indivisible; it
would be as impossible as to place one crown on two separate
heads at the same time. Sir Henry Bulwer, as a true Briton,
thinks, no doubt, the Stuart sovereigns were perjured knaves,
because they deceived the House of Commons, and broke solemn
promises made to their ministers; but he views the Bourbon king
as foolish only in doing the same things, and pursuing the same
line of policy. Now, in verity, the moral code applies alike to
both dynasties, in both countries, in both centuries. Whatever
royal promise is made should be royally and religiously
fulfilled; but its violation does not justify a resort to the
block at Whitehall or to the guillotine at the Carrousel. The
execution of a monarch for defending his prerogatives by fair
means or false promises, is no less a crime against civilization
than it is a political error. No good can come of it; no good
ever has.

But the duplicity and falsehood of Louis, in its incidents,
brought on the first blow against property; and with the attack
on property, all the crimes and calamities, all the misery,
poverty, and long list of woes of the Revolution commenced. Then
society began to disintegrate; then France began to disbone; it
never ended until morality, Christianity, civilization, were
crushed to a jelly. Talleyrand was the leader in this raid, and
on his head rests the responsibility. He was the great oracle on
financial topics in the National Assembly; he was the member
looked up to for the solution of the financial problem to save
the nation from ruin; he had accepted the position almost thrust
upon him; and his reputation was at stake in surmounting the
crisis. With success he could compel the king to invite him into
the ministry. Mirabeau admitted this in a letter to a friend, and
a portfolio in the ministry was the goal of Talleyrand's
ambition. All eyes were, therefore, turned to the Bishop of
Autun, and the eyes of the bishop turned to the landed property
of the church, from whence the wants of the treasury could be
immediately and with facility supplied. He was willing to propose
the double sacrilege on religion and on society; for it was no
less an outrage on civilization or civil government than it was
on Christianity, which is the foundation of good government.

The coolness with which Sir Henry Bulwer states this desecration
can only be compared with the absurdity in the line of argument
with which Talleyrand advocated the measure. If some Bishop
Colenso in the House of Lords should propose the seizure and
confiscation of the wealth of the Anglican Establishment, the
question would appear in a different aspect to the British
diplomatist. He would view it with horror.
{98}
In either case, however, the measure would be infamous.
Governments are instituted to protect property, not to squander
it; and the only difference between that which is held by an
individual for himself and that which is held in trust for the
benefit of others, is in the circumstance that whatever is in
trust is, in the public estimation, more sacred, because it is
preserved for the welfare of the poor, the weak, the ignorant or
infirm of mind, who cannot provide for themselves; just as the
state extends a more paternal care over the property of infants,
idiots, or orphans, than over the interests of men and women of
full growth and sound mind. If a call must be made in a sudden
exigency for funds, what government, not demented, would spare
the mercantile houses of the rich, to sequestrate and spoliate
the hospitals for the helpless?

Talleyrand considered the church property as public property; but
this view, plausible at first sight, is found on reflection to be
fallacious. It was not derived from the nation, nor from the
public, but from individuals, and from its own accumulations; it
was not designed for the benefit of the public, but for a
specific class of the people--the needy--to which class the mass
of the community did not belong, and, furthermore, hoped they
never would. So much for the bishop's premises and argument. But
a stronger objection remains: it is the broad principle of the
invasion of private rights, of common justice; and when that
principle is once rendered unstable by common consent, the
stability of all public opinion, of all civil institutions, of
all organized government, is shaken; the state is liable to be
overturned. When the National Assembly deemed it proper for the
public good to confiscate the church property, the Legislative
Assembly followed the example set to deprive persons of their
liberty, and the National Convention next voted away lives by the
hecatomb daily; under the same plea, the king himself was
decapitated. When the public morality was once vitiated, who
could foretell where the national criminality would terminate,
who or how many would not be its victims?

It has been the same with European ethics. When the great
Frederick of Prussia violated the Pragmatic Sanction, to which
Prussia had assented, and seized upon Silesia, neighboring
nations were not slow to forget and forgive his audacity and to
follow his unrighteous example. The partition of Poland grew out
of it, from the contempt entertained for international opinion.
Next came the French Revolution, when nations had no faith in the
integrity of rival governments, nor had governments much
confidence in their people. The world went backward in
civilization, and the long wars of the republic, of the
consulate, of the empire, ensued; not only the French, but every
foreign soil on the Continent, was drenched in blood. At last,
the moral atmosphere became so foul that the idea of
assassination was entertained and talked about in every court at
war with Napoleon. It was deemed feasible, it was favored by a
silent assent; it floated in the air.

Sir Henry, in echo to diplomatic opinion and to the sentiment of
the belligerent nations, treats the murder in cold blood of the
Bourbon Duke d'Enghien, by order of Napoleon, as an atrocity. The
act certainly was atrocious; but, at the bar of history, who are
all the criminals that may be arraigned as accomplices in
conspiring to efface the stain of turpitude in assassination from
the Christian code of morals? How many were smiling at the
prospect of doing unto the French emperor that which he did unto
the duke? Not one statesman, or legislator, or diplomatist, or
writer, could in his conscience cast the first stone. Public
opinion was debauched on the subject; moral integrity was
disboned.
{99}
Napoleon justified his conduct in the only way left open to
modify the enormity of the offence--to extenuate the nefarious
deed. He excused himself as he excused his first attacks in war;
it was to defend himself by becoming the assailant. He undertook
to teach his enemies the efficacy of retaliation, and the lesson
did teach them. Nothing more was ever whispered in secret, or
again talked openly, of taking him off by poison or the dagger.

Talleyrand, although imperial prime minister at the time, does
not appear to have been consulted. From all that is known, he
certainly did not advise or countenance the act; he did not
approve or condemn when it was done. What he communicated
officially, he wrote, as secretary of the emperor, that which was
dictated to him to write. But, on the other hand, no one is aware
that he counselled against the murder; in all probability, in his
laxity of morals, his sensibilities were not much shocked by the
event. He was never known to have considered the transaction an
impolitic measure; the common story that he spoke of it as worse
than a crime--as a political blunder--has no authentic
foundation.

Such was the course of affairs growing out of the first invasion
of rights to property at the suggestion of the Bishop of Autun.
But the immediate effects upon his fortunes are curious. He was
erroneously associated in the foreign mind with the revolutionary
acts that followed; and when, on the contrary, for
self-preservation, he fled to London to escape the stigma of
those very acts and the malice of the very men who perpetrated
them, he was ordered out of England as a Jacobin or regicide and
found a refuge in America. But in our republic no countenance was
given to him, no cordial greeting extended. By the Federalists,
he was, contemned as a traitor to his king, an apostate to his
religion, an enemy to social order. By the anti-Federalists he
was viewed as an aristocrat, an _émigré_, an obstacle to
social progress. The ex-bishop, therefore, in 1794, like the
expatriated M. Blot in 1864, had leisure to turn his attention to
the culinary art. Talleyrand, and the other involuntary
emigrants, observed upon the vines near the kitchens a beautiful
round red production growing, which was cultivated as a vegetable
ornament, whose botanical name was the _lycopersicum_, but
which Americans called the love-apple. The French gentlemen
recognized in it their _tomate_, and forthwith taught our
great-grandmothers how to render it a more palatable esculent for
their tables than it was a pleasing embellishment to their
gardens.

But the Reign of Terror soon terminated; like the reign of Louis,
it ended also at the guillotine. He now returned to Paris. His
friend Barras was in the Directory, and Barras was of the
aristocracy, who, however, "had been forgiven the crime of being
a noble, in consideration of the virtue of being a regicide."
From that date began the new lease to Talleyrand of power,
_prestige_, influence, and prosperity, which was never again
broken during his long life. He was willing to serve any
administration under any form of government, providing it was the
best under the circumstances, and when he could be, as he for the
first time expressed it, the right man in the right place. But
never for a day did he remain when he could not be useful to
France, nor serviceable to the executive by whom he was retained.
He knew how long it was beneficial to adhere to the Directory,
and when the time had come to drop off.
{100}
The first consul was treated in the same manner, and the emperor,
and the allies, and Louis XVIII., and Louis Philippe. None of
them could fascinate him by their condescension or consideration;
yet he served them all honorably, honestly; but it was requisite
he should be called and retained on his own terms. When he was
dismissed, it was not before he already knew it was better for
his own interests to go.

When Alexander of Russia entered Paris, in 1814, with the allied
armies, the czar took up his imperial residence at Talleyrand's
mansion, and expected to use the late prime minister for his own
purpose by the high honor conferred. But Talleyrand was
insensible to such delicate attentions; he was fully conscious he
was himself a prince, and of the proud family of Périgord, a
family that were sovereign in provinces of France in the middle
ages, long before the Romanoffs, surrounded by a wild horde of
half-naked Tartars, had ever held court on horse-back, or crossed
the Ural, or been heard of in Europe. Talleyrand was not made a
tool by the czar, but the czar was moulded like wax under the
manipulations of Talleyrand; to him Louis XVIII. was indebted for
his throne; and afterward, at the Congress of Vienna, when
Alexander discovered Talleyrand could not be induced to betray
French interests for the benefit of Russia, the czar compelled
Louis to dismiss him from office.

Napoleon was estimated in a similar manner, but with even less
respect, for he had been a plebeian, and perhaps, if anything,
worse; he was not a Frenchman, he was a Corsican. After the
battle of Leipsic, Napoleon offered the portfolio of foreign
ministry to his former minister, but on the condition he should
lay down the rank and emoluments of vice-grand elector. The
object of the emperor was to make him dependent on imperial
favor. But Talleyrand, who would have accepted the office,
refused the condition, saying: "If the emperor trusts me, he
should not degrade me; and if he does not trust me, he should not
employ me; the times are too critical for half-measures." No
circumlocution was resorted to on either side; it was plain
dealing; for the parties knew with whom they were treating, and
no compliments were requisite. M. Thiers remarks that "two
superior Frenchmen, until they have an opportunity to flatter one
another, are natural enemies." However much Talleyrand's wish
might have been to assist the emperor, he would not show it: his
invariable maxim was _point de zèle_--never evince ardor in
anything.

But while he had no abasement in the presence of the great, he
had no assumption toward equals or inferiors in mind and in
position. Thoroughly self-reliant, he was never found
disconcerted nor off his guard; in the widest sense he was a man;
he held all others as no more and no less. He had no confidants.
Perhaps Montrond was an exception, for Montrond was a specialty,
Sir Henry tells us, of the age, a type of the French _roué_.
He was one of Talleyrand's pets, as Talleyrand was one of his
admirations. Each spoke ill of the other; for each said he loved
the other for his vices. But no one could speak to Talleyrand
with so much intimacy, nor obtain from him so clear an answer;
for they trusted one another, though Montrond would never have
told any one else to trust Talleyrand, nor Talleyrand have told
any one else to trust M. de Montrond.

Here we must, with reluctance, lay down Sir Henry's book; space
will not permit dwelling longer upon it.

----------

{101}

         The Basilica of St. Saturnin.


My journey to the ancient and religious city of Toulouse was made
in a season of sorrow. I was in the fearful grasp of giant
Despair, whose whips were as scorpions urging me on. Every step
in this sorrowful way was a torture, because it widened the
distance between me and a past which could never return. I felt
like those poor souls in Dante's _Inferno_, whose heads were
placed backward, so their tears fell on their shoulders. So my
heart was looking ever back--back, with sorrowful eyes, as if the
future held no consolation in store. O soul of little faith!
encompassed by thy black cloud, absorbed in thy griefs, thou
seest not the brightness beyond the darkness that enfolds thee!
Journeying on with weary steps, I found in my way a cross. I was
already laden with _one_--seemingly overwhelming--which the
past had bequeathed to me, and I was about to turn aside from
this _material_ cross I had stumbled upon, when I called to
mind a traveller of the olden time who found, like me, a cross in
his pathway. Not satisfied with kneeling before it, he caught it
up and pressed it to his heart. What should he find but a
precious treasure concealed beneath! Such a treasure I found
beneath the great Latin cross known as St. Saturnin or St.
Sernin's church at Toulouse--a treasure I took to my heart,
which it continues to enrich, and hallow, and beautify. I turned
aside from my weary path to find consolation and rest in this
great cruciform temple, and not in vain. O little isle of peace
in an ocean of sorrow! how sweetly did the hours pass in thy
serene atmosphere! The _Vade in pace_ came to my soul like
the sun after a great tempest, restoring brightness and freshness
to my world. A thousand tender and holy emotions floating around,
like the birds in the arches of Notre Dame de Paris; came
nestling to my heart. At such moments

  "The eyes forget the tears they have shed,
  The heart forgets its sorrow and ache."

But it is not my intention to indulge here in any display of
personal emotion. I only wish, in gratitude for many holy
memories, to note down a few of the impressions I received in a
sacred place, and mention in a simple way some of the objects
that interested me particularly, but not as a connoisseur of
Christian art.

I am sure no one has ever lived in Catholic countries without
feeling thankful that there is one door ever open to the
passer-by, with its mute appeal to sinful, sorrowing humanity to
enter and lay down its burden. It is the door of God's house,
which rejects no one--always open, reminding us that the
All-Father is ever ready to receive us. Who can resist the
appeal? How many a poor peasant have I seen, with care on the
brow, turn aside for a moment into a church, lay down the basket
of provisions or utensils for a brief prayer, and then go on his
way refreshed! These ever-open churches are like fountains by the
wayside, where the heated and foot-worn traveller may find rest
and a cooling draught, without money and without price. Ah! who
would close thy gates, O house of prayer? As the poet says: "Is
there, O my God! an hour in all life when the heart can be weary
of prayer? when man, whom thou dost deign to hear in thy temple,
can have no incense to offer before thy altar, no tear to confide
to thee?"

{102}

Even the undevout cannot pass one of the grand old churches of
the middle ages with indifference; especially one like the
basilica of St. Sernin, with so many historic and religious
memories connected with it, and which seems to appeal to every
instinct of our nature. Entering this great church by the western
portal, I could not forget that through it had passed three Roman
pontiffs and many a king of France. Pope Urban II., returning
from the Council of Clermont, where the first crusade had been
decided upon, came, in the year of our Lord 1096, to consecrate
this church, built on the ruins of two others. Some days after
came Count Raymond de St. Gilles, the hero of the Holy Wars, to
pray before the tomb of St. Saturnin, followed by princely
vassals, before reviewing the one hundred thousand soldiers at
the head of whom he opened a passage to the Holy Sepulchre. His
two noble sons, Bertrand and Alphonse Jourdain, likewise passed
through the same door, preceded by their family banner, before
going, like their glorious father, to die in the Holy Land. Simon
de Montfort, of Albigensian memory, before being invested with
the _comté_ of Toulouse, came here to kneel before the tombs
of the apostles and martyrs. Among the kings of France,
Philippe-le-Hardi came here four times. Charles VI., Louis XI.,
Louis XIII., and Louis le Grand also rendered homage to the
saints herein enshrined. Above all, Saint Bernard, St. Dominick,
and many other renowned saints trod these pavements and prayed
under these arches! ...

Some may think lightly of these associations, and say,

  "A man's a man for a' that;"

but there are no greater hero-worshippers than the Americans;
none love a title more than a stanch republican; and I, a Hebrew
of the Hebrews! frankly own to this little weakness. I love the
grand old names and titles. I look with curiosity and respect on
the footprints of kings and crusaders, and even of knights of low
degree, and I tread with reverence the stones the blessed saints
have trod. ...

St. Sernin's church, built in imitation of St. Paul's at Rome, is
of the Latin style, cruciform in shape, terminating, in pious
memory of the five sacred wounds of our Saviour, with five
chapels toward the holy East; for the orientation is carefully
fixed, as in all ancient churches. There are five naves in this
church, separated by four rows of majestic pillars. It is rare to
find these collateral naves.

On entering this church, one is profoundly impressed by the
majestic arches and the length of the grand nave with the double
row of arcades on each side. A mysterious light, coming one
hardly knows whence, is diffused through the multiplied arches,
disposing the soul to calmness and meditation. The long naves all
seem, through the converging rows of columns, to point to that
altar in the distance where is seen the twinkling light that ever
burns before the tabernacle, drawing one on like a powerful
magnet. The Christian heart feels the influence of a Presence
diffused, like the light before IT, throughout the vast
enclosure.

Thoreau, who only worshipped nature, impressed by the religious
atmosphere of a great Catholic cathedral, said such a vast cave
at hand in the midst of a city, with its still atmosphere and
sombre light disposing to serious, profitable thought, is worth
thousands of our (Protestant) churches which are open only on
Sundays.
{103}
"I think," says he, "of its value, not only to religion, but to
philosophy and poetry: besides a reading-room, to have a
_thinking_ room in every city!" And who can tell the
influence, not only on the mind and heart, but on the taste, of
such a church with its paintings, statuary, holy emblems, and
antique shrines which have for ages been the glory of one's city,
and intimately connected with its past history?

The most striking object, on entering the principal nave, is the
tomb of St. Sernin, raised in the air on the uplifted heads of
four gilded bulls. Over it is a _baldaquin_ on which is
represented the apotheosis of the saint. The whole is richly
gilded, and, when lighted up, has a brilliant effect.

               OSSA SANCTI SATURNINI,

in large gilded letters, is inscribed on the sarcophagus. At
first the _taureaux_ puzzled me. I thought of the bulls of
Bashan--of the cattle upon a thousand hills--and of the
sacrifices of the old law, but I could not see their connection
with St. Saturnin. But in recalling his martyrdom I found the
solution of my perplexity.

St. Sernin, the apostle and first Bishop of Toulouse, was sent by
Pope St. Fabian, in the third century, to carry the light of
faith into Gaul. His success in the conversion of the people to
Christianity so infuriated the priests of Jupiter and Minerva,
who were specially worshipped in the capital of Toulouse, that
they one day seized him, and, on his refusing to sacrifice to the
gods, attached him to the feet of an infuriated wild bull, who
leaped down the hill, dashing out the brains of the saint. Two
holy women gathered together his remains, but the place of their
burial was known only to a few till after the triumph of the
Christian religion in the empire of Rome. An oratory was erected
over his tomb in the fourth century, and later a church rose
which was completed by the great St. Exuperius, the seventh
successor of St. Sernin in the see of Toulouse--that saint so
renowned for his charities and learning, and whose remains are
enshrined in this church. He was the friend of St. Jerome, who
corresponded with him, and dedicated to him his commentary on the
prophecies of Zachary. St. Exuperius even sold the sacred vessels
of the altar to feed his flock during a great famine, so the Body
of Christ had to be carried in an osier basket, and a chalice of
glass was used in the service of the altar--a chalice carefully
preserved by a grateful people till the Revolution of 1793.

One loves to recall, among the many sainted bishops of Toulouse,
that "flower of royal blood," Louis of Anjou, grand-nephew of St.
Louis, King of France, and nephew of the dear St. Elizabeth of
Hungary. At the age of twenty-one he was offered a kingdom, which
he refused in favor of his brother, wishing to consecrate himself
to God among the Franciscans. "Jesus Christ is my kingdom," said
he. "Possessing him, I have all things: without him, I have
nothing." He was ordained priest at the age of twenty-two, and
obliged by holy obedience to accept the see of Toulouse. Before
receiving episcopal consecration he made a pilgrimage to Rome and
took the habit of St. Francis. The _Toulousains_ received
him with magnificence as a prince, and revered him as a saint.
Like St. Exuperius, he was devoted to the poor, to whom he gave
the greater part of his revenues.
{104}
Every day he fed twenty-five poor men at his table and served
them himself, sometimes on his knees. Terrified by the
obligations of his office, he begged to be released from them,
and God granted what men denied. During his last sickness, he
exclaimed: "I have at last arrived in sight of the desired haven.
I am going to enjoy the presence of my God, of which the world
would deprive me." He died with the _Ave Maria_ on his lips,
at the age of twenty-three and a half years.

What renders the basilica of St. Sernin one of the most
remarkable and one of the holiest spots in the world, after
Jerusalem and Rome, is the number of the saints herein enshrined.
The counts of Toulouse brought back from the Holy Land many
relics which they obtained in the East. Thus a great part of the
body of St. George was brought from Palestine by William
Taillefer, eighth Count of Toulouse. Kings of France also endowed
this church with relics. Those of St. Edmund, King of England,
were brought to France by Louis VIII. The crypts in which most of
these relics are contained are intended to recall the catacombs
of Rome. In the eleventh century they were not in shrines or
reliquaries, but reposed in marble tombs, and the faithful went
to pray before them, as in the crypts of St. Calixtus on the
Appian Way. Over the door leading into the upper crypts is the
inscription, "_Hic sunt vigiles qui custodiunt civitatem_,"
and over the door of the pilgrims, "_Non est in toto sanctior
orbe locus_." This door leads to the inferior crypts, which
you descend by a flight of steps. The numerous pilgrims of the
middle ages paused on each step to repeat a prayer. Thus they
passed on into the numerous passages of the crypts, recalling the
catacombs. As you go down into them, you pause amid your prayers
to read an inscription, in red letters, on a white marble tablet:

  "Under the auspices, and by the pious munificence of the
  emperors Charlemagne, Louis le Débonnaire, and Charles le
  Chauve, the wonderful basilica of Saturnin has received the
  precious remains of several apostles and of a great number of
  martyrs, virgins, and confessors of the faith. The dukes of
  Aquitaine, the counts of Toulouse, have increased this
  treasure. The magistrates of this capital have faithfully
  guarded it.

  "Here Religion preserves for the eternal edification of the
  faithful a portion of the cross of our Lord, a thorn from his
  crown, (the gift of Count Alphonse, brother of St. Louis,) a
  fragment from the rock of the Holy Sepulchre, (glorious
  conquest of the Toulousain crusaders.) and a piece of a garment
  of the Mother of God.

  "Under these vaults, O pious traveller! are venerated the
  relics of St. Peter, St. Paul, St. James the major, St. James
  the minor, St. Philip, St. Simon, St. Jude, St. Barnaby, St.
  Bartholomew, apostles.

  "St. Claudius, St. Crescentius, St. Nicostratus, St.
  Simplicius, St. Castor, St. Christopher, St. Julian, St. Cyr,
  St. Asciscle, St. Cyril, St. Blasius, St. George.

  "The first bishops of Toulouse, the series of whom date from
  the third century: Saint Saturnin, St. Honorius, St. Hilaire,
  St. Sylvius, St. Exuperius, repose in this church.

  "Not far from their venerated remains are those of St.
  Honestus, St. Papoul, St. William, Duke of Aquitaine, St.
  Edmund, King of England, St. Gilles, St. Gilbert, St. Thomas of
  Aquin, St. Vincent of Paul, St. Raymond, Pope St. Pius V., St.
  Susanna, St. Julietta, St. Margaret, St. Catharine, St. Lucia,
  and of St. Agatha."

{105}

Grow not weary, kind reader, over this long list of names, for
each one has its history, which is interwoven with that of Holy
Church. Let us rather linger with love and faith over each name,
whether humble or mighty on earth--now potent in heaven! Let us
murmur them in reverence, for some of them are inscribed on the
foundations of the New Jerusalem--and all gleam like precious
stones on its walls--all these did wear on earth "the jewelled
state of suffering," but they are now triumphant in heaven, and
their memory has long been glorious on earth.

One feels deeply awed in descending among these shrines
containing the bodies of the saints--_temples of the Holy
Ghost_. Virtue hath not yet gone out from them, as is
testified by the wonders still wrought at their tombs.

Many of the present shrines are antique, some costly, and all
interesting, but they have lost their ancient splendor. Their
magnificence before the Revolution may be imagined from existing
descriptions. These tell us of, among others, the silver shrine
of St. Edmund, an _ex-voto_ from the city of Toulouse, in
1684, in gratitude for deliverance from the plague, adorned with
statues of solid silver. When the saint was transferred to this
_châsse_, it was exposed to the veneration of the people for
eight days, and all the parishes of the environs came to honor
them. Some days there were fifty processions, which gives an idea
of the lively faith and piety of that age. The octave was
terminated by a general procession in the city, in which were
borne forty four shrines, the most of them silver, and adorned
with gold and precious stones.

And when, in 1385, the relics of St. James the major were
transferred to a new shrine, the Duc de Berry, brother of Charles
VI., gave for it a silver bust of the saint, a gold chain to
which was attached a sapphire of great value, surrounded by
rubies and pearls, with other jewels which adorned the bust till
the time of the Revolution.

Like Madame de Staël, "I love this prodigality of terrestrial
gifts to another world--offerings from time to eternity!
Sufficient for the morrow are the cares required by human
economy. Oh! how much I love what would be useless waste, were
life nothing better than a career of toil for despicable gain!"

Though these shrines are stripped of most of their former
splendor, the inestimable relics remain still venerated by the
people. They no longer go there in the old garb of the pilgrim,
with "sandal shoon and scallop-shell," or only occasionally, but
their faith is as profound, and their piety as genuine. I was so
fortunate as to meet a pilgrim in the orthodox garb as I was
going into the church. He entered just before me. He was clad in
a loose brown habit which extended to his feet. Over his
shoulders was a cape, around which were fastened scallop-shells,
as we see in pictures of pilgrims. His feet were sandalled.

  "His sandals were with travel tore:
  Staff, budget, bottle, scrip he wore."

In truth, he had a bundle suspended by a stick on his shoulder.
His hair was disordered, his eyes cast down, and he went from
shrine to shrine paying his devotions, regardless of every one.
From the way in which he made the sign of the cross I took him to
be a Spaniard. I felt an indescribable emotion of pity for him
whose contrition had induced to assume a penitential garb, and go
from church to church living on alms, and I prayed that his soul
might find peace--that peace which the world cannot give!

{106}

One of the first subterranean chapels I entered was that of the
Sainte-Epine, in which is a beautiful silver reliquary,
containing one of the thorns from the crown our suffering Saviour
wore. It was given by St. Louis to his brother Alphonse, who
married Jeanne, daughter of Raymond VII., last Count of Toulouse.
On the pavement of the chapel is graven this ancient distich,
likening the Sainte-Epine, surrounded by the bodies of thirteen
saints, to a thorn among roses:

  "Quisquis es externus quaerens miracula sixte,
   En tredecim pulchris insita spina rosis."

After the Revolution a holy priest of Toulouse established, in
honor of this precious relic, the Confraternity of the Holy
Thorn, composed of the most fervent Catholics of the city.
Afflicted by the prolonged captivity of Pope Pius VII., they
begged of God his deliverance--not only at their own shrines, but
at that of St. Germaine of Pibrac. Their prayers were heard. On
the 2d of February, 1814, the holy father slowly and sadly passed
the walls of Toulouse on his way to Italy, locked up in his
carriage! The highway was completely obstructed by the crowds of
people, who, all bathed in tears, went out to meet him, and on
their knees besought his benediction. Among them were the
votaries of the Sainte-Epine, raising their hands to heaven in
behalf of the holy captive.

The pope earnestly desired to enter the city that he might
venerate the body of the angelic doctor, in the church of St.
Sernin, but it was not deemed expedient to entrust such a guest
to the faithful Toulousains. Halting beyond the ramparts, merely
to change their horses and obtain refreshments, they hurried on
as if afraid of losing their prisoner.

In another chapel of the crypts is the altar of St. Simon and St.
Jude, containing their relics. It was consecrated by Pope
Calixtus II. Old legends tell us that these apostles were two of
the shepherds of Bethlehem, who first heard the _Gloria in
Excelsis_. One loves to believe that they who were encircled
by the brightness of God, to whom angels talked, and who were
first at the manger, should afterward be called to follow our
Saviour and preach the glad tidings, which they had heard from
angelic tongues, to the nations afar off. They _could_ not
have lost sight of him who was so miraculously revealed to them.
They _must_ have hastened to join him as soon as he entered
upon his public life.

In a niche, close by the chapel of St. Simon and St. Jude, is the
entire body of St. Gilles, to whom the old counts of Toulouse had
a particular devotion, especially Raymond IV., who is invariably
styled in history Raymond de St. Gilles. This saint was very
popular, not only in France, but in England and Scotland. A large
hospital for lepers was built by the queen of Henry I. outside
the city of London, which has given its name to a large district
of that city; and St. Giles is the patron saint of Edinburgh,
where a church was built under his invocation not later then
1359. This renders his shrine a place of interest to all who
speak the English tongue. St. Sernin possesses, too, the body of
one of England's sainted kings and that of her patron saint.

St. Gilles, or St. Giles, was an Athenian of royal blood, who,
fearing the admiration excited by his talents, went to France,
and became a hermit in a cave near the mouth of the Rhone.
{107}
He subsisted on the produce of the woods and the milk of a tame
hind. After his death a magnificent monastery, and then a city,
rose round his tomb, and gave his name to the counts of
Languedoc.

In a large portable _châsse_ is the head of the glorious St.
Thomas Aquinas, the author of the profound _Summa
Theologiae_ and the sublime Office of the Blessed Sacrament,
worthy of the tongues of angels. This great doctor of the middle
ages is not dead. His voice is still heard in the office of the
church, "now with a single antiphon unlocking whole abysses of
Scripture, and now in almost supernatural melody, more like the
echoes of heaven than mere poetry of earth," says Faber. One
should listen to this grand office resounding in the arches of
the church where its author is enshrined, when thousands of
tapers, around the enthroned ostensorium, light up the brilliant
shrine of St. Sernin! It is a foretaste of the song of the
redeemed!

When the body of St. Thomas of Aquin, brought from Italy,
approached Toulouse, Louis of Anjou, brother of Charles V. of
France, with archbishops and mitred abbots, at the head of one
hundred and fifty thousand people, went out to meet it. Duke
Louis and the principal lords of his court bore over it a canopy
blazing with gold and precious stones. Around it floated six
standards: on two were the arms of France, the third of Anjou,
the others of the pope, the house of Aquin, and the city of
Toulouse. They enshrined it magnificently in the church of the
Dominicans, but it has been at St. Sernin since the Revolution.
When placed in its present _châsse_ in 1852, the venerable
Père Lacordaire made a panegyric of the saint, attracting an
immense audience. The arms of the illustrious house of Aquin are
emblazoned on his altar.

In passing out of the crypts on the side opposite that which I
entered is the following inscription:

  "After having reunited in Clermont, in the year of salvation
  1096, the faithful destined to deliver the Holy Sepulchre, Pope
  Urban II. wished himself to consecrate this basilica, one of
  the most precious monuments of Christian art. The sovereign
  pontiff had near him Raymond IV., Count of Toulouse and of St.
  Gilles, that glorious prince who first displayed on his banners
  and on his armor the Holy Cross of the Saviour.

  "Popes Clement VII., Paul V.. Urban V., and Pius IV. have
  granted numerous privileges to this abbatial church. Those who
  visit its seven principal altars obtain indulgences like those
  acquired before the seven altars of St. Peter's church at Rome.

  "Charles VI., Louis XI., Francis I., Charles IX., Louis XIII.,
  and Louis XIV., kings of France, have, in praying, passed
  through these holy catacombs. It is here that in all public
  calamities a pious population has constantly resorted to
  implore the powerful intercession of the holy protectors of
  this antique and religious city."

There is hung on the walls of the crypts a curious bas-relief of
the youthful Saviour, which is supposed to date from the
Carlovingian age. He is in an aureola, ovoidal in form, pointed
at its two extremities. Without, in the angles, are the emblems
of the four evangelists. Around the head of our Saviour is a
_nimbus_ in the form of a cross, on which are graven the
letters _Alpha_ and _Omega_. This bas-relief was
evidently the centre of an extensive work. The youthfulness of
the features of Christ gives a presumption in favor of its
antiquity.
{108}
He is often found on many Christian sarcophagi, and in many of
the paintings of the catacombs at Rome, with a youthful face. M.
Didron says that, from the third to the tenth century, Christ is
oftener represented young and beardless, but his face, young at
first, grows older from century to century, as Christianity
advances in age. The ancient Christian monuments at Rome, Aries,
and elsewhere represent Christ with a young and pleasing face.

Many non-Catholics do not like these representations of our
Saviour at all. The old Puritans were so opposed even to a cross
that, in 1634, they cut out the holy emblem from St. George's
flag; but there is now a great reaction in this respect. We pray
it may grow still stronger. We find many of these representations
of our Saviour, which must date from the beginning of
Christianity. The Emperor Alexander Severus, who ascended the
throne A.D. 222, had placed in his _Lararium_ a statue of
Christ, but we are not told how he is depicted. The Sudario of
Veronica, the portrait attributed to St. Luke, the statue raised
in the city of Paneas by the grateful _Hémorroïsse_, whether
genuine or not, belong to the earliest ages, and prove, says M.
Didron, that the Son of God was represented by painters and
sculptors from the dawn of Christianity.

The chapels in the upper crypts are very interesting, with their
statues and bas-reliefs covering the panelled niches which
contain the holy relics. There is, in one of the chapels, a
crucifix which St. Dominick used when he preached, and which he
is said to have held up to animate the army of Simon de Montfort,
at the great battle of Muret, when the Albigenses were decisively
overthrown. Lacordaire says St. Dominick was not present at the
battle, but remained in a chapel hard by, to pray, like Moses,
with uplifted arms. One looks upon the crucifix with interest. It
is of wood, blackened by time, and about a yard in length. The
feet of the Christ are fastened one upon the other, in the
Italian style.

One of the chapels bears the startling title of the Seven
Sleepers, which would seem to savor of magic or oriental legend.
They were seven Christians martyred at Ephesus, in the reign of
Trajan, where, in the language of Scripture, _they slept in the
Lord_. Their bodies having been found in the year 479, it was
said, in mystic style, that they had awakened again, after a
sleep of more than two hundred years. Honoring them collectively,
it became a custom to call them the Seven Sleepers, and the
Mohammedans have preserved the tradition as well as Christians. A
chapel dedicated to them is rarely found; but Mrs. Jameson says
they perpetually occur in the miniatures, sculpture, and stained
glass of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. They are found
in the chapel of Edward the Confessor at Westminster. Their
statues, lying side by side on a bed of stone, were formerly in
their chapel at St. Sernin, but only two of them now remain.

In the treasury of the abbey of St. Saturnin were formerly many
curious and valuable objects. One of these, now in the museum at
Toulouse, is the horn of Orlando, which, indeed, is ornamented
with figures in the style of the age of Charlemagne. During the
last days of Holy Week, when the bells were hushed during the
awful days commemorating our Saviour's passion and death, the
prolonged notes of this horn called the faithful to prayer. A
similar one was used in the church of St. Orens at Auch, which is
still carefully preserved.
{109}
One loves whatever recalls Orlando, the type of Christian
chivalry. Many a tradition of him lingers in this country.
Roncesvalles claims to possess his armor, and Blaye his terrible
sword and his tomb. In the country of the Escualdunae is the
_Pas de Roland_, a gigantic footprint on a large rock. At
the other extremity of the Pyrenees, in Roussillon, the long
table of a Celtic _dolmen_ is called by the people _Le
Palet de Roland_; and large depressions in the form of a
semi-circle, in this part of France, mark the passage of
Orlando's steed--that steed over which, when dead, his master
wept, begging his forgiveness if he had ever been ill-treated.
The poet tells us the horse opened his eyes kindly on his master,
and never stirred more.

One would like to think this the veritable horn of Orlando--which
was so powerful, when sounded for the last time, that the very
birds of the air fell dead, the Saracens fell back in terror, and
Charlemagne and his court heard its notes afar off. There is far
more enjoyment in accepting all these local traditions than in
disputing their truth. Let us reserve our incredulity for
so-called history.

From the tower of St. Sernin there is a magnificent view of the
Pyrenees from sea to sea, and of a large extent of country full
of historic and religious associations. Directly beneath is the
old city of Toulouse, recalling Clemence Isaure and the golden
violets, and the troubadours of an older time. St. Anthony of
Padua frequented its famous schools. St. Dominick here founded
the order of Preaching Friars, which has given so many doctors
and missionaries to the church. St. Vincent Ferrier preached
yonder in St. George's Square. In that same _Place_
afterward preached Friar Thomas de Illirico against the excesses
of the Carnival, and against all games of chance, with such
effect that all the cards found in the shops were publicly burned
and the trade of card-maker abolished. One day, after the
preaching of this servant of God, the capitouls had placed on the
five principal gates of the city a marble tablet which bore _en
relief_ the holy name of JESUS supported by angels--that name
so powerful for defence that it makes the very demons tremble!

Another famous preacher of that time induced the capitouls to
appoint four watchmen to patrol the city at night, from one till
five, and chanting loudly:

  "Réveillez-vous, gens qui dormez,
   Priez Dieu pour les trépassez."

Before leaving St. Sernin, we stop to murmur a _Requiescant in
pace_ at the tombs of the counts of Toulouse, the first
sovereigns who styled themselves "By the grace of God," and whose
history is so glorious and yet so sad and tragical.

And as no Catholic Christian quits a church without leaving a
tribute of love before the altar of the Madonna, so, before
reluctantly leaving this antique basilica, perfumed with a
thousand memories, I drop my bead at the feet of Mary,
remembering that in this country were first strung together the
bright jewels of the rosary, which have ever since adorned the
garments of Christ's spouse--the Church.

                  AVE MARIA!

                  ----------

{110}

         The Little Sisters of the Poor.


The thoughtful soul, whether within or without the Catholic
Church, cannot fail to be impressed with the extent of her
charities. The fatherless, the widow, the aged, the poor, as St.
Laurence the martyr declared when ordered by the prefect of Rome
to deliver to him the wealth of the church--these are her riches.
But one must be within the fold to appreciate the universality of
her bounty; to see that every need of suffering humanity, as it
rises, finds pious souls whose vocation it is to look after that
very need, to provide for that very want; and the smallness of
the beginning of each world-wide charity makes the humble-hearted
leap with joy that, even in the narrowest sphere, every one may
be privileged to help our dear Lord in the person of his poor.

When St. Francis of Assisi gave his rule of strict poverty to the
ten united with him in hungering to work for Christ, it needed
more than his great faith to believe that, in forty-two years
after his death, two hundred thousand zealous souls would be
banded together, under his name, for prayer and alms-deeds;
while, through all coming ages of the church, his followers
should steadily increase, steadfast in the work for which they
had joined hands.

When, in 1537, Angela Merici, of Brescia, a lady of birth and
fortune, sorrowing over the death of a well-beloved sister,
soothed her grief by devoting herself to the education of poor
female children, at a time when four doctors of the law declared
the instruction of women the work of the devil, she did not
realize that from the grave of her own sorrow would spring the
far-famed order of Ursulines, (a beautiful resurrection!) who
collected and taught the poor orphans of massacred parents during
French revolutions, and who held their infant and ragged schools
long before England had thought of them.

When, in 1633, St. Vincent de Paul, seeing the misery and
destitution of the poor in the streets of Paris, placed four
young women, who volunteered to aid him in relieving present
distress, in charge of a noble lady who had for several years
devoted herself to the work under his direction, he scarcely
expected to see in twenty years two hundred houses and hospitals
of the order of Charity, spreading everywhere their sheltering
arms for the suffering poor.

Franciscans, Ursulines, Sisters of Charity, we have in our midst,
showing, by their lives of self-abnegation in this hard, worldly
age and country, that the evangelical counsel, to forsake all for
Christ's sake, is not obsolete.

But another branch of the great tree of charity that, like the
banyan, plants itself and rises with new life and vigor wherever
it takes root, is about to spread its benign shadow over our
land.

The Little Sisters of the Poor are coming among us, and it is
well we should know whence they come and what is their work. Like
the older orders in the church, _Les Petites Soeurs des
Pauvres_ had a very small beginning.

{111}

In St. Servan, a small town on the north coast of France, washed
by the waters of the English Channel, the male peasantry have,
from time immemorial, obtained a scanty living for themselves and
families by following the sea. This life of exposure and danger
leaves always, wherever it is followed, many children fatherless
and wives widows, and often deprives aged parents of their only
support. It was the custom for these poor bereaved widows and
parents of deceased fishermen to gather about the church-doors,
asking alms of the congregation as they passed out; many abuses
arose out of this way of distributing charity; the boldest fared
the best, and the money thus obtained was often wasted in drink
or self-indulgence, without providing for any real want. The good
God touched the heart of the pious Curé of Servan by the sight of
these poor persons, often blind, aged, and infirm, with none to
care for them. In the quiet of his own humble home, Abbé le
Pailleur thought over the condition of these miserable beings,
commending them to his divine Master, and asking the guidance of
him "who had not where to lay his head," in his efforts for their
relief. The blessed Spirit guided to his direction a young
orphan-girl from the laboring classes, who, for the love of God,
desired to do something for those more destitute than herself.
The curé recommended to her care an old blind woman, utterly
without friends, and who, from the scanty alms bestowed at the
church-door, was seldom able to obtain the smallest pittance, her
blindness preventing her access to the charitably inclined.

Not many weeks passed, before another poor seamstress confided to
her pastor the same desire to work for Christ's poor; she was
permitted to share the labors of the other, both working all day,
and coming by turns at night to watch and tend and to provide for
the old blind woman, with what they could spare from their own
small earnings. At length, that there might be no loss of time
and labor, Marie Augustine and Marie Theresa hired an attic where
they dwelt together, and took their aged pensioner to share their
home.

Here their devotion and self-denial attracted the attention of a
servant, Jenny Jugan, [Footnote 19] who, by industry and
frugality in early life, had accumulated about six hundred
francs. She asked to go with them, and to share with them, giving
her all to the good work, taking her part of the toils and
privations, and bringing with her one or two aged poor. Thus, on
the feast of St. Theresa, 1840, the house of "The Little Sisters
of the Poor" may be said to have been established.

    [Footnote 19: Jenny Jugan was about forty. She was living in
    the attic mentioned, and received in that place the poor
    blind who had been under the care of Marie Augustine and
    Marie Theresa.]

Abbé le Pailleur had early given them a rule of life, one article
of which they pondered with special care: "We will delight above
all things in showing tenderness toward those aged poor who are
infirm or sick; we will never refuse to assist them when occasion
presents itself, but we must take great care not to meddle in
what does not concern us." They still went about their daily
labors, and though their earnings never exceeded one franc per
day, at night they shared it with those whom God had confided to
their care. The curé helped them to the extent of his resources,
which were very limited. Prayer and faith were the means whereby
they made so little serve for so many. The good Lord who heareth
the cry of the ravens listened to the pleading of the Little
Sisters, and sent them a faithful friend and benefactress in one
Fanchion Aubert, who took no vows, but gave all her substance to
their work, wishing to live and die among them.
{112}
She possessed a little property, a small stock of the plainest
furniture, and a quantity of linen; with these she came, sharing
everything with them and their poor. By her thrift she had gained
credit in St. Servan, and through her the sisters were able to
leave the attic, and rent a long, low dwelling with space for
twelve beds, which were immediately filled. And now came the time
when, with the small band of sisters and the multiplication of
pensioners, the age and infirmities of their poor required all
their attention; they could no longer go out to earn anything;
and though those of the old women who were able did sometimes
assist the funds of the establishment by begging, their faithful
guardians desired to save them from the temptations and
degradation to which such a life too often led them.

Help came now and then, but not enough to supply all the needy
ones, and the sisters often went hungry. They sought counsel of
the father of the house, Abbé le Pailleur. After prayer and
meditation, he proposed to the sisters that for the love of God
they themselves should become beggars. Most cheerfully they went
forth with baskets on their arms, asking charity, "the crumbs
that fell from the rich man's table." From that day they have
provided in this way for their destitute ones; nothing comes
amiss, the refuse of the table or the wardrobe is accepted
thankfully. These mendicant sisters have never been without their
share of contumely and reproach. Members of older orders in the
beginning turned the cold shoulder upon them, and they were
spurned from the presence of one _religieuse_ with the
reproach, "Don't speak to me, I am ashamed of your basket!" but
they only renewed their entire consecration to God, and went on
begging. At length their basement was crowded to suffocation; the
abbé sold his gold watch, and with the remains of Fanchion's
property, and all their savings, they made the first payments for
a large house; before the end of the year, the twenty-two
thousand francs (the price of the house) were all paid. Here they
took that name so redolent of sweetness and humility, "Little
Sisters of the Poor," and here they accepted fully what before
had been necessarily imperfect, their rule of life, taking, in
addition to the usual vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience,
the vow of hospitality. At the end of two years, fifty aged
people were fed and clothed by the begging sisters, and comforted
and cared for with all the assiduity of the most tender love.
Their rule was to divide all the broken victuals among the poor,
and feed themselves upon what remained, never murmuring if they
went without. One winter's night, when the old people, fed and
cared for, had gone to their rest, the sisters had for their
suppers only about a quarter of a pound of bread. They sat down
cheerfully at the table, said their Benedicite, and passed the
bread from one to the other, each declining any right to it, and
all pretending to be well able to do without it. Before it had
been decided how the loaf should be divided, the bell rang; some
one had sent them a supply of meat and bread. "Trust in the Lord
and do good, and verily thou shalt be fed," was the motto of
their holy lives. It will not surprise us to learn that, in
return for their self-sacrifice, Almighty God gave them many
souls from among the abandoned and often dissolute people, who,
but for the peaceful refuge of their home, would have been lost
in the whirlpool of ignorance and vice. To bring back these poor
creatures to their forgotten Father was the delight of the
zealous sisters, and they felt themselves well rewarded when they
saw these darkened minds opening to the truth, and returning to
sit at the feet of Jesus with loving penitence.

{113}

But the house was filled to overflowing, and they resolved to
build. They well knew in whose hands are the gold and silver, and
into his ever-listening ear they poured their new want.

The reply did not linger, for they worked as well as prayed. At
the sight of the zeal with which they began to clear the stones
from a piece of ground, which they already owned, and to dig the
foundations, workmen came, materials were sent, and alms flowed
in abundantly.

Some time previous a person from the Island of Jersey, which is
not far from St. Servan, came to that town to seek for an aged
relative. He found her sheltered by the "Little Sisters," and
with devout thanksgiving to God he gave alms of all that he
possessed, and at his death bequeathed the house seven thousand
francs. This legacy fell to them as they began the building, and
with the new house came new souls, ready to consecrate themselves
to the service of God's poor, and with these new sisters came the
desire that the hand of charity might be held out to the poor of
other regions. The elder of the two girls who were first banded
together in this order, and who was now called Mother Marie
Augustine, with four sisters, went out from the mother-house, and
established themselves at Rennes, a town of forty thousand
inhabitants, fifty or sixty miles from their first home. The
trust in Providence which led to this movement was greatly
blessed, and soon there came another call from the town of Dinan.
This call came from the mayor of the city, who thought it a
wonderful stroke of policy to provide for the town's poor without
drawing on the city treasury. The sisters went without hesitancy,
and in 1846 had three well-established houses, which ten of the
sisterhood supported by begging.

In France, as in this country, it has been for a long time the
custom for persons living in the interior to seek the sea-coast
during the summer months. A young lady coming from Tours to St.
Servan did not, as too many do, leave all thoughts of her
religion behind, but in her temporary sojourn gave herself to
good works. Attracted by the genuine humility and piety of the
"Little Sisters of the Poor," she begged them to go back with her
to Tours. They asked only a roof to shelter and liberty to work,
and in January, 1847, they hired in that city a small house in
which they received at once a dozen poor people. In 1848, they
bought, for 80,000 francs, a very large building, and found
shelter for a hundred. How this sum was paid and the family
supported remains a secret with the angel who makes record of
alms-deeds. For the food of these poor people, every café was
engaged to save their coffee-grounds and tea-leaves, and schools,
colleges, barracks, and families their crusts of bread; each
sister, as she went forth, carried on her arm a large tin pail,
divided in compartments, which allowed the scraps of bread and
meat, with the cups of broth and other fragments, to be kept
apart from each other. At their return, these bits were
overlooked, and by the hands of the sisters made into very
palatable dishes for their beloved poor. But we must not forget
that other and more arduous and disagreeable duties were required
of these indefatigable workers than even providing their food
from such material.
{114}
The nursing, tending, and watching of these poor creatures whose
former lives of misery had often brought upon them repulsive
infirmities and diseases, lifting the helpless, comforting the
forlorn, and bearing with the ungrateful, all these must be
shared by these devoted women, who had undertaken to follow the
command of the apostle, to provide for the aged and the widow.
Most of these nuns came from the people; many of them had
witnessed want and woe from their infancy, and understood the
special needs of the poor; but now and then ladies of rank and
education joined them, all working together in perfect equality,
each undertaking that class of duties for which she was best
fitted. Many a sister has been truly a martyr for Christ, in
working for these ignorant, degraded beings, often obstinate and
full of ingratitude. But "it is not for the sake of gratitude we
nurse them," said a sister whose pale face showed the wearing
nature of her cares: "it is because in them we see _le bon
Dieu!_"

To tell the story of the journeyings from place to place all over
France, the difficulty with which they took root in some of the
larger cities, and the comparative welcome they met in the
smaller towns, would fill a volume. From France they went to
Belgium, to Spain, to Switzerland, and lately to Ireland, and
even to Protestant England and Scotland. To-day one hundred and
eight houses of this order are scattered over Europe, with a
sisterhood of eighteen hundred women, who watch over, comfort,
and maintain more than twelve thousand poor old men and women,
without money and without price save the voluntary offerings of
the cheerful giver!

In England the appearance of the order excited at first much
curiosity, but many turned away from them with aversion, the
aversion which centuries of false teaching has planted in the
minds of most Protestant communities against all religious
orders; but their uniform humility, gentleness, and kindness won
the day. In Park Row, Bristol, England, in Bayswater, in London,
as well as in other places, their convents are admirably
conducted, and they welcome visitors most cordially; wherever
they go they become popular. "We get a good deal in England,"
said one of the sisters; "the English are very good to us, though
they are Protestants." There is something in simple, honest trust
in God which touches the heart, and often those who at first
turned away from the begging sisters, in the end prove their
warmest supporters.

On his way to business a butcher, belonging in London, and
glorying in the name of "a stanch Protestant," was induced to
visit one of the convents. He was so delighted with the charity
and with all he saw, that he told the "good mother" to let the
convent cart call at his stall once a week, and he would give
them soup-meat for the house. As he went away, his conscience
reproached him; the "horns and hoofs" of the dreadful "beast" of
whom he had so often heard appeared before him; he might be
suspected of a leaning toward popery! But then his Anglo-Saxon
common sense told him that to help the aged and infirm was right,
popery or not, and he kept his word; the meat is always ready
when the cart arrives, but no communication passes between the
sister who takes and the man who gives; he has not yet lost his
fear of the "seven heads and ten horns, and the number 666."

{115}

The institution of this order at least makes plain one fact: that
numbers of poor can be well supported from the waste of the rich.
It ought also to put to silence those who scoff at the idea of an
overruling Providence--the _living_ God rather, who cares
for the raven and the sparrow, and is constantly working miracles
under our eyes, whereby the hungry are fed and the naked clothed.

Madame Guizot de Witt, a-Protestant lady, says: "Every time I
visit one of the houses of the 'Little Sisters,' and see their
bands of old people--aged children, so neatly dressed, so well
taken care of, occupied and amused in every way that age or
weakness allow, I seem to hear the voice which says, 'Go, and do
thou likewise.'"

This band of noble workers is coming among us, to gather the
abundance that falls from our tables, often wasted, or thrown to
dumb beasts, while souls made in the image of God look on with
hungry eyes.

How shall we greet these servants of God? If we receive the
"Little Sister" kindly, giving of our plenty when she asks, she
will thank God; if we turn away with cold questioning, she still
thanks God that she may bear trial for his sake.

To the thrifty American mind, this scheme of beggary will, no
doubt, appear to some as a nuisance, and call for the
interference of the laws against begging; but there are others
whom the hand of God has touched; these will welcome to the
freedom of our land a band of sisters whose charity beareth all
things, endureth all things, and hopeth all things. But however
we receive them, they will still go on, and if they are turned
away from one town or city by the iron hand, they will bring a
blessing upon another, both now and in that day when the Judge
shall say, "Come, ye blessed of my Father, possess the kingdom
prepared for you from the foundation of the world: for I was
hungry, and ye gave me meat; thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was
a stranger, and ye took me in; naked, and ye covered me: ... for
as long as ye did it to one of my least brethren, ye did it to
me."


   List Of The Houses Founded By The
   Little Sisters Of The Poor.

   _In France_.--
    The novitiate at Latour;
    St. Joseph, near Becherel, (Ile et Vilaine;)
    Rennes;
    St. Servan;
    Dinan;
    Tours;
    Nantes;
    Paris, Rue St. Jacques near the Val de Grace;
    Besançon;
    Angers;
    Bordeaux;
    Rouen;
    Nancy;
    Paris, Avenue de Breteuil;
    Laval;
    Lyon, á la Vilette;
    Lille;
    Marseilles;
    Bourges;
    Pau;
    Vannes;
    Colmar;
    La Rochelle;
    Dijon;
    St. Omer;
    Brest;
    Chartres;
    Bolbec;
    Paris, Rue Beccaria, Faubourg St. Antoine;
    Toulouse;
    St. Dizier;
    Le Havre;
    Blois;
    Le Maus;
    Tarare;
    Paris, Rue Notre Dame des Champs;
    Orleans;
    Strasbourg;
    Caen;
    St. Etienne;
    Perpignan;
    Montpellier;
    Agen;
    Poitiers;
    St. Quentin;
    Lisieux;
    Annonay;
    Amiens;
    Roanne;
    Valenciennes;
    Grenoble;
    Draguignan;
    Chateauroux;
    Roubaix;
    Boulogne;
    Dieppe;
    Beziers;
    Clermont Ferrand;
    Lyons, La Croix Rousse;
    Metz;
    Nice;
    Lorient;
    Nevers;
    Flers;
    Villefranche;
    Cambrai;
    Niort;
    Paris, Rue Philippe Gerard;
    Les Sables d'Olonne;
    Troyes;
    Maubeuge;
    Nimes;
    Toulon;
    Tourcoing;
    Cherbourg;
    Valence;
    Périgueux;
    and one just now beginning in Dunkerque.

  _In Switzerland._--Genevra.

  _In Belgium_.--
   Bruxelles, Rue Haute;
   Liege, at the Chartreuse;
   Jemmapes, near Mons;
   Louvain;
   Antwerp;
   Bruges;
   Ostende;
   Namur.

{116}

  _In Spain_.--
   Barcelona;
   Maureza;
   Granada;
   Lerida;
   Lorca;
   Malaga;
   Antequera;
   Madrid, Calle della Hortaletza;
   Jaen;
   Reuss;
   two more are preparing in Valence and Andalusia.

  _In England, Ireland, and Scotland_.--
   London, (Southwark,) South Lambeth Road;
   London, (Bayswater,) Portobello Lane;
   Manchester, Plymouth Grove;
   Bristol, Park Row;
   Birmingham, Cambridge Street Crescent;
   Leeds, Hanover Square;
   Newcastle-on-Tyne, Clayton Street;
   Plymouth, St. Mary's;
   Waterford;
   Edinburgh, Gilmore Place;
   Glasgow, Garngad Hill;
   Lochee, near Dundee;
   a new foundation beginning in Tipperary.

  _In the United States_.--
   No house exists as yet, but the "Little Sisters of the Poor"
   are preparing three foundations which are to take place very
   soon, one in Brooklyn, De Kalb Avenue; a second one in New
   Orleans, in the buildings occupied by the Widows' Home; the
   third one in Baltimore, with the charge, too, of the Widows'
   Home; besides these, several other foundations are
   contemplated in the course of the next and of following year.

                   ----------

           Religion Medically Considered.


By the term "religion," we mean that divine code mercifully
revealed by God to mankind, in the old and new dispensations, as
their rule of faith and practice. Its precepts have reference
both to the corporal and spiritual, the temporal and eternal
welfare of men. Religion, it is true, in its higher sphere,
addresses itself to the soul. It embraces the affections,
emotions, and sentiments of our spiritual nature, and its
direction is always toward the infinite fountain of love and
wisdom. Yet its scope, while for eternity, is for time also. When
God first revealed himself to Moses, the Israelites were fast
relapsing into heathenism, with, its pernicious and degrading
habits of life. Under the divine inspiration, however, the
prophet imbued them anew with faith in the true God, and
presented them at the same time with an admirable code of
practical life. He taught them to love and fear God, to obey his
commandments, to live soberly and uprightly in themselves, and to
practise justice and love toward each other. He continually
placed before them the divine promises of not only eternal but
also temporal rewards for obedience, and, in like manner, the
threatened penalties of disobedience. Viewed even as practical
rules of living for earthly life alone, his are models of
excellence. No man has ever done more toward retaining that
tabernacle of the human soul, the earthly body, in a pure and
healthy condition than this great lawgiver. Contrast the precepts
given by God through him to the Israelites after he had brought
them out of the land of Egypt, with those of the Egyptians, of
the Canaanites, and other heathen nations of the period. How wise
and elevating are the tendencies of the one! What injustice,
inhumanity, and degradation mark the other!
{117}
On the one hand, love supreme to God and to one's neighbor as
one's self, joined with forbearance, justice, truthfulness,
honesty, chastity, temperance, cleanliness even, and rigid
adherence to what would now be termed sound sanitary principles;
while on the heathen side, what may be comprised in three
words--selfishness, sensuality, and force. The fruits of
obedience to the former were, even here, comparative immunity
from disease and its sufferings, with enhanced material
prosperity and happiness, and with increased longevity; while to
the other there came the legitimate penalties of inordinate
self-indulgence, of selfishness and evil-living; the fruits of
the laws of life which heathenism gave to them.

It is hence that we claim for religion--for the religious
precepts revealed to man by the divinely inspired prophets of the
old dispensation, that they contributed vastly to the physical
and temporal well-being of the race. The God of nature required
that there should be no violation of the laws of nature; that our
organs and faculties, designed for legitimate uses, should not be
subjected to abuse and perversion. Hence temperance and
moderation, and a rigid avoidance of whatever tended to a
violation of the natural laws of health, were enjoined upon man
as duties of religious obligation. That the mortal body might be
and remain a fit enclosure of the immortal soul, the inspired
teachings of the old law descended to the minutest details of the
laws of health and life. This, indeed, constituted the less
exalted sphere of religion, yet one of prime importance, so far
as the well-being and happiness of earthly life was concerned.

Even, then, should we, for the moment, ignore religion in its
higher relations, and leave out of the question a future
existence, regarding man merely as an animal who is to be
annihilated at death; still we shall find that by its precepts
and its influence it has always largely contributed to his
measure of health, happiness, and longevity.

It is our purpose, in this paper, to confine our remarks to this
view of the case, and to discuss the influence of religion and a
Christian life upon man in his physical and earthly relations.
For the atheist even, for the deist and the sceptic, we claim
that the precepts and practice of Christianity are, above all
other systems and modes of life, conducive to physical and mental
health and vigor, to true enjoyment and long life.

Nearly all of the eminent philosophers and heathen teachers
before and at the time of Christ seem to have regarded the
pursuit of sensual pleasure as life's chief aim and end. True,
they advised a certain measure of moderation in the gratification
of the appetites and passions, in order that the vitality might
not be too rapidly exhausted; but this was their only limit to
self-indulgence; religious or moral obligation was not taken into
the account in making up the programme of practical life. The
pagan disciples of Aristotle, Socrates, and Plato, as well as the
more cultivated and polished polytheists of the empire of the
Caesars, lived for sensual enjoyment alone. Even human life was
made subservient to this dominant idea, as the frequent and
wanton murders of slaves and newly born children demonstrate.

{118}

Early failure of the vital forces, followed by disease and its
accompanying physical and mental suffering, was the fruitful
result. A participation in the revels of the temples of Venus and
of Bacchus might give its few brief hours of sensual pleasure;
but violated nature always inflicted her bitter penalties
therefore, in the form of painful and tedious morbid reactions.
The spectator at the Colosseum may have been momentarily excited
by the bloody scenes of the arena; but the simple instincts of
humanity must have filled the soul with horror and disgust, on
subsequent reflection upon the cruelty involved therein. Even in
the higher planes of pagan life, in the very lyceums and groves
of the philosophers of the Augustan age, so lax and inefficient
was the moral code of the day, and such their own imperfect moral
teachings, that the practical life-results were little better.
One can appreciate the reality of this when he calls to mind the
utter variance of the new law of Christ, when first introduced
among them, with nearly all the philosophies, customs, and habits
of the period. He has but to read, for this purpose, the
frightful description of ancient heathen society given by St.
Paul in the latter half of the first chapter of his epistle to
the Romans, addressed to the Christian converts from among this
very people. Without the restraining and healthful influences of
true religion, to what depths of moral and physical degradation
is not human nature capable of bringing itself! [Footnote 20]
"Professing themselves to be wise," says the apostle, "they
became fools. ... Wherefore God gave them up to the desires of
their heart, to uncleanness, to shameful affections, and to a
reprobate sense:" [thereby] "receiving in themselves the
recompense which was due to their error. ... Being filled with
all iniquity, malice, fornication, covetousness, wickedness, full
of envy, murder, contention, deceit, malignity, whisperers,
detractors, hateful to God, contumelious, proud, haughty,
inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents, foolish,
dissolute, without affection, without fidelity, without mercy."

    [Footnote 20: Romans i. 21-33.]

In contrasting, then, the principles, habits, and lives of the
Latin subjects of the Roman empire with those inculcated by
Christ in the new law, it will be found that the latter were by
far the most conducive to physical and mental vigor, material
happiness, and longevity. In one example we have a material
philosophy, wealth, sensuality, and unlimited self-indulgence; in
the other, a Christian code, inculcating virtue, charity,
morality, temperance, and moderation in all things. The fruits of
both systems were plainly visible, even in the days of Christ.

It has been estimated that more than one fourth part of the
population of the empire, under Augustus and Tiberius Caesar,
were slaves. The condition of these bondmen was deplorable. They
were not only deprived of all political and social rights, but
were regarded as soulless and devoid of moral responsibility.
Human slavery was a legitimate offspring of the pagan
philosophies of the period.

Another portion of the Roman people, amounting to about one half
of the entire population, occupied a moral and social status
nearly as low as that of the slave. The mothers, wives, and
daughters of Roman citizens were regarded as inferior beings,
mere pets and playthings of the men, household ornaments, useful
only so far as they were capable of contributing to the sensual
pleasures of their lords and masters. This wanton degradation of
the sex was another direct result of the pernicious teachings of
those men who are still lauded and honored by the world as models
of wisdom and virtue!
{119}
The free patricians and plebeians, comprising less than one third
of the entire population, and possessing nearly all of the
national wealth, devoted their lives in striving to add to the
military power and glory of the empire, and in the pursuit of
worldly pleasure. In the furtherance of these objects, neither
right, justice, humanity, nor even life itself was regarded as
important when opposed to their dominant passions. Such were the
materialists of that day.

Let us now turn to the precepts of our blessed Saviour, and their
immediate practical results in elevating humanity to a higher
plane, and in enhancing the general welfare of the human race.
The fundamental principles of the Christian system are, besides
faith in the revealed mysteries, supreme love to God and
fraternal love to man. "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with thy
whole heart, and with thy whole soul, and with thy whole mind.
This is the greatest and first commandment. And the second is
like to this: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these
two commandments dependeth the whole law and the prophets."
(Matt. xxii. 37-40.) "All things, therefore, whatsoever you would
that men should do to you, do you also to them: for this is the
law and the prophets." (Matt. vii. 12.)

One of the first-fruits of these new ideas was a recognition by
the Christian converts of the dignity and brotherhood of all
mankind, and of the equality of all in the sight of God. Thus
were females and slaves at once elevated to their proper
positions in the scale of humanity. They could no longer be
regarded as mere instruments of sensual gratification, but were
recognized as brethren, children of a common father, co-workers
and coequals in the spiritual vineyard of our Lord Jesus Christ.

How readily, then, can we comprehend the ardent and untiring
devotion and love which were everywhere evinced by Christian
women for their divine Redeemer and Benefactor! How readily can
we explain the boundless enthusiasm and joy of the multitudes of
poor, oppressed, and disease-stricken men who followed Jesus from
place to place for consolation and restoration! When these
multitudes heard the precious sermon upon the mount, so much at
variance with the prevalent tenets and practices of the world,
they were amazed and delighted; for in it false philosophies, a
vicious civilization, and pernicious usages were rebuked, mankind
exalted to a higher sphere, and humanity vindicated.

As the lives of the pagans were natural reflexes of their false
and inhuman moral and social codes, so were the lives of the
Christians natural reflexes of the divine code. The foundations
of the one were idolatry, selfishness, sensuality,
uncharitableness, pride, and arrogance; of the other, godliness,
charity, love, humility, and benevolence. Humanity cannot clothe
itself with the first without chilling and paralyzing the higher
impulses of the soul, and fostering the bitter germs of mental
and physical sorrow. Nor can it adopt the last without developing
those spiritual attributes which elevate, refine, and bless the
possessor.

Let us come down to our own day, where materialism, sensuality,
and general immorality are nearly as common as in the days of the
apostles. We call ourselves Christians, profess to believe in one
God, in the immortality of the soul, and in a future state of
rewards and punishments; but practically, in actual life, many
communities are as inhuman, as sensual, as material, and as
immoral as were the pagans of the golden age.

{120}

The pagan disciples of Aristotle, for instance, did not hesitate
to violate the sacred germs of humanity, and thus to blast the
souls of multitudes of victims, for the purpose of preventing too
great an increase of population. The religion of Christ changed
all this, and true Christians have ever heeded the change. But
the recent work of Dr. Storer, of Boston, and official
legislative reports, demonstrate that this great crime is quite
as prevalent in the modern Athens and in the State which contains
it, as it was in the worst days of the Roman empire. The
influence of this alarmingly prevalent crime of our own day and
of our own nation is baneful in the extreme. On strictly sanitary
and material grounds, it is to be deprecated as an evil of the
greatest magnitude. Among its deleterious results may be recorded
diseases of important vital organs, which are in turn reflected
to the entire nervous system, and a consequent train of physical
and mental disorders, which make life a burden instead of a
blessing. Here, then, we see that a truly Christian mode of
living is more conducive to health, happiness, and long life than
that of the sensual materialist.

Contemplate, again, the world of wealth, fashion, and pleasure.
Behold the pomp, the luxury, and the numerous sensual enjoyments
which make up so largely its sum of life. Follow the votaries of
pleasure in their daily and nightly rounds, sit at their
epicurean tables, accompany them to routs, balls, play-houses,
and innumerable other places of resort, which temptingly beckon
them on every hand. Be with them also in their sleeping, and at
their early morning hours, when the inevitable reactions manifest
themselves; when pains, lassitude, and nervous and mental
depression overtake them. Read their interior convictions,
thoughts and regrets for ill-spent time, and for perversions of
the higher faculties. Consult the epicure, who "lives to eat" and
to stimulate his artificial appetite daily with highly seasoned
dishes. He will discourse eloquently upon the pleasures of the
table; but he can depict also the horrors of indigestion,
hypochondria, and not unfrequently of paralysis, apoplexy, and
kindred ailments. Consult the wine-bibber and the
whiskey-drinker. They can point to the enormous revenues which
the government derives from their patronage; to the innumerable
drinking-saloons which cover the land, and which are sustained
and enriched by them; to the numerous dens, above-ground and
under-ground, where the poor congregate to imbibe fiery poisons
that steal away their brains and the bread of their wives and
children; to the untold millions which are expended in their
traffic by men of all classes and conditions.

These men can portray the temporary delights and excitements of
such exhilarating beverages. They can tell you how the brain
glows, how the pulse rises, and how all the organs and faculties
are roused to preternatural energy under the influence of these
potent agents. But alas! what multitudes have experienced the
dreadful reactions which always follow their habitual use! What
multitudes have gone down to the grave prematurely with Bright's
disease, liver-complaint, softening of the brain, dropsy,
insanity, paralysis, delirium tremens, etc., victims of these
insidious poisons! In the United States especially, the
prevalence and the evils of whiskey-drinking are truly monstrous.
It is the dominant curse, the crying evil of the day. It pervades
all of the ramifications of social life.
{121}
It numbers its victims by millions of all ages, sexes, and
conditions. It corrupts and undermines the very foundation of
health, perverts and degrades the intellectual and moral
faculties, and depresses men deep, deep into the lower strata of
humanity.

Thousands have become habitual drinkers, and ultimately confirmed
inebriates, through the advice of their medical advisers. In
accordance with some absurd hypothesis, or perchance to please
their patients, too many medical men, during the past twenty
years, have ordered the habitual use of whiskey, rum, brandy, and
other stimulants. The calamities thus entailed are fearful to
contemplate; and those thoughtless physicians who have
contributed so largely in extending this great national vice will
bear to their graves a dreadful responsibility.

So far, then, as eating and drinking are concerned, it is evident
that the precepts of the Christian religion are far better
calculated to promote the welfare of mankind than are those of
the man of pleasure. Religion inculcates simplicity, frugality,
temperance; and the fruits are physical and mental vigor and
tranquil enjoyment. Irreligion encourages unrestrained convivial
excesses; and the results are disease, pain, and general
debasement.

Note, again, the devotees of fashion, whose pleasure consists in
unnatural and artificial excitements, who regard the ordinary
affairs and duties of life as tame and irksome, who convert night
into day, and who are happy only when in the midst of the
exaggerations, the frivolities, the romances of life. Do these
individuals employ their faculties or their time in accordance
with the laws of nature, or with reference to the duties and
destinies which manifestly pertain to them? The excitements of
the play-house, the ballroom, the race-course, and similar places
of fashionable resort are prone to divert the mind from the
serious duties of life, to engender morbid tastes and sentiments,
and to implant feelings of discontent with reference to ordinary
duties and occupations. When indulged in to such an extent, these
amusements are unchristian, and therefore derogatory to health
and happiness. Not in the gilded saloons of fashion are to be
found peace, contentment, and charity. Not in the souls of
pleasure-seeking devotees are to be found real satisfaction and
enjoyment. But among those who lead religious lives, whether high
or low, rich or poor, wise or simple, will be found the highest
developments of love, virtue, health, and true happiness.

A worldly life develops and fosters all that is sensual and
selfish in man. It continually rouses the organs and faculties of
the system into abnormal activity and excitement. It perverts the
delicate and sensitive functions of the organism from their
legitimate uses to the gratification of transient impulse,
passion, and caprice. It plays with the thousand living nerves
and fibres as upon the inanimate strings of an instrument,
heedless whether the overstrained and palpitating chords of life
snap asunder under the exciting ordeal. Its fruits, consequently,
are demoralizing, and in the highest degree detrimental to
health, usefulness, and happiness.

In a religious life how great a contrast is presented! Such a
life develops and fosters the highest and purest attributes of
the soul. It rouses into ever-living activity the divine
sentiments of love and charity, and puts far away sensuality,
selfishness, and inordinate and unlawful self-indulgence.
{122}
It inculcates temperance, moderation, disinterested benevolence,
chastity, and the cultivation of those virtues and graces which
secure health, contentment, and tranquil happiness.

From a strictly material point of view, then, we may rest assured
that a truly religious life is far more conducive to genuine
pleasure and to longevity than a mere worldly one. A simple
contemplation of the complicated and sensitive human organism, of
its physiology and its subjection to certain natural laws and
requirements, renders the justness of our position manifest.
Health can only be maintained by a just equilibrium in the action
of all the organs, functions, and faculties. Every overaction,
every undue excitement, is followed by a corresponding reaction
which is depressing, debilitating, and productive of more or less
disorder and suffering.

The thoughts, energies, and hopes of men of business are too
generally absorbed in the eager pursuit of wealth. Their ideas,
aspirations, and daily and hourly actions pertain solely to this
world. From childhood to old age the idea of eternity is almost
entirely put from them. Practically, these men are infidels,
because every act of their lives, from waking to sleeping, has
sole reference to the present life. They live and think and act
as if they were to remain for ever on this earth. They put far
from them the momentous realities of the near future, and cling
to the riches, the pomps, the vanities, and the frivolities of
this world like monomaniacs. Follow them to their counting-rooms,
to their clubs, to their places of recreation, to their homes,
and see how much of care, anxiety, and suffering, and how small
an amount of tranquil happiness, attend them. Contrast the lives
and the deaths of these devotees of business and riches with
those of the humble and exemplary Christian. Is there a doubt on
which side health, contentment, and true enjoyment of life will
be found? "Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth; but
lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven: for where your
treasure is, there will your heart be also. ... Ye cannot serve
God and mammon." (Matt. vi. 19, 20, 21, 24.)

Let it not be thought that we are opposed to a reasonable
devotion to material and worldly affairs, or that we would place
a single obstacle in the way of human progress, whether
pertaining to trade, commerce, or the useful and ornamental arts.
Every man in his sphere has duties to perform; but it must not be
forgotten that these duties are neither exclusively material nor
yet spiritual. Let it not be forgotten that the _soul_ has
its wants and necessities as also the _body_. And let it not
be forgotten that, while the physical man is but for a day, the
spiritual man is for eternity. The wise man, therefore, will
recognize the fact that there is a time for all things--for
business, for recreation, for mental culture, and (chief of all)
for spiritual duties; and he will best accomplish the just ends
of his existence who rightly appreciates and acts upon this great
truth.

                    ----------

{123}

            Translated From The French.

          Faith And Poetry Of The Bretons.


                    Continued.


                 Saint-Thêgonnec
                   Cemeteries
                    Calvaries
              Character Of The People.


We need not traverse the whole of Brittany to have a perfect idea
of the works of architecture which faith has embellished. In one
little borough-town, Saint-Thégonnec, between Morlaix and
Landerneau, we find all the types of Christian art in Brittany
concentrated--church, funereal chapel, burying-vault, calvary,
and sculptures.

The Breton cemeteries closely resemble each other; nearly
everywhere they surround the church, and are enclosed by a low
wall, often without gates of any kind, merely a small ditch
preventing the cattle from trespassing on the abode of the dead.
[Footnote 21] A cross, or a calvary, where the scenes of the
passion are represented, or sometimes the kneeling statue of a
loved or lamented pastor's venerated image that recalls his
virtues to his faithful people, these are the only monuments of
the cemeteries of the Breton villages. The tombs are marked by
small heaps of earth, pressed each against the other, and
surmounted by a cross. Some are covered by a stone, and in this
stone is indented a little cup that gathers the dew and rain from
heaven, and offers to the mourning relative--the mother, son, the
friend--the blessed asperges to accompany the prayer for him who
lies beneath. [Footnote 22] These cemeteries, placed in the midst
of towns and villages, cannot be of any great extent; soon,
therefore, they are filled with extinct generations, and these
bodies must be exhumed to make place for new-comers. In one
village, Plouha, after the sons had disinterred the bodies of
their fathers, they decorated the façade of the church with the
stones of the tombs, that they might be cold witnesses of their
memories, or, at least, might never cover the bodies of others.
The general resting-place for these exhumed bones is a mortuary
chapel constructed by the side of the church; and if a glance is
taken through the Gothic arch which opens on this charnel-house,
bones upon bones may be seen heaped up and mingled like blades of
straw. These were men who have walked on the earth, now solitary
and forsaken until the eternal resurrection.

    [Footnote 21: At Goueznon, at Plabennec, etc.]

    [Footnote 22: We see in Algeria little cups hollowed in the
    sepulchral stones of the Mussulmans; but this water is only
    used by the birds to satisfy their thirst, or to water the
    flowers that decorate the tombs.]

But at Saint-Thégonnec a more respectful and tender sentiment has
tried to preserve intact at least a portion of these bodies so
rudely torn from the earth. Before entering the church, we are
struck by an unexpected sight; from every projection of the
building, on the porches, on the prominent cornices, are laid or
hung and suspended, one above the other, a multitude of small
boxes arranged as a chaplet; these little boxes, surmounted each
by its cross, are coffins, and enclose the skull of an ancestor,
his head, or, according to the expressive word of the old
language, _le chef_, that which is most noble in man, and
which may be resumed. An inscription indicates the date and name:

{124}

  "_Here lies_ LE CHEF _de_ ..."

Another touching symbol may be seen through the openings, the
funeral archives of families preserved in the shadow of the
church, that rising generations may discover them, so that they
may not be forgotten, as they would be, immured in their own
homes. [Footnote 23]

    [Footnote 23: At Locmariquer there are not only coffins with
    heads, but miniature ones enclosing all the bones, piled one
    above the other like bales of goods, in the place apportioned
    them.]

Here and there on the cornice, exposed to the air, are skulls of
the dead, poor creatures once without friends or family to give
them burial, painted green, their eyes filled with sand and
blades of grass projecting from them, often leaning against each
other; here, one supported perhaps by him who was his bitter
enemy.

Passing there double rows of coffins, we enter the church, and
this is but a repetition of all the Breton churches; everything
here--an elegant font, sculptured mouldings, pulpit of choice
wood and of marvellous workmanship--_chef-d'oeuvre_ of the
end of the Renaissance, and one of the finest pulpits in
Brittany--pictures on wood, chisel paintings, ever perpetuating
the patriarchs, the kings, and prophets of the Old Testament
mounting from earth to heaven; even to the Blessed Virgin; vault
of gold and azure fairly sparkling in its complete beauty; the
choir, the altar, and the side chapels filled with statues,
wreathed columns, heads of angels, flowers, garlands, gilded and
painted in every color, a perfect stream of gold, verdure,
brilliant crimson, and azure.

From this refulgent and living whole, a single door rises on the
side, high and naked; no sculpture, no ornament; the stones sweat
their dampness; the bricks, that have assumed a blackened tint,
separated by their white cement, present a lugubrious aspect; a
great mourning veil seems spread before the eyes--this is the
gate of death. You open, and you pause enchanted. Before you lies
the cemetery. At your right, at your left, monument upon monument
breaks upon your gaze. Under the porch where you stand are the
statues in line of the twelve apostles; and opposite you, a large
gate with three arches, the gate of the cemetery, in its imposing
style, an arch of triumph, as if the Bretons, passing under it
the perishable body, had typified the life eternal, the glory and
the joy of the imperishable soul. At the right, a mortuary chapel
of the style of the Louvre of Henry IV. is erected, its sculpture
from the bottom to the top, an immense _châsse_ pictured in
granite; at your left is the calvary, one of those complicated
calvaries, found only in Brittany, a whole people of statues;
eighty or a hundred personages in the most natural and simple
attitudes--disciples, prophets, holy women, thieves on their
crosses, guards on horseback, and, towering over all this crowd,
the tree of the cross, colossal in its structure, of several
stones, cross upon cross, and holding on its branches statues of
the Virgin, Saint John, the guards, and others, and, in immensity
of size and above all, the Christ himself, with his arms extended
over the world, and his eyes uplifted to heaven. Angels are
there, too, suspended in the air, and collecting in their
chalices the precious blood from his hands. [Footnote 24]

    [Footnote 24: The calvaries of Plougastel and Pleyben--towns
    so remarkable for their beautiful churches are more
    complicated and grand, perhaps, but not so striking, as this
    one.]

{125}

And this is not all: enter the crypt of the mortuary chapel, and
there you will find yourself face to face with another
_chef-d'oeuvre_--the entombing of Christ, the scene which
has ever inspired the greatest artists, and in colossal
proportions. These are painted statues, and the painting adds to
the impression, giving to the deeply moved personages the
appearance of life. You hear them cry, you see their tears course
down their pallid faces; the Virgin-Mother with her pressed lips
on the livid feet of her divine Son, the Magdalen overwhelmed
with grief and still beautiful in the midst of her sorrow. Can
you fail to become an actor in this impassioned scene? You are
rooted to the spot; the terrible blow that made them surfer
becomes your reality, and, grieved to the depths of your soul,
you feel your own tears flow; the lapse of ages is forgotten, and
you are living in that Calvary scene.

And when we think that these works of religious art are spread
all over Brittany with the same profusion; that in towns
apparently the most remote from any road or centre, at
Saint-Herbot in the Black Mountains, at Saint-Fiacre, which is
only a little village of Laouet, and even less than a village, a
miserable hamlet of five or six houses, in the chapel of
Rozegrand near Quimperlé, a modest manor which hardly merits the
name of a castle--we find in all these places galleries of
sculptured wood, painted, gilded, and figured with fifty or more
persons, rivalling the most costly churches; works so admirably
reproducing the history, the miracles, and the mysteries of
religion, while they preserve among the people and reanimate and
increase their ardor and faith, we cannot but ask, What is the
cause of such a multitude of works of art appearing everywhere on
the surface of the country, and what has been the inspiration
which has produced such fruit--richness of invention, truth of
gesture, expression of physiognomy, a true and deep sentiment of
everything divine in scenery and action? In all these monuments
of the middle ages, there is to be found the same truth, the same
power of imagination, while the artist never repeats himself and
never tires you. He leads you on like the musician, scarcely
giving you time to recover from one melody ere you are
soul-entranced with another still more beautiful.

But this creative power has a cause; this society--as a man
arrived at maturity with all his work accomplished for the end he
would attain--had been prepared by previous ages. Disengaged
from the swaddling-clothes of antiquity, its tongue was formed,
its religious ideas fixed, and with its new-formed Christianity,
it was logically constituted--it became a unity. Still in
possession of such power, this people struggles only to create;
never led by contrary tastes or carried away by disorderly and
unregulated motives, so justly named in our day _caprice_,
they cling to what preceding ages have sought for, gathered, and
inculcated. The materials are ready to their hands, they seize
them, and, with the genius of the age, reproduce, in a thousand
forms, new beauties; the well-filled vase has only to diffuse
itself and overflow with treasures. Thus, imagination bursts out
everywhere lively and colored; the same mind, in literature as in
art, reproduces the varied ornaments of churches, invents fables
and legends, and finds at every moment new images to represent
manners, ideas, opinions; and this imagination, far from
exhausting itself, grows and increases, not as the forced plant
of the hot-house, but the natural flower of their own spring.
Ages train on, and the last one bears the crown.

{126}

We see, too, why such artists--authors of such exquisite
works--are so obscure, so unknown. They have not rendered their
own ideas simply, but those of their race; the sentiments of
their ancestors, of the fathers with whom they have been born and
raised, have penetrated their whole being, and they have merely
expressed their surroundings. Thus, these monuments of art are
not only proof of talent and their sojourn on earth, but
witnesses of their piety and faith--the worship of a people.

So, the faith of days past still lives in Brittany: could one
doubt it, let him look at the evidences of an unweakened piety
which meet him at every step. See the gifts of the women of the
aristocracy, beautiful scarfs of cashmere, covering the altars of
the cathedral of Tréguier, and the offerings of the poor, bundles
of crutches, left at Folgoat by the infirm "made whole." Then the
pilgrimages, vast armies of men and women, moving yearly to their
favorite shrine of Saint Anne d'Auray, and the miraculous
pictures, decking from top to bottom this church of the Mother of
the Virgin, too small for a Christian museum replenished so
constantly. At every step arise new chapels and churches: at
Saint-Brieuc several were built at once; Lorient, a town peopled
with soldiers and sailors, has just raised at its gate a church
in the style of Louis XIV.; Vitré gives to its church a new bell
and a sculptured pulpit; the little villages put up in their
cemeteries calvaries with figures of the middle ages; the calvary
of Ploëzal, between Tréguier and Guingamp, is dated 1856; Dinan
restores and enriches its beautiful church of Saint Malo; Quimper
throws to the air two noble spires from the towers of its
cathedral; the chapel of Saint Ilan, a model of elegance and
grace, rises in pure whiteness on the borders of the sea, in the
midst of the calm roofs of its pious colony; Nantes, while she
builds several new churches, finishes her immense cathedral, its
dome of Cologne and Brittany, to which each age has given a hand,
and in constructing this beautiful church of Saint Nicholas,
proves what the piety and zeal of a pastor and devoted flock
could accomplish, in less than ten years, by alms and gifts. A
few years since, at Guingamp, a chapel was dedicated to the
Blessed Virgin outside the church; the statues are painted of the
twelve apostles, the altar is magnificent, and the roof azure and
stars of gold. No expense was spared, no decoration too great to
ornament the sanctuary of the Virgin. Fifty thousand persons were
there the day of the inauguration. These are the national
holy-days of the Bretons. Elsewhere, people rush to the
inauguration of princes or the revolutions which presage their
downfall; but here they come from all parts of Brittany to assist
in the coronation of the Queen of heaven. And what piety, what
recollection, what gravity in the deportment of these men and
women, kneeling on the pavements of the churches! As at La
Trappe, so here is seen the same complete absorption of the human
being in the thoughts that fill the soul; the functions of life
seem annihilated, and, immovable in prayer, they remain in that
absolute contemplation in which the saints are represented,
overwhelmed by sentiments of veneration, submission, and
humility: the man is forgotten, the Christian only exists. More
expressive even than the monuments are these daily acts of
devotion, that evidence the habitual state of the soul.

{127}

Walk, on a market-day, through the square of some city or town of
Finistère. How varied and animated it appears! Rows of little
wagons standing around, and on these all sorts of merchandise:
velvet ribbons and buckles for the men's caps; woollen ornaments
made into rosettes for the head-dresses of the women; variegated
pins, ornamented with glass pearls; pipe-holders of wood; little
microscopic pipes and instruments to light them, with other
useful and ornamental wares. Under the tents of these movable
shops, a crowd of men and women are seen. The women with
head-dresses of different forms, their large white handkerchiefs
rounded at the back and carefully crossed on the breast; the men
with their pantaloons narrowly tightened, falling low, and
resting on the hips, so that the shirt may be seen between them
and the vest, their caps with broad brims covering their long
hair, often tucked up behind, and walking with measured steps,
carrying their canes, never hurried, always calm and dignified.
Twelve o'clock is heard; from the high bell-tower of the
neighboring church comes the echoing peal of mid-day; twelve
times it slowly strikes, and then all is hushed. Every one
pauses, is silent. With simultaneous movement, the men doff their
hats and their long hair falls over their shoulders. All are on
their knees, the sign of the cross is made, and one low murmur
tells the Angelus. A stranger in such a crowd must kneel;
involuntarily he bends his knee with the rest. The prayer to the
Virgin finished, they rise again; life and motion commence, and a
din is heard, the almost deafening noise of the roar of the sea.

Again I see them in the church of Cast, (Finistère.) It was
Sunday, at the hour of vespers. The bell of the church-tower had
sounded from the break of day, and crowds of men and women
surrounded the church, talking in groups, gently and noiselessly.
The bell ceased; the groups broke up and separated into two
bands, on one side the men, on the other the women, all directing
their steps to the church. The women entered first, and in a
moment the nave was filled; the young women of the Confraternity
of the Blessed Virgin took their places in the middle of the
church, all in white, but their costume ornamented with
embroidery of gilt and silver, gilded ribbons on their arms,
belts of the same encircling their graceful figures, and falling
in four bands at the back on the plaited petticoat, and the heart
of gold and cross on the breast of each; in the side aisles, the
matrons ranged themselves, wives and mothers, in more varied
costumes, gayly colored, head-dresses of deep blue and yellow,
blue ribbons with silver edges on the brown jackets, red
petticoats, and clock stockings embroidered in gold. All knelt on
the pavement, their heads inclined, their rosaries in their
hands, and in collected silence.

The women all placed, another door opened at the side of the
church, and the men's turn came. With grave and measured steps
they walked in file, and strange and imposing was the sight--in
comparison with the variegated and gay dress of the women, so
opposingly sombre was that of the men; and yet the attention was
not so much riveted by their uniform attire, their long brown
vests, their large puffed breeches; but their squared heads,
their long features, the quantity of straight hair, covering
their foreheads like thick fleece, and falling in long locks on
their shoulders and down their backs.
{128}
All, children and men grown, wore the same costume, this long
black hair, which in the air assumed a sombre reddish tint, and
falling on the thick, heavy eyebrows, gave to their eyes an
expression of energy, of almost superhuman firmness. They
scarcely seemed men of our time and country; the grave, immovable
faces, with the brilliant eyes scrutinizing at once the character
and appearance of the stranger among them, the uncultivated heads
of hair, weighing down their large heads like the manes of wild
animals, gave the idea of men apart; men from the wilds of some
far country moving among the modern races, with silent gesture
and solemn step, and uttering brief and pithy sentences, as if
they alone held the secrets of the past, the knowledge of the
mysteries and truths of the olden time.

They defiled one by one, prostrating themselves before the altar,
and kneeling in turn on the stone floor, surrounding entirely the
grating of the choir. True assemblage of the faithful! The men, a
strong soldiery in front, the women behind, a more humble crowd,
but each forgetting the other, living but for one thought--for
God. For God is not for these _barbarians_ what he is for
us; we, _civilized inhabitants_ of cities, we try to explain
God, and even on our knees in his temples we analyze him, comment
upon his acts, and even doubt if he exists. They spend no time in
such vain thoughts, barren meditations: for them God is; they
know and believe in him. He made the heaven over their heads, the
earth that produces their harvests, made them themselves, and
preserves them or takes them to him. He is the Invisible who can
do everything, from the heights of the heavens, and everywhere at
once; and in comparison with this All-Powerful they feel their
littleness, prostrate themselves and adore.

           ----------

       Count De Montalembert.


  In that drear twilight, herald of the day
  On which new faith, new hope, new love were born,
  And while my heart still pressed against the thorn
  Of unbelief, like some fresh matin lay
  Of forest warbler in his own loved May,
  Broke, Montalembert, on my trance forlorn,
  Elizabeth's young voice, which sang death's scorn
  In carols with celestial transports gay.
  Now, when cool evening's earliest pensive shade
  Creeps o'er my life, as clear and jubilant
  As that wild mocking-bird's, is heard the chant
  Of mighty abbots, whose processions fade
  Into the dark of ages, made by thee
  New themes for thought and holy minstrelsy.

                 ----------

{129}

                    Rings.


Looking over an old jewel-case, the other day, I found a ring; no
treasured heirloom or _gage d'amour_ of by-gone days, but a
simple black circlet, whose sole ornament was a silver heart, on
which were engraved in rude fashion the letters VA. The sight of
it recalled a stormy day during the winter of 1864, when a pale
and emaciated Confederate soldier knocked at our door and asked
for shelter. Of course, it was cheerfully granted.

On questioning him we learned that he had suffered the rigor of
prison life for two years; had just been released, and was _en
route_ to join his regiment before Petersburg. Upon leaving,
he thanked me for our hospitality, and begged my acceptance of
this little ring, the making of which had served to while away
the tedium of captivity. I put it carefully aside, and the lapse
of time and other more stirring events had almost obliterated the
circumstance from my mind, until it was thus revived.

As I gazed upon it, how many memories were revived by it! In it I
traced the life of the donor, and in him the vain hopes and
aspirations of his comrades and the ruin which befell them. I
heard the call to arms; saw the leave-taking and departure for
the field; followed him amid the sanguinary contests of battle;
till at length defeat, like a black cloud, lowers over his
decimated legions, and he finds himself within a prison's walls.
There, chafing against captivity, listening eagerly for tidings
of release, and sick with hope deferred, I see him beguiling the
weary hours in fashioning this little trinket. At last the hour
of liberty arrives, and with bounding pulse, to the tune of
"Home, sweet home," he turns his back on prison-bars. Once again
he is a soldier of the army of Northern Virginia; but gone are
the high hopes which animated his breast, and gone are most of
the brave comrades who once stood shoulder to shoulder with him;
hardship, hunger, and death have done their work, and the end is
near; a few more suns, and he and his cause fall to rise no more!

Such is the story that I read in that little hoop of black horn.
How many startling events, how many passions of the human heart
crowded into a tiny compass!

And this, methought, is not the only ring about which might be
woven a tale of joy or sorrow. The "lion-hearted" king,
notwithstanding his pilgrim guise, by means of one was betrayed
to his relentless Austrian foe; and, centuries later, the gallant
Essex entrusted his life to such an advocate. Trifling baubles as
they are, which may be hid in the hollow of a baby's hand, they
have, from their first introduction to the world, acted a
conspicuous part in its history.

{130}

The Persians maintain that Guiamschild, fourth king of the first
race, introduced the ring. Whether this be true or not, it is
certainly of ancient date, since mention is made of it in Genesis
as being worn by the Hebrews as a signet. It was also in use
among the Egyptians; for we are told that, after the
interpretation of the dream, "Pharaoh took off his ring from his
hand, and put it on Joseph's hand," as a mark of royal favor. The
Sabines used this ornament during the time of Romulus, and
perhaps the glittering jewels on the fingers of the women may
have enhanced their attractions in the eyes of the bold Roman
youths when they so unceremoniously bore them off. But it is not
certain at what precise period the Romans adopted rings; for
there are no signs of them on their statues prior to those of
Numa and Servius Tullius. They were commonly made of iron, and
Pliny says that Marius wore his first gold one in his third
consulate, the year 650 of Rome. Senators were not allowed to
wear them of this metal unless distinguished as ambassadors in
foreign service; but in after days golden rings became the badge
of knighthood; the people wearing silver, the slaves iron.

In tracing its history, we can readily imagine that the ring was
invented merely as an accompaniment to bracelet and necklace;
afterward it became a badge of distinction; and finally, when the
art of engraving and cutting stones was introduced, it attained
an importance which no other trinket can boast of. Ornamented
with initials, armorial crests, or mystic characters, it has been
used for centuries as a seal for state documents and secret
despatches, a sort of _gage de foi_ of their authenticity.
There are numerous instances in the sacred writings of its
peculiar significance when thus employed. For example, when
Ahasuerus, giving ear to the counsels of his favorite, consented
to exterminate the Jews, it is recorded that "the king took his
ring from his hand, and gave it unto Haman;" and, concerning the
proclamation, "in the name of King Ahasuerus was it written, and
sealed with the king's ring." We also read elsewhere that the den
into which Daniel was thrown was sealed by the king "with his own
signet, and with the signets of his lords, that the purpose might
not be changed concerning Daniel."

It is supposed that the Greeks did not know the ring at the time
of the Trojan war; for Homer does not speak of it, and instead of
sealing, they secured their letters by means of a silken cord.
Although this people encouraged learning and the fine arts, they
do not seem to have possessed that of engraving, which they
borrowed from the Egyptians, who excelled in this branch to a
remarkable degree.

The rage for signets soon became universal, no patrician was
without his ring, and in Rome the engravers were forbidden to
make any two seals alike. In such esteem were they held, that it
is related, when Lucullus visited Alexandria, Ptolemy could find
no more acceptable present to offer him than an emerald, on which
was engraved a portrait of himself. Julius Caesar had on his ring
the image of Venus, armed with a dart; and the seal of Pompey was
a lion holding a sword, while that of Scipio Africanus bore the
portrait of Syphax, the Libyan king whom he had vanquished.

The manner of wearing the signet differed greatly, the Hebrews
preferring to ornament the right hand, the Romans the left. The
Greeks put it on the fourth finger of the left hand, because of
the belief that a nerve connected that member with the heart;
hence the same custom is observed with the wedding-ring.

After the advent of Christianity, it assumed a spiritual as well
as political value, the episcopal ring, as it is called, being
used as a pledge of spiritual marriage between the bishop and the
church.
{131}
This custom is of ancient date, since there is mention in the
proceedings of the fourth Council of Toledo, A.D. 633, that a
bishop condemned for any offence by one council, if found
innocent upon a second trial, should have his ring restored. The
popes also wore seals, and at the present time the revered Father
of the Catholic Church has two--one which he uses to sign
apostolical briefs and private letters, called the _fisherman's
ring,_ representing St. Peter drawing in his net full of
fishes; the other, with which he seals his bulls, is ornamented
with the heads of St. Paul and St. Peter, with a cross between
the two.

The Hebrew used the wedding-ring, though some writer maintains
that it was not a pledge of love, but given in lieu of a piece of
money. It is evident that the Christians adopted the practice in
their marriage rites at an early period, some of the oldest
liturgies containing the vows with regard to it.

Being esteemed in a political and religious sense, it is no
matter of wonder that Cupid's minions have also, from time
immemorial, made the ring a seal of undying constancy, accepting
its circular form as a type of eternity. Thus, Portia, after
bestowing her riches upon Bassanio, says:

         "I give them with this ring;
  Which when you part from, lose, or give away,
  Let it presage the ruin of your love,
  And be my vantage to exclaim on you."

But lovers, not content with the emblem of shape, also added
mottoes, and it became the fashion to engrave verses, names, and
dates within the ring. Alluding to the custom, Hamlet asks, "Is
this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?" And in the last act of
_The Merchant of Venice_, when Portia exclaims:

  "A quarrel, ho, already? What's the matter?"

Gratiano answers:

  "About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring
   That she did give me; whose posy was
   For all the world like cutler's poetry
   Upon a knife--_Love me, and leave me not_."

The wedding-ring of Lady Catharine Grey, sister of Lady Jane
Grey, consisted of five golden links, and on the four inner ones
were these lines of her husband's composition:

  "As circles five by art compact, shewe but one ring in sight,
   So trust uniteth faithfull mindes with knott of secret might;
   Whose force to breake but greedie Death noe wight possesseth power,
   As time and sequels well shall prove. My ringe can say no more."

The famous ring given by Queen Elizabeth to the Earl of Essex is
said to be still extant, and in the possession of Lord John
Thynne, a descendant of Lady Frances Devereux, the earl's
daughter. It is of gold, the sides engraved, with a cameo head of
Elizabeth in a sardonyx setting.

Before ending this paper, I must relate a curious legend, told of
the Emperor Charlemagne, prefacing my story by saying, that in
those times certain precious stones were thought to possess
peculiar virtues which had an influence on the wearers or those
around them. At the court of Charlemagne there lived a woman,
neither young nor handsome, but who appeared to have a wondrous
fascination for the monarch. So potent were her charms, that he
neglected the affairs of his empire, and allowed his sword to
rust. At last, to the great joy of all, the woman died; but
Charlemagne mourned grievously, and even when her body was
prepared for burial, refused to allow it to be carried out of his
sight.
{132}
However, there was in the palace a bishop, learned in the arts,
and acquainted with the superstitions of the time; and one day,
when the king had gone hunting, he resolved to examine the
corpse. His search was successful; for under the woman's tongue
he found a ring, which he immediately secured. On his return from
the chase, the emperor repaired to the room where the body lay;
but instead of lingering near it, he ordered it to be interred,
and seemed to have entirely recovered from the spell that bound
him. That night a ball was given at court; and many a fair cheek
flushed in anticipation of being the choice of Charlemagne in the
dance; but lo! when the music struck up, the emperor stepped
forward and requested the bishop to be his partner. The good
priest, resenting the indignity, escaped from the hall, and
feeling assured that the ring in his possession was the cause of
such conduct, threw it into a lake beneath the palace walls.
Thereupon Charlemagne recovered his senses, but ever after was
devoted to the spot, and built there the town of Aix. Some old
chronicler also asserts that, when the monarch was on his
death-bed, he said that it was impossible for him to depart in
peace from this world until a certain ring was restored to him.
The secret of its hiding-place being revealed, the lake was
dragged and the charm found. Charlemagne received it with many
signs of joy, and requested that it might be buried with him.

For the truth of this legend I do not vouch; but it is averred
that, years afterward, when the tomb of the mighty Frank was
opened, on his breast was found an antique ring.

                  ----------

         In The School-room. [Footnote 25]

    [Footnote 25: _In the School-Room; Chapters in the
    Philosophy of Education._ John S. Hart, LL.D., Principal
    of the New Jersey State Normal School. Eldredge & Brother:
    Philadelphia.

    _The Scientific Basis of Education_, demonstrated by an
    analysis of the temperaments and of phrenological facts, in a
    series of letters to the Department of Public Instruction in
    the city of New York. By John Hecker. Published by the
    Author, 56 Rutgers Street, New York.]


The author of this volume has evidently spent much time in the
school-room, and has not spent it in vain. He writes like a
practical man, in a clear, vigorous style. As he says in his
preface, he takes "a pretty free range over the whole practical
field of inquiry among professional teachers, and presents to us
thoughts suggested in the school-room itself in short, detached
chapters." The work is not a _philosophy_ of education, but
rather a laudable attempt to contribute something toward it.

In the first chapter, on "What is Teaching?" he brings out
forcibly the truth that teaching is not simply telling, nor is
talking to a class necessarily teaching, as experience shows that
a class may be told a thing twenty times over, and talked to in
the most fluent manner, and still make little advancement in
knowledge.

{133}

This truth deserves more attention from those engaged in
teaching. The work of universal education which is required in
our country is so vast, that necessity has forced many to assume
the office of teachers who have very little knowledge of what
teaching is. "Teaching," as the author well says, "is causing one
to know. Now, no one can be made to know a thing but by the act
of his own powers. His own senses, his own memory, his own powers
of reason, perception, and judgment must be exercised. The
function of the teacher is to bring about this exercise of the
pupil's faculties."

The second chapter, on "The Art of Questioning," states that a
"most important and difficult part" of the teacher's art is to
know how to ask a question, but he gives none of the principles
that underlie the art. The earnest reader will say: If so much
depends on skilful questioning, why does he not tell us how to do
it? The little work of J. G. Filch, M.A., on _The Art of
Questioning_ appears to us much more philosophical and
satisfactory. According to him, questions as employed by teachers
may be divided into three classes, according to the purposes
which they may be intended to serve. There is, first, the
_preliminary_ or _experimental_ question, by which an
instructor feels his way, sounds the depths of his pupil's
knowledge, and prepares him for the reception of what it is
designed to teach.

There is, secondly, the question employed in _actual
instruction_, by means of which the thoughts of the learner
are exercised, and he is compelled, so to speak, to take a share
in giving himself the lesson.

Thirdly, there is the question of _examination_, by which a
teacher tests his own work, after he has given a lesson, and
ascertains whether it has been soundly and thoroughly learned. By
this method, as an eminent teacher has said, one first questions
the knowledge into the minds of the children, and then questions
it out of them again.

The following chapters on the order of development of the mental
faculties are very good. We think, however, he lays too much
stress on the necessity of knowledge before memory. The memory,
being strongest and most retentive in youth, should then be
stored with those germinating formulas which will bear fruit in
after life. When the reasoning powers are developed at a later
period, they then have something upon which to act.

The chapters on "Loving the Children" and "Gaining their
Affections" are excellent.

The high salaries paid in our public schools induce many to
engage in teaching, merely because it affords them honorable and
lucrative employment. They have no love for the children, and
are, therefore, unfit for the work. They have no sympathy for the
children of the poor with bright eyes and tattered garments. It
is painful to go into the school of such teachers. They seem to
regard the children as pawns on a chessboard, or as _things_
which they are paid to manage and keep in order. Such teachers
should study well the chapters on loving the children for what
they are in themselves.

He then introduces a chapter on "Phrenology," in which he details
several instances where a professor of phrenology, as he says,
was misled, and gave an incorrect delineation of character. We
suppose he wishes us to conclude, phrenology is therefore a
humbug. But such an inference is evidently unwarranted from any
_data_ he has given.
{134}
One might as well say that several instances of malpractice on
the part of physicians prove the science of medicine to be a
humbug. There is no doubt that, by phrenology, physiognomy, and
various temperamental peculiarities, a person's general character
and disposition may be discerned. The wise teacher will study
these, that he may intelligently vary his government and teaching
to suit the various characters of the pupils under his charge.

The work of Mr. John Hecker on _The Scientific Basis of
Education_ shows to how great an extent a knowledge of
phrenology and of the different temperaments may assist the
teacher in the instruction and government of children. His work
is worthy the attention of every teacher.

The chapters on "Normal Schools" and "Practice Teaching" are
important. It by no means follows that, because a person knows a
thing, he is therefore prepared to teach.

The art of communicating one's knowledge to others is quite a
distinct acquirement.

No one who has compared the results obtained by teachers who have
been trained for the work with those who have not can fail to
appreciate this. We hope the time will come when all who occupy
the position of teachers will be required to attend to this
matter, and keep pace with the progress made in the art of
teaching.

The chapter on cultivating a habit of attention should be studied
by every teacher.

The freaks into which an uncultivated ear may be led for the want
of attention will be best illustrated by one of the author's
examples. A class at the high-school was required to copy a
passage from dictation. The clause,

  "Every breach of veracity indicates some latent vice,"

appeared with the following variations:

   Every breach of veracity indicates some latent vice.
   Every bridge of rasality indicates some latest vice.
   Every breech of ferocity indicates some latinet vice.
   Every preach of erracity indicates some late device.
   Every branch of vivacity indicates some great advice.
   Every branch of veracity indicates some late advice.
   Every branch of veracity indicates some ladovice.
   Every branch of veracity indicates some ladened vice.
   Every branch of veracity in the next some latent vice.
   Every reach of their ascidity indicates some advice.

Every one who is called upon to give out "notices" or to speak in
public knows full well how great a portion of what is said in the
plainest manner is misapprehended for the want of this habit of
attention.

The volume closes with a lengthy "Argument for Common Schools."
It would be more properly called an "apology." His first point
is, "that without common schools we cannot maintain permanently
our popular institutions." The necessity of universal education
to secure the permanence of our popular institutions is conceded
by all. But education, according to the author's own definition,
is the "developing in due order and proportion whatever is good
and desirable in human nature." Therefore, not only the
intellect, but also the moral and religious nature must be
developed. This the common schools fail to do.

A man is not necessarily a good citizen because he is
intelligent, without he also possesses moral integrity. According
to the author's own admission, his education is incomplete. As
the public schools fail to give any moral training, they fail to
make reliable citizens, and are therefore insufficient to secure
the permanence of our democratic form of government.

To this objection he replies "that many of the teachers are
professing Christians, and exert a continual Christian
influence." But many more are non-professors, and exert an
anti-christian influence.

{135}

In visiting schools, we have been able to tell the religious
_status_ of the teachers in charge by the general tone of
the exercises. One presided over by a zealous Methodist resembled
a Methodist Sunday-school or conference meeting. Another, under
the care of a "smart young man," delighted in love songs, boating
songs, etc., and had the general tone of a young folks'
glee-club. In another of our most celebrated public schools, one
of the professors was an atheist, and it was a matter of common
remark among the boys that Prof. ---- said there was no God.

In another, one of the teachers was overheard sneering at a child
because she believed in our Lord Jesus Christ, and had a
reverence for religious things. We admit that the familiar
intercourse and intimate relations of the teachers with the
children give them a great influence over their plastic minds,
but, to our sorrow, we know that it is not always for good. We do
not, therefore, consider it a recommendation of a system to say
that the moral tone of its teaching depends altogether on the
caprice and character of the different teachers it happens to
employ.

Again, he says the law of trial by jury requires that every
citizen should be intelligent, as they are thus called to take
part in the administration of justice. True; but it requires much
more that jurymen should possess moral principle. What makes
courts of justice so often a mockery, but the want of principle
and of conscience in those who administer the law? If his estate,
life, or reputation depended on the decision of twelve men, would
he feel easy if he knew them to be unprincipled, immoral men,
open to bribery and corruption, however intelligent they might
be? No; the constitution of our government, the popular
institutions of our country, require that here, more than in any
country of the world, the young should receive a sound moral and
religious training, which cannot be done where, as here, religion
is excluded from our common schools.

But, he says, the children attend the Sunday-school, which
supplements the instructions of the weekday-school. True; but
every earnest pastor who has any positive creed or doctrine to
teach his children will tell you that one or two brief meetings
on Sunday are not enough for this purpose. We ourselves are
forced to the painful conclusion that the Sunday-school system
does not give sufficient control over the children to form in
them any earnest Christian character. It is like reserving the
salt which should season our food during the week, and taking it
all in a dose on Sunday.

The Sunday-school should be diligently used to supply, as far as
may be, the lack of religious instruction in the common schools,
but that it alone is inadequate to this purpose is shown by the
constantly increasing number of our young who follow not the
footsteps of their parents in the ways of a Christian life.

The author then, changing his base, argues that intellectual
education alone tends to prevent sensuality and crime, and
adduces statistics to show that the majority of convicts in our
prisons are from the uneducated class. But if he attended to
other statistics recently brought to light by Rev. Dr. Todd, Dr.
Storer, of Boston, and others, he would discover that sensuality,
_only more refined_, is permeating American society, and
that hidden crime is depopulating some of the fairest portions of
our land. It is true, perhaps, that those crimes which are taken
cognizance of by the police courts may be more numerous among the
uneducated, but it is those secret crimes against God and the
moral law that corrupt society and endanger a nation's life.

{136}

In New England, which the author holds up as the ideal of what
the common-school system can produce, physicians testify that
immorality and hidden crime prevail to such an extent that the
native American stock is literally dying out, the number of
deaths far exceeding the number of births. Intellectual culture
_alone_ will not preserve American society from corruption,
any more than it did pagan Greece and Rome.

The author seems to feel the force of this objection, which, as
he says, "is urged with seriousness by men whose purity of motive
is above question, and whose personal character gives great
weight to their opinions," and admits that "religious teaching
does not hold that prominent position in the course of study that
it should hold; but he seems forced, like many of his
fellow-educators whom we have known, to argue and apologize for
the common-school system, because they see no way of securing
universal education and at the same time providing for proper
religious training. If they turn, however, to the educational
systems of France, Austria, or Prussia, they would find the
problem solved. Even in Canada, the British Parliament has
avoided by its provisions those serious errors under which we
labor, and which are making our system daily more and more
unpopular.

By "An Act to restore to Roman Catholics in Upper Canada certain
rights in respect to Separate Schools," passed May 5th, 1863,
they provided that "the Roman Catholic separate schools shall be
entitled to a share in the fund annually granted by the
legislature of the province for the support of common-schools,
and shall be entitled also to a share in all other public grants,
investments, and allotments for common-school purposes now made
or hereafter to be made by the municipal authorities, according
to the average number of pupils attending such school as compared
with the whole average number of pupils attending schools in the
same city, town, village, or township." (Cap. 5, sec. 20.)

And also that "the Roman Catholic separate schools (with their
registers) shall be subject to such inspection as may be directed
from time to time by the chief superintendent of public
instruction." (Cap. 5, sec. 26.)

Let our separate schools that have been and may be established,
in which the children receive a proper religious training,
receive their due proportion of the public fund, and by the
inspection of a board of education be kept up to the highest
standard of secular learning, and the grievances under which we
now suffer will be removed.

            ----------

{137}

            From the German

           The Holy Grayle.


      "'Here on the rushes will I sleep,
  And perchance there may come a vision true,
    Ere day create the world anew.'
        Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim,
        Slumber fell like a cloud on him,
        And into his soul the vision flew."

                                  Lowell.

Sir Launcelot Du Lac--without his peer of earthly, sinful
man--had taken the Quest of the Holy Grayle. One deadly sin
gnawed at the heart of the flower of chivalry; but a mighty
sorrow struggled with and subdued his remorse, and a holy hermit
assoiled him of his sin. With purified and strengthened heart, he
won his way to a sight of that wondrous vessel, the object of so
many knightly vows. It stood on a table of silver veiled with red
samite. A throng of angels stood about it. One held a wax light
and another the holy cross. A light like that of a thousand
torches filled the house. Sir Launcelot heard a voice cry,
"Approach not!" but for very wonder and thankfulness he forgot
the command. He pressed toward the Holy Grayle with outstretched
hands, and cried, "O most fair and sweet Lord! which art here
within this holy vessel, for thy pity, show me something of that
I seek." A breath, as from a fiery furnace, smote him sorely in
the face. He fell to the ground, and lay for the space of four
and twenty days seemingly dead to the eyes of all the people. But
in that swoon marvels that no tongue can tell and no heart
conceive passed before his face. ...

The history of the wondrous vessel was in a measure made known to
him. His purified eyes saw in the dim past a long line of
patriarchs and prophets, who had been entrusted with this sacred
charge almost from the beginning of time. The San Greal was
revealed to his ardent gaze:

First: in the hands of white-robed men, who met Noah as he went
in, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons' wives, with him
into the ark, bearing with him the bones of Adam--great
Progenitor. Its origin and history were revealed to Noah, and
that it was destined to be used in the most mysterious of rites.

Next: Abraham was standing before an altar on a hillock in the
valley of Jehoshaphat. His flocks were grazing around or drinking
from the brook Cedron: his camels and beasts of burden and armed
servants in the distance. The patriarch, flushed with victory,
stood as if in awe and expectation. Majestic, white-winged
Melchizedek came from Salem. His tall, slender frame was full of
tempered majesty. He wore a garment of dazzling whiteness,
confined by a girdle on which were embroidered characters of
mystic import. His long hair was fair and glossy as silk; his
beard white, short, and pointed. His face shone with divine
splendor. A holy calm seemed diffused in the air around him. He
bore in his hands the holy vessel handed down from Noah. He
placed it upon the altar, behind which rose three clouds of
smoke; the one in the midst rose higher than the other two. On
the altar lay the bones of Adam--long after buried beneath the
great altar of Calvary--and both prayed God to fulfil the promise
he had made to Adam of one day sending the great Deliverer who
would bruise the serpent's head.
{138}
The priest of the most high God then took bread and wine--
emblems of the great Eucharistic Sacrifice--raised them toward
heaven, and blessed them, and gave thereof to Abraham and his
servants, but tasted not thereof himself. They who ate of this
bread and drank of this wine seemed strengthened and devoutly
inspired thereby. And Melchizedek blessed Abraham, and said:
"Blessed be Abram by the most high God, who created heaven and
earth." And he renewed to him the promise that in him should all
the families of the earth be blessed.

The San Greal seemed, in the vision, left with Abraham as a
pledge of that promise, and afterward, was carried down into
Egypt by the children of Israel. Moses took it with him when he
fled to the land of Midian, and was using it for some mysterious
oblation on Mount Horeb, when the Lord appeared to him in a flame
of fire out of the burning bush.

Sir Launcelot saw the vessel long after in the temple of
Jerusalem among other precious objects of antiquity; its use and
origin nearly forgotten. Only a few remembered its strange
history, and _felt_, rather than knew, that it yet awaited
its most glorious use. Its holy guardians had always watched over
its safety with jealous care, until the abomination of desolation
entered the holy place. But a divine Eye seemed to watch over it.
At the institution of the Mass, it was in the possession of a
holy woman, since known as Veronica--her who took off her veil
to wipe the dust and sweat and blood from the divine face of
suffering Jesus, which was left thereon so miraculously
imprinted. Veronica brought the vessel to the disciples of Jesus
to be used at the Last Supper.

The Holy Grayle revealed to the astonished eyes of Sir Launcelot
was composed of two parts, the cup and the foot. The cup alone
had been handed down from the time of the holy patriarchs. Its
very form was wonderful and significant, and its composition
mysterious. Jesus alone knew what it was. It was dark, compact,
and perhaps of vegetable origin. It was covered and lined with
gold, and on it were two handles.

The foot of the chalice, added at a later period, was of virgin
gold, wrought with the skill of a cunning workman. It was
ornamented with a serpent and a bunch of grapes, and gleamed with
precious stones.

The whole chalice rested on a silver tablet, surrounded by six
smaller ones. These six cups had belonged to different
patriarchs, who drank therefrom a strange liquor on certain
solemn occasions. They were used by the holy apostles at the Last
Supper, each cup serving for two persons. (These cups Sir
Launcelot saw belonging afterward to different Christian
churches, where they were held in great reverence.) The Holy
Grayle stood before our blessed Lord. ... Let not sinful hand
depict the vision of that unbloody sacrifice, so clearly revealed
to the adoring eyes of Sir Launcelot, and so affectingly told in
Holy Writ. ...

The San Greal, fashioned with mysterious care for the most
mysterious of oblations, and handed down from remote antiquity by
righteous men, to whom it was the pledge of a solemn covenant,
was henceforth to be the object of the veneration of the
Christian world. Only the pure in heart could guard it. Angels
with loving reverence folded their wings around what contained
most precious Blood. Its presence conferred a benediction on the
land in which it was preserved.

{139}

Sir Launcelot saw afterward the hand that came from heaven right
to the holy grayle and bare it away. But a comforting voice told
him that it should reappear on the earth, though for him the
quest was ended.

At the end of four and twenty days, Sir Launcelot awoke. The
vision had passed away, but the place was filled with the
sweetest odors, as if of Paradise. Wondering thereat, he cried:
"I thank God of his infinite mercy for that I have seen, for it
comforteth me." And he rose up and went to Camelot, where he
found King Arthur and many of the Knights of the Round Table, to
whom he related all that had befallen him.

            ----------

        New Publications.

  Lives Of The English Cardinals;
  Including Historical Notices
  Of The Papal Court, From Nicholas
  Breakspear (Pope Adrian Iv.)
  To Thomas Wolsey, Cardinal Legate.
  By Folkestone Williams, author of, etc., etc.
  Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co.
  1868. 2 vols. 8vo, pp. 484, 543.

Wonders will never cease. A few years since, the present pope,
willing to do honor to a great nation, conferred on one of its
subjects the highest dignity in his gift. The new cardinal was a
man honored alike in England and America for his learning and
ability, as well as for his never departing from the strict line
of his priestly and episcopal functions. One would have supposed
that the English government and people would have felt flattered,
and that the English sovereign, who is queen not only of certain
Protestant Englishmen, but of a mass of Catholic subjects who
cannot number much less than twenty millions, would, while
thanking his holiness, have hinted that her twenty millions
should have more than one representative in the Sacred College.
Instead of this sensible course, a period of insanity
ensued--England frothed, England foamed, England grew rabid.

To judge by this book, England is actually becoming sane. The
author seems to feel that England is slighted because she has no
cardinal. "There has recently been a creation of cardinals, and,
though some disappointment may have been caused by the omission
of an eminent English name from those so honored, the
extraordinary claims of one of the most active of Roman Catholic
prelates are not likely to be overlooked by so discriminating a
pontiff as Pio Nono."

Mr. Williams here, in two goodly octavos, gives the lives of the
English cardinals, from Robert le Poule to Wolsey, as he
conceives it; and a rapid examination of the whole, and careful
scrutiny of portions, leads us to the judgment that seldom has a
work been attempted by a man so utterly unfitted for the task. As
though his proper task did not afford him a field sufficiently
large, he gives an introduction of eighty pages on the Papacy,
the Anglo-Saxon Church, and the Anglo-Norman Church. The whole
history of the church down to the Reformation is thus treated of,
and to the mighty undertaking he brings only the usual
superficial reading of our time, with a more than ordinary amount
of religious flippancy, and false and prejudiced views of
Catholic dogma, practice, polity, and life. There is not a silly
slander against the church that he does not adopt and give, with
all the gravity imaginable, as undisputed fact, not even deigning
to quote vaguely any of his second-hand authorities or modern
treatises, while, to make a parade of his learning, he gives us a
four-line note in Greek to support his opinion as to a
topographical question as immaterial to the history of the
English cardinals as a discussion on the Zulu language would be.
As instances of his utter unfitness, we might refer to his
treatment of such points as St. Gregory VII., Pope Joan, and the
institution of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.

{140}

What his own religious stand-point may be is not easily decided.
He lays down (p. 146) that Christ's divinity is his humanity;
that the idea of the Good Shepherd, put forward by our Lord and
ever deemed so typical of him, was of pagan origin, (p. 8,) and,
from the note on the same page, that the church, as founded by
Christ, was a grand failure. He maintains, too, that the
Christianity, as introduced into England, was and is only the old
paganism, the names of the days of the week settling the
question, (p. 24.) On one point only he seems clear and positive,
and this is, that on general principles popes must always be
wrong, and that to deny anything they lay down must be
pre-eminently right.

As a specimen of his style, take the following: "The Good
Shepherd was the recognized emblem of the divine Founder of their
religion, but as the community enlarged it required a human
director." We are left in doubt whether this community of
primitive Christians required this human director as a new
emblem, or a new founder, or a new religion. He proceeds: "He who
by his superior sanctity gained authority as well as admiration
was invested with that character. His flock became a church, and
he undertook its spiritual management in the capacity of
presbyter." This is a very pretty fable, but he fails to give us
any authority. An expression of our Lord shows that church
authority began at the other end: "_Non vos me elegistis; sed
ego elegi vos, et posui vos ut eatis,_" "You did not elect me,
(your God and Redeemer,) but I picked you out and set you up to
go and teach." And they did go and did teach, and such as
listened to their teaching and became their disciples became
Christians with human directors from the outset.

During the period covered properly by these volumes, from the
beginning of the twelfth to that of the fifteenth centuries,
England had comparatively few cardinals; English kings seemed to
have cared little to exercise any influence on papal councils,
and never sought to obtain for an English prince an honor given
to members of many reigning families. The English cardinals whose
names at once suggest themselves are Cardinal Nicholas
Breakspear, (subsequently Pope Adrian IV.,) Cardinal Stephen
Langton, Cardinal Beaufort, and Cardinal Wolsey. Of all except
the first, the general idea in men's minds is drawn less from
history than from Shakespeare. Of these especially, really
well-written lives, with sketches of the less known and less
important English cardinals, would indeed be a valuable addition;
but such Mr. Williams's book certainly is not.

In beginning his life of Adrian IV., he quotes Matthew of Paris,
who makes him son of Robert de Camera, said by William of
Newburgh to have been a poor scholar; then cites Camden's
statement that he was born at Langley, near St. Alban's; but he
slips in a charge, hunted up in the filth of the wretched Bale,
that he was illegitimate; as though the assertion of such a man,
in the most virulent stage of the Reformation abuse, could be
authority as to a fact of a period so long past. Even Fuller, as
he admits, with all his readiness to belittle the papacy, only
"insinuates that he was an illegitimate son." Yet Mr. Williams,
on the assertion of a Bale and the insinuation of a Fuller, says,
"There is reason to believe that he was the natural son of a
_priest_," and on this supposition he proceeds to erect his
whole superstructure.

From such a writer no book can emanate that any man can read who
does not wilfully wish to be misled.

          -----
{141}

  Goethe And Schiller.
  An Historical Romance.
  By L. Mühlbach, author of "Joseph II. and his Court,"
  "Frederick the Great and his Court,"
  "The Empress Josephine,"
  "Andreas Hofer," etc., etc.
  Translated from the German by Chapman Coleman.
  Illustrated by Gaston Fay.
  New York: D. Appleton & Co. Pp. 283. 1868.

A careful perusal of this, the author's latest production, has
not caused us to modify, in the slightest degree, the opinion
heretofore expressed in these pages concerning the volumes
comprising what is now known as the Mühlbach series of historical
romances. That they are ably written we admitted then, and we are
not now disposed to deny. But this, their only merit, in our
judgment, can be claimed equally as well for many literary works
which no prudent father, no careful mother, would dream of
keeping within reach of, much less of placing in the hands of,
their guileless offspring. Illicit love, in some instances
covered by a thin veil of Platonism, the intrigues of courtiers,
duplicity and meanness, are the pivotal points on which the
incidents principally turn. For these and similar offences
against morality, the author has no word of censure, while as for
the _dramatis personae_, their _virtuous_ indignation,
when given utterance to, is always directed against the criminal
and not the crime. In fine, we look upon these as books by which
not a single person can become better or more enlightened, while
very many will rise from their perusal worse than before.

         -----

  Father Cleveland; Or, The Jesuit.
  By the authoress of "Life in the Cloister,"
  "Grace O'Halloran," "The Two Marys," etc., etc.
  Boston: P. Donahoe. Pp. 178. 1868.

An affecting tale, founded on fact. The main incident, the
heroine withering beneath the breath of calumny and finally dying
of a broken heart, truly depicts the fatal consequences too often
resulting from the sin of slander. The scene is laid in England,
Ireland, and the New World. The incidents being principally
descriptive of the fallen fortunes of the Desmonds, the sad
reverses of Squire Cleveland, and the untimely fate of the
amiable heroine, give a rather sombre tone to the narrative,
which is somewhat relieved, however, by the filial affection of
Aileen Desmond, the quaint humor of Pat Magrath, and the
unaffected piety and zealous ministrations of Father Cleveland,
the good Jesuit.

         -----

  Outlines Of Ancient And Modern History.
  Illustrated by numerous Geographical and
  Historical Notes and Maps.
  Embracing: Part I. Ancient History.
  Part II. Modern History.
  By Marcius Willson.
  School Edition.
  Published by Ivison, Phinney & Co., New-York.

Messrs. Ivison, Phinney & Co. are among the most extensive
publishers of school books in the United States. They are the
publishers of Sanders's series of Union Readers, Robinson's
Arithmetics and Mathematical Works, Kerl's Grammars, and many
other school publications. All of these are largely used in our
Catholic institutions, and extensively used in the public schools
all over the country. At present we will confine our remarks to
the _Outlines of Ancient and Modern History_ at the head of
this notice. We are fully satisfied that any candid, intelligent,
fair-minded reader of this misnamed history, after the most
cursory examination, would pronounce its introduction into the
schools of the country as highly calculated to mislead such as
should rely on its statements, and corrupt such as should adopt
its principles. In note I, p. 332, he tells us that the
"Albigenses is a name given to several heretical sects in the
South of France, who agreed in opposing the dominion of the Roman
hierarchy, and in endeavoring to restore the simplicity of
ancient Christianity," and that "the creed of the unfortunates
had been extinguished in blood." The Protestant historian,
Mosheim, speaking of these "unfortunates," says that "their
shocking violation of decency was a consequence of their
pernicious system.
{142}
They looked upon decency and modesty as marks of inward
corruption. Certain enthusiasts among them maintained that the
believer could not sin, let his conduct be ever so horrible and
atrocious." (Murdock's Mosheim, note, vol. ii. b. iii. p. 256.
[Footnote 26])

    [Footnote 26: This note was omitted in the English
    translation.]

But our object is not to refute or expose its inconsistencies,
contradictions, misrepresentations, falsehoods, and calumnies, as
the book, left to itself, is far below our notice. But the case
is different when Messrs. Ivison, Phinney & Co. set their
machinery in motion for introducing this SCHOOL-BOOK into all the
schools in the country, send their agents from school to school
soliciting their introduction, and advertise in school
publications throughout the country that "this _History_ has
an extensive circulation, has received the highest
recommendations from hundreds of presidents and professors of
colleges, principals of academies, seminaries, and high-schools."
It is these powerful and, we are sorry to say, successful efforts
that have caused us to take any notice whatever of this
demoralizing book; for left to itself it would be of very little
consequence. In the same page from which we have already quoted,
p. 332, the author assents that "the avarice of Pope Leo X. was
equal to the credulity of the Germans; and billets of salvation,
or indulgences professing to remit the punishments due to sins,
even before the commission of the contemplated crime, were sold
by thousands among the German peasantry." And then he goes on to
tell us that Luther bitterly inveighed against the traffic in
indulgences, and that he was a man of high reputation for
sanctity and learning. Here the author is so anxious to falsify
the Catholic doctrine of indulgence, and to blacken the character
of Leo X., that he goes so far as to slander and misrepresent
even his idol, Martin Luther. For Luther did not inveigh against
the pope for the sale of indulgences, or ever say that an
indulgence was a pardon for sin past, present, or to come. It was
left for his followers to coin this falsehood, and it is a
slander on Luther to accuse him of the fabrication. He has enough
to account for without charging him with what he is not guilty
of; and he knew and taught while a Catholic priest that an
indulgence does not pardon sin, and that a person in mortal sin
cannot gain an indulgence. We may return to Willson's
_Histories_ again, for he has written others besides the one
referred to, and all in the same strain; but we trust we have
said enough to draw the attention of our readers to the character
of the work, and we hope that neither the solicitations of
agents, nor the high-sounding recommendations of interested
parties in its favor, will prevent them from opposing its
introduction into our schools, public and private, and preventing
its introduction whenever they can. Count de Maistre has
testified that history, for the last three hundred years, is a
grand conspiracy against truth; and although the Willsons and
their tribe are still numerous, active, and powerful, the
progress of the age warns them that they cannot delude the
public.

         -----

  1. The Complete Poetical Works Of Robert Burns,
  with Explanatory Notes, and a life of the author.
  By James Currie, M.D.

  2. The Poetical Works Of John Milton.
  To which is prefixed a Biography of
  the author, by his nephew, Edward Phillips.

  3. The Monastery And Heart Of Mid-Lothian.
  By Sir Walter Scott, Bart. Paper.

  4. Mr. Midshipman Easy.
  By Captain Marryatt. Paper.

  5. The Life And Adventures Of Nicholas Nickleby,
  Martin Chuzzlewit And American Notes.
  By Charles Dickens.
  New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1868.

We give above the titles of six different works, by well-known
authors, new editions of whose writings are now being reprinted,
in a cheap and popular form, by the Messrs. Appleton. As long as
the majority of people will read little else than fiction, we are
glad to see the Messrs. Appleton give them such works as Walter
Scott's and Charles Dickens's, for the trifle of twenty-five
cents a volume. They are certainly remarkably cheap, and if this
will have the effect, even in a slight degree, to make the youth
of the country turn from the sickly trash of newspaper stories,
and read these instead, the Messrs. Appleton will have done good
for the rising generation. If we are to have cheap literature
spread broadcast over the land, it is better to have such works
as those of Scott, Dickens, etc., than the dime novel and the
weekly-paper stuff now so widely prevalent.

          -----

{143}

  Modern Women And What Is Said Of Them.
  A reprint of a series of articles in the Saturday Review.
  With an introduction by Mrs. Lucia Gilbert Calhoun.
  New York: J. S. Redfield. Pp. 371. 1868.

This volume contains thirty-seven articles on modern woman in her
various phases. That they are, in a certain sense, ably written,
it is needless to assert; and as the majority of them have been
extensively copied on this side of the Atlantic, it may be
equally unnecessary to state that, as regards the subject under
discussion, they are generally denunciatory. Hence we are at a
loss to understand what could induce one of the sex attacked to
take upon herself the ungracious task of a compiler, even with
the opportunity of self-vindication afforded by the introduction.
Perhaps, however, this advocate of woman's rights acts on the
principle that even kicks and cuffs are better than being
entirely ignored.

-----

  Alton Park; Or, Conversations On Religious And Moral Subjects.
  Chiefly designed for the amusement
  and instruction of young ladies.
  New edition. Philadelphia: Eugene Cummiskey. Pp. 408.

_Alton Park_ is so well and favorably known to Catholics,
that praise at our hands and at this late day is supererogatory.
We must, however, compliment the publisher for the very handsome
style in which he has brought out this volume.

-----

  A Pysche Of To-day.
  By Mrs. C. Jenkin, author of "Who breaks pays,"
  "Skirmishing," "Once and Again," "Cousin Stella."
  New York: Leypoldt & Holt. Pp. 280. 1868.

This tale represents to us certain aspects of Parisian life,
which are interesting, not as always exciting pleasurable
emotions, but as being evidently drawn from life. The story is
told in a pleasing, unaffected manner, and the main incidents are
only too probable.

         -----

  Logic For Young Ladies.
  Translated from the French of Victor Doublet,
  Professor of Belles-Lettres.
  New York: P. O'Shea. Pp. 148. 1868.

An excellent text-book; clear, simple, comprehensive. We would
suggest, however, in order that its sphere of usefulness may not
be even apparently circumscribed, that the title for the next
edition read, not "Logic for Young Ladies," but "Logic for the
Young."

         -----

  Academic Edition. A Dictionary Of The English Language,
  explanatory, pronouncing, etymological and synonymous. With an
  appendix, containing various useful tables. Mainly abridged
  from the latest edition of the quarto dictionary of Noah
  Webster, LL.D.
  By William G. Webster and William A. Wheeler.
  Illustrated with more than three hundred
  and fifty engravings on wood.
  Pp. xxxii. 560. 1868.

  A High-school Dictionary Of The English Language, explanatory,
  pronouncing, and synonymous. With an appendix containing
  various useful tables. Mainly abridged from the latest edition
  of the quarto dictionary of Noah Webster, LL.D. By William G.
  Webster and William A. Wheeler. Illustrated with more than
  three hundred engravings on wood.
  Pp. xxiv. 415. 1868.

{144}

  A Common-school Dictionary Of The English Language,
  explanatory, pronouncing, and synonymous.
  With an appendix containing various useful tables.
  Mainly abridged from the latest edition of the American
  dictionary of Noah Webster, LL.D., by William G. Webster
  and William A. Wheeler.
  Illustrated with nearly 250 engravings on wood.
  Pp. xix. 400. 1868.

  A Primary-school Dictionary Of The English Language,
  explanatory, pronouncing, and synonymous.
  With an appendix containing various useful tables.
  Mainly abridged from the latest edition of the
  American dictionary of Noah Webster, LL.D., by
  William G. Webster and William A. Wheeler.
  Illustrated with more than 200 engravings on wood.
  Pp. xii. 352. 1868.

  A Pocket Dictionary Of The English Language;
  abridged from the American dictionary of Noah Webster, LL.D.
  Prefixed is a collection of words, phrases, mottoes, etc., in
  Latin and French, with translations in English.
  William G. Webster, editor.
  Pp. iv. 249. 1868.

  The Army And Navy Pocket Dictionary.
  By William G. Webster.
  Pp. iv. 319. 1868.

The peculiar claims of these books to professional and popular
patronage are so fully set forth in the titles prefixed, that it
only remains for us to say that we heartily recommend them to
teachers and others, as among the best dictionaries of their
class now before the public. They are published by Ivison,
Phinney, Blakeman & Co., New York.

         -----

The "Catholic Publication Society" has in press

  _The Holy Communion:
  its Philosophy, Theology, and Practice_.
  By John Bernard Dalgairns, Priest
  of the Oratory of St. Philip Neri.

  A new edition of the _Illustrated History of Ireland_, by
  a member of the Poor Clares, Kenmare, Ireland, and sold for the
  benefit of that community. This edition will have additional
  engravings, and over 100 pages more matter than the first
  edition. It will also contain a chapter on the Irish in
  America. The work will be ready about October 15th. Canvassers
  are wanted to sell it in the country.

              -----

         Books Received.

From THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY, New York:

  Symbolism.
  By John Adam Moehler, D.D.
  1 vol. crown 8vo, pp. 504. Price, $4.

  The Illustrated Catholic Sunday-School Library
  Second series. 12 vols. in box, $6 per box.

From PATRICK DONAHOE, Boston:

  The works of Rev. Arthur O'Leary, O.S.F.
  Edited by a Clergyman of Massachusetts,
  1 vol. 8vo, pp. 596. Price, $2.

           --------------------

{145}

           The Catholic World

      Vol. VIII., No. 44--November, 1868.

               ----------

         The Church of The Future.


The phrase which forms the title to this article does not
originate with us. We find it floating in the columns of various
recent periodicals. Our attention is especially directed to it,
as the expression of a definite idea, in a late number of the
_Galaxy_, and by an editorial in the _Churchman_ for
the 25th of July of the present year. From these we gather that,
in the opinion of certain modern prophets, some one of the
existing Protestant denominations is destined to achieve
pre-eminence over all the rest, and, gathering into its single
fold the population of America, become the "Church of the Future"
in our land.

The author of the article in the _Galaxy_ writes in the
interest of Methodism. In its past successes and its present
characteristics he beholds an omen of its ultimate supremacy over
all other Christian bodies, if not over infidelity and
rationalism itself. The _Churchman_, on the contrary, claims
the laurels of this future victory for Protestant
Episcopalianism--predicting that, through its inconsistency with
republican institutions, the influence of the Catholic Church
must eventually be destroyed; that Presbyterianism, being a
growth of but three hundred years, and never yet attaining, or
likely to attain to, the _semper, et ubique, et ab omnibus_
of mature and stalwart age, must soon decay; that Methodism,
having lost its pure vitality when it departed from the sacred
unity of "_Mother Church_" can never meet the needs of
coming generations; he thence concludes, that the diminutive
society once called the "_Protestant Episcopal_" but now
rejoicing in the title of the "_Reformed Catholic_" Church,
is to absorb into its bosom the teeming millions of this country,
and become the guide and teacher of the Western continent.

{146}

The expections of these dreamers are well calculated to provoke a
smile. While the great fact remains uncontradicted that the
united strength of Protestant Christendom has failed to check the
spread of irreligion in the bosom of modern society, while nearly
every one of its denominations is struggling to maintain its
present spiritual powers, it seems a time for humiliation rather
than for boasting, for prayer and labor rather than for triumph.
Far be it from us to discourage Christian hope, or snatch away
from Christian zeal the vision of those future glories to which
it should aspire. But the impression is strong upon our mind that
such "_castles in the air_" as those to which we have
referred, imply worse than time wasted in their building, and
manifest an increase of that indolent consciousness of strength
which, in communities as well as individuals, is the forerunner
of a swift decay.

With this remark, we leave the thoughts suggested by the advocate
of Methodism, and pass on to discuss the question raised by the
assumptions of the _Churchman_, namely:

Whether the Protestant Episcopal Church is destined to attain
pre-eminence over the other sects of Christendom in this country,
and become the church of the future people of America?

This question is susceptible both of a divine and human answer.
It may be said that the Protestant Episcopal Church is the true
Church of God, and therefore that its ultimate supremacy, not
only here but everywhere, is certain. It may be also said that,
as its internal structure and external operations are such as
will adapt it to control and harmonize the elements of which
American society is now and will hereafter be composed, so is it
likely to attain the relative position which its advocates with
so much assurance claim, and to wear the crown which already
glitters in their dazzled eyes. Together these two answers stand
or fall; for, if the Protestant Episcopal Church be the true
church of God, then must it, _ex necessitate rei_, be
adapted to control and harmonize, not only the society of this
age and country, but the societies of every other age and clime;
and, _vice versa_, if it be adapted to control and unify the
faith, and, through the faith, the acts and lives of men, then
must it also, _ex necessitate rei_, be the church of God.

The writer of the _Churchman_ appears to us to have chosen
the former method of reply. He says:

  "Our own church is to be the church of the future in our
  country. It is a church of apostolic constitution and
  derivation, with a pure, uncorrupted faith, with a duly
  authorized ministry, with the word and sacraments of the
  gospel, and, with and through these, the dispensation of the
  supernatural grace of God, without which everything else would
  be but ineffectual words and forms. Whatever may be alleged of
  others, it cannot be denied that all this is true of our
  church. We do not find it to be true, in all particulars, of
  any church in the land but ours."

The two syllogisms of which this allegation forms a part, seem to
be logically complete as follows:

(1.) The true church of God will be the church of the future in
our country.

The church, which is alone of apostolic constitution and
derivation, with a pure and uncorrupted faith, a duly authorized
ministry, the word and sacraments of the gospel, and, with and
through these, the dispensation of the supernatural grace of God,
is the true church of God.

_Ergo_, The church, which is alone of apostolic constitution
and derivation, with a pure and uncorrupted faith, a duly
authorized ministry, the word and sacraments of the gospel, and,
with and through these, the dispensation of the supernatural
grace of God, will be the church of the future in our country.

{147}

(2.) The church, which is alone of apostolic constitution and
derivation, with a pure and uncorrupted faith, a duly authorized
ministry, the word and sacraments of the gospel, and, with and
through these, the dispensation of the supernatural grace of God,
will be the church of the future in our country.

The Protestant Episcopal Church is alone of apostolic
constitution and derivation, with a pure and uncorrupted faith, a
duly authorized ministry, the word and sacraments of the gospel,
and, with and through these, the dispensation of the supernatural
grace of God.

_Ergo_, The Protestant Episcopal Church will be the church
of the future in our country.

With both the premises and the conclusion of the former syllogism
we presume that nearly every Christian, Catholic or Protestant,
will heartily agree. But we believe the conclusion of the second
to be erroneous, and its fallacy we find in what we conceive to
be the utter falsehood of its minor premiss, as a simple matter
of fact. We know that the writer says: "Whatever may be alleged
of others, it cannot be denied that all this is true of our
church." But, whether it can or cannot, it most certainly
_is_ denied. We here deny it. We deny the apostolic
constitution and derivation of the Protestant Episcopal Church.
We deny that she holds a pure, uncorrupted faith. We deny that
she has a duly authorized ministry. We deny that she possesses
the word and sacraments of the gospel. We deny that through that
ministry, that faith, that word, those sacraments, [Footnote 27]
she retains the dispensation of the supernatural grace of God.
And, in support of our denial, we point to Holy Scripture, to the
unanimous tradition of the fathers, to the vast treasures of
historical and theological learning which have accumulated in the
past eighteen hundred years, and to the united voice of the holy
Catholic Church throughout the entire world.

    [Footnote 27: Except baptism.]

Nor only we. In our own country these bold assertions, and the
extravagant pretensions which are based upon them, are also
constantly denied. Two million Methodists deny them. One million
six hundred and ninety thousand Baptists deny them. Seven hundred
thousand Presbyterians deny them. Six hundred thousand
Universalists deny them. Three hundred and twenty-three thousand
eight hundred Lutherans deny them. Two hundred and sixty-seven
thousand four hundred Congregationalists deny them. Of the one
hundred and sixty-one thousand two hundred Episcopalians, how
many dare maintain them? How many are at open warfare with that
party, within their communion, from whom these rash and
groundless allegations come? Among the extremest of "_Reformed
Catholics_" how many actually believe that the ecclesiastical
organization to which they protestingly belong, is, in truth,
that glorious fabric which our Lord built upon the Rock, St.
Peter, and to which he communicated the infallibility of his
perpetual presence? Even the subtle _Churchman_ will hardly
venture to affirm distinctly his belief of such an extravagant
proposition, but will most likely take refuge in the declaration
that his is a reformed _branch_ of the Catholic Church, a
declaration that destroys the value of his whole argument, unless
he also demonstrates the impossibility, to other branches, of the
reformation which has sprung from within his own.

{148}

To argue that the Episcopal Church alone possesses those
characteristics which indicate the true church of God, and that,
as such, she must eventually predominate over all the rest, is
thus as useless as it is unwise. It opens up a series of disputes
which no generation would be long enough to exhaust, and no
acknowledged authority be sufficient to determine. It creates in
advance an adversary in every Christian outside her exclusive
pale, and puts him on his guard against the courtesy and
solicitude with which she seeks to win his personal devotion. It
thrusts into the face of the inquirer a proposition whose
absurdity annoys him, whose positiveness discourages him, whose
arrogance repels him. If our Episcopal brethren wish to realize
the dreams of their modern seer, they must abandon this species
of argument and betake themselves to the adaptation of their
church to meet, more fully, the wants and necessities which
surround them upon every side.

In their ability or inability to do this resides the human answer
to the question whose discussion we pursue.

The syllogism in which this answer is embodied may be thus
constructed:

The church which is best adapted, by internal structure and
external operations, to control and harmonize American society,
will be the church of the future in our country.

The Protestant Episcopal Church is best adapted, by internal
structure and external operations, to control and harmonize
American society.

_Ergo_, the Protestant Episcopal Church will be the church
of the future in our country.

The major premise of this syllogism is evidently sound. If the
minor is reliable in fact as well as form, the conclusion is
unmistakable. Our inquiry is thus reduced to this:

Whether the Protestant Episcopal Church is best adapted, by its
internal structure and external operations, to control and
harmonize American society?

The answer to this inquiry will unfold our own view of the matter
now in issue, and will, we trust, set forth some of the principal
_criteria_ by which the church of the future may, at this
day, be humanly discerned.

1. The "church of the future" is a "church of the people."

The American nation is now, and always must remain, in the
strictest sense, "_a people./i>" The order of our political and
civil institutions, the vast area of our territory and the
unlimited susceptibility of its development, the achievements of
art and mechanism by which alone that development can be secured,
all necessitate, in the future, as in the present, a nation of
working-men, homogeneous in principles, in intelligence, and in
toil. Classes of society, except so far as based upon the
accidents of personal friendship, cultivation, or locality, are
practically now, and must hereafter become more and more,
unknown. The distinctions by which its divisions in the Old World
were created and maintained, lost the last hold upon America when
slavery went down in the fierce tempest of the recent war. The
proud prerogatives of race and birth are henceforth without
value. Every man must receive himself from the hands of his
Creator just as that Creator made him, and carve out for himself
a destiny, limited only by his individual ambition, and by his
fidelity to the end for which his life and independence were
bestowed upon him.

Unfavorable as such a state of things may be for the extreme
cultivation of the few, that the great masses gain immeasurably
by it, is undeniable. A race of farmers, of mechanics, of
tradesmen, of laborers, can never be illiterate, immoral, or
impoverished.
{149}
A race whose future embraces the population and political
direction of a continent, into whose veins the choicest blood of
the eastern hemisphere pours itself with an exhaustless tide,
whose wisdom is the experience of six thousand years, and whose
labors already testify to the vigor of its ripe and lusty
manhood, must be a people in whose ranks each individual counts
one, and by the overwhelming pressure of whose progress ignorance
and pauperism must eventually disappear.

The church which gathers this grand race of the future into her
bosom, and holds them by her spiritual hand, must, therefore, be
a church adapted to the wants, the sympathies, the tastes of
working-men. Its creed must be within the scope of their
intelligence. Its worship must give form to their devotion. Its
teaching must be simple, earnest, hearty, like themselves. Its
pastoral care must be at once familiar, constant, and
encouraging. Just what the so-called "_masses_" need to-day,
in faith, in ceremony, in the pulpit, in the priest, will the
whole nation seek for in those years of coming labor. Just that
internal structure and external operation which now most fully
and most readily supplies that need, will characterize that
church which then absorbs the rest and guides and governs this
great people in all heavenly things. And if, of all the clashing
sects of Protestantism, there is one which is destined to occupy
this exalted station, it is that one which is to-day the "church
of the people," and whose trophies, won in warfare with the
toiling multitudes of past and present generations, are the sure
omens of complete and final victory.

Judged by this standard, what prospect has the Protestant
Episcopal Church of becoming the "church of the future" in our
country?

This question merits a most serious and thorough answer; not
merely as a speculative problem, but as a matter eminently
practical, affording a fair test of her divine commission, and of
the quality of the spiritual workmanship which she performs. For
this reason, we attempt to pass upon her no verdict of our own,
but, turning to her best authorities, gather from them the
_data_ of her progress, and the measure of her churchly
capabilities.

The first few years of this half-century were a season of unusual
prosperity to the Episcopal Church. From 1850 to 1856 the
numerical increase of her membership far exceeded that of any
former period. The ranks of her clergy gained largely in extent
and influence. A spirit of unprecedented activity seemed aroused
within her; and, above all, was manifested a disposition to rally
round herself the other Protestant denominations, and unite them
with her into one ecclesiastical body.

This disposition met with much encouragement from those outside
her fold. Many who never yet had called themselves by any
distinctive Christian name were attracted, by her dignity and
order, to regard her as the most desirable of Protestant
societies. Eminent "_dissenters_" looked to her for the
solution of that entanglement of schism in which their various
barks were already well-nigh overwhelmed. Large charity on both
sides, and a full meeting of the issue upon her part, alone
seemed necessary for the consummation of that "union" for which
distracted Christendom had so long yearned and prayed.

{150}

It was her golden opportunity. The iron was hot for the hammer.
The wheat was ripe for the harvest. The profound peace, which
rested on the entire country, gave leisure for sedate and kindly
inquiry. The spirit of organic life was kindling over all the
land, and men were drawing into closer brotherhood, and
prejudices waned and lost their power. It needed but a strong
will and skilful hand to sweep away the few remaining obstacles,
and the triumph of Episcopacy in this country might have been
secured.

Perhaps the most startling of the events which marked this
important period, and certainly the one which most clearly
manifested its awakening vitality, was the presentation of a
_Memorial_ to the General Convention of 1853. Therein was
suggested the important question, whether "the posture of our
church with reference to the great moral and social necessities
of the day" was all that could be desired or expected, and
whether her usefulness might not, by specified means, be greatly
enlarged.[Footnote 28]

    [Footnote 28: _Journal_ of 1853, p. 181, _et seq._]

The convention referred the subject to a commission of bishops,
which met six times during the interval between the date of its
appointment and the convention of 1856. At its first meeting this
commission published a _Circular_, propounding certain
questions, and requesting answers to them, from any persons
interested in the subject into whose hands the circulars might
fall. A large number of communications were received in reply,
both from Episcopal and non-Episcopal divines, most of which
united in admitting the necessity for some decisive change, and
in recommending the improvements suggested in the _Memorial_
itself. At the general convention of 1856, the commission made
their report, warning the church of the great popular destitution
which surrounded her, and advising the adoption of extemporary
preaching, the curtailment of the liturgical services, the
employment of lay workers, the association of unmarried women
into sisterhoods, the better training of her ministry, and the
thorough Christian cultivation of the young, as the principal
means by which her ability to meet these necessities might be
extended. [Footnote 29]

    [Footnote 29: _Journal_ of 1856, p. 339. 1 1 tut. p. 204.]

The house of bishops therefore passed a series of resolutions,
expressing their opinion that certain variations might be
lawfully made in public worship, and appointing a "Commission on
Church Unity" to confer with other churches as occasion might
require. [Footnote 30]

  [Footnote 30: _Ibid_. p 204.]

But no legislation followed. No practical recognition of the
emergencies in which the nation lay, or of her urgent duty to
meet the wants which cried so loudly for her interference, marked
the proceedings of this chief council of the church. Not one of
the important measures which the _Memorial_ suggested, which
many leaders of the church recommended, and which the Episcopal
commission had itself advised, received the sanction of her
legislative will. On the contrary, at the next session of the
convention, in 1859, a strong and determined effort was made, by
the house of clerical and lay deputies, to move the house of
bishops to rescind their resolutions, and permit the
representative branch of the convention to take part in the
discussion of the subject and in determining what steps should be
adopted. This the bishops refused, [Footnote 31] and there the
matter rested and still rests a solitary report of the
"Commission on Church Unity" that _they have done nothing_
[Footnote 32] alone marking the spot where the vast hopes and
aspirations of the _Memorialists_ exhaled and disappeared.

    [Footnote 31: _Journal_ of 1859, pp. 55, 72, 100, 143.]

    [Footnote 32: _Ibid_. p. 382.]

{151}

And thus the golden opportunity of Protestant Episcopalianism
passed by. The terrible events which followed in the next six
years, put far away that quiet calm in which religious
differences grow dim, and love for God and man overcomes human
pride. Through her own bisection into _Confederate_ and
_Federal_ her unifying influence has sustained a shock from
which it will not, for long years, recover. The
_evangelical_ churches have, at once, lost confidence in her
disposition to meet them with a fair and open compromise, and in
her separate ability to do the work which, in the providence of
God, is placed before her; while her internal difficulties have
augmented year by year, and rendered less and less likely the
revival of that spirit which promised such achievements only
fifteen years ago. Her golden opportunity passed by. But that
hour of trial, in the great crucible of national emergencies, can
never be forgotten, either by her friends or foes, and both will
look to it for the disclosure of her real abilities, and for the
revelation of her character, as human or divine.

The _Memorial_, the report of the commission, and many of
the communications which were received in answer to the
_Circular_, were collected into one volume, and published by
the Rt. Rev. Bishop Potter, of Pennsylvania, in 1857. For some
reason, (which we never could explain,) the publication of this
volume was soon afterward suspended, and such portions of that
edition as could be reached were called in and destroyed. The
last monuments of the _great uprising_ were thus levelled
with the dust; and, to-day, except for the few copies of
_Memorial Papers_ which escaped destruction, and the
scattered records of _Convention Journals,_ reliable
statistics of that eventful period are almost unattainable.

Fortunately, however, we have these authorities at hand, and thus
are able to try the Episcopal Church by her own evidence, and
rest the truth or falsehood of her claims to be the "church of
the people" on her own solemn and well-weighed admissions.

First, then, in the _Memorial_ itself, which bears the date
of October 14th, 1853, we find the following statement:

  "The actual posture of our church, with reference to the great
  moral and social necessities of the day, presents to the minds
  of the undersigned a subject of grave and anxious thought. Did
  they suppose that this was confined to themselves, they would
  not feel warranted in submitting it to your attention; but they
  believe it to be participated in by many of their brethren, who
  may not have seen the expediency of declaring their views, or,
  at least, a mature season for such a course.

  "The divided and distracted state of our American Protestant
  Christianity; the new and subtle forms of unbelief, adapting
  themselves with fatal success to the spirit of the age; the
  consolidated forces of Romanism, bearing with renewed skill and
  activity against the Protestant faith; and, as more or less the
  consequence of these, the utter ignorance of the gospel among
  so large a portion of the lower classes of our population,
  making a heathen world in our midst, are among the
  considerations which induce your memorialists to present the
  inquiry whether the period has not arrived for the adoption of
  measures, to meet these exigencies of the times, more
  comprehensive than any yet provided for by our present
  ecclesiastical system; in other words, _whether the
  Protestant Episcopal Church, with only her present canonical
  means and appliances, her fixed and invariable modes of public
  worship, and her traditional customs and usages, is competent
  to the work of preaching and dispensing the gospel to all sorts
  and conditions of men, and so adequate to do the work of the
  Lord in this land and in this age? This question, your
  petitioners, for their own part, and in consonance with many
  thoughtful minds among us, believe_ MUST BE ANSWERED IN THE
  NEGATIVE." [Footnote 33]

    [Footnote 33: _Memorial Papers_, p. 27, et seq.]

{152}

"The undersigned," who passed this severe and searching criticism
upon the practical efficiency of the Episcopal Church, were such
men as Dr. Muhlenberg, founder and chaplain of St. Luke's
Hospital, New York; Dr. Crusé, librarian, and Drs. Turner and
Johnson, professors at the General Theological Seminary; Drs.
Bedell and Coxe, both since made bishops; Drs. Hobart and Higbee,
of Old Trinity; Drs. Francis and A. H. Vinton, two of the most
eminent of her parochial clergy; and Dr. Harwood, late professor
at the Berkeley Seminary of Connecticut. Certainly no
Episcopalian, either of that day or our own, could ask for more
reliable authority.

Second, the report of the commission of the house of bishops,
made to the convention of 1856, after some preliminary
statements, thus continues:

  "An examination into the relative increase of the various
  bodies of Christians in the United States within the last
  thirty years will exhibit some startling facts, which may well
  rouse us to serious considerations, and lead us to ask
  ourselves the questions, 'What have we been doing? and what
  shall we do?' We have been in the habit of looking merely at
  the increase of our ministers and members within given periods
  as the proper exponent of our growth, without considering how
  that increase compares with the rate of increase in the
  population at large. Making our estimate in this way--and it
  is the only accurate method to ascertain the ratio of our
  growth or increase as a church--_it will be found that we are
  by no means keeping pace with the population of the country_
  in the provision we make for their religious instruction, to
  say nothing of our duty to heathen and foreign lands; that we
  are consequently falling very far below the measure of our
  responsibility, and _that our growth in the last half
  century_, which has been dwelt upon with complacency, if not
  with a spirit of vainglory, _furnishes matter of deep
  humiliation and shame, rather than of boasting_." [Footnote
  34]

    [Footnote 34: _Memorial Papers_, p. 53, et seq.]

And again:

  "Ministers are found, who yet do not minister; rectors who
  cannot govern; pastors who do not feed the flock; teachers send
  forth theological essays, for the instruction of the church,
  who might find better employment in studying the Bible and
  catechism, while the necessary means for maintaining religious
  services too often have to be wrung from those who appear
  reluctant to recognize it as a Christian obligation to give of
  their ability, as God has prospered them, with liberality, with
  cheerfulness, and with simplicity. _On every side the
  complaint is heard, that the work of the church languishes, or
  is not done._' [Footnote 35]

    [Footnote 35: _Ibid_. p. 58.]

The bishops over whose signatures these statements were made were
Otey of Tennessee, Doane of New Jersey, Potter of Pennsylvania,
Burgess of Maine, and Williams of Connecticut; all of whom,
except the latter, have since closed their earthly career,
leaving behind them reputations for prudence, learning, and
earnestness in their official labors which are sacred in the
heart of every member of the church over which they ruled.

Third, in the communications sent to the commission, in answer to
their _Circular_, the same sentiment prevails. The Rev. Dr.
Craik, of Louisville, Ky., in speaking of the constitution of the
apostolic church, remarks:

  "Nearly the whole church has sanctioned the wisdom of this
  seemingly apostolic arrangement by imitating it. The refusal of
  the church in the United States to imitate it, has sanctioned
  its wisdom in another way, _by our comparative failure to do
  the work of the church in this country_." [Footnote 36]

    [Footnote 36: _Ibid_. p. 232.]

{153}

The Rev. Dr. Gregory, of Syracuse, writes:

  "It is said that the Episcopal Church is the church of the
  educated and the rich. _This is so_ to a considerable
  extent, particularly in the cities." [Footnote 37]

    [Footnote 37: _Memorial Papers_, p. 250. ]

Then, speaking of certain remedial measures, he continues:

  "It cannot be done, in the present state of feeling--the pride
  of social distinction is against it; and all the canons and
  councils in Christendom cannot make a church _efficient_
  in which this feeling prevails." [Footnote 38]

    [Footnote 38: _Ibid_. p. 251.]

And again, in concluding, he says:

  "The great body of our people are at ease--satisfied to have a
  _valid_ ministry, and _valid_ sacraments, and a
  _sober_ liturgy, and a _conservative_ ecclesiastical
  system. And the rest of the world have _no evidence_ that
  we _care_ very much about them." [Footnote 39]

    [Footnote 39: _Ibid_. p. 254.]

The Rev. Dr. Howe, of Philadelphia, declares:

  "Having been through my whole ministry (now of more than
  twenty-two years continuance) in a position to observe the
  relation of our church to the middling and lower classes as
  they are found in and around great cities, I cannot forbear the
  confession that we do not, by the authorized appliances of the
  church, reach and interest them. Individuals of these classes,
  by the force of early association, or a refinement of taste
  unusual in their sphere, do retain or acquire a strong
  attachment to our worship, and derive unspeakable benefits from
  its use. But the fact is too glaring to be denied, that
  mechanics and laboring men are not in any considerable numbers
  reckoned among our people; and pastors who will expose the
  truth in this behalf, must confess that of those who are reared
  among us to these industrial pursuits very many desert the
  church, and find religious associations more acceptable to them
  among other denominations. This is too general to be attributed
  to the unfaithfulness of ministers. There must be some lack in
  the system of means under which such disastrous issues occur."
  [Footnote 40]

    [Footnote 40: _Ibid_. p. 255.]

These are but a few out of the many writers whose communications
were collected into the volume before alluded to, and even those
were few in number, when compared with those whose letters were
omitted from lack of room. Of these, Bishop Potter, in his
_Introduction_, says:

  "A large proportion plead for change in one or more respects
  more earnestly than most of those inserted;" [Footnote 41]

    [Footnote 41: _Memorial Papers_, p. ix.]

and then significantly adds:

  "That a spirit of self-depreciation and of change for the mere
  sake of change is not that to which as a communion we are most
  obnoxious." [Footnote 42]

    [Footnote 42: _Ibid_. p. ix.]

Fourth, at the same general con before which the _Memorial_
was first discussed, another document was presented, in tone and
application almost exactly similar, which forms a valuable
corroboration of the statements which we have already cited. This
was the report of the Committee on the Domestic and Foreign
Missionary Society, of which the Rev. Dr. Stevens, now Bishop of
Pennsylvania, was chairman. In this report the following occurs:

  "Not only have we to deal with these multitudes of emigrants,
  spreading their ignorance, their irreligion, and their
  superstitions over the land, but we should also carefully
  provide for another and deeply interesting class, those who
  come to us from countries and churches holding like principles
  of ecclesiastical polity and Christian faith, the sons of
  Sweden, and the children of the Church of England, and the
  brethren from Moravia. ... _Thousands of emigrants from these
  foreign churches, who, if properly looked after, would unite
  themselves to our church, are lost to us, and either relapse
  into infidelity or unite themselves with the sects around them,
  because we make no effort to win them to our bosom._"
  [Footnote 43]

    [Footnote 43: _Journal_ of 1853, pp. 80, 81. ]

The report then calls attention to the new missionary fields
opening in the West, and says:

{154}

  "Every other evangelical denomination in the land has gone
  before us in this matter, and the Romish Church has planted
  bishops, clergy, schools, churches, convents, and colleges,
  while we have been debating about one bishop and two or three
  ministers. As in too many previous instances, our church has
  been too much stiffened with dignity to run, like the prophet,
  before the chariot of some political or commercial Ahab, but,
  like a laggard in the race, treads daintily and slowly in
  others' footsteps, and then, when almost too late, discovers
  her error." [Footnote 44]

    [Footnote 44: _Journal_ of 1853, p. 81.]

Such was the deliberate verdict of the bishops and the leading
clergy of the Protestant Episcopal Church, concerning her
efficiency, during and prior to the year 1856. Such was the
intensity of the conviction which forced itself upon the minds of
committees and conventions, and swept from one end of her
communion to the other, that, without great changes in her mode
of dealing with the masses of our people, no considerable
influence over them could ever be obtained. It is no wonder that
Bishop Upfold should have written, concerning these admissions,
that

  "Her worst enemies could not have said a worse thing of the
  church; and, _if it be true, involves a cogent argument for
  at once abandoning a church so radically and essentially
  defective in its organization and working agencies_."
  [Footnote 45]

    [Footnote 45: _Memorial Papers_, p. 189.]

Surely if evidence of any kind could satisfy us that, at any time
at least, the Episcopal Church was not adapted, by internal
structure and external operations, to control and harmonize
American society, the evidence which the _Memorial_ movement
thus elicited, has done it. If it ever has been, or can ever be,
made manifest that any given church is not the "Church of the
People," it was then demonstrated that the Protestant Episcopal
Church is not so.

Since that golden epoch twelve years have passed away. That the
people of America have materially changed, either in intelligence
or religious feeling; that their necessities are lessened or more
easily supplied, no one will venture to assert. All the world
knows that the spiritual destitution of the nation has increased,
and that the same means which failed to relieve it then meet with
like failure now. All the world knows that the Protestant
Episcopal Church is the same dignified and stolid organization,
moving on in the same beaten track, its ponderous and cumbersome
machinery revolving heavily round the same well-worn axis, and
limited on every side by clamps and bands, which tremulous
conservatism dare not offer to unloose.

The records to which we have heretofore referred show also that,
in both of these particulars, all the world is right. Not one of
the measures advocated by the _Memorialists_ has ever been
adopted. No law has ever passed, requiring that her clergy preach
instead of read. No general attempt has yet been made to organize
the lay element, either male or female, into a body of efficient
laborers. No change has taken place in the canon which requires
that upon every occasion of public worship the Prayer-book, and
it only, should be used. And, worse than this, no disposition to
so modify existing modes of labor as to secure their wider range
or surer efficacy has ever since been manifested. Even when, at
the convention of 1865, a memorial was presented, signed by
nearly fifty leading clergymen, repeating the statements of the
_Memorial_ of 1853, and praying for the institution of an
association of "_Evangelists,_" in the hope that "these
statements may be so regarded as to secure to the church the
important instrumentalities." ... "which were never more urgently
demanded than at the present time," the house of bishops coolly
resolved that "_it was not expedient to entertain the
subject_" and the other house tacitly concurred in the
decision. [Footnote 46]

    [Footnote 46: _Journal_ of 1865, pp. 361, 190.]

{155}

If, in the face of facts like these, we judge of the future by
the present and the past, what shall we say? Is there a hope
that, in that mighty era when this great continent shall swarm
with prosperous, intelligent, industrious millions, a church,
which during a whole century, with every advantage of
respectability and wealth, has met with such signal failure,
shall rise into supremacy? Is there a probability great enough to
justify our serious contemplation that a church, whose claim to
be the "Church of the People" is thus denied by that unerring
voice of history which is the echo of the voice of God, should be
the "Church of the Future" in our country?

We know no better answer to these questions than the thrilling
exhortation given by the venerable Dr. Muhlenberg to the Memorial
Commission concerning their own duty to their church:

  "Bid her," said he, "look over this vast continent, filling
  with people of all nations and languages and tongues, and see
  the folly of hoping to perpetuate among them an _Anglican_
  communion, that will ever be recognized as aught more than an
  honorable sect. Bid her give over the vain attempt to cast all
  men's minds into one mould.

  "Bid her cherish among her own members mutual tolerance of
  opinion in doctrine, and taste in worship; remembering that
  uniform sameness in lesser matters may be the ambition of a
  society, a party, a school in the church, but is far below any
  genuine aspirations of the church herself. It is the genius of
  Catholicism which is now knocking at her doors. Let her refuse
  to open. Let her, if she will, make them faster still with new
  bolts and bars, and then take her rest, to dream _a wilder
  dream than any of the Memorial of becoming the Catholic Church
  of these United States._" [Footnote 47]

    [Footnote 47: _Memorial Papers_, p. 288.]

The conclusions to which the experience of a hundred years has
thus directed us will be extended and confirmed by an examination
of certain characteristics which the "Church of the Future," as a
"Church of the People," must necessarily present, and by a
comparison of these with the internal structure and external
operations of the Episcopal Church. In the course of this
examination we shall also probably discover the causes from which
the past failures of the latter have resulted, and the means by
which she might adapt herself more fully to the wants of the
country and the age, if, in fact, such adaptation were any longer
possible. Therefore we proceed:

II. The "Church of the Future" is a church of stability in
principle and flexibility in operation.

The work of the church of God upon the earth is to teach and
govern men. The truth, by which alone the intellect can be
enlightened, the law, by which alone the heart and life can be
subjected to the will of God, are both entrusted to her keeping.
Doctrine informing and directing discipline, discipline realizing
and preserving doctrine--such is the system by which her Lord
commanded her to subdue the world, and by which to this day the
world has been subdued.

The people whose church the "Church of the Future" is to be, and
of whom, as its members, it must be composed, will be a
_free_ people. The race from which they spring long ago
recognized, as fundamental truth, that the will of the people is
the highest law, and every civil and political institution which
is or is to be derives its origin and permanence from the sole
fiat of the citizen. There is no power above it by which its
errors may be corrected or its excesses be restrained.
{156}
The popular vote is the tribunal from whose decision there can be
no appeal. The ballot-box is the throne of state, from which
supreme authority comes down only to take up the thunderbolts of
war.

The sturdy independence which results from such a national
cultivation will place a burden of no common order upon the
church into whose hands the control and unification of American
society must fall. The bearer of divine illumination, the
custodian of unalterable truth, the spiritual government of the
people, will be also on her shoulders; and she must be able to
withstand not only persecution from without, but the more
dangerous assaults of innovation and revolt within. She must have
_no capacity for compromise_. The organic principle which
binds into one body her integral elements must be beyond the
power of popular tumult to disturb or political dissensions to
destroy. In every storm and tempest she must be immovable, and,
with a will of divine firmness and an arm of godlike might, must
bend the tempest and control the storm.

Again, the people over whom the "Church of the Future" will
extend its sway embraces men of every nation, color, class, and
tongue. The offspring of the African, the Saxon, and the Indian
dwell here together with the children of the Hebrew, the
Mongolian, the Teuton, and the Celt. Religions of all forms offer
contemporaneous and discordant worship to their several
divinities. Prejudices of every complexion and against every
truth mingle in the religious atmosphere. Vices of every name,
grown, through long apathy or longer ignorance, into a second
nature, contaminate the public heart. Every possible diversity of
ideas, of tastes, of impossibilities, is found among them, and,
under all, the same great wants, the same unceasing aspirations,
the same formless void.

The church which heals the spiritual wounds of such a people must
both possess and use appliances of infinite variety. Her
_pharmacopoeia_ must contain all remedies which ever have
been suitable to man. Her learning and ability must extend to
their appropriate selection and bestowal. She must, indeed, be
"all things to all men," high with the high and lowly with the
low, wise with the learned and simple with the ignorant, firm
with the headstrong and gentle with the meek, sublime with the
imaginative, cold with the severe, in every way adapting the
method of her operations to the dispositions of the people whom
she seeks to save, if by any means their salvation may be made
secure.

Thus, in herself immovable, eternal, and in her labors as
flexible and various as the needs she must supply, the "Church of
the Future" will not only conquer, but wherever and whatever she
has conquered she will thenceforth unceasingly retain.

But can the church which does this be the Episcopal Church? Let
us test her immobility of principles. Let us measure the
flexibility of her operations. The result will teach us much that
is worth learning, and should not be without its influence on
her.

The Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States consists "of
thirty-four confederated dioceses, under the care of bishops,
using the same liturgy, and yielding obedience" to the same canon
law. [Footnote 48] The organic principle by which this
confederation was originated and has been maintained is a written
constitution. [Footnote 49] Its organic life is manifested
through a general convention, in which the supreme legislative
and judicial authority of the whole church resides.

    [Footnote 48: _Church Almanac_ for 1867, p. 17.]

    [Footnote 49: Law writers define a "constitution" as either a
    "limitation" or a "grant" of power. Did the general
    convention of 1789, in adopting the constitution of the
    Episcopal Church, thereby _grant_ to the church of
    Christ, or to any part thereof, powers of which it was
    previously destitute, or limit powers which Christ himself
    conferred upon it? Or, on the contrary, is not the idea of a
    "constitution" essentially repugnant to the idea of the
    Christian church?]

{157}

Each of these several dioceses consists of various parishes,
united under one bishop, and yielding obedience to the same local
law. The organic principle of the diocese is a written
constitution; and its organic life is manifested in a diocesan
convention, in which the supreme legislative and judicial
authority of the diocese resides.

Each of the several parishes which compose a diocese consists of
a greater or less number of lay-people, united under one pastor
and occupying certain fixed and well-known territorial limits.
Its organic principle is usually a written constitution; and its
organic life is manifested through a body of vestrymen, to whom
the management of its parochial affairs is entrusted.

With the exception that the church possesses no chief executive,
corresponding to the President of the United States, her organic
system is almost identical with the political order of the
government under which she lives.

The general convention of the church is composed of two houses, a
house of bishops and a house of clerical and lay deputies. The
house of bishops consists of all the bishops of the various
dioceses, as members _ex officio_. The house of deputies
consists of four delegates--two clerical and two lay--from each
diocese, appointed in diocesan convention. A concurrence of both
orders in the lower house, and of both houses, is necessary to a
vote of the convention. [Footnote 50]

    [Footnote 50: See Constitution, appendix to
    _Journal_ of 1865, arts. 2 and 3.]

The convention of each diocese is composed of the clergy,
canonically resident within its limits, and of a certain number
of lay-deputies, appointed by the various congregations of which
the diocese consists.

The vestrymen of each parish are elected annually by the people.

In each of these three bodies the lay element possesses the
virtual supremacy. In general convention, no law can be enacted,
no lax discipline can be reformed, no erroneous doctrine can be
corrected, without the express acquiescence of the lay-deputies.
In the diocesan convention, no bishop can be elected, no
delegates to the general convention can be appointed, and no
local diocesan regulations can be established, until the laity
agree. In the parish, no pastor can be called, no church-building
be erected, no regular order be determined, while the people
withhold their permission. And though, upon the face of it, this
power may seem to be entirely negative, yet it is not so; for, in
the right to choose their pastors and convention-delegates, the
real control of the diocesan conventions, and, through these, of
their bishops and the general convention, is placed ultimately in
their hands, and, whenever they might choose to organize for such
a purpose, a single generation would suffice to overturn the
doctrine, discipline, and worship of the church itself.

In this respect, also, the Episcopal Church has practically
conformed herself to the model which our national institutions
set before her. If she believes that, in religious as well as
secular affairs, "all governments derive their just powers from
the consent of the governed," her system and belief are certainly
consistent, but it can hardly be pretended that either of them is
divine.
{158}
Nor will it be denied that all the objections to which the
temporal is open on the score of instability and weakness are
doubly pertinent to the ecclesiastical, so long as those whom
Christ intended that his church should govern on the contrary
really govern her.

But however unstable and insecure in all her fundamental and
organic principles the Episcopal Church has thus been rendered by
the inherent nature of her system, she certainly is far from
flexible in her methods of external operation. Here all the
strength of her conservatism concentrates itself. The Prayer-Book
is "the apple of her eye." It cost her less to blot out a creed
in which the faith of ages was embodied, and rob her clergy of
the power of absolution, than it would now to change a single
syllable of her "incomparable liturgy." Yet nothing is more
widely understood, even in her own borders, than that this very
liturgy is the greatest barrier which stands between her and the
masses of the people; and that her inflexible, unvarying use of
it on all occasions is the great patent cause of her acknowledged
failures.

The entire _Memorial_ movement proceeded upon the assumption
that this inflexibility exists, and that to it must be attributed
the uselessness of efforts which, under different methods, should
have accomplished great results. The _Memorialists_ did not
hesitate to say that, with "her fixed and invariable modes of
public worship," her "canonical means and appliances," "her
traditional customs and usages," she was "inadequate to do the
work of the Lord," and that, in their view, it was necessary to
define and act upon a system "broader and more comprehensive"
than that which then existed, and "providing for as much freedom
in opinion, discipline, and worship as is compatible with the
essential faith and order of the gospel." [Footnote 51] The
commission boldly acknowledged that "we have to labor in places
where very much of our work is outside of that contemplated in
the plans of our offices," [Footnote 52] and that "our methods of
dealing with men should be more direct and manifold." [Footnote
53] They admitted the "necessity of that diversity in our modes
of operation which has not been heretofore sufficiently
appreciated," [Footnote 54] and that "we have refused or
neglected to use many gifts which Christ has bestowed on his
church." [Footnote 55] Different bishops declared that her
ministers "must often preach the gospel where the attempt to
perform the entire service would be incongruous, unsuccessful,
and injurious;" [Footnote 56] that at such times the clergy were
"like David in Saul's armor," [Footnote 57] and objects of
compassion in the eyes of others. The late Bishop Polk, with
characteristic frankness, stated:

    [Footnote 51: _Memorial Papers_, p. 30.]

    [Footnote 52: _Ibid_. p. 50.]

    [Footnote 53: _Ibid_. p. 53.]

    [Footnote 54: _Ibid_. p. 52.]

    [Footnote 55: _Ibid_. p. 58.]

    [Footnote 56: _Ibid_. p. 126.]

    [Footnote 57: _Ibid_. p. 160.]

  "I am satisfied our liturgical services as now used are to a
  certain extent impediments in our way. ... There are
  circumstances in which all the services help us. ... There are
  other circumstances in which the use of all the service is a
  manifest and felt hinderance. ... We are not as powerful a
  church as we might be if we had more liberty. Of this I am
  fully persuaded." [Footnote 58]

    [Footnote 58: _Ibid_. pp. 160, 161.]

The missionary bishop of Oregon and Washington, out of his large
experience, concludes:

  "There are undoubtedly great advantages resulting to the church
  from a general uniformity of worship; but if that uniformity be
  so minute and fixed as to refuse adaptation to the actual
  condition and wants of Christian men, or to restrain in any
  degree the preaching of the gospel to every creature, then it
  becomes a yoke of bondage and a damage to Christ's kingdom."
  [Footnote 59]

    [Footnote 59: _Memorial Papers_, p. 213.]

{159}

The Rev. Dr. Howe remarks:

  "I do not believe, sir, that the difficulty lies in the
  organization of the church, ... but in the unvarying and (in
  the esteem of many) invariable use of our forms and other
  usages of worship. ... The church may be entirely Catholic in
  her doctrine and polity, yet she can never be
  _practically_ so while she requires all men to worship
  everywhere in precisely the same forms." [Footnote 60]

    [Footnote 60: _Ibid_. p. 256.]

The Rev. Dr. Trapier asserts that

  "in the country-places, among the rural population, it has
  proved to be an almost hopeless task to introduce our services,
  that is, in their integrity." [Footnote 61]

    [Footnote 61: _Ibid_. p. 316.]

And so great an advocate of formal worship as the Rev. Dr.
Francis Vinton is reputed to have been exclaims:

  "You cannot fulfil the Lord's will while the canons of our
  church are left in their stiffness." [Footnote 62]

    [Footnote 62: _Ibid_. p. 330.]

We have already seen how much effect the movement, of which these
well-considered statements form a part, finally produced upon the
external system of the church, and it is only too well known that
at this day the declarations of the _Memorialists_ are as
applicable as they were twelve years ago. The evangelical
leaders, hopeless of legitimated liberty, have grown more and
more restless under the unyielding yoke, and here and there some
bolder spirit has burst away from the intolerable servitude, and
asserted his right and duty to do "the Lord's work" unhampered by
her human institutions. Ever and anon some anxious writer
ventures to repeat the declarations and the prayers of the
_Memorial_. But those who dare to look for any change are
few in number, and the high hopes of former days, that the iron
bars were soon to be unloosed and the eager wings of Christian
zeal unbound, are already well-nigh buried in despair.

That, in reference to either of these two essential
characteristics, any improvement will take place we see no reason
to believe. It would be contradictory to all experience if the
Episcopal laity should voluntarily relinquish their share in the
government and administration of the church which they uphold, or
that, by any exercise of spiritual power, the clergy could compel
them to its resignation. It seems to us almost equally impossible
that the inflexibility of operation which prevents her success
can ever be materially diminished. Her liturgy is her _centrum
unitatis_, her teacher, her authoritative law. It is the
golden band which binds her members to one another; which unites
bishop to bishop, diocese to diocese, priest to priest; which
links her with the centuries of the past, and reaches onward to
the future; which keeps her heterogeneous elements in contact
with one another, as the electric coil binds into one repellent
particles of steel. In it her denominational existence is bound
up, and with material changes in it she herself is fated to
dissolve and die.

It cannot be. No day will ever come when Protestant
Episcopalianism can convert this people. No day will ever come
when, if converted, she could govern them. Honored for her
learning, her decorum, and her wealth, she may endure to witness
many generations pass away. Great names will be in her and great
men will be of her. She will do her work in the world, whatever
that may be; but her continuance will be that of a sect, and a
sect only, until the day of her absorption comes.

{160}

III. The "Church of the Future" is a church of uniform and
consistent faith.

It seems almost superfluous for us to argue in support of this
proposition. That divine truth is one, that what God teaches is
unchangeable and every way harmonious with itself, are axioms
which even the unlearned can see to be infallible. And that the
thoughtful, earnest, practical people who must by and by cover
this great continent will ever acknowledge as God's
representative and their spiritual teacher a church whose faith
is variable and undefined, whose theologians are at issue
concerning fundamental points of doctrine, and whose public
preaching is in perpetual self-contradiction and uncertainty, is
utterly impossible. The "Church of the Future" is a "Church of
Truth," a church of divine origin and of divine authority, over
whom is one Lord, and in whom is one spirit; a church whose voice
is ever clear and certain, whose unity with herself is evidence
of her unity with God, and who, in gathering the nations to her
footstool, maketh them all "to be of one mind in the house,"
through "the faith once delivered to the saints."

Will the Episcopal Church justify this description? Has she that
"pure and uncorrupted faith," that "word of the gospel," which is
"always, and everywhere, and by all" invariably taught and held?

Everybody knows better. She herself denies it. Years ago one of
her bishops described her as a church in which parties were
"arrayed in bitter hostility to each other;" in which there was
"so much difference of opinion upon important points of doctrine
that the bishops and other ministers could not be brought to
agree;" in which "one part denies all claim to an evangelical,
that is, a gospel, character, to all who do not agree with them
in every particular," while "the other party denies to the former
any just right to the name of churchman." [Footnote 63]

    [Footnote 63: _Memorial Papers_, p. 187.]

Years ago a venerable presbyter declared that the prime source of
all her difficulties was that "_the house_" was "_divided
against itself_" and that so long as men were "ordained to her
ministry, clothed with her authority, and seated in her high
places, who cannot conscientiously teach her Catechism for
children, and whose work of love it is to revile her doctrines,
her institutions, and her faithful people, her enemies" [Footnote
64] would rejoice, and the world repudiate her claims.

     [Footnote 64: _Ibid_. p. 236.]

The church in the United States has not yet brought forth a
Colenso, neither has a Pusey yet arisen in her midst; but the
diversity between these leaders of the Anglican communion is
hardly greater than obtains between the congregations on this
side of the Atlantic. The rector of old Trinity with his
confessional, the rector of St. George's with his prayer-meeting,
are exponents of parties, the gulf of whose separation cleaves
downward to the bottom of the great plan of man's salvation.
"Father" Morrill at St. Alban's, and the younger Tyng beneath the
missionary tent in the public square, represent creeds and
principles as different as any that divide the world. Under the
shelter of a liturgy which each interprets according to his
personal views, they dwell together, and through its rigid
formularies preserve external uniformity. But everywhere outside
of it their unity is wanting. Pulpit is arrayed against pulpit,
seminary against seminary, society against society. Her bishops
are catalogued as "high" and "low," and looked to as the leaders
of her hostile factions. Her general convention seeks safety in
inaction. Her ecclesiastical existence hangs upon the thread of
compromise.

{161}

How long this state of things can continue we venture not to
prophesy. Whether the Episcopal Church is destined to
disintegrate like other sects around her, or whether she will
overcome the dangerous schismatic miasm which infests her members
and be once more the home of peace and unity, are questions which
we have no need to answer. But that this state of things was ever
possible proves that her uniformity, wherever it exists, is
merely _accidental_, and never can confer upon her teachings
that authority which a clear-sighted and sensible people will
demand as a condition of their faith.

There are still other characteristics which the "Church of the
Future" will possess, but the limits of this article forbid us to
examine them. The three to which we have directed our attention
are those which were most easily discernible, and concerning
which material for research and comparison lay most readily at
hand. They have answered our question as definitely as if the
whole ground had been gone over, and have told us that, so far as
human calculations can extend, the Protestant Episcopal Church
will never be the "Church of the Future" in our country.

In attempting to demonstrate this proposition we have been
actuated by no feeling of hostility toward the Episcopal Church.
Too many sacred memories, too many years of deep and fond
affection, have made her priests and people dear forever to our
hearts. We believe that, in the inscrutable providence of God,
she has a work to do; a work which, stained with heresy and rent
with schism as she is, none else can do so well. Standing between
the Catholic Church and the remoter darknesses of Rationalism and
Infidelity, she catches the light of its eternal truth more
fully, and breathes a far diviner atmosphere than they. She
drinks in the solemn beauty of its apostolic order. She feels the
power of its infallible authority. She wonders at its vast and
perfect unity. She strives to reproduce these marks of the true
church upon her own exterior, and calls her neighbors to examine
and admire.

Thus she becomes the school-mistress to lead them to the truth.
How many, who by birth, by prejudice, by old associations,
appeared to be for ever aliens to the Catholic fold, have yielded
first to the modified Protestantism of the Episcopal Church, and
through her have been led straight home to the real mother of
their souls! The names of Newman and Spencer, Faber, Ives, and
Baker, teach us how much Catholics may owe to her who, even since
her fall, has nursed the spiritual infancy of many saints of God.
And we, who from her breast drew our first reverence for Holy
Church, and, guided by her hand, at last beheld the beacon-light
which led us to the Rock of Peter and the Home of Peace, can
never cease to love her, or to pray that her great work may
spread until the people of this nation, entranced by her
reflected beauty, may turn their eyes to whence her light
proceeds, and hasten onward to the Catholic Church, in which the
sun of truth for ever shines.

Let, then, the general convention of 1868, so soon to gather in
this great metropolis, awake to the emergency and quit themselves
like men. The task imposed upon them is worthy of their toil,
and, though the church for which they legislate reap not the
harvest, they shall have their reward.
{162}
The influence of their grand and solemn worship, of their fixed,
conservative ideas, is necessary to keep down this restless age,
and make it look with calmness on the questions of the day. Let
that worship be established and those ideas extended in every
town and hamlet to which the Catholic Church has not preceded
them. Let her bishops and her clergy imbue the people with
veneration for apostolic order and with a spirit of submission to
apostolic power. Let her maintain the truths which she preserves,
and with them build foundations in the national heart for the
erection of the divine temple of the Christian faith. Let her do
this and so fulfil the work which lies before her, doubting not
lest the Lord forget her labor, but hoping that the way of grace
she paves for others it may be finally her lot to tread.

And when the "Church of the Future" counts the trophies of her
victory, and reviews the means by which it was accomplished, the
work of Protestant Episcopalianism shall not be forgotten, and
the workmen who performed it shall receive the meed of praise
which is their due.

                  ----------

      From The French Of Erckmann And Chatrian.

        The Invasion; Or, Yegof The Fool.


                  Chapter IV.

All this while, everything was pursuing its usual course at the
farm of Bois-de-Chênes. Yegof's strange behavior was almost
forgotten, and war was for the time unthought of. Old Duchene,
while Hullin plodded back, was driving his cattle home, the
herdsman Robin spreading the straw on which they were to rest,
and Annette and Jeanne were skimming the daily tribute of their
dairy. Catherine Lefevre alone, silent and gloomy, mused over
what had passed, as she superintended the work of her people. She
was too old, too grave, to so soon forget events which had
agitated her so strongly. At nightfall, after the evening repast,
she entered the large kitchen where the farm-servants awaited
her, and there took down her register and placed it upon the
table, ready, as was her wont, to regulate the accounts of the
day.

It might have been half-past seven, when footsteps were heard at
the gate. The watch-dog sprang forward growling, listened for a
moment, sniffed the air, and then quietly returned to his bone.

"It is some one belonging to the farm," said Annette; "Michel
knows him."

At the same moment old Duchene exclaimed:

"Good-evening, Master Jean-Claude! You are back."

"Yes--from Phalsbourg, and I will remain here a few moments to
rest before going to the village. Is Catherine at home?"

"She is within," replied Duchene. And brave Jean-Claude entered
into the bright light, his broad hat drawn over his eyes, and the
roll of sheepskin upon his shoulder.

{163}

"Good-evening, my children," said he, "good-evening. Always at
work, I see."

"Yes, Monsieur Hullin," answered Jeanne, laughing. "If we had
nothing to do, life would be tiresome indeed."

"True, my dear, true. There is nothing like work for giving rosy
cheeks and shining eyes."

Jeanne was about to reply when the door opened, and Catherine
Lefevre advanced into the room. She cast an anxious glance on
Hullin, as if to divine beforehand the news he was bringing.

"Well, Jean-Claude, you have returned."

"Yes, Catherine, and with good and ill tidings."

"Let us have them!" exclaimed she, presenting a seat to the
sabot-maker, as he deposited his roll upon the table.

"Well, the news from Gaspard is good; the boy is well, although
he has had a hard time of it; so much the better--hardship
strengthens youth. But the war goes badly, badly!"

He shook his head as he spoke, and the old woman, seating herself
in her arm-chair directly in front of him, fixed her eyes upon
his.

"Then the allies are in France; the war is to be brought home to
us?"

"Yes, Catherine; we may any day expect to see the enemy in our
mountains."

"I feared it--I was sure of it--but go on, Jean-Claude."

Hullin, in a low voice, proceeded to relate all he had seen and
heard; he told of the works around the city, the proclamation of
the state of siege, the wagons loaded with wounded on the Place
d'Armes, and his meeting with the old sergeant. From time to time
he paused, and the old lady half-closed her eyes, as if graving
his words upon her memory, and when Hullin spoke of the wounded
she gasped:

"But Gaspard has escaped?"

At the end of the sabot-maker's sorrowful story there was a long
pause. How many bitter thoughts were burning in the minds of
both! At last Catherine broke the silence:

"You see, Jean-Claude," said she, "Yegof was right."

"He was right," replied Jean-Claude, "but what does that prove?
It would, indeed, be astonishing if a fool--wandering, as he
does, everywhere, from village to village--in Alsace, in
Lorraine--saw nothing, heard nothing; and if he should not
occasionally utter a truth in the midst of his nonsense.
Everything is mingled in his head, and you imagine you understand
what he does not understand himself. But enough of the fool,
Catherine. The Austrians are coming, and the question is whether
we shall let them pass quietly through our mountains, or defend
ourselves like mountaineers."

"Defend ourselves!" cried the old woman, her pale cheeks
flushing. "Think you we have lost the courage of our fathers? Did
not the blood of their men, women, and children flow like water,
and no one think of yielding?"

"Then you are for defence, Catherine?"

"Ay! while a drop of blood remains in my body. Let them come. The
old woman will be in their path."

Her long, gray hair in her excitement seemed to quiver upon her
head; her cheeks trembled and glowed, and her eyes flashed fire.
She seemed even full of a fierce beauty--of a beauty like that of
Margareth of whom Yegof spoke. Hullin stretched his hand to her
in silence.

{164}

"I knew you, Catherine," said he with enthusiasm; "I knew your
true heart. But we must look calmly at what is before us. We
shall fight, but how? Where are our munitions?"

"Everywhere! axes, scythes, pitchforks--"

"Yes, yes; but muskets and bullets are the best. Muskets we have;
every mountaineer's cottage has one hanging over the door; but
where is our powder? where are our bullets?"

The old woman became suddenly calm; she pushed back her hair
beneath her cap, and looked around thoughtfully.

"Yes," she replied; "we lack powder and ball, it is true, but we
shall have them. Marc-Dives the smuggler has plenty. You will see
him for me to-morrow, and tell him that Catherine Lefevre will
buy all that he has, and pay for it too; yes, though it cost her
house, lands, and cattle--all she possesses. Do you understand,
Hullin?"

"I do. This is splendid, Catherine!"

"Splendid! Bah! To drive from our doors those Austrians, those
Prussians, the red-bearded race who once already all but
exterminated ours! They are our mortal foes! You will buy the
powder, and the wretches will see whether their old castles are
to be rebuilt by us!"

Hullin saw that Yegof's story yet preyed upon her mind, but he
said simply:

"Then it is understood. I go to Marc-Dives's to-morrow?"

"Yes," replied Catherine; "and you will buy all his powder and
lead. You must also go to all the villages in the mountains, to
warn our people of the danger and agree upon a signal to be used
in case of attack."

"Rest easy as to that," said Jean-Claude; "it shall be my care."

Both had risen and turned toward the door. For half an hour past
the noise in the kitchen had ceased; the people of the farm had
retired. The old woman placed her lamp on the chimney-shelf and
drew the bolts. The cold without was sharp, but the air clear and
still. The peaks around, and the fires on the Jaeger that stood
out against the dark-blue sky in masses of silver or jet, and no
sound broke the quiet save the short bark of a far-off fox.

"Good-night, Hullin," said the old woman.

"Good-night, Catherine."

Jean-Claude walked rapidly down the heath-covered slope, and his
late hostess, after following him for a few moments with her
eyes, closed the door.

I must leave you to imagine the joy of Louise when she learned
that her Gaspard was safe. Hullin was careful not to mar her joy
by a view of the dark cloud rising upon its horizon. All night he
heard her talking to herself in her little chamber, murmuring the
name of Gaspard, and opening drawers and boxes to find tokens he
had left.

Thus does the linnet, unmindful of the coming storm, sing in the
fast-receding sunshine.


                   Chapter V.


When Jean-Claude, the next morning, pushed open his
window-shutters, he saw the neighboring mountains--Jaegerthal,
Grosmann, Donon--covered with snow. This first sight of
winter--when it overtakes us in our sleep--has a strange
attraction about it. The old firs, the moss-covered rocks, were
yesterday still clothed in their verdure, but now they glitter
with frost, and fill our soul with an indescribable sense of
sadness.
{165}
"Another year has passed away," we murmur to ourselves; "another
rude season must pass away before the flowers return!" And we
hurry to don our great-coat or to light a roaring fire. Our
little retreat is full of white light, and without we hear the
sparrows--the poor sparrows crouching beneath the eaves and
bushes--who with ruffled feathers seem to cry, "No breakfast this
morning--no breakfast!"

Hullin put on his heavy double-soled shoes and his thickest
jacket. He heard Louise walking over his head in the little
garret.

"Louise," he cried, "I am going."

"What! to-day again?"

"Yes, my child; I must. My business is not yet finished."

Then pulling his broad felt hat over his head, he went half-way
up the stairs, and said in a low tone:

"You must not expect me back very soon, child, for I must go a
long way off. Do not be uneasy. If they ask you where I am gone,
say to Cousin Mathias, at Saverne."

"Will you not have some breakfast before starting?"

"No; I have put a loaf of bread and the little flask of brandy in
my pocket. Farewell, my child. Be happy, and think of Gaspard."

And, without waiting for more questions, he seized his staff and
left the cottage, directing his steps toward the hill to the left
of the village. At the end of a quarter of an hour he had passed
it and reached the path of the Three Fountains, which winds
around Falkenstein by an old wall. The first snow never lasts
long in the damp shadows of the valleys, and it had already begun
to melt and form a stream in the pathway. Hullin mounted the wall
to escape the water, and throwing a glance toward the village saw
a few old women sweeping the snow from before their doors, and a
few old men exchanging their morning greetings and smoking their
morning pipes at their thresholds. He pursued his way along
dreamily, murmuring: "How tranquil all is there! None suspect
that danger is nigh, and yet in a few days what tumults, what
shrieks, what crashing of cannon and clattering of muskets will
fill the air!"

Powder was the first necessity, and we have seen how Catherine
Lefevre turned her thoughts to Marc-Dives the smuggler; but she
did not speak of his amiable helpmate, Hexe-Baizel.

The couple lived at the other side of Falkenstein, beneath the
cliff on which the ruined castle stood. They had hollowed out for
themselves a very comfortable den, although it possessed but one
entrance and two little windows, but rumor hinted that it
communicated with ancient subterranean passages. These last,
however, the custom-house officials were never able to discover,
notwithstanding several visits they made the worthy pair with
this object in view. Jean-Claude and Marc-Dives knew one another
from infancy; they had many a time together driven the owl and
the hawk from their nests, and still saw one another at least
once a week at the saw-mill. Hullin placed full reliance upon the
smuggler, but he somewhat mistrusted Madame Hexe-Baizel.
"However," said he, as he neared their domicile, "we shall see."

He had lighted his pipe, and from time to time turned to
contemplate the immense stretch of country spread out before him.

Nothing can be more magnificent than the view of snow-covered
wooded mountains, rising peak after peak far into the pale-blue
sky until sight is lost in distance, and separated by dark
valleys, each with its torrent flowing over mossy stones, green
and polished like bronze.

{166}

And then the silence--the silence of winter--broken only by the
foot-fall on the soft, white ground, or the dash of snow falling
from the higher branches of the firs to the lower, which bend
beneath the weight; or mayhap the shrill screams of a pair of
eagles, whirling far above the treetops, startle the ear. But all
this must be seen and felt; it cannot be described.

About an hour after his departure from the village, Hullin,
climbing over rock after rock, reached the foot of the cliff of
Arbousiers. A sort of terrace, full of stones, and only three or
four feet in width, entirely surrounds this mass of granite. The
narrow way, itself surrounded only by the tops of trees shooting
from the precipice below, seems dangerous, but is scarcely so in
reality, for dizziness is all that is to be feared in passing
along it. Above the ruin-covered rock overhangs the path.

Jean-Claude approached the smuggler's retreat. He halted a few
moments upon the terrace, put his pipe back into his pocket, and
then advanced along the passage, which described a half-circle
and terminated in a notch in the rock. At its end he perceived
the two windows of the cave and the half-open door.

At the same moment Hexe-Baizel appeared, sweeping the threshold
with a huge broom of green twigs. She was short and withered; her
head covered with a mass of dishevelled red hair, her cheeks
hollow, her nose pointed, her little eyes glittering like burning
coals, her mouth small and garnished with very white teeth. Her
costume consisted of a short and very dirty woollen gown, and her
small, muscular arms were bare to the elbow, notwithstanding the
intense cold of winter at such a height; a pair of worn-out
slippers half-covered her feet.

"Ha! good-morning, Hexe-Baizel," cried Jean-Claude, in a tone of
good-natured raillery. "Stout, fat, happy, and contented as
usual, I see."

Hexe-Baizel turned like a startled weasel. She shook her hair,
and her eyes flashed fire. But she calmed herself at once, and
said, in a short, dry voice, as if speaking to herself:

"Hullin the sabot-maker! What does he want here?"

"I want to see my friend Marc, beautiful Hexe-Baizel," replied
Jean-Claude. "We have business together."

"What business?"

"Ah! that is our affair. Come, let me pass; I must speak to-him."

"Marc is asleep."

"Well, we must wake him. Time presses."

So saying, Hullin bent beneath the door-way, and entered the
cave, which was irregular in shape and seamed with numerous
fissures in its walls. Near the entrance the rock, rising
suddenly, formed a sort of natural hearth, on which burned a few
coals and some branches of the juniper. The cooking utensils of
Hexe-Baizel consisted of an iron pot, an earthen jar, two cracked
plates, and three or four pewter forks; her furniture, of a
wooden stool, a hatchet to split wood, a salt-box fastened to the
rocky wall, and her great broom of green twigs. At the right, her
kitchen opened upon another cavern by an irregularly shaped
aperture wider at the top than below, and closed by two planks
and a cross-bar.

"Well, where is Marc?" asked Hullin, seating himself at the
corner of the hearth.

{167}

"I have already told you that he is asleep. He came home very
late last night, and he must not be disturbed; do you
understand?"

"I understand very well, Hexe-Baizel, but I have no time to
wait."

"Then leave as soon as you please."

"That is very fine, but I don't intend to leave just yet. I did
not make this journey to return empty handed."

"Is that you, Hullin?" interrupted a rough voice in the inner
cavern.

"Ay, Marc."

"Wait a moment, I am coming."

A noise of rustling straw was heard, then the planks were
removed, and a tall man, three feet at least from shoulder to
shoulder, bony, bent, with ears and neck of a dull brick color
and disordered brown hair, bent in the aperture, and then
Marc-Dives stood erect before Hullin, gaping and stretching his
long arms.

At first sight the countenance of Marc-Dives seemed mild enough;
his broad, low forehead, temples only thinly covered with hair,
pointed nose, long chin, and calm, brown eyes would seem to
betoken the quiet, easy-going man, but one who should so class
him would sooner or later discover his mistake. Rumor said that
Marc-Dives had little scruple in using his axe or carbine when
the custom-house officials invaded his premises, but proofs were
wanting. The smuggler, thanks to his complete knowledge of all
the defiles of the mountain, and of all the roads from Dagsbourg
to Sarrebrück, from Raon l'Etape to Bâle in Switzerland, always
seemed twenty miles from the place where such conflicts occurred.
Then he had such a harmless air--in short, the rumors against
him inevitably recoiled upon those who started them.

"I was thinking of you last night, Hullin," cried Marc, coming
out of his den, "and if you hadn't come I should have gone all
the way to the saw-mill to meet you. Sit down. Hexe-Baizel, give
Hullin a chair."

He himself sat upon the wide hearth, with his back to the fire,
opposite the open door, around which blew the winds of Alsace and
of Switzerland.

The view through the narrow opening was magnificent--a
rock-framed picture, but how grand a one! There lay the whole
valley of the Rhine, and beyond the mountains melting into mist.
The air, too, was so fresh and pure, and when the blue expanse
without tired the eyes, the little fire within, with its red,
dancing flames, was there to relieve them.

"Marc," said Hullin, after a moment's silence, "can I speak
before your wife?"

"It is the same as speaking to me alone."

"Well. I have come to buy powder and lead of you."

"To shoot hares, I suppose," returned the smuggler, half-closing
his eye and gazing keenly at Jean-Claude.

"No; to fight the Germans and the Russians."

There was another silence.

"And you want a good deal, I suppose."

"As much as you can furnish."

"I can furnish three thousand francs' worth to-day," said the
smuggler.

"I will take it."

"And as much more in a week," continued Marc calmly, still gazing
steadily at his friend.

"I will take it."

"You will take it!" cried Hexe-Baizel--"you will take it! I
believe you, but who will pay for it?"

"Silence!" said Marc roughly.

{168}

"Hullin will take it; his word is enough."

Then, stretching out his broad hand to the sabot-maker, he
exclaimed:

"Jean-Claude, here is my hand! The powder and lead are yours; but
I wish to stand my share of the expense. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Marc, but I intend to pay at once."

"He will pay himself," cried Hexe-Baizel. "Do you hear?"

"Am I deaf? Baizel, go fetch us a bottle of
_Brimbelle-wasser_ to warm us. What Hullin tells me fills me
with joy. Those beggarly _Kaiserliks_ won't have things go
as easily as they imagine. Our people will defend themselves, and
well!"

"They will! they will!"

"And there are those among them who will pay for what is needed."

"Catherine Lefevre will pay, and it is she who sends me here,"
said Hullin.

Then Marc arose, and, extending his hand toward the precipice,
exclaimed:

"She is a woman among a thousand. Her soul is as great as yonder
rock, Oxenstein. Never saw I a grander. I drink to her health.
Drink too, Jean-Claude."

Hullin drank, and Hexe-Baizel followed the example.

"The bargain is made," cried Dives; "but, Hullin, it will not be
easy to beat back the foe! All the hunters, the workmen, and the
wood-cutters in the mountain will not be too many. I have just
come from beyond the Rhine. The earth is black with Russians,
Austrians, Bavarians, Prussians, Cossacks, hussars. The villages
cannot contain them, and they are encamped upon the plains, in
the valleys, on the heights, in the cities, everywhere,
everywhere!"

A sharp cry pierced the air.

"It is a buzzard chasing its prey," said Marc.

At the same instant a shadow passed over the rock. A cloud of
chaffinches and small birds swept over the cave, and hundreds of
buzzards and hawks dashed on above them, with loud screams. So
dense and broad was the feathered mass, that it seemed almost
immovable while the fluttering of so many thousand wings sounded
like dead leaves driving before the wind.

"It is the birds leaving Ardennes," said Hullin.

"Yes, the last of them. Their corn and seeds are buried in the
snow. But there are more men in the enemy's armies than birds
yonder. No matter, Jean-Claude; France will live though the world
assail her. Hexe-Baizel, light the lantern; I wish to show
Jean-Claude our stock of ammunition."

Hexe-Baizel could not willingly obey this command.

"No one," said she, "has been in the cave for twenty years. He
can as well take your word for it. We take his for payment. I
will not light the lantern--not I!"

Marc, without saying a word, stretched forth his hand and grasped
a stout stick. The old woman, trembling in every limb,
disappeared like a ferret through a small aperture, and in a
moment returned with a large horn lantern, which Dives tranquilly
lighted at the hearth.

"Baizel," said he, replacing the stick, "you know that
Jean-Claude is my friend, and has been since we were boys, and
that I would trust him much sooner than I would you, old snarler;
for you know well that if you did not fear being hung the same
day, I would long since have danced at the end of a rope. Come,
Hullin, follow me."

{169}

They went out together, and the smuggler, turning to the left,
kept on toward the notch, which projected over the Valtin two
hundred feet in the air. He pushed aside the foliage of a stunted
oak, and then disappeared as if hurled into the abyss.
Jean-Claude trembled, but he saw at the same moment Dives's head
advancing along the wall of rock. The smuggler called out:

"Hullin, place your hand on the left side; there is a hole there;
stretch out your foot boldly; you will feel a step, and then turn
upon your heel."

Master Jean-Claude obeyed, not without fear and trembling; he
felt the hole in the rock, found the step, and, turning half-way
around, presently stood face to face with his friend in a niche
which must formerly have belonged to some postern. At the end of
the niche a low vault opened.

"How in the world was this discovered?" cried the wondering
Hullin.

"I came on it while hunting for nests, thirty-five years ago. I
had often seen a magnificent eagle with his mate upon this rock;
they were splendid birds, full six feet across the wings. I heard
the cries of their young beyond the notch, and, after many a
trial, found myself here. What a battle we had! They tried to
tear my eyes out, and when I killed them I cleared their nest of
the bones that lay there after I had twisted the necks of the
young; then I kept on, and you shall see what I found. Come."

They glided together beneath the low and narrow vault, formed of
enormous red stones, over which the lantern threw a sickly glare.

At the end of about thirty steps a vast circular cave, formed
from the living rock, appeared, on the floor of which were
perhaps fifty piles of little kegs, and on the sides a great
number of bars of lead and bags of tobacco. The air of the cavern
was strongly impregnated with the strong odor of the last.

Marc placed his lantern at the entrance and gazed around with a
well-satisfied smile.

"Here is what I found," said he, "only the cave was empty, save
that in the middle of the floor yonder lay the skeleton of an
animal--of a fox, which had probably died there of old age. The
rogue had discovered the way before I did, and he could sleep in
safety here. At that time, Jean-Claude, I was twelve years of
age. I thought then that the place might some day be useful to
me, I knew not how; but afterward, when I made my first essays at
my trade with Jacob Zimmer, and when for two winters the revenue
officers were on our track, the remembrance of my cave returned.
I had made the acquaintance of Hexe-Baizel, who was a servant at
the farm of Bois-de-Chênes, then owned by Catherine's father. She
brought me twenty-five louis by way of dowry, and we set up our
establishment in this cavern of the Arbousiers."

Dives was silent, and Hullin asked:

"You like this den, then?"

"Like it! I would not change it for the finest house in
Strasbourg. For twenty-three years have I kept my goods
here--sugar, coffee, powder, tobacco, brandy--and no one the
wiser. I have eight horses always on the road."

"But you enjoy nothing of your wealth."

"Enjoy nothing! Think you there is no pleasure in mocking and
outwitting the police--in defying the shrewd officials of the
custom-house? And, besides, the people all love you; you sell at
half-price; you are the benefactor of the poor."

{170}

"But the danger!"

"Bah! What revenue officer would dare come here?"

"I believe you," muttered Hullin, as he thought that he must
again brave the precipice.

"But I am used to it," continued the smuggler, "although, when I
first made my way hither with a cask on my shoulder, my heart
fluttered as it had not for many a day before."

He took up the lantern and held it so that the light might fall
upon the heaps of kegs.

"It is fine English powder," said he; "it rolls like grains of
silver in your hand, and is strong as fate. A little goes a long
way; a thimbleful is enough for a charge. And there is lead that
Europe cannot beat. This evening, Hexe-Baizel shall run some into
balls. She knows how, as you shall see."

They turned to leave the cavern, when suddenly a confused noise
of voices was borne upon the air. Marc instantly blew out the
lantern, and the two men were in a moment plunged in darkness.

"There is some one above," whispered the smuggler. "Who in the
fiend's name could have climbed Falkenstein in the snow?"

They listened breathlessly, their eyes fixed upon a ray of
pale-blue light which descended through a narrow fissure in the
top of the cave. Around this opening hung glittering spars of
frost; above it could be seen the crest of a ruined wall. While
they gazed thus in profound silence, a head shaggy with
disordered hair, a glittering circlet binding the brow, the face
long and ending in a pointed red beard--all sharply outlined
against the white wintry sky--became visible.

"It is the King of Diamonds!" cried Marc, laughing.

"Poor wretch," murmured Hullin; "he is making a progress to his
castles, his bare feet upon the frozen ground, and his tin crown
protecting his head from the cold. Look, Dives, he is giving
orders to the knights of his court; he stretches his sceptre
north and south--all is his. Poor wretch, he makes me shiver to
see him with nothing but his dog-skin robe around him."

"He makes me think," laughed the smuggler, "of some
round-paunched burgomaster, or village mayor, rolling back in his
chair as he dilates upon his wealth: 'H'm, I am Hans Aden; I have
ten acres of fine meadow-land; I have two houses, a vine, my
orchard, my garden--h'm, I have this, that, and the other.' The
next day a colic seizes him, and then, good-night! We are fools,
all of us. Come, Hullin, after all, the sight of that miserable
creature talking to the winds and of his famine-stricken crow
makes my teeth chatter too."

They passed on to the entrance of the vault, and the glare of day
breaking suddenly upon them dazzled Hullin. The tall form of his
companion guided him, however, and he pressed on after him.

"Step firmly," said Marc, "and do as you see me; your right hand
in the hole, right foot on the step, half a turn, and here we
are!"

They returned to the kitchen, where Hexe-Baizel told them that
Yegof was among the ruins.

At the same moment the raven sailed past the door over the abyss,
and uttered its hoarse cry; they heard the frozen heather bend
beneath steps, and the fool appeared on the narrow terrace; he
was wan and haggard, and cried, looking toward the fire:

{171}

"Marc-Dives, try to leave this soon; I warn you. The
fortifications of my domains must be free from such vermin. Take
your measures accordingly."

Then perceiving Jean-Claude, he knit his brows.

"Thou here, Hullin?" said he. "Art thou yet far-sighted enough to
accept the proposals I deigned to make thee? Knowest thou that
the alliance I offered is the only means of saving thyself from
the destruction that broods upon thy race?"

Hullin could not avoid laughing.

"No, Yegof," he replied; "my sight is not yet clear enough; it is
dazed by the honor you offer me. But Louise is not yet old enough
to marry."

The fool seemed at once to grow more gloomy and thoughtful. He
stood at the edge of the terrace, his back to the abyss, as if in
his own hall, and the whirling of the raven around his head
disturbed him not in the least.

At length he raised his sceptre, and said, frowning:

"I have twice demanded her, Hullin; twice thou hast dared to
refuse me. Once more shall the demand be renewed--but once--dost
hear?--and then the decrees of fate shall be accomplished."

And turning upon his heel, with a firm step and haughty carriage,
notwithstanding the steepness of the descent, he passed down the
rocky path.

Hullin, Marc-Dives, and even the acrid Hexe-Baizel, burst into
peals of laughter.

"He is a fool!" said Hexe-Baizel.

"I think you are not altogether wrong," sneered the smuggler.
"Poor Yegof is losing his head entirely. But listen, Baizel; you
will begin at once to cast bullets of all calibres; I am off for
Switzerland. In a week, at latest, the remainder of our munitions
will be here. Give me my boots."

Drawing on the last, and wrapping a thick red woollen scarf about
his neck, the smuggler took from a hook on the wall a herdsman's
dark-green coat which he threw over his shoulders; then, covering
his head with a broad felt hat and seizing a cudgel, he cried:

"Do not forget what I say, old woman, or if you do, beware!
Forward, Jean-Claude!"

Hullin followed his host without even bidding Hexe-Baizel
farewell, and she, for her part, deigned not to see her departing
guest to the door. When they had reached the foot of the cliff,
Dives stopped, saying:

"You are going to the mountain villages, are you not, Hullin?"

"Yes; I must give the alarm."

"Do not forget Materne of Hengst and his two sons, and Labarbe of
Dagsbourg, and Jerome of Saint-Quirin. Tell them there will be
powder and ball in plenty; that Catherine Lefevre and I,
Marc-Dives, will see to it."

"Fear not, Marc; I know my men."

They shook hands warmly and parted, the smuggler wending his way
to the right toward Donon, Hullin taking the path to the left
toward the Sarre.

The distance was rapidly widening between them, when Hullin
called out:

"Halloo, Marc! Tell Catherine, as you pass, that all goes well,
and that I have gone among the villages."

The other replied by a nod, and the two pursued their different
ways.

{172}

                    Chapter VI.


An unusual agitation reigned along the entire line of the Vosges;
rumors of the coming invasion spread from village to village.
Pedlars, wagoners, tinkers, all that wandering population which
is constantly floating from mountain to plain, from plain to
mountain, brought each day budgets of strange news from Alsace
and the banks of the Rhine. They said that every town was being
put in a state of defence; that the roads to Metz, to Nancy,
Huningue, and Strasbourg, were black with army and provision
wagons. On every side were to be seen caissons of powder, shells,
and shot, and cavalry, infantry, and artillery hurrying to their
posts. Marshal Victor, with twelve thousand men, yet held the
Saverne road, but the draw-bridges of all the fortified towns
were raised from seven in the evening until eight in the morning.

Things looked gloomy enough, but the greater number thought only
of defending their homes, and Jean-Claude was everywhere well
received.

The same day, at about five in the evening, he reached the top of
Hengst, and stopped at the dwelling of the hunter-patriarch, old
Materne. There he passed the night; for in winter the days are
short and the roads difficult. Materne promised to keep watch
over the defile of Zorn, with his two sons, Kasper and Frantz,
and to respond to the first signal that should be made from
Falkenstein.

Early the next day, Jean-Claude arrived at Dagsbourg to see his
friend Labarbe the wood-cutter. They went together to the hamlets
around, to light in all hearts the love of country. Labarbe
accompanied Hullin to the cottage of the Anabaptist Nickel, a
grave and respectable man, but they could not draw him into their
glorious enterprise. He had but one reply to all their arguments.
"It is well," he said; "it is doubtless right; but the Scriptures
say that he who takes up the sword shall perish by the sword." He
promised, however, to pray for the good cause, and that was all
they could obtain of him.

They went thence to Walsch, where they found Daniel Hirsch, an
ancient gunner in the navy, who promised to bring with him all
the men of his commune.

Here Labarbe left Jean-Claude to pursue his route alone.

For a week more our brave friend wandered over the mountains,
from Soldatenthal to Leonsberg, from Meienthal to Voyer, Cirey,
Petit-Mont, Saint-Sauveur, and the ninth day he found himself at
the shoemaker Jerome's, at Saint-Quirin. They visited together
the defile of Blanru, after which Hullin, entirely satisfied with
the results of his journey, turned once more toward his village.

Since two o'clock in the afternoon he had been pressing on at a
brisk pace, thinking of the life of the camp, the bivouac, the
crash of battle, marches and countermarches--all those details of
a soldier's life which he regretted so often and which he now
looked forward to with ardor. The twilight shadows had begun to
fall when he discovered the village of Charmes, afar off, with
its little cottages, from which curled wreaths of light-blue
smoke, scarcely perceptible against the snow-covered
mountain-side, its little gardens with their fences, its
slate-covered roofs, and to the left the great farm-house of
Bois-de-Chênes, and below, in the already dark ravine, the
saw-mill of Valtin.

And then, without his knowing why, a sadness filled his heart.

{173}

He slackened his steps; thoughts of the calm, peaceful life he
was losing, perhaps for ever, floated through his mind; he saw
his little room, so warm in winter and so gay in spring, when he
opened his window to the breezes from the woods; he heard the
never-changing tick of the village clock; and he thought of
Louise--his good little Louise--spinning in silence, her eyes
cast down, or, mayhap, singing in her pure, clear voice at
evening. Everything in his home arose before his eyes: the tools
of his trade, his long, glittering chisels, the hatchet with the
crooked handle, the porringers of glazed earthenware, the antique
figure of Saint Michael nailed to the wall, the old curtained bed
in the alcove, the lamp with the copper beak--all were before
him, and the tears forced their way to his eyes.

But it was to Louise--his dear child, his Louise--that his
thoughts turned oftenest. How she would weep and implore him not
to expose himself to the dangers of war! How she would hang upon
his neck and beg him not to leave her! He saw her large,
affrighted eyes; he felt her arms around him. He would fain
deceive her, but deceit was no part of Jean-Claude's character;
his words only deepened her grief.

He tried to shake off his gloom, and, passing by the farm of
Bois-de-Chênes, he entered to tell Catherine that all went well,
and that the mountaineers only awaited the signal.

Fifteen minutes later, Master Jean-Claude stood before his own
door.

Before opening it, he glanced through the window to see what
Louise might be doing. She was standing in the alcove, and seemed
busily arranging and rearranging some garments that lay upon the
bed. Her face beamed with happiness, her eyes sparkled, and she
was talking to herself aloud. Hullin listened, but the rattling
of a passing wagon prevented his hearing her words.

He pushed open the door and entered, saying:

"Louise, here I am back!"

She bounded like a fawn to him and threw her arms around his
neck, exclaiming:

"It is you, Father Jean-Claude! How I have been waiting for you!
How long you were gone! But you are home again, at last."

"My child--many things"--said the good man, putting away his
staff behind the door--"many things kept--"

But his heart was too full; he could say no more.

"Yes, yes, I know," cried Louise, laughing. "Mother Lefevre told
me all."

"How is that! You know all and only laugh? Well, it proves your
good sense. I expected to see you weep."

"Weep? And why, Father Jean-Claude? Oh! never fear for me; I am
brave. You do not know me."

Her air was so prettily resolute that Hullin could not help
smiling; but his smile quickly disappeared when she added:

"We are going to have war; we are going to fight, to defend the
mountains!"

"_We_ are going! _We_ are going!" exclaimed the good
man, astounded.

"Certainly. Are we not?" she asked, her smile disappearing at
once.

"I must leave you for some time, my child."

"Leave me? Oh! no, no. I will go with you; it is agreed. See, my
little bundle is all ready, and I am making up yours. Do not be
uneasy; let me fix everything, and you will be satisfied."

Hullin stood stupefied.

"But, Louise," he cried, "you are dreaming. Think, my child! We
must pass long winter nights without a roof to cover us; we must
bear hardship, fatigue, cold, snow, hunger, and countless
dangers! A musket-ball would mar my pretty bird's beauty."

{174}

"You are only trying your little Louise," cried she, now in
tears, and flinging herself upon his neck. "You will not leave me
here alone."

"But you will be better here; you will have a good fire and food.
Besides, you will receive news of us every day."

"No, no! I will go with you; I care not for cold. And I have been
shut up here too long; I want the fresh air. The birds are out;
the redbreasts are out all winter; and did I not know what hunger
was when a child? Mother Lefevre says I may go; and will you whom
I love so much be more cruel than she?"

Brave Jean-Claude sat down, his heart full of bitter sorrow. He
turned away his head that she might not see the struggle going on
within, while Louise eagerly continued:

"I will be safe; I will follow you. The cold! What is the cold to
me? And if you should be wounded--if you should wish to see your
little Louise for the last time, and she not be near to take care
of you--to love you to the last! Oh! you must think me
hard-hearted!"

She sobbed; Hullin could hold out no longer.

"Is it indeed true that Mother Lefevre consents?" he asked.

"Yes, yes, oh! yes, she told me so; she said, 'Try to get Father
Jean-Claude to let you; I am satisfied.'"

"Well," said the sabot-maker, smiling sadly, "I can do little
against two. You shall come! It is agreed."

The cottage echoed with her cry of joy, and with one sweep of her
hand her tears were dried, and her face, like an April sky,
beamed in smiles.

"You are a little gypsy still," cried Hullin, shaking his head.
"Go trap a swallow."

Then, drawing her to him, he continued:

"Look you, Louise: it is now twelve years since I found you in
the snow. You were blue with the cold, poor child; and when I
brought you to the fire and warmed you, the first thing you did
was to smile at me, and since that day your smile has ruled old
Jean-Claude. But let us look at our bundles," said the good man
with a sigh. "Are they well fastened?"

He approached the bed, and saw in wonder his warmest coats, his
flannel jackets, all well brushed, well folded, and well packed.
Then in Louise's bundle were her best dresses and her thick
shoes. He could not restrain a laugh, as he cried:

"O gypsy, gypsy! It takes you to pack up."

Louise smiled.

"Then you are satisfied with them?" she asked.

"I must be; but in the midst of all this fine work, you did not
think, I'll wager, of getting ready my supper."

"That is soon done," said she, "although I did not know you would
return to-night, Papa Jean-Claude."

"That is true; but get something ready quickly; no matter what,
for my appetite is sharp. In the meantime I will smoke a pipe."

"Yes, smoke a pipe."

He sat at the corner of his work-bench and drummed dreamily upon
it. Louise flew to right and left like a veritable fairy,
kindling up the fire, breaking eggs, and in the twinkle of an eye
she had an omelette ready. Never had she looked so graceful, so
joyous, so pretty. Hullin leaned his cheek upon his hand and
gazed at her gravely, thinking how much firmness, will,
resolution, there was in that little form, light as an antelope,
but decided as a cuirassier. In a moment she had laid the
omelette before him on a large plate, ornamented with blue
flowers, a loaf of bread, his glass, and his bottle of wine.

{175}

"There, Father Jean-Claude, eat your supper."

The fire leaped and crackled in the stove, throwing ruddy stains
on the low rafters, the stairs half in shadow and the large bed
in the alcove, and lighting up the poor dwelling so often made
joyous by the merry humor of the sabot-maker and the songs of his
daughter. And Louise would leave all this without regret to brave
the wintry woods, the snow-covered paths, and the steep
mountain-side, and all for love of him. Neither storm, nor biting
wind, nor torrents staid her. She had but one thought, and that
was to be near him.

The repast ended, Hullin arose, saying:

"I am weary, my child; kiss me for good-night."

"But do not forget to awake me, Father Jean-Claude, if you start
before daybreak."

"Rest easy; you will come with us," he answered, as he climbed
the narrow stairs.

All was silence without, save that the deep tones of the village
clock told the hour of eleven. Jean-Claude sat down and
unfastened his shoes. Just then his eyes fell upon his musket
hung over the door. He took it down, slowly wiped it, and tried
the lock. His whole soul was in the work in which he was engaged.

"It is strange--strange! The last time I fired it was at
Marengo--fourteen years ago, and it seems but yesterday."

Suddenly the frozen snow crunched beneath a foot-fall. He
listened. Two taps sounded upon the window-panes. He ran and
opened the door, and the form of Marc-Dives, his broad hat stiff
with ice, emerged from the darkness.

"Marc! What news?"

"Have you warned Materne, Jerome, Labarbe?"

"Yes, all."

"It is none too soon; the enemy are advancing."

"Advancing?"

"Yes; along their whole line. I have come fifteen leagues since
morning to give you warning."

"Good. We must make the signal: a fire upon Falkenstein."

Hullin's face was pale, but his eyes flashed. He again put on his
shoes, and two minutes after, with his cloak upon his shoulders
and his staff firmly clinched in his hand, he opened the door
softly, and with long steps followed Marc-Dives along the path to
Falkenstein.


                   Chapter VII.


From midnight until six o'clock in the morning a flame shone
through the darkness from the summit of Falkenstein.

All Hullin's friends, and those of Marc-Dives and Mother Lefevre,
with high gaiters bound around their legs, and old muskets upon
their shoulders, trooped in the silence of the woods to the
gorges of the Valtin. The thought of the enemy pouring over the
plains of Alsace to surprise their glens and defiles nerved every
heart and arm. The tocsin at Dagsbourg, at Walsch, and at
Saint-Quirin ceased not to call the country's defenders to arms.

Imagine the Jaegerthal, at the foot of the old _burg_, in
the early morning hour, when the giant arms of the trees begin to
break through the shadows, and when the approach of day softens
somewhat the intense cold of the night. The snow lies deep upon
the ground.
{176}
Imagine the old saw-pit with its flat roof, its heavy wheel
glittering with icicles; a fire of sawdust shining from within,
but paling before the morning twilight, and around the fire fur
caps and slouched hats and dark faces crowded together; further
on, in the woods, and along the winding valley, were other fires
lighting up groups of men and women seated on the snow.

As the sky grew brighter friends began to recognize each other.

"Hold! There is Cousin Daniel of Soldatenthal. You here too?"

"As you see, Heinrich, and my wife too."

"What! Cousin Nanette! But where is she?"

"Yonder, by the large oak, at Uncle Hans's fire."

They clasp each other's hand. Some slept, some piled branches and
broken planks upon the fires. Flasks passed around, and those who
had warmed themselves made way for their shivering neighbors. But
impatience was gaining upon the crowd.

"Ah!" cried one, "we have not come here only to stretch our legs.
It is time to look around, to agree upon our movements."

"Yes! yes! let us organize and elect our leaders!" cried many.

"No; all are not yet here. They are yet coming from Dagsbourg and
Saint-Quirin," replied others.

Indeed, as day advanced, the pathways of the mountain seemed full
of people. There were already some hundreds in the
valley--wood-cutters, charcoal-burners, and others--without
counting the women and children.

Nothing could be more picturesque than that halt in the snow, at
the bottom of a defile covered to the clouds with high firs; to
the right, valley following valley as far as the eye could reach;
to the left, the ruins of Falkenstein, reaching, as it seemed, to
the sky; and before you groups of thickly bearded men with gloomy
brows, broad square shoulders, and hands callous from labor. Some
of them, taller than their fellows, were red-haired and
white-skinned, and seemed strong as the oaks of the forest. Of
this number were old Materne of Hengst and his two sons, Frantz
and Kasper. These three, armed with short Innspruck rifles, their
high gaiters of blue canvas with leather buttons reaching above
the knee, their bodies covered with hare-skin jackets, and their
slouched hats pushed far back upon their heads, did not deign to
approach the fire. Since one o'clock they had sat upon the felled
trunk of a fir by the border of the brook, their eyes constantly
on the watch, and their feet buried in the snow. From time to
time the old man would say to his sons:

"What are they shivering for yonder? I never saw a milder night
at this season; it is a fine hunting night; the brooks are not
yet frozen."

Every hunter as he passed pressed their hands, and then joined
his fellows, who formed a separate band, among whom but few words
passed, for silence is one of the great virtues of the chase.

Marc-Dives, standing in the middle of another group, over whom he
towered by a head, talked and gesticulated, now pointing to one
part of the mountain, now to another. Opposite him was the old
herdsman Lagarmitte, in his gray smock-frock, his dog at his
side. He was listening open-mouthed to the smuggler, and from
time to time gravely nodded his head. The remainder of the group
was composed of wood-cutters and workmen with whom Marc had daily
dealings.

{177}

Between the saw-pit and the first fire sat the shoemaker Jerome
of Saint-Quirin, a man between fifty and sixty years of age; his
eyes were sunken, his face long and brown, and his yellow beard
descended to his waist; his head was covered with an otter-skin
cap; and as he leaned forward upon a heavy knotted staff, in his
long woollen great-coat, he might easily have been mistaken for
some hermit of the wilds. Whenever any one approached with news,
Father Jerome slowly turned his head and listened with bent
brows.

Jean Labarbe sat motionless, his elbow resting upon his
axe-helve. He was a pale man, with an aquiline nose and thin
lips, and exercised a great influence over the men of Dagsbourg
by the resolution and force of his character. When those around
him cried out for action, he simply said, "Wait; Hullin has not
arrived yet, nor Catherine Lefevre. There is no hurry," and all
around became quiet.

Piorette, a little, dry, thin, energetic man, with eyebrows
meeting over his nose, and a short pipe between his teeth, sat at
the threshold of the saw-mill, and gazed with a quick but
thoughtful eye at the scene.

Nevertheless, the impatience increased every minute. A few
village mayors in cocked hats called upon their people to
deliberate. Happily the wagon of Catherine Lefevre at last
appeared, and a thousand enthusiastic shouts arose on all sides.

"Here they are! They have come!"

Old Materne stood up upon the trunk of a tree and then descended,
gravely saying:

"It is they."

Much excitement now prevailed; the scattered groups collected.
Scarcely could the old woman be seen distinctly, seated upon a
truss of straw with Louise by her side, when the echoes rang with
the cry:

"Long live France! Long live Mother Catherine!"

Hullin, behind, his musket strapped upon his back, was crossing
the field of Eichmath, grasping hands and saluting his friends:

"Is it you, Daniel? Good-morning, Colon!"

"Ha! Things look stormy, Hullin."

"Yes, yes; we shall soon have lively times. You here, old Jerome!
What think you of the state of affairs?"

"All will yet go well, Jean-Claude, with God's help."

Catherine, when she arrived in front of the saw-mill, ordered
Labarbe to open the little cask of brandy she had brought from
the farm-house. Hullin, approaching the fire, met Materne and his
two sons.

"You come late," said the old hunter.

"True, but there was much to be done, and too much yet remains to
be done to lose more time. Lagarmitte, wind your horn."

Lagarmitte blew until his cheeks seemed bursting, and the groups
scattered along the path, and at the skirts of the wood hastened
to assemble, and soon all were collected before the saw-mill.
Hullin mounted a pile of logs, and spoke amid the deepest
silence:

"The enemy," said he, "crossed the Rhine the night before last.
He is pressing on to our mountains to enter Lorraine. Strasbourg
and Huningue are blockaded. In three or four days at most the
Germans and the Russians will be upon us."

A shout of "Long live France!" arose.

"Ay, long live France!" cried Jean-Claude; "for, if the allies
reach Paris, all our liberties are gone! Forced labor, tithes,
privileges, and gibbets will flourish once more. If you wish that
they should, let the allies pass."

{178}

A dark scowl seemed to settle on every man's face.

"I have said what I have to say!" cried Hullin, pale with
emotion. "As you are here, you are here to fight!"

"Ay, to fight!"

"It is well; but one word more. I would not deceive you; I see
among you fathers of families. We will be one against
ten--against fifty. We must expect to perish! Therefore, let
those whose hearts may grow faint ere the end comes, go. All are
free!"

Each in the crowd looked round to see his neighbors' faces, but
no one left his place. Jean-Claude spoke in a firmer tone:

"No one moves! All are ready for battle! A chief--a leader--must
be named, for in times of danger everything depends on order and
discipline. He whom you shall appoint must be obeyed in all
things. Reflect well, for on him depends the fate of every one of
us."

So saying, Jean-Claude descended from his tribune, and earnest
voices began at once to whisper in the crowd. Every village
deliberated separately; each mayor proposed his man; time passed;
Catherine Lefevre burned with anxiety and impatience. At length
she could contain herself no longer, and rising upon her seat she
made a sign that she wished to speak.

"My friends," said she, "time flies; the enemy is advancing. What
do we need? A man whom we can trust; a soldier acquainted with
war, and knowing how to profit by the strength of mere positions.
Well, why not choose Hullin? Can any among you name a better? I
propose Hullin!"

"Hullin! Hullin!" cried Labarbe, Dives, Jerome, and many others.
"Let us have a vote!"

Marc-Dives, climbing the pile of logs, shouted in a voice of
thunder:

"Let those who are opposed to having Jean-Claude Hullin for our
leader, raise their hands!"

Not a hand rose.

"Let those who wish Jean-Claude Hullin to be our chief, raise
their hands!"

Every hand rose.

"Jean-Claude," said the smuggler, "you are the man. Come hither.
Look!"

Jean-Claude mounted the logs, and seeing that he was elected,
said calmly:

"You name me your chief. I accept. Let old Materne, Labarbe of
Dagsbourg, Jerome of Saint-Quirin, Marc-Dives, Piorette the
sawyer, and Catherine Lefevre enter the saw-mill. We will hold a
council, and in twenty minutes I will give my orders. In the
meantime let every village detail two men to go to Falkenstein
with Marc-Dives for powder and ball."


                   Chapter VIII.

Those whom Hullin named met in the hut attached to the saw-mill
around the immense chimney. A sober sort of merriment seemed to
play about the face of more than one.

"For twenty years I have heard people talking of these Russians
and Austrians and Cossacks," said old Materne, smiling, "and I
shall not be sorry to see one at the muzzle of my rifle."

"Yes," answered Labarbe; "we shall see enough of them at last,
and the little children of to-day will have many a tale to tell
of their fathers and their grandsires. And how the old women of
fifty years hence will chatter of it at evening around the winter
fire!"

{179}

"Comrades," cried Hullin, "you know the country--you know our
mountains from Thann to Wissembourg. You know that two grand
roads--the imperial roads--traverse Alsace and the Vosges. Both
starting from Bâle, one runs along the Rhine to Strasbourg, and
enters Lorraine by Saverne. Huningue, Neuf-Brisach, Strasbourg,
and Phalsbourg defend it. The other turns to the left to
Schlestadt. Leaving Schlestadt, it enters the mountains, and
passes on to Saint-Dié, Raon-l'Etape, Baccarat, and Lunéville.
The enemy would like to force the passage of these two roads, as
they are the best for cavalry, artillery, and wagons; but, as
they are well defended, we need not trouble our about them. If
the allies lay siege to the cities upon them, the campaign will
be dragged out to a great length, and we shall have nothing to
fear; but this is not probable. After having summoned Huningue to
surrender, and Belfort, Schlestadt, Strasbourg, and Phalsbourg,
on this side of the Vosges, and Bitche, Lutzelstein, and
Sarrebrück, on the other, they will fall upon us. Now, listen.
Between Phalsbourg and Saint-Dié there are several defiles
practicable for infantry, but only one for cannon, that is, the
road from Strasbourg to Raon-les-Leaux, by Urmatt, Mutzig,
Lutzelhouse, Phramond, and Grandfontaine. Once masters of this
road, the allies can debouch in Lorraine. This road passes us at
Donon, two leagues hence, to our right. The first thing to be
done is, to establish ourselves upon it at the place most
favorable for defence--that is, upon the plateau on the mountain;
to break down the bridges, and throw heavy abatis across it. A
few hundred large trees, with their branches, will do the work,
and under their cover we can watch the approach of the foe. All
this, comrades, must be done by to-morrow night, or by the day
after, at the latest. But it is not enough to occupy a position
and put it in a good state of defence. We must see that the enemy
cannot turn it."

"That is just what I was thinking," said old Materne. "Once in
the valley of the Bruche, and the Germans can bring their
infantry to the hills of Haslach, and turn our left; and there is
nothing to hinder their trying the same movement upon our right,
if they gain Raon-l'Etape."

"Yes; but to prevent their doing either, we have only to occupy
the defiles of the Zorn and of the Sarre on our left, and that of
Blanru on our right. We must defend a defile by holding the
heights, and, for that purpose, Piorette will place himself, with
a hundred men, on the side of Raon-les-Leaux; Jerome, on
Grosmann, with the same number, to close the valley of the Sarre;
and Labarbe, at the head of the remain on the mountain, will
overlook the hills of Haslach. You will choose your men from
those belonging to the villages nearest your stations. The women
must not have far to come to bring provisions, and the wounded
will be nearer home. The chiefs of each position will send me a
report each day, by a messenger, on foot, to Donon, where will be
our headquarters. We will organize a reserve also; but it will be
time enough to see to that when our positions are taken, and no
surprise from the enemy is to be feared."

"And I," cried Marc-Dives, "am I to have nothing to do? Am I to
sit with folded arms while all the rest are fighting?"

{180}

"You will superintend the transporting of our munitions. No one
among us understands keeping powder as you do--preserving it from
fire and damp--or casting bullets and making cartridges."

"That is a woman's work," cried the smuggler. "Hexe-Baizel can do
it as well as I. Am I not to fire a shot?"

"Rest easy, Marc," replied Hullin, laughing; "you will find
plenty of chances. In the first place, Falkenstein is the centre
of our line--our arsenal and point of retreat, in case of
misfortune. The enemy will know by his scouts that our wagons
start from there, and will probably try to intercept them. Shots
and bayonet-thrusts will not be wanting. Besides, we cannot
confide the secret of your cave to the first comer. However, if
you insist--"

"No," said the smuggler, whom Hullin's' reflections upon the cave
touched at once. "No; all things well considered, I believe you
are right, Jean-Claude. I will defend Falkenstein."

"Well, then, comrades," cried brave Jean-Claude, "we will warm
our hearts with a few glasses of wine. It is now ten o'clock. Let
each one return to his village, and see to the provisions.
To-morrow morning, at the latest, the defiles must be occupied."

They left the hut together, and Hullin, in the presence of all
assembled, named Labarbe, Jerome, and Piorette chiefs of the
defiles; then he ordered those who came from the Sarre to meet,
as soon as possible, near the farm of Bois-de-Chênes, with axes,
picks, and muskets.

"We will start at two," said he, "and encamp on Donon, across the
road. To-morrow, at daybreak, we will begin our abatis."

He kept old Materne, and his two sons, Frantz and Kasper, by him,
telling them that the battle would surely begin on Donon, and
sharp-shooters would be needed there. Mother Lefevre never seemed
so happy. She mounted her wagon, and whispered, as she embraced
Louise:

"All goes well. Jean-Claude is a man. He astonishes me, who have
known him forty years. Jean-Claude," she cried, "breakfast is
waiting, and a few old bottles which the Austrians will not
drink."

"Good Catherine, I am coming."

But as he struck the horses with the whip, and as the
mountaineers had just begun to scatter on their way to their
villages, they saw, on the road to Trois-Fontaines, a tall, thin
man, mounted upon a red mare; his hare-skin cap, with a wide
peak, pulled well down upon his head. A great shepherd-dog, with
long black hair, bounded beside him; and the skirts of his huge
overcoat floated like wings behind him.

"It is Dr. Lorquin, from the plain," exclaimed Catherine; "he who
at the poor for nothing; and that is his dog Pluto with him."

It was indeed he, who rushed among the crowd, shouting:

"Halt! stop! Halt, I say!"

His ruddy face, large, quick eyes, beard of a reddish-brown,
broad, square shoulders, tall horse, and dog, in a moment
appeared at the foot of the mountain. Gasping for breath, he
shouted, in his excitement:

"Ah the villains! They wanted to begin the campaign without me!
They shall pay for it!"

And, striking a little box he carried at his crupper, he
continued:

"Wait awhile, my fine fellows, wait awhile! I have some things
here you'll want by and by; little knives and great ones--round
and pointed ones--to cut out the bullets and canister your
friends yonder will treat you to."

{181}

So saying, he burst into a gruff peal of laughter, while the
flesh of his hearers crept. After this agreeable pleasantry, Dr.
Lorquin said gravely:

"Hullin, your ears should be cut off! When the country was to be
defended, was I to be forgotten? It seems to me that a surgeon
might be useful here, although may God send you no need of one!"

"Pardon me, doctor; it was my fault," replied Hullin, pressing
his hand. "For the last week I have had so many things to think
of that some escaped me, in spite of myself. But a man like you
need not be called upon by me to do his duty."

The doctor softened.

"It is all well and good," he cried; "but by your fault I am here
late. But where is your general? I will complain to him."

"I am general."

"Indeed!"

"And I appoint you surgeon-in-chief."

"Surgeon-in-chief of the partisans of the Vosges. Very good,
Jean-Claude." And, approaching the wagon in which Catherine was
seated, the doctor told her that he relied upon her to organize
the hospital department.

"Very well," she answered; "forward. You dine with us, doctor."

The wagon started, and all the way the brave doctor laughingly
told Catherine how the news of the rising reached him; how his
old house-keeper Marie was wild with grief, and tried to keep him
from going to be massacred by the Kaiserliks; the different
episodes of his journey from Quibolo to the village of Charmes.
Hullin and Materne and his sons marched a few paces in the rear,
their rifles on their shoulders; and thus they reached the farm
of Bois-de-Chênes.

                   ----------

            Catholicity And Pantheism.


                  Number One.


                 Introductory.


Man is made for truth. The ray of intelligence beaming from his
countenance and kindling his looks with life marks his
superiority over all inferior creation, and loudly proclaims this
fact. Intelligence must have an object; and what can this object
be but truth? As a necessary consequence from this fact, it
follows that error can be nothing else than fragments of truth;
ill-assorted, improperly joined together. Error does not consist
in what logicians call simple ideas, or self-evident
propositions; but in complex ideas, the result of a long chain of
syllogisms. Another consequence, closely allied to the first, is,
that the greater the error, the more universal and more widely
spread, the more particular truths it must contain. Or, if it
does not contain a greater number of partial truths, it must have
the power of apparently satisfying a real and prevalent tendency
of our mind, otherwise it would never exert dominion over the
intelligence; or else it must possess the secret of awakening and
alluring a true and imperative aspiration of our nature.

{182}

It is through these views that we have been enabled to explain to
ourselves the prevalence of Pantheism. The simple utterance of
the word Pantheism, the Deity of everything, would seem to carry
its refutation with it, so plain and evident is its falsehood, so
glaring its absurdity.

Pantheism, however, has been the universal error in time and
space. In India, Persia, China, Greece, Rome, Pantheism
flourished; now under a religious, and then under a philosophical
form. After the Christian era it was the religion or system of
those who did not understand the Christian dogmas as taught by
the church; and the fathers of the first centuries, in battling
against Gnosticism, Eclecticism, and Neoplatonism, were
struggling with this old error of the world--Pantheism. Depressed
for awhile by the efforts of the doctors of the church, it arose
with fiercer energy under the forms of all those heresies which
attacked the dogma of the Incarnation of the Word.

In the middle ages there were many philosophers who held
Pantheism; and in modern times, since the dawn of the
Reformation, it has become the prevalent, the absorbing error of
the world. Always the same as to substance, it assumes every
variety of form: now you see it in a logical dress, as in the
doctrine of the German school; again it takes a psychological
garb, as in that of the French school with Cousin at its head; or
it assumes a social and political form, as in the Pantheism of
Fourier, Leroux, Saint Simon, and all the progressists of every
color or shade; and finally, it puts on a ghostly shroud, as
taught by the American spiritualists. Under whatever garb it may
appear, it penetrates and fills all, and pretends to explain all.
It penetrates philosophy, natural science, history, literature,
the fine arts, the family, society and the body politic, and
religion. It holds its sway over all, and exhibits itself as
having the secret of good and evil. How is this to be explained?
If the falsehood of Pantheism be so evident, whence is it that it
is the universal error in time and space, and has made such
ravages in man's intelligence? The greater its falsehood, the
more inexplicable becomes its prevalence. Has the nature of man
changed? Has his intelligence lost its object? It is true, man's
intelligence is not perfect. Since the fall it is weakened and
obscured, but doubtless it has not ceased and could not cease to
be intelligence; truth has not ceased to be its natural essential
object. How, then, are we to explain the prevalence of so mighty
an error?

By the fact that it is a system which by its generality seems to
satisfy a supreme tendency of our mind, and to appease one of the
most imperative cravings of our souls. Man's intelligence has a
natural tendency to synthesize, that is, to bring everything into
unity. This tendency arises both from the essential oneness of
the mind and from the nature of its object. The object of the
mind is being or reality in some form or other. That which does
exist cannot even be apprehended, and hence cannot be the object
of the mind. To understand and to understand nothing is, at the
same time, the affirmation and the negation of the understanding.
{183}
Now, if the object of the intelligence, in order to be known and
understood by the said faculty, must represent itself under the
form of being or reality, it is under this respect necessarily
one. Under whatever form it may exhibit itself, under whatever
quality it may be concealed, it must always be reality or being,
and, as such, one. But if being, reality, or unity, taken in the
abstract, was the sole object of the intelligence, there would be
an end to all its movement or life. All science would be at an
end, because science is a process, a movement; and movement is
not possible where an abstraction is the sole object of the mind.
Being and unity, then, abstractly considered, would be the
eternal stupor of the mind. This cannot be so, however.
Intelligence is action, life, movement. Now, all this implies
multiplicity; hence the object of the intelligence must also be
multiple. But does not this second condition also destroy the
former, which requires that the object of the intelligence should
be one? Here reason finds a necessary, though, as we shall see,
only an apparent contradiction, both in the logical as well as
ontological order. In the logical order, because the intelligence
seems to require unity and multiplicity as the conditions without
which its action becomes impossible. In the ontological order, or
the order of reality, because if the object is not at the same
time one and multiple, how can those conditions of the mind be
satisfied?

The intelligence, then, in order to live, must be able to travel
from unity to multiplicity in an ascending or descending process,
and to do so, not arbitrarily, but for reasons resting on
reality.

In this lies the life of the intelligence; science is nothing but
this synthetical and analytical movement. Let the mind stop at
analysis or multiplicity, and you will give it an agglomeration
of facts of which it can neither see the reason nor the link
which connects them: and hence you place it in unnatural bonds,
which, sooner or later, it will break, it matters not whether by
a sophistical or a dialectic process. On the other hand, let it
stop at unity, and you condemn it to stupor and death.

The foregoing ideas will explain the fact how a particular error
will either have a very short existence or fall into the
universal error of Pantheism. For in this, so far as we can see,
lies the reason of the universal dominion of Pantheism. Because
it proposes to explain the whole question of human knowledge, it
takes it up in all its universality, and the solution which it
sets forth has all the appearance of satisfying the most
imperative tendency of our mind. To be enabled to explain the
numberless multiplicity of realities, no matter how, and, at the
same time, to bring them into a compact and perfect whole,
strikes to the quick the very essence of man's intelligence and
allures it with its charms. If this be not the main reason of the
prevalence of Pantheism, we acknowledge we do not understand how
such a mighty error could ever take possession of man's mind; we
are tempted to say that human understanding was made for
falsehood, which is to deny the very notion of intelligence.

What Pantheism proposes to do for the mind it also promises to
accomplish for the soul.

{184}

There is, in man's heart or soul, impressed in indelible
characters, a tendency after the infinite, a craving almost
infinite in its energy, such is the violence with which it impels
the soul to seek and yearn after its object. To prove such a
tendency were useless. That void, that feeling of satiety and
sadness, which overwhelms the soul, even after the enjoyment of
the most exquisite pleasure, either sensible or sentimental; the
phenomenon of solitaries in all times and countries; the very
fact of the existence of religion in all ages and among all
peoples; the enthusiasm, the recklessness and barbarity which
characterize the wars undertaken for religion's sake; the love of
the marvellous and the mysterious exhibited by the multitude;
that sense of terror and reverence, that feeling of our own
nothingness, which steals into our souls in contemplating the
wide ocean in a still or stormy night, or in contemplating a
wilderness, a mountain, or a mighty chasm, all are evident proofs
of that imperious, delicious, violent craving of our souls after
the infinite. How otherwise explain all this? Why do we feel a
void, a sadness, a kind of pain, after having enjoyed the most
stirring delights? Because the infinite is the weight of the
soul--the centre of gravity of the heart--because created
pleasures, however delightful or exquisite, being finite, can
never quiet that craving, can never fill up that chasm placed
between us and God.

The pretended sages of mankind have never been able to
exterminate religion, because they could never root out of the
soul of man that tendency. I say pretended sages, because all
real geniuses have, with very few exceptions, been religious; for
in them that tendency is more keenly and more imperiously felt.

This is the second reason of the prevalence of Pantheism. To
promise the actual and immediate possession of the infinite, nay,
the transformation into the infinite, is to entice the very best
of human aspirations, is to touch the deepest and most sensitive
chord of the human heart.

Both these reasons we have drawn _a priori_; we might now
prove, _a posteriori_, from history, how every particular
error has either fallen into Pantheism or disappeared altogether.
But since this would carry us too far, we will exemplify it by
one error--Protestantism.

The essence of Protestantism lies in emancipating human reason
from dependence on the reason of God. It is true that at its dawn
it was not proclaimed in this naked form, nor is it thus
announced at the present time; but its very essence lies in that.
For if human reason be made to judge objects which God's reason
alone can comprehend, man is literally emancipated from the
reason of God.

What does this supreme principle of Protestantism mean, that
every individual must, by reading the Bible, find for himself
what he has to believe?

Are the truths written in the Bible intelligible or
superintelligible; that is, endowed with evidence immediate or
mediate, or are they mysteries?

If they be purely intelligible, endowed with evidence mediate or
immediate, there is no possible need of the Bible, for, in that
case, reason could find them by itself. If they be mysteries, how
can reason, unaided by any higher power, find them out? It will
not do to say, They are written in the Bible, and reason has
merely to apprehend them. Suppose a dispute should arise as to
the right meaning of the Bible; who is to decide the dispute?
Reason? Then reason must grasp and comprehend mysteries in order
to decide the dispute. For none can be judge unless he is
qualified thoroughly to understand the matter of the dispute.
From this it is evident that to make reason judge of the faith is
to make it judge of the mysteries of the infinite, and,
therefore, is to emancipate the reason of man from subjection to
the reason of God. Hence, Protestantism was rightly called a
masked rationalism.

{185}

It soon threw off the mask. The human mind saw that it can never
be emancipated from the reason of God unless it is supposed to be
independent, and it could never be supposed independent unless it
was supposed equal to the reason of the infinite.

The result of all this is necessarily Pantheism. And into
Pantheism Protestants soon fell, especially the Germans, who
never shrink from any consequence if logically deduced from their
premises. Such was the latent reasoning of Fichte, Schelling,
Hegel, and others, in building up their form of Pantheism.

To understand is to master an object, to mould it so as to fit
our intelligence. We can understand the infinite, we can master
it. Therefore, we are at least equal to the infinite, 'we are
ourselves the infinite,' we ourselves lay it down by a logical
process. Hence the astounding proposal which Fichte made to his
disciples, that the next day he would proceed to create God, was
nothing else but the echo and logical consequence of the cry
raised by the unfrocked monk of Wittenberg, proclaiming the
independence of reason from the shackles of all authority.

On the other hand, the denial of human liberty and the absolute
predestination of the Calvinists give the same result. If we are
not free agents, if God can do what he lists with us, we are no
longer agents in the strictest and truest sense of the word. Now,
every substance is an act, a _monos_, a force; if, then, we
are not agents, we are not substances, and hence we become
qualities, phenomena of the infinite substance. All this as
regards doctrine. But Protestantism ran into Pantheism by another
road almost as soon as it arose, for the action of the feelings
is swifter and more rapid than logic. Protestantism being
rationalism in doctrine is necessarily naturalism with regard to
the soul; and by presenting to the soul only nature, its authors
left the craving after the supernatural and the infinite thirsty
and bleeding. What was the consequence? Many Protestant sects
fell into mysticism, which is but a sentimental Pantheism, a
species of interior theurgy. History is too well known to render
necessary any proof of these assertions. These are the
consequences at which active minds must arrive when, in their
researches, they do not meet with truth.

As to those minds which are not active, or not persevering in
their inquiries, they fall into indifference, which is but a
scepticism of the soul, as doubt is the scepticism of the mind.

Now, the question arises, What is the best method of refuting
Pantheism? Many have been the refutations of Pantheism, but they
are limited to pointing out the absurd consequences following
from it, which consequences, summed up, amount to this: that
Pantheism destroys and makes void the principle of contradiction
in all the orders to which it may be applied; that is to say, it
makes void that principle in the ontological order or order of
realities, in the logical order, etc.

But, notwithstanding the truth and force of this refutation, we
do not know that it has converted a single Pantheist. From the
fact that Pantheism is more prevalent at the present time than
ever it was, we should conclude that it has not. We say this with
all the respect and deference due to those who have exerted their
talents in the said arena.
{186}
For we know that some of the noblest intellects have brought
their energy to bear against this mighty error. But, if we are
allowed to express our opinion, we say that all former
refutations have been void of effect for lack of completeness,
and a determination on the part of their authors to limit
themselves to the abstract order, without descending to
particulars, and to the order of realities. The result was, that
while Pantheism, without any dread of consequences, applied its
principles to all orders of human knowledge, and to all
particular questions arrayed under each order, and was, as it
were, a living, quickening system--false, indeed, in the
premises, but logical and satisfactory in the consequences
resulting from those premises--the refutations of it, confined
within the limits of logic, were a mere abstraction; true,
indeed, and perfectly satisfactory to any one who could apply the
refutations to all the orders of human knowledge, but wholly
deficient for those who are not able to make the application. We
think, therefore, that a refutation of Pantheism should be
conducted on the following principles:

1st. To admit all the problems which Pantheism raises, in all the
generality of their bearing.

2d. To examine whether the solution which Pantheistic principles
afford not only solves the problem, but even maintains it.

3d. If it is found that the Pantheistic solution destroys the
very problem it raises, to oppose to it the true solution.

These are the only true principles, as far as we can see, which
will render a refutation of Pantheism efficient. For, in this
case, you have, in the first place, a common ground to stand
upon, that is, the admission of the same problems; in the second
place, if you can prove that the Pantheistic solution of the
problems destroys them, instead of solving them, it will be
readily granted by the Pantheist for the sake of the problems
themselves. When you have done all this, you do not leave the
mind in doubt and perplexity, but you present to it the true
solution, and it will then be ready to embrace it.

A refutation conducted upon those principles we have attempted in
the articles we now publish.

We take Pantheism in all its universality and apparent grandeur;
we accept all its problems; we examine them one by one, and we
show that the Pantheistic solution, far from resolving the
problems, destroys them; and we substitute the true solution. In
a word, we compare Pantheism with Catholicity; that is, the
universality of error with the universality of truth--the whole
system of falsehood with the whole system of truth. We make them
stand face to face, and we endeavor to exhibit them so plainly
that the brightness and splendor of the one may thoroughly
extinguish the phosphoric light of the other. We show the
Pantheist that, if he ever wants a solution of _his_
problems, he must accept Catholicity, or proclaim the death of
his intelligence.

To do this it will be necessary for us to compare Pantheism and
Catholicity in all orders; in the logical order, in the
ontological order or the order of reality; and under this order
we must compare them in the moral, social, political, and
aesthetic orders. The truth of the one or the other will appear
by the comparison.

It is true we undertake a great task; great especially as regards
the positive part of the refutation. For it embraces the whole of
theology; not only with relation to what is commonly regarded as
its object, but in the sense of its being the supreme and general
science, the queen of all sciences, the universal metaphysic in
all possible orders.
{187}
We own that we have felt the difficulty of such a task, and many
times have we abandoned it as being far above our strength. But a
lingering desire has made us return to the work. We have said to
ourselves: Complete success and perfection are beyond our hope,
but we can at least make the attempt; for, in matters of this
kind, we think it well to reverse the wise maxim of the Lambeth
prelates, and rather attempt too much than do too little.

           ----------

          Friendships.

  The glowing wreaths that 'mid curled locks repose,
    Through night of pleasure worn,
  Myrtle and jasmine, orange-flower and rose,
    Fall shrivelled by the morn.

  The simple immortelles for loved ones twined--
    With many a tear and sigh,
  Hung round the cross--the rain-compelling wind
    And winter snows defy.

  Thus gilded friendships, knit by pleasure brief,
    Fade when joy's scenes have passed;
  But duller links, annealed by burning grief,
    Through checkered years shall last.

                                  _The Lamp._

                   ----------

{188}

        Translated From Le Correspondant.

    Discourse by the Rev. Père Hyacinthe. [Footnote 65]

    [Footnote 65: Delivered on the occasion of a profession of
    Catholic faith and the first communion of an American
    Protestant lady, in the chapel of the convent of "Les Dames
    de l'Assomption," at Paris, July 14th, 1868]

  "Misericordias Domini in aeternum cantabo,"
  "I will sing eternally the mercies of the Lord."
  --_Psalms_.


Madam and my sister in Jesus Christ:

It is you who have given me the text and the subject of this
exhortation. It is you who, overflowing with gratitude toward him
who has called you from darkness to his admirable light, have
asked me to forget this audience and to think only of you and of
God, and to speak only of his loving-kindness which has been
manifested in every event of your life. I will obey you; and,
taking this life in its three divisions which mark time, I will
endeavor to speak in simple truth, and the pious confidence of an
overflowing heart, of the mercies of God over your past, your
present, and your future career.

The history of Christian souls is the most marvellous and yet the
most hidden of all histories. The more exterior events which
agitate society find only in these interior histories their true
sense and their highest reason; and when we shall read these
entire in the book of life, and by the light of eternity, we will
find therein the unanswerable justification of the providence of
God over human affairs, and the true titles of the nobility of
mankind in the blood and by the grace of Christ. "We will sing
eternally the mercies of the Lord!"


                   I.

And first, madam, what were these mercies of your past life? Or,
to be better understood, what were you? What have you been until
now? I acknowledge some embarrassment in giving an answer to my
own question. Although born in the bosom of heresy, you were not
a heretic. No, by the grace of God you were not a heretic; and
nothing shall force me to give you this cruel name--justly
cruel--against which cries out all the knowledge I have of your
past. One of the doctors--the most exact and the most severe--of
Christian antiquity, Saint Augustine, refuses in several of his
writings to class among heretics those who, born outside the
visible communion of the Catholic Church, have kept in their
hearts the sincere love of truth, and are disposed to follow it
in all its manifestations and in all its requirements. [Footnote
66]

    [Footnote 66: See particularly the letter xliii. of the
    edition of the Benedictines of Saint-Maur: "Qui sententiam
    suam, quamvis falsam atque perversam, nulla pertinaci
    animositate defendunt, praesertim quam non audacia
    praesumptionis suae pepererunt, sed a seductis atque in
    errorem lapsis parentibus acceperunt, quaerunt autem cauta
    sollicitudine veritatem, corrigi parati, cum invenerint;
    _nequaquam sunt inter haereticos deputandi_."]

That which makes heresy is the spirit of pride, of revolt, and of
schism, which burst forth in heaven when Satan, separating the
angels of light, attempted to remodel, according to his liking,
the theology of eternity, and reform the work of God in the
world; it is that breath blown from the nostrils of the archangel
in wrath to stir up about him his propagandists throughout time.
Gentle and humble of heart, you have never breathed that breath.
You are not, then, a heretic.

{189}

But then, what were you? One day I interrogated one of your most
distinguished fellow-countrymen, Protestant by birth, now a
Catholic and a priest, and in the outburst of that pious
curiosity which is awakened by the history of souls I asked him
this same question: "What were you?"

He answered me thus: "I did not belong to any Protestant
communion; I had been baptized in the church of my parents, but I
had never professed their faith." "You were, then, a
rationalist?" said I. "No," responded he smilingly; "we of the
United States know nothing of that mental malady of the
Europeans." I blushed and was silent an instant, then pressed him
to explain further, when he gave me this noble reply: "I was a
natural man, seeking the truth with my whole intelligence and
heart."

Well, madam, you were like that: you also--a noble, womanly
nature--seeking the truth in love, and love in truth. But you
were more: you were a Christian; ay, a Catholic.

This is a fundamental distinction without which it becomes
impossible to be just toward communions separated from the
Catholic Church, and toward the souls which compose them. All
religious schisms contain within their bosom two elements
entirely contrary: the negative element, which makes it a schism
and often a heresy; and the positive element, which preserves for
it a portion more or less great of its ancient heritage of
Christianity. Not only distinct, but hostile, these two elements
are nevertheless brought together in constant combat; the
darkness and the light--life and death--meet without mingling, or
without either being vanquished; and then results what I shall
call the profound mystery of the life of error. As for myself, I
do not give to error that undeserved honor to suppose that it can
live of its own life, breathe of its own breath, or nourish of
its own substance souls who are not without virtue, and peoples
who are not without greatness.

Madam, Protestantism, as Protestantism, is that negative element
which you have repudiated, and which with the Catholic Church you
have condemned and abjured. But the spirit of Protestantism has
not been alone in your religious life: by the side of its
negations there were its affirmations, and, like savory fruit
confined within its bitter husk, you were in possession of
Christianity from your infancy.

Before coming to us, you were a Christian by baptism, validly
received, and when the hand of your minister poured the water
upon your forehead with the words of eternal life, "I baptize you
in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy
Ghost," it was Jesus Christ himself that baptized you. "Of little
importance is the hand," writes Saint Augustine, "whether it be
that of Peter or that of Paul: it is Christ that baptizes."

It was Christ who affianced you, who received your plighted faith
and pledged you his. The depths of your moral being--that sacred
part which in noble souls feels instinctively a repugnance to
error--the Word consecrated to himself, and like a chaste virgin
he reserved it for the skies! "_Virginem_ castam exhibere
Christo." [Footnote 67]

    [Footnote 67: 2 Corinthians xi. 2.]

{190}

Christian by baptism, you were also one by the gospel. The Bible
was the book of your infancy; and therein you have lisped at once
the secrets of this divine faith, which is of all time because it
comes from eternity, and the accents of that Anglo-Saxon tongue
which is of all lands because it prevails over the globe in
civilizing it. Without doubt the principle of private judgment,
so-called--the principle under which you have formerly lived--is
the source of numberless errors; but again, let us render thanks
to God, besides the Protestant principle, with the Protestants
themselves there is the Christian principle. Besides private
judgment, there is the action of that supernatural grace received
in baptism, and the mysterious sense, of which Saint Paul speaks,
"We have the mind of Christ," [Footnote 68] and of which Saint
John said, "Ye have unction from the Holy One, and ye know all
things." [Footnote 69] When we have read together that Scripture
which has separated our ancestors, I was agreeably surprised to
find that we understood its every page in the same sense, and
consequently in reading it alone, and out of the Church, you have
not read it without the spirit of the Church.

    [Footnote 68: "Nos autem sensum Christi habemus."
    (i Cor. ii. 16.)]

    [Footnote 69: "Sed vos unctionem habetis a Sancto, et nostis
    omnia. ... Et non necesse habetis ut aliquis doceat vos: sed
    sicut unctio ejus docet vos de omnibus, et verum est, et non
    est mendacium." (i John ii. 20, 27.)]

Again, my child: with Baptism and the Holy Scriptures, with the
sacrament and the book, you had prayer; that interior, invisible,
ineffable, and withal common property; that language
pre-eminently of the soul to God, and of God to the soul; that
personal and direct communion of the humblest Christian with his
Father in heaven.

In what, then, were you wanting? I remember what you once said to
me when you were still a Protestant: "You, monk as you are, and
I, Puritan that I am, are, nevertheless, of the same blood
royal." You spoke truly, not because you were Puritan, but
because you were Christian: we were of the same blood, both royal
and divine. You were a child of the family like myself; but your
cradle was carried away in a night of storm by imprudent hands
from the paternal mansion--that mansion of which your eyes could
no longer retain the image, of which your lips knew not the name,
but which you reclaimed by your tears, by your cries, and by all
the emotions of your soul. What you needed, my daughter, was to
find it again, to weep upon its threshold, to embrace its old
walls, and to dwell therein for ever.

You found it at Rome, in the temple of Saint Peter, the vastest
and the most splendid which man has ever built to his God; but
vast and splendid above all to the eyes of faith, because it is
to them the image of the universal brotherhood of the children of
God upon the earth. "To gather together in one the children of
God that were dispersed." [Footnote 70] Coming from the great
dispersion of souls, which is the work of man in Protestantism,
you contemplated at last their supreme unity, which is the work
of God in Catholicity. Deeply impressed and suddenly moved, you
looked about you--it is your own touching account that I repeat
here--you looked about you for a priest of your own tongue; not
to confess to, for you did not then believe in its necessity, but
to whom you could unburden your soul, and to whom you could tell
your joy at having found at last a hearthstone for the heart, a
_home!_--word so dear and sacred to your race and more
necessary in the religious than in the domestic life. "This is my
rest for ever and ever: here will I dwell, for I have chosen it."
[Footnote 71]

    [Footnote 70: "Ut filios Dei, qui erant dispersi,
    congregaret in unum." (John xi. 52.)]

    [Footnote 71: Psalm cxxxi. 14.]

{191}

                    II.

I have tried, madam, to tell what was your past, and how the
mercy of God prepared you in it by his far-reaching hand for the
marvels of the present. What is now this marvel? It is the mystic
marriage with Jesus Christ, by the communion with his real body
and with his real blood, in the sacrament of his true church.
Affianced of God in baptism, you become his spouse in the
Eucharist. "Oh! blessed are you to have been called to the
marriage feast of the Lamb." [Footnote 72]

    [Footnote 72: Apocalypse xix. 9.]

It is not without a touching motive that you have chosen the 14th
of July to consummate this solemn act. This is the anniversary of
your marriage--of that marriage sundered by death. You have made
your entry into the Catholic Church the epoch of a great
transformation in your spiritual life: you have chosen the day
most appropriately, desiring that this date, so full of the
remembrances of tenderness and grief, should mark your entire
union with your crucified Lord, to be no more separated for ever.

How beautiful is he--in his blood, and through your tears--this
Spouse of Calvary, and how lovely, and how truly is he made for
you, my daughter! It is not

  "Patience on a monument smiling at grief:"

it is love transported with sorrow and reposing in death.

I remember well the day when I met you for the first time in the
parlor of my humble convent. The Catholic crucifix you already
wore upon your breast, and from time to time your eyes were
turned toward that other cross suspended against the wall, and
which presided over our interview, full of light and full of
tears, with an expression which revealed your whole soul--all
that it still lacked--all that it already foresaw.

I would exaggerate nothing, and above all I would offend no one;
but can I not say that the orbit wherein, ordinarily, Protestant
piety moves is the divine, rather than God himself? It is
conscience, with its steel-like temper, which is at the same time
evangelic and personal. It is respect for truth--the instinctive
taste for what is moral and religious. All these are what I call
the divine: it is not God. It is the glorious ray of the sun, but
it is not that resplendent disk. Where, then, is the elevation of
the soul to the living God? "My soul has thirsted for the strong
and living God; when shall I come, and appear before his face?"
[Footnote 73]

  [Footnote 73: Psalm xli. 3.]

Where is the habitual communion of the heart and its works with
the Word made flesh? and the tears poured out like Magdalen at
his feet? and the bowed head--like that of John--upon his breast?
and all that which the book of the _Imitation_ so well calls
the familiar friendship of Jesus? Where, in a word, is that Real
Presence which, from the holy sacrament, as from a hidden
fountain, flows forth to the true Catholic, like a river of
peace, all the day long, fructifying and gladdening his life? It
was this Emmanuel--this God with us--who awaited you in our
church, and in the sacrament which attracted you with so much
power even when you but half-believed in it. As in the ancient
synagogue, you found in your worship only symbols and shadows;
they spoke to you of the reality but did not contain them, they
awakened your thirst but did not quench it. Weak and empty
elements which have no right to existence since the veil of the
temple has been rent asunder and the eternal reality discovered.
{192}
"Old things have passed away, and all things are become new."
[Footnote 74] Oh! blessed are you to have been admitted into the
nuptial chamber of the Lamb.

    [Footnote 74: 2. Cor. v. 17.]

However, madam, if Christ has taken captive your heart, it is the
language of the prophet: "Thou hast beguiled me, O Lord, and I am
beguiled: thou hast been stronger than I, and thou hast
prevailed." [Footnote 75] But he has respected all the rights of
your reason and of your liberty. That which you have resolved,
that which you are about to accomplish, you have weighed well and
long in the balance of investigation, study, reflection, and
prayer; and I owe you this justice to say that you have carried
your reflection to the utmost scruple, and completion almost to
delay--so much have you feared, in this great religious act, any
other argument but of personal conscience; to such a degree have
you persisted in rejecting the shadow of any human influence, or
the shadow of the influence of imagination or sentiment.

    [Footnote 75:  Jer. xx. 7.]

It is thus, however, that Jesus Christ would have you to himself.
Spouse of love, he is at the same time the Spouse of truth and
liberty, and this is why, in drawing souls to him, he never
deceives nor constrains them. He is the eternal Word, begotten of
the reason of God the Father; born in the outpouring of infinite
splendor, he remembers his origin, and when he comes to us it is
not under cover of our gloom, but in the effulgence of his light.
And because he is the truth he is also liberty. He bows with
respect [Footnote 76] before the liberty of the soul, his image
and daughter, and forgets the language of command that he may
only employ that of prayer.

    [Footnote 76: "Cum magna reverentia disponis nos."
    (Sap. xii. 18.)]

As in the sacred song, he says: "Open to me, my sister, my love,
my dove, my undefiled: for my head is full of dew, and my locks
of the drops of the nights." [Footnote 77]

    [Footnote 77: Canticle v. 2.]

"Here am I." He says again in the Apocalypse, "I stand at the
door, and knock: if any one shall hear my voice, and open to me
the door, I will come in, and will sup with him, and he with me."
[Footnote 78] He never forces an entrance into the heart; he
enters it only when it is opened for him. How tender and
beautiful those words that prove that with God as with man there
is the same love and the same tenderness! True love respects as
much as it loves, and disdains triumph at the expense of liberty!

    [Footnote 78: Apocalypse iii. 20.]

Is this all, however? For his love is jealous and liberty is not
enough; there must be the combat and the sacrifice. What were the
desperate conflicts, free though you were, that rendered your
decision so difficult and so painful? I may not speak of them.
Family, friends, country: I have seen these sacred wounds too
near to dare to touch them. I will only say that I was ignorant
until now of what it costs even to the mind most perfectly
convinced, and to the strongest will, to leave the religion of
their mother and of their country!

Ah! why is it that on that noble soil of the United States our
church is still, I do not say unknown, but despised, by so many
souls? Would to God it were only unknown! A new apostle will
invoke upon her shores the God whom Paul invoked before the
Areopagus, _ignoto Deo_, the church which they love in the
ideal, without knowing it in its reality; and, free from
prejudices, the sober-minded Americans will receive it better
than did the frivolous Athenians.
{193}
But they think they know us, while they see us through such base
report that even our name excites disgust and hatred. How much
longer must these sectarian misapprehensions continue? and when
will God at last command that the walls of division shall be
thrown down? At all events, it depends upon us to prepare for
that much desired day, by coming together, not with doctrinal
concessions, which would be criminal if not chimerical, but by
abandoning our respective prejudices before the better known
reality, and by the formation of those kindly relations, while
esteem and charity could yet unite those whom diversity of
beliefs still separate. As for me, this is my most ardent prayer,
and as far as I understand and appreciate the situation of
religious affairs in this century, this feeling is invested with
a quickened and more pressing character. And since, then, the
time has come when judgment should begin at the house of God,
[Footnote 79] let us Roman Catholics know how to give the
example; let us arise resolutely and give a loyal hand to our
separated but well-be-loved brethren.

  [Footnote 79: "Quoniam tempus est ut incipiat judicium a domo
  Dei." (i Peter iv. 17.)]

But what do I say? Is it not you, madam, who have come to us
first, surmounting obstacles which I cannot recount? You have
overcome them not only with the sweat of your brow, but by the
blood of your soul; for, as Saint Augustine so truly says, "there
is a blood of the soul." And it is this which you have poured
out; you have removed by your heroic hands the hewn rocks which
shut you in. Like the daughter of Zion, you have made straight
your way and have come. [Footnote 80]

    [Footnote 80: "Conclusit vias meas lapidibus quadris, semitas
    meas subvertit." (Lam. iii. 9.)]

Ah! let me welcome you with these words of your own, in which you
expressed the inspiration which was your strength: "My love, my
beautiful, calls me: I know his voice, and though I am weak and
trembling I will come to him."


                   III.

Let us finish this song of the loving-kindness of God in your
soul. Affianced by baptism, even in the bosom of your involuntary
errors, espoused by the Eucharist in the integrity of Catholic
faith and charity, what remains for you to complete the cycle of
divine love and to consummate your life therein, except to become
a mother in the apostolate?

Our Lord was speaking one day to the multitude, when he was told
that his mother and his brethren were without and had asked for
him. Surveying the people with his look of inspiration, he asked,
"Who is my mother, and who are my brethren?" Then stretching out
his hand over the listening multitude, he said, "Behold my mother
and my brethren. For whosoever shall do the will of my Father in
heaven, the same is my brother and my mother." [Footnote 81]

    [Footnote 81: Matthew xii. 49, 50.]

The Pope Saint Gregory the Great, explaining, in one of his
homilies, this teaching of the Master, found some difficulty in
his saying, "This is my mother." "We are without doubt his
brothers and his sisters, by the accomplishment of the will of
the Father; but how could any being other than Mary be called his
mother?" And the great pope remarks, as soon as a soul by a word,
by example, by a spiritual influence, whatsoever it may be,
produces or develops in another soul the Word, the God, the
Truth, substantial and living, justice and charity, in fact,
Jesus Christ--for Jesus Christ is all these--she becomes in a way
superior to the reality of maternal conception, the mother of
Jesus in that soul, and the mother of that soul in Jesus.

{194}

Well, madam, if I mistake not, God reserves for you a part in his
choice of this spiritual maternity. It is of those cherished ones
of whom I cannot speak--respect and emotion forbid--but you will
be their mother in Jesus, their mother in the integrity of their
liberty as you have been his spouse in the plenitude of your own.
Since there are other souls without number and without name, at
least to our feeble minds, but who are counted and inscribed in
the book of divine election, and who, by the mysterious power of
your apostleship, shall be gathered from the four winds of
heaven; for the Lord hath not spoken in vain: "And many shall
come from the east and the west, and shall sit down with Abraham
and Isaac and Jacob, in the kingdom of heaven." [Footnote 82]
Yes, many, born like you in heresy without having been heretics,
ignorant without being culpable, are hastening to the banquet of
Catholic truth, to the joys of a refound unity; while, alas! some
there are among us, zealous for the letter, but using it to
smother the spirit, who will see themselves perhaps excluded from
the kingdom of God, for which they do not bring forth fruit.
[Footnote 83]

    [Footnote 82: Matthew viii. 11.]

    [Footnote 83: Matthew xxi. 43.]

Go, then, as a missionary of peace and of light to the land that
awaits you, and of which by an especial design of Providence the
moral future is almost entirely in the hands of women. You will
not regret the public preaching which is forbidden your sex; you
will speak in the modest and persuasive eloquence of
conversation; you will speak by your person and your entire life,
free yet submissive, humble yet proud, austere yet tolerant,
carrying the love of God even to aspirations the most sublime,
and the love of your fellow-beings to condescensions the most
tender.

But I would define more clearly the special character of your
apostolate. In recounting to me the history of your soul, with
its loves and hates, you have said, "I have hated three things:
slavery, the Catholic Church, and immorality." Of the three hates
only one remains. Slavery is no more: God has effaced the sign of
Cain from the brow of your people with a baptism of blood. As for
the Catholic Church, when you came to know it your hate was
turned to love, and you have espoused it to battle more
efficiently with it against the last enemy; and it is in the firm
foundation of her dogmas, replacing the slippery sand whereon
your uncertain feet trod; it is in the fecundity of its
sacraments, substituted for the sterility of your worship; it is
under the guidance of its hierarchy, and in the force of its
unity, that you will combat the double immorality which dishonors
the Christian world--the immorality of mind, which we in Europe
call Rationalism, which you in America call Infidelity; two
wounds unlike I know, but two wounds equally mortal: and the
immorality of the heart, that which corrupts the senses as the
former does thought. These two immoralities are sisters; one
attacks the virginity of faith, the other the virginity of love,
and both have found in woman a special enemy. To the serpent
which crawls on its belly and eats the dust of the earth, the
Lord has said from the beginning, in pointing to woman, who is
the ideal being springing from the heart of man: "I will put
enmities between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her
seed: she shall crush thy head, and thou shalt lie in wait for
her heel." [Footnote 84]

    [Footnote 84: Genesis iii. 15.]

{195}

But now, behold the woman above all women! Mary, the young wife,
the young mother, going over the hills of Judea to visit her
friend, advanced in years, and hopeless as it seemed in
sterility. She carries in her womb the infinite weight of the
Word, but her step is light like truth, like love. Under the
charm of the chaste love of God she greets Elizabeth, who feels
at her approach the germ of nature quicken within her breast.
"From whence cometh this happiness that the mother of my Lord
should come to me?" The children were yet mute, but their mothers
prophesy, Elizabeth before John the Baptist, Mary before Jesus
Christ. "Already," to speak with St. Ambrose, "already the day of
the beginning of the salvation of man had begun," [Footnote 85]
and because sin had commenced by woman, regeneration commenced by
her.

   [Footnote 85: "Serpunt enim jam tentamenta
   salutis humanae." In Luc.]

It seems to me I see now the Christian woman, espoused of Jesus
and his mother, advancing toward this century, bowed down like
Elizabeth in the sadness of sterility. The obstacles which have
repelled us do not hinder her. She will imbibe in the
inspirations of her charity, faith, and hope, which we have too
often failed to show; rising like Mary upon the delectable
heights, walking in the paths of the spring-time and of the dawn;
she will cause to be heard in the ears of the men of this century
this cry of the heart which recognizes the presence of Jesus:
"Behold, as soon as the voice of thy salutation sounded in my
ears, the child in my womb leaped for joy." [Footnote 86]

    [Footnote 86: Luke i. 44.]

Arise, daughter of Zion, unbind the cords about your neck, you
who were captive: "_Solve vincula colli tui, captiva filia
Sion_." [Footnote 87] How beautiful are the feet of those who
stand upon the mountain-top, proclaiming peace and bringing the
glad tidings of salvation, crying: "The Lord shall reign!"

    [Footnote 87: Isaiah iii. 2.]

                   ----------

{196}

              Glimpses of Tuscany.


                Santo Spirito.

                      III.


Santo Spirito is not as well known to strangers as the other
large churches of Florence. It is on the south, or less
frequented, side of the river, and is so hemmed in, hidden away,
and thrust out of sight, by compact masses of tall dwellings and
old palaces, that, although just round the corner from the Pitti,
it was a month before I found it out. Indeed, I was only then
apprised of its existence by the drums of the Sixth grenadiers
beating for military Mass.

A piazza in Florence means an acre, more or less, of oblong,
open, flat, macadamized, unornamented ground; without tree, or
shrub, or flower, or even the picturesque grasses of the deader
Italian towns. The Piazza of Santo Spirito is peculiarly bald and
insipid. The exterior of the church itself is dreadful;
shabbiness and dilapidation unrelieved by a single line of
beauty. The cupola, for which Brunelleschi is responsible, is
mean almost to vulgarity; almost as mean as the cupola of San
Lorenzo. Two such cupolas would ruin any other reputation than
his who vaulted Santa Maria del Fiore. The only redeeming feature
in the whole quadrilateral is the charming Campanile, or belfry
of Baccio d'Agnolo's, which hovers like the dream of a poet over
Ser Filippo's prose. The facade of the church is unfinished, and,
what is worse, disfigured by the introduction of the scroll, that
poorest, falsest, shallowest of architectural devices. The scroll
is properly the symbol of the fleeting; a line described through
air or water with wand or wheel; the scriptural type of
evanescence: "_And the heavens shall be rolled away like a
scroll_." (Isaiah.) "_And the heaven withdrew, as a scroll
rolled up together._" (Revelation.)

How monstrous a violation of all fitness to adopt it as part of
the fixed form and outline of an edifice--to fasten the sign of
the transient on the front of mansions dedicated to the service
of the Eternal! The front is the weakest elevation of the
basilica, but the scroll only makes it worse. See how well the
matter can be mended by the gold mosaic and linear grace of San
Miniato, by the arched colonnades of Pisa, by the pointed
buttresses--_not_ the wretched windows--of Milan. You are in
a rage with Ser Filippo and the Renaissance at once.

But enter; push the green baize aside; step fairly in. Heaven,
how beautiful! What breadth, what calm, what repose! Round-arched
aisles of dark Corinthian columns, not stopping at the choir, but
running clean round transepts and apsis, traversing a Latin cross
of more than three hundred by nearly two hundred feet. No stained
glass--all in transparent shadow, like the heart of a forest. A
church built for use, not show; yet lofty, spacious, beautiful,
with an atmosphere of its own which is luxury to breathe. Not the
gloom of the Duomo, nor the glow of St. Peter's, nor yet the gray
of San Lorenzo; the place is haunted by a dim, mysterious
gladness.
{197}
Although in the round style, and comparatively barren of detail,
it looks larger even than it is; larger than Santa Maria Novella
or Santa Croce. Its real magnitude is enhanced by its perfect
proportions; a fact which should keep us from flippantly imputing
to the same cause the illusive littleness of St. Peter's.

But the grenadiers are marching in, "fifty score strong;" their
bayonets are flashing in nave and aisle. You would think the
church would never hold them all; yet there is room beneath those
brown arches for thrice as many more. As soon as the men are
formed, the officers march down the nave amidst complete
silence--their breasts covered with decorations won at Magenta
and Solferino--and range themselves before the choir. In the
transept on their right is stationed their band, much the best in
Florence--some forty instruments, admirably led, and nearly as
good as the Austrian. Just as the music begins, the chaplain, a
handsome, grave young ecclesiastic--followed by two tall
grenadiers who serve his Mass--advances from Cronaca's beautiful
sacristy; and, without the least appearance of haste, and with
the utmost dignity, Mass is said in fifteen minutes. No noise, no
shuffling, no whispering, none of the effort and formality of a
festa; the charm is that of a ceremony first beheld just as the
celebrants are first at home in their parts. The cavalry Mass at
Santa Maria Novella is far less imposing; dismounted troopers are
always awkward, and their band, in this instance, is a poor one.
But it was very fine at La Novella--the two dragoons flanking the
altar with naked sabres, else motionless at their sides, flashed
forward in swift salute at the elevation.

As soon as Mass was over, the troops dispersed and I was at
liberty to explore the church. What a relief to find the pictures
covered! it almost reconciled me to Lent. What a delight to find
all the details unobtrusive--all the chapels modestly in the
background, instead of parading their comparative
insignificances. Nothing blank or bald: a broad, single effect
like the Sistine Sibyls and Prophets, or the Madonna of the Fish,
or the Idylls of the King.

In the ages of faith, the monk, the noble, and the state went
hand in hand in erecting and adorning the house of God--in making
it gigantic, beautiful, imperishable, complete. Not only in
Italy, but throughout Europe, there was a silent compact between
the present and the future--an assurance that the inspiration of
to-day would remain the inspiration of tomorrow--an abiding
conviction that the creed of the sire would remain for ever
precisely the creed of the son. In this belief, the founders of
the great churches cut out work for three centuries with less
misgiving than we should now have in projecting for as many
years. The builders of the English abbeys foresaw not the day
when the torch and sword and hammer of the descendant would be
uplifted to burn, to stain, to shatter a repudiated inheritance;
when the rites of new and hostile doctrines would affront the few
ancestral temples that were spared. The architects of St. Peter's
foresaw not the large revolt for which they were unconsciously
paving the way in Germany. Like ourselves, to be sure, they had
the record of the past before them. They knew, as well as we,
that naught was left of Corinth, and next to nothing of Athens,
and little of ancient Rome save her Colosseum and her Pantheon;
that the temple of Solomon was ashes; that the obelisks were
pilgrims to the West; that the _tented_ sepulchres of the
_shepherd_ kings stood solitary and meaningless in the
desert.
{198}
But, in spite of all this panorama of mutation and decay, they
could not subdue the sacred instinct of building for eternity.
Christianity was so charged with promise, triumph, and
immortality that they fancied her tabernacles as indestructible
as herself. There was a joyous trust, too, that "the time was at
hand," a confident expectation that those domes and spires would
abide till the coming of the Son of man in the glory of his
Father with his angels.

But the English Reformation, the French Revolution, and Italian
Unification have taught us that the monuments of the new faith,
instead of being specially exempt from injury, are peculiarly
liable to insult and mutilation. Men and nations have measurably
ceased to care or expect to perpetuate themselves through the
temple and the tomb. The soul of architecture has received a
shock. Her throne is the solitude or the waste. She lurks amidst
ruins and relics, the very Hagar of art. She that seemed
mightiest has proved weakest; her daintier sisters, sculpture and
song, have triumphed where she failed. The statues that adorned
her porticoes are upright still, but the porticoes themselves are
overthrown. The lay, the legend, the chronicle, committed with
plying finger to paper or parchment, are living, while the forms
of beauty and grandeur entrusted to marble are broken or beneath
the sands. Here and there you meet her skeleton in the
wilderness, her white arm upraised in sublime self-assertion; but
though the story of Zenobia is immortal, there is scarcely a
column of Palmyra standing. The very mummy, with his dry papyrus
which a spark might annihilate, may chance to survive his
pyramid! Nature has turned against her; matter has played her
false. She has toiled a thousand years in granite, iron,
cedar--in all that seemed solidest, hardest, firmest: her back is
bent with honest toil, her hands are roughened with mallet and
chisel; yet the dream of a poet traced on calfskin outlasts the
vision embodied in travertine or porphyry. If an earthquake shook
the Val d'Arno, the canvas of Giotto would survive his campanile.

What mockery, then, to persist in attempting the indestructible
when dissolution or disintegration is the inevitable doom of the
material! Time has demonstrated that the more ponderous the
instrument of expression, the less easy of perpetuation the art.
The obliterated manuscript can be forced to reappear, but no
chemistry can reproduce the vanished temple. The greatest forces
of the universe are precisely those which are subtlest and least
substantial. Steam and electricity are well-nigh impalpable and
invisible. It is the spirit, not the body, save as purged and
spiritualized by decay, that exists for ever. Away, then, with
the unattainable! Away with a miscalled _real!_ If it, too,
is a cheat, may it not be counterfeited with impunity? Away with
column of stone, with lacework of fretted marble, with blazonry
in oak and walnut! Away with all stubborn, difficult truth, and
welcome brick and mortar, lath and plaster, paint and whitewash,
gilt and varnish. If the cheap will look as well or nearly as
well as the dear, why not use it? It is no falser, only
_sooner_ falser. When it wears out or burns up or tumbles
down, try it again. Be done with the tower of Babel: its curse
clings faster to architecture than to speech. And as for the
gigantic, drop it!
{199}
It is always a disappointment--a disappointment in nature and
art, in minster, mountain, stream--a disappointment in all things
save the broad dome of the empyrean with its floor of emerald,
its ceiling of unfathomed blue or studded bronze, its draperies
of shifting, winged, ethereal cloudland.

Yes, art, like the artist, must encounter death. But shall we
embrace the mean because sooner or later we must relinquish the
great? Shall we forsake the permanent for the transient because
the enduring falls short of the everlasting? Shall we inaugurate
a reign of sham because the real is not always the perpetual?

  "Il pessimo nemico del bene é l'amator del ottimo."

The muses should never pout: each art should reverently accept
its limitations. Though the pen is mightier than pencil or
chisel, though only the word and the song are privileged to pass
intact from age to age, yet a portion of the soul of plastic art
may sometimes baffle decay. Even in ruin, architecture is not
without its prouder consolations. _Ex pede, Herculem_. While
a bone of her survives, imagination can approximate a
resurrection of the departed whole. The malice of her sworn
enemies, the elements, is sometimes providentially her salvation;
the shrouded lava of Vesuvius embalmed a more vivid presentation
of Roman life and manners than lives in the pages of Terence or
Plautus. A broken shaft, a fragmentary arch, a section of
Cyclopean wall, is at once a poem, a chronicle, and a picture.
The ruin is time's authentic seal, without which history were as
inconclusive as the myth. The past is a present voice as long as
a vestige of its architecture remains. The Column of Trajan is
the best orator of the forum now; there is a deeper charm in the
living eloquence of the Colosseum than in the dead thunder of the
Philippics. [Footnote 88] We are as awed and startled when
unexpectedly confronted by some mouldering but still breathing
monument of antiquity, as if the form of the deathless evangelist
stood bodily before us.

    [Footnote 88:
    "Tully was not so eloquent as thou,
     Thou nameless column with the buried base!"]

We perfectly understand and sympathize with the modern instinct
that recoils from imparting a more than needful permanence to
private dwellings. The home of man is sullied with low cares and
offices; beneath the screen and shelter of its roof the worst
passions are often nourished, the darkest mysteries are sometimes
celebrated. In many an ancient manor, there is scarcely a chamber
without its legend of sin, scarcely a floor without its
bloodstain. But the _House of God_ is the witness of the
virtues, not the vices, of humanity; within its hallowed
precincts the casual profanity and levity of the few are quite
lost in the earnest adoration of the many; the whispers of
blasphemy drowned in the ceaseless tide of general thanksgiving;
the rebellious beatings of passion hushed in the solemn chorus of
penitence and praise. The longer it endures, the holier it
becomes. Its aisles are impregnated with prayer, its vaults
enriched with ashes of the blest, its altars radiant with the
wine of sacrifice. Behind the doors of the palace and the
dwelling, time is sure to plant the spectre and the thorn; behind
the doors of the cathedral, the angel and the palm.

The primary charm of church architecture is veracity. The
interior of Santo Spirito is perfect truth. The columns are, what
they claim to be, stone; the balustrade of the choir is, what it
claims to be, bronze; the altar what it claims to be, _pietra
dura_.
{200}
You do not sound a pillar and hear a lie, or scratch a panel and
see a lie, or touch a jewel and feel a lie. All is fair, square,
honest--not even the minutest lurking insincerity to vex the
Paraclete. I soon learned to love Santo Spirito as well as any
Florentine; to love it better than the Duomo with its windows of
a thousand dyes; better than the bride of Buonarroti With her
frescoes of Masaccio, her Madonna of Cimabue's, her Crucifix of
Giotto's; better even than Santa Croce with its ashes of Angelo,
its Annunciation of Donatello's, its Canova's Alfieri. I used to
sit for hours in its spacious choir, undisturbed even by the
dull, nasal, inharmonious chanting of the good Augustinians, and
listen to the sermons preached by those dim, unending arches.

                   ----------

    Translated From The Revue Du Monde Catholique.

           The Statue Of The Cure D'ars,
        Inaugurated At Ars, August 5, 1867.


God's purposes sometimes reveal themselves in a manner greatly to
perplex us. They move contrary to all foresight or to any human
logic. Day succeeds to night, light to darkness, hope to despair,
without any apparent reason, indeed in spite of reason itself.
When all seems lost, then everything is regained, and even death
itself appears to live anew. The history of religion is full of
such decay and such regeneration.

After the frightful crisis of the eighteenth century, one would
have thought the Church entirely abandoned, and that no new
breath could revive the fallen ruins which the efforts of a
hundred years had accumulated. "The pinnacle of the temple is
crumbled, and the clew of heaven comes to moisten the face of the
kneeling believer," says, in his theatrical and pseudo-biblical
style, the most celebrated enemy of our time. [Footnote 89]

    [Footnote 89: M. Renan.]

Many Christians were distressed, and the timid braved with
difficulty the universal defection. That which they believed in
was denied, that which they adored was burned, and that which
they loved was disgraced.

God permits these humiliations, to show us that "the work is all
of his hand," and sustained only by him. To the triumphant cries
of his adversaries, to the cry of distress from his faithful, he
has responded by the glorious miracle which eternally attests his
power. Lazarus was in the tomb; he has restored him to life! The
Church, said its enemies, was crushed to the earth; he has
revivified it. To the eighteenth century, the most impious and
corrupt of centuries, he has caused the nineteenth to succeed,
which will remain in history one of the most fruitful and
beautiful of the Church. To speak properly, the nineteenth
century seems to have for its mission the raising of the ruins
made by its predecessor.
{201}
Following it over all the earth, and taking up its work as a
counterpart, the present century repairs the breaches made before
it and re-establishes at each point the fortresses and ramparts
of virtue.

Without doubt the enemy is still vigorous; he is far from being
vanquished, and puts forth his last efforts. The nineteenth
century is a list where truth and error, good and evil, give
themselves up to solemn combat. The ground is cleared, the
intermediate questions laid aside, and each party knows well what
he wishes and where he goes. Scepticism and materialism never had
a more brilliant career; never have truth and Christian virtues
shone with greater _éclat_. In which camp will rest the
victory? This is God's own secret, and only from the past may we
predict the future. In no age, perhaps, even in its best days,
has the Church collected around her so many and such valiant
champions. The greatest bishops, the greatest writers, the
greatest orators, have succeeded each other for nearly a hundred
years, and have formed for their spiritual mother a magnificent
crown of science and genius. Speaking in a literary point of
view, the age belongs to Catholics; our adversaries, by the side
of our apologists, make but a paltry figure.

Works, too, are on a level with the minds that inspire them.
Never have they been so numerous, and never so fruitful.
Foundations of all sorts, churches, monasteries, orders,
missions, schools, hospitals, orphan-asylums, have multiplied in
emulation of each other. A small part of the works of our day
would suffice for the glory of any epoch. The clergy encourage
and direct these movements; they display zeal and
self-abnegation; and, devoted to their chiefs, they become more
and more devoted to the church. The _élite_ of society do
them honor by following in their footsteps. Disabused of the
unhealthy and destructive ideas by which their fathers were lost,
and instructed by a hundred years of experience and misery, the
higher classes, in France especially, return with simplicity to
the faith and to the Christian virtues. Obedient to the eternal
law which regulates society, the lower classes by degrees model
themselves according to their example. The centenary
_fêtes_, the canonizations, the pilgrimages of Salette,
Lourdes, and others, are living witnesses of the fervor of the
clergy and the public faith.

And, to crown all, the Church never attested its supernatural
fecundity by such a number of saints and martyrs. The nineteenth
century is the richest in canonizations. When the Church is
accused of being exhausted, she replies by showing a new harvest.
And what saints! what models! The Labres, the Germaine Cousins,
the Marie Alacoques, the Cure's d'Ars! The greatest defiance
thrown at our time, and the most violent antithesis of its ideas
and instincts, is the actual Christianity in our midst--so
hostile to the spirit of the world and the spirit of the age.


                   II.

Two men seem to represent and renew the periods that follow them,
and the eternal tendencies of humanity. These two men offer a
similitude and a contrariety so strange, that it seems as if God
had opposed the one to the other to make the balance equal. Their
skulls even, and the form of their faces, present striking
analogies. The expression is contrary, but the mark is the same.
{202}
Both, born a hundred years apart, have inhabited the same
country; both have passed the greater part of their lives in two
villages that touch each other, and these two villages, so
obscure before their time, have through them attained
extraordinary celebrity. Each has been the object of the world's
attention, and each the goal of eager pilgrimages. The eighteenth
century rushed with ardor to Ferney; the nineteenth goes to Ars
in greater transports. As the nineteenth century is to Catholics
the retaliation for the eighteenth, so Ars is the retaliation for
Ferney. [Footnote 90]

    [Footnote 90: This expression is from the Abbé Monnin, a
    missionary at Ars, who has given to the life of the Curé
    d'Ars several popular works of rare merit.]

These are the resemblances, and great they are. The differences
are greater still.

One, to speak properly, personifies the genius of evil.
Scepticism, wicked irony, hardness of heart, corruption of mind
and senses, egotism and cupidity, united in forming a modern
corypheus. The other personifies the spirit of good. Truth,
purity, self-abnegation, love of God and man, the spirit of
sacrifice and mortification, in a word, all of moral grandeur
revealed to man by Christ himself, has rarely an exemplifier more
perfect. One is the type of the Christian, elevating himself to
the saints, to the angels; the other is the anti-Christian type,
descending to the cursed, to the demons.

Each has attracted the attention of man by the most opposite
means: the first by his delicacy of wit equalling his duplicity;
the second by his integrity and a simplicity of character
brightened apparently by supernatural rays; the first by his
pride, the second by his humility; the first by noise, the second
by silence. Each has exercised toward his contemporaries results
the most contrary. The refined in wickedness, the utterly
corrupted, visited the scholar to plunge deeper in perversity.
Entire populations, just men and men of good will, visited the
priest to establish themselves in justice, or submit their doubts
to him, and go on toward perfection. Both still effect by their
minds and their remembrance--from one portion of the world to the
other--the same consequences.

And that is not all.

The world flies from the first, as his character and doctrines
become better elucidated. It approaches the second, as he is
better known, and the beauty of his character developed. Ferney
was abandoned shortly after the death of him who was its centre;
the factitious or true admiration accorded him by the most
brilliant and perverted of his age could not survive the
perishable attraction which Voltaire exercised. To-day Ferney is
only visited by amateurs in human curiosity. Ars, on the
contrary, grows greater and greater. The sentiment which attracts
people thither increases hour by hour, and the entire world knows
the name of the obscure village, whose echo even seems to arouse
the most indifferent. Multitudes flock there incessantly, and
when Ferney and the memory of Voltaire, the hero of impiety of
the last age, shall by degrees have disappeared, Ars and the
memory of its curé, the hero of truth and of the present age,
will attract still greater crowds, still greater homage.

By a circumstance not less strange than those already mentioned
of these two men so totally different, the erection of a statue
to each is now occupying the public mind. Unheard of efforts have
been made to erect that of Voltaire--as Raymond Brucker says--by
the hand of the executioner, for the meanest stratagems and the
most trifling falsities have been resorted to; and by dint of
puffing and scandal, our little Voltairians, whom Voltaire
himself would disown, will perhaps attain their glorious end.
{203}
And without effort, without puffing, without scandal or imposture
of any kind, by the simple emotion of love and of Christian
veneration, to the saint of the nineteenth century is being
erected a statue worthy of him.

Before criticising this work, lately inaugurated at Ars with
great solemnity, I will relate its history. It is sufficiently
striking to merit being known, and places in bold relief one side
of the person it is destined to represent.


                   III.

The Curé d'Ars obstinately refused to sit for his portrait. On
this point he was more obdurate than a Mussulman, and never lent
himself to any proposition or stratagem the end of which was to
reproduce his person. Several artists, working openly, had been
rejected; others, using hidden means, watching for the priest,
and following him in the street or in church, had been warned to
keep quiet. Under these circumstances, M. Emilien Cabuchet, the
author of the statue of which we are going to speak, presented
himself at Ars. He was furnished with a letter from the bishop,
and numerous recommendations. He did not doubt his success, and
accosted the curé, and spoke of his business with a deliberate
air. "No, no, I do not wish it," said the curé; "neither for
monseigneur, nor for you, my artist-friend! At least," added the
priest, changing his mind, and taking up a favorite idea, "unless
monseigneur will permit me to go away immediately, and weep over
_my poor life!_" "But, Monsieur le Curé--" "It is useless."

The discomfited artist ran to relate his adventure to the
missionaries established near the curé. They gave him new
courage. "Persevere!" said they to him. "You are not here to make
your court to the Curé d'Ars, but to make his portrait. Go on, we
will sustain you."

Thus reassured, the artist risked everything, and commenced by
following the curate to church. During the Mass he was behind the
curate, at the sermon back of the good women, and at the
catechism behind the children. Every one assisted him, and took
part in the enterprise. The artist held the wax between his
fingers, and modelled in the bottom of his hat--his eye now on
the curé, now on his work. Sometimes, to mislead the priest, he
pretended to pray with fervor, or to follow attentively the
instruction. He thought he was very adroit.

One day the curé bent toward him.

"You are well aware, monsieur," said he in a gentle tone, "that
you are causing distraction to every one--and to me also!"

What was he to do? How defend himself to a man so very polite! "I
would have preferred harshness," said the artist to me. "This
gentleness disconcerted me."

He returned to the monastery decided to renounce the enterprise.
"Persevere!" again said the missionaries.

The artist renewed his work.

Two days after, in the street, where he now worked from choice,
the curé again addressed him:

"Have you, then, nothing to do at home?"

"O Monsieur le Curé! one would think that you would turn me out
of doors."

This time the curé was disconcerted.

{204}

"No, no," said he eagerly, and slightly embarrassed. "Stay as
long as you choose, but don't begin again!" ...

The next day, seeing the curé so surrounded that he could not
disengage himself, and in danger of leaving his cassock in the
hands of the pilgrims, the artist ran to his relief and offered
him his arm.

"I constitute myself your bodyguard," said he gallantly.

"Then I am emperor! ... But this is not the question. Do you
know, I would like to excommunicate you?"

"Really, Monsieur le Curé, what a tremendous word! Have I, then,
committed so shocking a crime?"

"Bah! you understand me well enough."

"Well then, what?"

"You cause me constant distraction; and when you think seriously,
would it not be far better to take the head of the first dog you
meet?"

"O Monsieur le Curé!"

And when the model was finished and the curé saw it,

"Well," said he, "it is not a subject of rejoicing! Look at the
poor Curé d'Ars! How odd it is," added he, "your power of giving
life to plaster!"


                    IV.

I have given this dialogue at length, as it was repeated to me by
the artist. If I am not deceived, it represents well the
character of the good priest; his humility, his humor, his
brusqueness touched with raillery, his politeness and
goodness--all are well portrayed. All this is reproduced in the
statue. It gives us the character of the dialogue, and the almost
legendary figure that our contemporaries have seen, and which
will pass to posterity.

The Curé d'Ars is kneeling in his cassock, with the surplice,
rabat, and stole. His hands are joined, his eyes uplifted to
heaven. A sweet smile brightens his face. His hair, cut off
square, falls on his neck in abundant locks, and shaven closely
on the top of his head; his forehead is left free. The priest
prays with such fervor and such faith, I may say a passion which
makes us think of paradise. Angels must pray in this way. His
hands are extended toward heaven with an intensity of emotion;
the eyes have so much ardor in their expression that the spirit
of prayer seems to lift the body from earth and carry it to
heaven. I know no work with more life in it; there does not exist
a more impassioned statue. Faith, love, and desire, transfigured
in this marble block, animate it and give it a striking reality.

As a whole, the work offers a new and excellent type of the
religious sculpture of our age. The artist has set aside
classical lessons and proved himself in the right. The
remembrances of antiquity should not interfere in the realization
of an ideal taken from the very heart of contemporary life and
the present Christian age. Gothic traditions are even neglected,
and the author has been careful to give the figure the seal of
its own time, his good taste causing him to avoid the quicksands
into which so many others have fallen. Wishing to represent a man
of our time, the sculptor would have committed an anachronism to
be regretted if he had impressed his character with a mysticism
and power which distinguished the personages of the art of the
thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. In the spirit of truth he
was to give to the world a saint, and in this saint the beatific
expression which in the prerogative of the saints of every age;
but over and above this general feature there was an order of
secondary shades he was obliged to respect, to give to the figure
its age and physiognomy.

{205}

M. Cabuchet has admirably seized and rendered the double
character I have tried to define. His saint is as mystical as the
saints of the middle ages, yet he has the reality of a man of our
time. Gothic, or rather Christian, in sentiment, he is modern,
and even French, in his exterior aspect. Such, in a few words, is
the exact appreciation shown in this work of M. Cabuchet, and the
double reflection gives him, in my opinion, the highest rank
among sculptors of his age.

The imitation of antiquity would have produced a dead work; the
imitation of the middle ages would have produced a work
impersonal and hieratic; but going out of himself and all
national traditions, inspired only with his subject and his time,
the artist has brought to light a new and striking piece of work,
a true specimen of religious and modern sculpture.

It is easy to see what remembrances and what masters have
directed this statue. French sculpture, as its painting, has
particular traits which are easily recognized. Less correct,
perhaps, and less noble than Greek or Italian sculpture, it has
an ease, a power, a life, that has no equal. Puget and Houdon are
the two foremost artists in our school, so essentially French.
Using Greek models only to simplify and enrich their style, they
have sought beyond everything expression and the power of motion.
M. Cabuchet has followed their example, and, walking in their
footsteps, has given us a work of which his masters could not be
ashamed.

In looking at the statue of the Curé d'Ars the spectator is
reminded of the celebrated statue of Voltaire by Houdon; not only
that the resemblance of the two faces is unaccountably striking,
but because the build and the exterior appearance of the marbles
offer incontestable analogies. In both statues we find the same
amplitude, the same facility, the same light and soft manner; in
both the details are uniformly sacrificed to the whole, and the
whole owes to this mode of execution a more decorative and
lifelike representation.

Voltaire is seated, his hands leaning upon, almost clinching, the
arms of his chair. The Curé d'Ars is on his knees. Voltaire
smiles with a cynical air, as if rejoicing in the ruin he has
made. "_Dors tu content, Voltaire, et ton hideux sourire_."
[Footnote 91]

   [Footnote 91: "Rest content, Voltaire, and
   thy hideous smile."--Alfred De Musset.]

The Curé d'Ars smiles with the ineffably sweet smile of those who
see God and dream of the happiness of their equals. In the two
marbles, the head is the same; the forehead is the same; the two
cheek-bones, so prominent, are the same; the receding chin is the
same; the mouth opens by the same smile. In one it has a
repulsive and satanic character; in the other it is angelical and
attractive. Everything is similar except the expression. The
features are brothers--twins, I might say; the souls that
animate these features are as divided as the poles. In each face
the cornea of the eye is represented by a deeply cut circle, a
style of carving peculiar to the best age of statuary. This has
given to each an intensity of look; and while that of Voltaire is
lowered toward the earth, and only expresses the baser passions,
that of the Curé d'Ars is uplifted to the sky, and reflects the
joys of his moral superiority.

{206}

Thus, we see, the two statues give perfectly the character and
life of their respective models. The first seems to rise from
regions of hope and love, the second from despair and
malevolence. One represents the consoler and saviour, the other
the spoiler, the demolisher of souls and consciences.

It would be easy to point out other resemblances and other
contrasts.

To complete this analysis it is well to add, that the statue of
the Curé d'Ars recalls an element that the author has not taken
from our own school. Every one conversant with art will remember
the figure of San Diego in Murillo's picture vulgarly called the
Kitchen of the Angels. The saint prays to God for the actual
necessities of the abbey, and God sends his angels to prepare the
repast of the monks. Several gentlemen, visiting the convent,
look on with astonishment at the saint raised from the earth,
ravished with ecstasy, his hands joined, his eyes uplifted to
heaven, while the angels are getting ready the dinner. The
natural and supernatural were never more widely separated.
Murillo has painted the personages working a miracle as he would
any person in any ordinary action of life; yet who that has seen
this picture will ever forget it? It is evident that our artist
was struck by it, and that the San Diego of Murillo has occurred
to him more than once when he represented the Curé d'Ars. He has
been inspired by it as a true artist, guarding his own
originality. His hero has very much the same simplicity that
characterizes the saint of the Spanish painter, the same natural
in the supernatural, the same ease of vision and ecstasy. Both
see, and in seeing they evidence none of the fear or surprise
which could actuate the less assured believer. They see; they are
in heaven with God and his angels; they converse with them, and
their faces express no other sensation than the tender and deep
joy of the man who has discovered his ideal.

Delicate and profound characteristic! shade difficult to seize,
and which constitutes the true essence of men living in God, and
beginning on earth their immaterial existence. It needs more than
an artist to fix this and give it form. Only a simple and pious
Christian could crown the heads of our blessed ones with the
mystical aureole that the believer alone discovers; only a
Christian could give to the figures of which we speak the
attitude and life so manifestly stolen from regions of beatitude.
The great difficulty of the work consisted in this shade, and
that may be said to form the perfect whole. The artist's title to
glory is in his having known how to comprehend and realize this,
and so give to his statue the freedom of none other.

Let us dwell on this expression of sanctity--the distinctive
feature in the personage produced by M. Cabuchet. Sanctity has a
strikingly physiological character. It changes the exterior man,
and transforms his countenance. The action of Jesus Christ,
dwelling constantly in the soul, gives to the features a
reflection of a superior order. Sanctity, to speak properly,
represents the fusion of divine and human nature. The pervading
feature of saints is a calm, a serenity, a natural goodness which
attracts and subjugates us. The transfigured soul transfigures
its envelope, and we might imagine divinity showing itself
through the encasement of the body. If the beautiful is the glory
of truth, the saint is the glory of good.

{207}

The statue of the Curé d'Ars possesses to a striking degree this
_suprasensible_ aspect that I have just noticed. By contact
with divinity the marble itself is transfigured--grace sheds its
beams and gives to the features a kind of immaterial
transparency. Jesus Christ is present and breathes into the
passionate and ravished eyes, into the lips and the blessed
smile; the personage lives in another world; his attitude, his
movements have nothing in common with earth. If the spectator
could ignore the name of the priest represented, his attention
would not be less arrested, and he would easily recognize in his
face the presence of a supernatural element, heightening the
human personality.

Here, however, I will make a remark. The body of the Curé d'Ars
is not in unison with his face; it is too material, too vigorous,
too vulgar even, if I dare speak from my heart. "The cassock of
the Curé d'Ars seems to have nothing under its large folds," said
the biographer. ... "He was a shadow," added he still further.
Now, the Curé d'Ars of the artist has nothing of a shadowy
appearance. His shoulders are strong, his breast large, his hands
knotty. The sculptor has wished to express the humble origin of
the priest, but in my opinion he has forgotten the transformation
which the contemplative and mystical life had necessarily
operated in the organization of the saint.

This remark, necessary to be made, detracts nothing, or almost
nothing, from the merit of the work; it could only be appreciated
by those who have personally known the Curé d'Ars, and ceases to
be of import since his death.


                    V.

We can now understand the character and various merits of the
statue of M. Cabuchet. All who see it retire satisfied, and the
mass of spectators are struck by the pious and compassionate
expression of the holy priest. Connoisseurs admire the freedom of
the effect and of the execution. The author may be proud of his
success. He has paid for it by effort and anguish of every kind,
and it is well to know sometimes these artist-struggles, that we
may rightly value the works that charm us so much.

When the statue came from the workshop of the finisher, the
sculptor did not recognize it. He had expected his model to be
reproduced on a less grand scale, and the difference of
proportion rendered it not easy to be known again. At such a
result Cabuchet experienced one of those counter-blows which have
made certain young artists of twenty grow old in a quarter of an
hour, and only those who have tried to realize an ideal can
perfectly understand such emotion. Benvenuto and Palissy in
similar moments were taken with fevers which brought them to the
very portals of the tomb. Sigalon, noticing his picture of
Athalie compromised by difference of light, saw his hair turn
gray in two minutes. Cabuchet had no less trouble, and the wonder
is he escaped a similar shock; he withstood it, however, and,
seeing no other means, he did what any valiant artist would have
done in his place; he took his chisel and mallet, and in the
style of Michael Angelo and Puget he attacked the marble. Each
blow knocked off a piece, but each blow soothed the heart of the
sculptor, for in reducing his statue he re-established it in its
first form, and restored its true physiognomy.

{208}

Cabuchet has devoted a year to such labor. For a whole year he
has worked with chisel and mallet, seeking the form, the
movement, the life; and finding, little by little, this form,
movement, and life at the end of his tools. He played a dangerous
game; the first stroke of the hammer could have destroyed his
work. Driven to a corner, the artist acted as a great captain. He
risked all to gain all. Fortune, which encourages audacity, or
rather the good God who sustains energetic and faithful artists,
came to his aid; and at the end of a year Cabuchet saw his statue
re-created by his chisel, and become truly and doubly the
daughter of his brain and of his hands. He gained more than one
wrinkle at this task and more than one white hair. According to
his own expression, he _sweated many shirts_. But he forgot
difficulties and anxieties when he saw the long dreamed of
figure, the ideal of his days and nights, realized and looming
before him!


                    VI.

They have given this excellent work a reception worthy of it. At
its arrival at the dock at Villefranche, near the village of Ars,
a numerous cavalcade, and a multitude composed of the entire
surrounding population, rushed to meet it, and received it with
transports of love and admiration. The faithful, the penitents of
the holy curé, saw again their master and their model. The parish
saw again its venerated father. They surrounded the marble, they
tried to touch it; many fell on their knees, and prayed as before
the images of the saints. On the day of the inauguration the
demonstrations were the same; every moment a newly collected
crowd prostrated itself at the foot of the statue; flowers were
hung on it, and rosaries and medals laid on the pedestal. Each
believed that new and strengthening virtue would escape from the
marble and regenerate those happy enough to approach it; and yet
this marble was nothing more than a work of genius; it had not
even been blessed, it had no place in the church, it had received
no certificate or consecration from Rome--no matter! the crowd
saw none of these obstacles. Abandoning themselves without
after-thought to the impression which sanctity always produces on
the masses, they rushed to the image of the man who appeared to
them a saint, as we seek the Consoler and Alleviator of all human
suffering.

The inauguration was conducted with a ceremony befitting the
occasion. Monseigneur de Langabrie, Bishop of Belley, a prelate
as remarkable for the urbanity of his manners as his superior
mind, came himself to preside over the occasion. A great admirer
and friend of the Curé d'Ars, he wished to give to his memory
some proof of his affection. More than a hundred priests of
neighboring parishes accompanying him, presented an imposing
_cortége_. Quietly, calmly, and with recollection, they
rendered homage to the remembrance and virtues of a saint. The
secular and official element was represented by the Comte de
Carets, a true Christian gentleman, and for thirty years the
friend of the Curé d'Ars. A numerous crowd from all the
neighboring country testified by repeated manifestations the
ardor of its faith and sentiment. The church of Ars, enlarged by
a talented architect, was entirely too small for all this wealth
of offering.

The Mass was celebrated with pomp; at the gospel the Abbé Ozanam,
vicar-general, mounted the pulpit, and described the most
striking points of physiognomy of the Curé d' Ars.
{209}
Inspired by his text from St. Paul, he showed how God always
employed the same means to act upon and govern the earth;
weakness to confound strength, humility to confound pride, and
littleness to confound grandeur; all that is despicable in the
eyes of man to confound all that is powerful and worthy his
respect. A staff in the hands of an old man is sufficient for
God, and well represents the instruments he sometimes employs to
rule the world. The Curé d'Ars was of obscure parentage; the Curé
d'Ars was humble, ignorant, illiterate, according to the world,
without power, without birth, without _prestige_. He seems
of still less repute, in that before God he so completely
annihilated himself. Son of a poor farmer, with difficulty he
reached the seminary, with difficulty he staid there, with
difficulty he attained the different grades. Everywhere, always,
the weakness of his faculties proved the signal of distrust from
his superiors, of contempt from his equals. He knew but one
thing, to love, to pray, to humble himself--above all to humble
himself. The less he felt himself, the less he made himself; the
more he was despised, the more he despised himself. But wait! the
hand of God appeared, and the ordinary movement of the see-saw
was reproduced. The lower the world placed him at one end, the
higher God uplifted him at the other, and he became the
instrument God always uses for his great works--an instrument
lowly yet powerful, and that confounds, attracts, and subjugates
the whole world. This humble priest--powerless, lacking ability,
and awkward in appearance--saw millions of men, great and small,
wise and ignorant, known and unknown, flock from all corners of
the earth to hear his word, see his countenance, listen to his
advice, feast on his holy expressions--to touch his vestments. He
will govern consciences and hearts; he will read their souls,
enlighten them, touch them. He will predict the future, will
overcome nature, and subject to his will the world of mind and
the world of matter. ... Admirable effect of humility which
produces sanctity! The most humble shall become the most
celebrated, and his name resound from pole to pole. He shall
agitate multitudes, and no living man can hear him without
thrilling with love or anger. His image will provoke enthusiasm.
The world will prostrate itself before it and kiss its very
traces; and when other images, other glorified, other renowned
conquerors, poets, legislators, politicians, are only a
remembrance, a vain sound which cannot thrill a single human
fibre, the name of the obscure, the despised Curé d'Ars will
radiate in an ever new orbit of splendor, and produce emotions
and effects ever new in millions of hearts. Strange consequence!
Contrast truly striking; which shows that Catholicism by a
brilliant overthrow of events is alone heard to give glory and
immortality!

After the Mass, monseigneur was heard in his turn, and related
the efforts made at Rome to obtain the canonization of the
defunct whose memory was then and there celebrated. He spoke of
the hope which he cherished to see ere long the Curé d'Ars and
his image among the glorified ones, and placed on those altars
where public veneration had already given them a place.


                   VII.

After the ceremony was over, the priests and some of the pilgrims
coming to the solemnity united in an old-fashioned feast at the
house of one of the missionaries.

{210}

The day was passed in recalling the virtues and actions of the
saint, while the crowd continued its homage and demonstrations.

Nothing could be more striking than the appearance of the village
of Ars during this _fête_. The spectator goes backward
several centuries; he lives in the earliest age; legend becomes
reality in his eyes, and the natural world is entirely forgotten
in the consciousness of the supernatural that surrounds him. M.
Renan speaks somewhere with contempt of times and populations for
whom the natural and supernatural have no exact limit. Ars
presents every day, and especially those days in which the saint
is honored, the same character. The natural and supernatural
touch and mingle. The multitude kneels, it intercedes, it asks;
and sometimes, in the simplest manner, extraordinary favors are
granted, which strike with wonder the Christians of our day, so
much less habituated than others to the manifestations of the
immaterial world. The church is always full; the tomb of the good
pastor, recognizable by a black slab, covered perpetually by an
eager crowd. Some are kneeling, others standing awaiting their
turn, and prostrating themselves as soon as a vacant place offers
itself. They dispute a corner of the tomb of the Curé d'Ars, as
during his life they disputed a corner of his confessional or an
end of his cassock. All pray, some weep, others kiss the funereal
marble. Mothers bring their sickly children, and rest them on the
slab. Paralytics and the lame take their places. Each one touches
the tomb with his cross, his medals, or his beads, and carries it
away persuaded of its renewed efficacy. Every object, every part
of the church, bears the trace of what I may call a pious
vandalism. The confessional, the pulpit in which the holy priest
passed nearly all his life, are cut in a thousand places. Each
one has chipped the wood to carry off a relic.

Outside of the church the eagerness and veneration are no less.
The places frequented by the defunct are pointed out, and into
the old presbytery they hurry and almost smother each other on
the stairs. One has to pause on his way a quarter of an hour
sometimes before reaching the bedroom of the Curé d'Ars. The
chamber has been barricaded, and provided with an opening in the
wall, that it may escape the general devastation. The door is
armed with a strong grating and plated with iron. Without such
precaution all would have been long since broken open,
demolished, and carried away. As it is, there is more than one
hole in the wood-work, and even the walls are broken in, in
places. It is said that workmen armed with crow-bars have
attempted to throw down the wall. The shrubs and herbaceous
plants in the court-yard are spoiled incessantly; as if the
visitors, unable to molest the walls, revenge themselves on the
flowers and verdure. But they cannot penetrate into the chamber
and are forced to stay behind the barricade. They succeed each
other, as on some grand occasion of public curiosity in Paris,
when the crowd is unusually large. From the kind of vestibule
which forms the opening in the wall the visitor can take in the
whole apartment, if not entirely at his ease, on account of the
pressure of the crowd, at least without losing any detail.
Everything remains as it did during the life of the Curé d'Ars.
Here is the bed, sheltered under its green tapestry, a present
from the Comte de Carets, in place of another bed which was
burned under extraordinary circumstances.
{211}
Here is the wooden chimney where the priest came each day--after
spending from sixteen to eighteen hours in the confessional--to
revive his exhausted body by the still living flame of a simple
branch. The table is always set, as if it awaited its old
companion. An earthen porringer, with a pewter spoon, a little
pitcher, also of earth, which held the milk, an earthen plate,
and a coarse linen napkin; and nothing more. This modest service,
and the necessarily modest repast it supposes, had sustained, for
nearly forty years, the most valiant and fruitful life of the
age. Man lives not by bread alone; this man lived almost without
it; a little milk sufficed him, and on this he existed nearly all
his life--a trait not less astonishing than the power and energy
with which this milk seemed to inspire him. Two oaken chests,
presented also by pious persons, some sacred engravings, enough
books to fill the simple shelves, two or three straw chairs,
complete the furniture of this poor chamber, as popular today as
the apartments of the Louvre or the Museum of Sovereigns. A niche
in the wall, covered with a glazed partition, preserves and
exposes to the piety of the pilgrims the cassock and cap of the
poor priest.

The presbytery is no longer inhabited. No one has been reported,
or felt himself, sufficiently worthy to occupy it after its last
possessor. There is no longer a Curé d'Ars, there never will be a
Curé d'Ars--no one feeling strong enough to struggle with such a
remembrance, nor bear the legendary title. The missionaries who
during his lifetime were established near the presbytery, do the
duties of the parish and suffice for the pilgrims.


                    VIII.

Such is the _prestige_ of the Curé d'Ars since his death;
and the influence he exercised during his life was no less
astonishing. We are amazed at hearing or reading the details of
this exceptional existence. Eighty to a hundred thousand persons
came to Ars every year, and from all parts of the world. France,
Belgium, Germany, England, Italy, America, Asia, by turns sent
their pilgrims; and the enthusiasm of old--of the days of
Bernard, Dominic, Francis d'Assise, Vincent Ferrier, Philip de
Neri--has been renewed. Petitions were addressed to the Curé
d'Ars as to a superior being. Every day he received letters,
demands, confidences, and prayers. "One must come to Ars," said
he sometimes, "to know the sin of Adam and the evils he has
caused his poor family!" Sinners, the ill in body and mind, the
suffering of all kinds, went to the Curé d'Ars as the healer sent
by God himself. His faith, his humility, his love of God and man,
his frightful austerity, his perfect abnegation of self,
astonished and ravished souls; the gift given him to read the
human heart, his marvellous intuition, his power over nature, his
predictions, his miracles, ended by according him the
supernatural aureole, and the signs of election which in all ages
have carried away multitudes. At Ars one could learn how the
Christian religion was founded; by what virtues, what miracles,
its initiators had acted on the public mind and conquered. The
life of the gospel and the glorious days of the church
reappeared; hagiography lived again; the supernatural and
legendary history of Catholicism became comprehensible and
impressed itself on every mind.

{212}

According to calculations which may be called official, nearly
three millions of pilgrims have been admitted to the Curé d'Ars.
Every kind of human misery has presented itself before him, and
how many have been comforted! The blind have seen, the deaf have
heard, the paralyzed have walked; bread, wine, and corn have been
multiplied; and all the miracles of the gospel, except the
resurrection of the dead, have been reproduced. The greatest
miracle of the Curé d'Ars was, perhaps, the resurrection of the
living and the conversion of sinners, to which the holy priest
had dedicated his life, and was the principal end of all his
efforts. Notwithstanding his ardent desire for death and heaven,
he would have consented to remain on earth until the end of the
world to gain hearts for Jesus Christ. It was in this _rôle_
that so brilliantly shone the supernatural character of the life
and mission of the Curé d'Ars. When we think of the sixteen to
eighteen hours of the confessional, of the eighty to a hundred
penitents who knelt daily at the feet of the holy priest, we may
form some idea of the attraction that he exercised, and the deep
furrow he ploughed in the soul of the present age.

So many shining traits give to the Curé d'Ars the most
wide-spread fame of his time. Chateaubriand, De Maistre, Goethe,
Voltaire even, and others less famous, are only known to the more
refined. Their names have not penetrated the stratum of an
immense humanity. The Curé d'Ars was known to all, and his name
had traversed every country, every ocean, every race. In Europe,
America, Asia, it echoed and wakened souls; and everywhere we
find his portrait, in every town, in every country. Siberian huts
can show the Curé d'Ars. No face--not even that of Napoleon
I.--is as popular. His hair, his cap, his cassock, his shoes, his
furniture, his books, his breviary, have been sold over and over
again for more than their weight in gold. His blood, if taken
from him in illness, was collected and treasured as a relic; and
we see still at Ars, in several places, vials containing this
blood, as pure as the day it flowed: can science account for
this? The phenomenon is, to say the least, unique, abnormal. The
objects that he blessed were almost taken by assault, and before
his death rival countries disputed for his body, and the dispute
came near degenerating into a bloody conflict. No honor, homage,
or public respect was wanting to the Curé d'Ars, and once again
piety and Christian virtues have proven themselves the surest
means of acting on the world and attracting the masses, because
they represent the superior and eternal ideal of life and of
humanity.


                    IX.

But I must pause. I have wished to sketch in a few words the
appearance of this remarkable man, but yesterday our
contemporary, and of whom an extraordinary work of art has given
me the opportunity to speak. I fear I have been prolix, and,
forgetting the statue, have occupied my readers' attention with
the person represented; but I hope to be forgiven, as the best
way, surely, to impress the merit of a portrait is to make known
the model the artist has wished to depict. The statue will be
better appreciated as the Curé d'Ars himself is fully understood.

Again, it seems to me that the appearance and actions of such a
man, in the uncertain times in which we live, are a symptom and
hope of something better, to which we cannot give too much
weight. Truly the age is bad enough; hardened against God, it is
hardened against his church, and tries to sap every foundation of
virtue and honesty.
{213}
It destroys faith, attacks good principles and the virtuous
instincts that prompt them, and endeavors to replace the ancient
order of consciences by a sort of individual independence which,
sowing division, can only produce ruin. Character and manners are
falling as low as ideas; cupidity, egotism, unbridled pleasure,
sensual enjoyments, sought for and held up as the only end of
life; the expansion of luxury by every ingenuity gives to society
an ideal of Babylonian civilization; revolution, that is to say,
revolt and universal overthrow, cap the climax, and threaten to
swallow up everything: behold the situation and its dangers!
Seldom have ages been more troubled, or the symptoms more
terrible.

But hope revives and the mind is elevated when it contemplates
the opposing camp. So long as an age is able to produce a Curé
d'Ars, it is full of strength; and if the Catholic faith can
excite such a sensation as that of which I have just spoken, she
assures her future. Monarchs, generals, politicians, legislators,
writers, may become powerless. They could not preserve the
society of old, and saints alone saved it, walking in the
footsteps of Christ. They reconstructed and regenerated it,
because they were the last and unique expression of the true and
beautiful in morals, the only pivot of progress, the only lever
which lifted a people to lead them onward to God, the only source
of life. Producing the same men, modern society may hope for the
same regeneration; its cure and its future health will not depend
on human means or agents, but on the divine grace exercised by
its saints.

                   ----------

                 Dante Alighieri.


The fame of the _Fiero Ghibellino_, as the Italians are wont
to call Dante Alighieri, is great, not in extensiveness, but in
weight. Wherever and to whomsoever he is known, his name and his
works carry a charm and an authority vouchsafed to only a few in
the department of authors. Homer, Dante, and Shakespeare are
_the_ poets, whose names are enshrined on an elevation above
the rest; they breathe, so to speak, in an atmosphere of their
own. They are, indeed, masters and guides,

  "Maestri di color che sanno."

In truth, to understand their works, the study thereof must needs
be made a specialty. Yet even those who have lisped their names
in their mothers' tongue find that "_ars longa, vita
brevis_." The student will drink at those pure fountains with
ever-increasing pleasure. "How often have you been in St.
Peter's?" asked of us a venerable monk, the first time we entered
the Vatican. "Never before, sir." "Well," replied he, "I have
been coming here almost every day for the last thirteen years,
and every day I find some new thing to admire and study!" The
same has been averred by those who have been familiar with Dante,
Homer, and Shakespeare.

{214}

We well remember how, in our youth, and in our native schools, we
were so trained in the study of Alighieri that it was an easy
matter to discover whether an author, be he poet or prose-writer,
had been formed on Dante, whether he had drunk at the head
fountain or at side streams. Only few poets we remember whose
verses we read with an enchanted devotion--Gasparo Leonarducci,
of Venice; Vincenzo Monti, of Milan; and Alfonso Varano, of
Ferrara. Of the prose-writers, Paolo Segneri, Sforza Pallavicino,
of the seventeenth, and Pietro Giordani, of the nineteenth
century, are the only _Danteschi_ in whom we delighted, as
we were delighted in reading Homer transformed into the _succum
et saporem_ of the _AEneid_. Those above mentioned were
poets, historians, and orators, than whom more ardent and
persevering students of Dante are not recorded in the annals of
Italian literature. Theirs was not, however, a pedantic
servility: Dante was the father that engendered their style, the
eagle who provoked them to fly; and they did fly, and soared
above the rest, and fixed their pupils on the brightness of the
sun. Which remarks afford us also the measure by which to value
the success of those who have attempted to translate Dante into
foreign languages, an attempt which to the Italian scholar sounds
almost presumptuous. For, if the style and the meaning of Dante
have proven a matter of so much difficulty and labor to the
countryman of Dante, how much more laborious and difficult must
they prove to the foreign-born student?

Whoever attempts to translate a poet must join "the fidelity of
rendition to the spirit of a poet." The former presupposes a
thorough knowledge of the two languages, even to the commonest
idioms. Then, unless one is born a poet, the attempt will be the
very madness of folly, which truth receives additional evidence
when the work to be translated is one of transcendent merit in
its originality; ay, more, when it is _incomparable_:
incomparable, we mean, as a human work can be.

Such is the _Divina Commedia_ of Dante Alighieri. Pindaric
in flights, supernatural in conception, inventive in expression
and language, (for Dante is "the father of the Italian tongue,")
Dante stands before the scholar as a most difficult author. Nor
are the numberless commentators and voluminous comments, agreeing
or conflicting, ingenious or absurd, a mean proof of our
assertion!

Commentators have, in fact, pushed their folly and their
presumption to an excess equalled only by the absurd twisting of
Holy Writ in favor of the thousand and one senses which defenders
of opposite doctrines have fancied they read in one and the same
text. A witty Italian imagines he sees Dante crouching low, and
vainly endeavoring, with wild gesticulations and lusty cries for
help, to parry the blows by which clergymen and laymen, _laico
o cherco_, endeavor to force him to admit such meanings into
his words as he never dreamt of; at the same time they, falling
out among themselves, exchange blows, and throw at each other's
head their heavy comments, bound in wood, and rudely embossed
with brazen studs. It is related that once the stern poet, while
passing by a smithy, heard snatches of his poem sung, but so
interlarded with strange words, and the ends of verses so bitten
off, that the grating upon his ears was unendurable: whereupon he
entered the shop, and fell around wantonly throwing into vast
confusion the tools of the churl, who, thinking him mad, rushed
upon him and yelled: "What the ---- art thou about?" "And what
art _thou_ doing?" retorted Dante, sobering down at once.
{215}
"I am at my work, and thou art spoiling my tools!" replied the
smith. "If thou wishest me to leave thy things alone, leave mine
alone also." "And, pray, what am I spoiling of thine?" "You are
singing my verses, but not as I made them; it is the only art I
possess, and you spoil it." [Footnote 92]

    [Footnote 92: Had Shakespeare this anecdote in mind when he
    made Orlando cry out, "I pray you, mar no more of my verses
    with reading them ill-favoredly"? (_As You Like It_, act
    iii. sc. 2.)]

On another occasion the poet met a churl driving before him a mob
of donkeys, and enlivening his wearisome journey by singing also
snatches of the divine poem. But, very naturally, he would
intersperse his songs with an occasional pricking of the haunches
of his asinine fellow-travellers with the goad, and the shout of
_arri, arri_--the Italian _g'long, g'long_. Dante at
once visited the fellow's back with an earnest blow, and cried:
"That _arri, arri_, I never put it in that verse!" The poor
_asinaro_ shrugged his shoulders, and darted to one side,
not well pleased with the uncouth salutation; but when at a safe
distance, ignorant as he was of the cause of the blow and of the
man who had inflicted it, he thrust his tongue out, and said,
"Take that," an indecent act even for an Italian boor. Dante
replied: "I would not give mine for a hundred of thine!"

What the smith and the drover did, in their own way, and in
Dante's time, has been repeated down to our days. Volumes might
be filled with merely the titles of essays, treatises, and
theories, at times ingenious, seldom interesting, always
betraying the conceit of the writer. Editions innumerable are
crammed with interpretations conflicting with each other, and by
which the sense of the poet has been cruelly distorted. We, who
have been reared in the deepest reverence for Dante's orthodoxy,
have always felt indignant at the irreligious and unphilosophical
inordinations to which the _Divina Commedia_ has been made
to afford foundation and development.

For the nonce we mean to deal with translations, yet not in a
general or comprehensive treatise; for to treat of all English
translations of Dante, down to Sir J. F. W. Herschel's, the
latest of all, would carry us over fields too extensive and
uninviting. We have been led to beg for a corner of THE CATHOLIC
WORLD, in order to introduce to its readers what, after a close
and careful study, we deem the best of all translations of Dante.
We allude to _The First Canticle (Inferno) of the Divine Comedy
of Dante Alighieri_. Translated by Thomas William Parsons.
Boston: De Vries, Ibarra & Co. 1867.

That Mr. Parsons possesses the spirit of a poet, no one who has
read ever so little of his original compositions will gainsay.
Whatever he writes has the true ring; there is nothing
transcendental in him, and no mannerism; his sentiments are
spontaneous, and flow into his diction with a naturalness that
takes hold of the heart of the reader at once, like a peaceful
streamlet mingling its waters with kindred waves. Opening a
collection of his poems at random, we do not hesitate to
transcribe, without any studied choice, what first offers itself
to our eye. He writes on the death of his friend, the sculptor
Crawford, and thus he suddenly gives vent to his feelings:

 "O Death! thou teacher true and rough!
    Full oft I fear that we have erred,
  And have not loved enough;
    But, O ye friends! this side of Acheron,
          Who cling to me to-day,
    I shall not know my love till ye are gone
          And I am gray!

{216}

    Fair women, with your loving eyes,
  Old men that once my footsteps led,
    Sweet children--much as all I prize,
  Until the sacred dust of death be shed
  Upon each dear and venerable head,
  I cannot love you as I love the dead!

    "But now, the natural man being sown,
  We can more lucidly behold
     The spiritual one:
       For we, till time shall end,
       Full visibly shall see our friend
       In all his hands did mould--
       That worn and patient hand that lies so cold!"

On a Palm-Sunday, as he wends his way to the bedside of a dying
young convert, he begs of a little Catholic girl a twig of the
blessed palm she is carrying home. Whereupon he extemporizes the
following:

          "To A Young Girl Dying:
      With A Gift Of Fresh Palm-leaves.

    "This is Palm-Sunday: mindful of the day,
     I bring palm branches, found upon my way:
     But these will wither; thine shall never die--
     The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky!
     Dear little saint, though but a child in years,
     Older in wisdom than my gray compeers!
     _We_ doubt and tremble--_we_, with 'bated breath,
     Talk of this mystery of life and death;
     Thou, strong in faith, art gifted to conceive
     Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe!

    "Then take my palms, triumphal, to thy home,
     Gentle white palmer, never more to roam!
     Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go'st,
     Thy benediction--for my love thou know'st!
     We, too, are pilgrims, travelling toward the shrine:
     Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine!"

Mr. Parsons's poetical gift manifests itself most sensibly in
what might be called "fugitive pieces." They are gems, like the
above, and as they are offered to the reader they are at once set
in the most fitting corner of his heart. We regret our limited
space will not allow us to transcribe the poems _To
Magdalen_, "Mary from whom were cast out seven devils;" or the
death of _Mary Booth_; or the _Vespers on the Shores of
the Mediterranean_, when the Italian mariner

  "In mare irato in subita procella
   Invoca Te nostra benigna Stella."

But we must be allowed to quote one little poem; an impromptu
one, written on the death of a Catholic prelate (February 13th,
1866) whose memory is held in benediction by a vast number of our
readers:

  "Son of St. Patrick, John, the best of men,
   Boston's blest bishop bids good-by again.
   Not long ago we parted on the shore,
   And said farewell--nor thought to see him more:
   That brain so weary, and that heart so worn
   With many cares! The parting made us mourn.
   But he came back--he could not die in Rome.
   Tho' well might those bones rest by Peter's dome,
   Or Ara Coeil--and the sacred stair
   That climbs the Capitol--or anywhere
   In that queen city. ...

  "Scholar and friend! old schoolfellow, though far
   Past me in learning, that was ne'er a bar
   To our free intercourse; for thou hadst thine
   One muse to worship--leaving me the nine.
   Thy faith was large, even in thy fellow-men:
   And it pleased thee to patronize my pen
   When I turned Horace into English rhyme,
   And thought myself a poet for the time,
   In Latin school-days--but, alas! thy shroud
   Drives from remembrance all this gathering crowd
   Of tender images; farewell to all!
   I cannot think of these beside thy pall.
   Thine, good Fitzpatrick, noble heir of those
   Who went before thee--Fenwick and Bordeaux's
   Gentle apostle Cheverus, and Toussaud--
   Whom in my boyhood I was blest to know.

  "But the bell moves me. Christian, fare thee well.
   I loved my bishop and I mind his bell."

Let us now approach our subject more closely. But here the
difficulty is how to enable our readers, who are not acquainted
with the original Italian, to appreciate the fidelity of the
American translator--a fidelity the beauty whereof consists in
that Mr. Parsons translates almost _literally_ and at the
same time his translation _is_ poetry. After all, he is not
entitled to extraordinary praise who, being endowed with poetical
genius, catches the sense of the original and gives it in foreign
verses. The best plan seems to us to give the text, then a
literal (pedantic or lineal) translation, and afterward
Parsons's. Thus, for instance, Dante reads on the architrave over
the entrance to hell:

    [Transcriber's Note: The arrangement of the text of pages
    217, 218, and 219 is confusing, including two parallel
    renderings and numerous footnotes. The renderings have been
    placed in sequential order and the footnotes placed following
    the references.]

{217} {218} {219}

  "Per me si va nella città dolente. [Footnote 93]
     Per me si va nell' eterno dolore:
     Per me si va tra la perduta [Footnote 94] gente.
   Giustizia mosse 'l mio alto Fattore:
     Fecemi la divina Potestate,
     La somma Sapienza, e 'l primo Amore.
   Dinanzi a me non fur cose create,
     Se non eterne, ed io eterna duro:
     Lasciate ogni speranza, voi, che 'ntrate."

    [Footnote 93: _Dolente_ means sorrow
    without any mixture of hope--
    _wailing and gnashing of teeth_.]

    [Footnote 94: _Perduta_, in the sense of
    that _pecunia sit tibi in perditionem_,
    (Acts viii. 20,) absolute condemnation.
    _Uemo perduto_ in Italian is the
    _ruptus disruptusque_ of
    Cicero, a "gone" man, beyond all hope
    of moral recovery.]

To wit:
  Through me you go into the doleful city;
  through me you go into eternal grief;
  through me you go among the lost people.
  Justice moved my lofty Builder;
  Divine Power made me;
  and the supreme Wisdom and the first Love.
  Ere me were no things created--unless eternal, and I eternal last;
  relinquish all hope, you who enter.

Now compare with Parsons's:

  "Through me you reach the City of Despair:
   Through me eternal wretchedness ye find:
   Through me among perdition's tribe ye fare.
   Justice inspired my lofty Founder's mind:
   Power, Love, and Wisdom--Heavenly First Most High--
   Created me. Before me naught had been
   Save things eternal--and eterne am I:
   Leave ye all hope, O ye who enter in!"

Can any translation be more literal? Can it be more faithful? We
have tried to find fault with it, but gave it up in despair; yea,
the more we strain our critical eye, the more perfectly does the
original beauty appear reflected in the translation. It is not
the reflection of the mirror; it is the reflection of the sun's
light on the moon's face.

To economize room, we shall give no more text: we will only add a
lineal translation by way of note, presuming on the reader for
his trust in our knowledge of both languages, and in our honesty.

The long extract we are going to make is, perhaps, the noblest
specimen of descriptive poetry in the Italian language. It is,
however, founded on a historical mistake, inasmuch as Ugolino was
starved to death not by Archbishop Ruggieri, but by Guido da
Montefeltro, Lord of Pisa. The true account runs thus: Ugolino
dei Gherardeschi, Count of Donovatico, and a Guelf, had, with the
connivance of the archbishop, made himself master of Pisa. But
having put to death a nephew of Ruggieri, and sold some castles
to the Florentines, that prelate, at the head of an infuriated
mob, and aided by Gualandi, Sismondi, and Lanfranchi, three
powerful leaders, attacked the count in his own palace, and made
him prisoner with his two sons Gaddo and Uguccione, and three
nephews, Ugolino Brigata, Arrigo, and Anselmuccio. Thus bound,
they were all thrown into the donjons of the Tower at the Three
Roads. Montefeltro, having meanwhile got the power into his own
hands, forbade any food to be administered to his prisoner rival,
whereby Ugolino and the rest died of hunger. Dante,
(_Inferno_, c. xxxii. and xxxiii.,) admitted to the ninth
circle, or bolgia, on entering that part of it which was called
Antenora, witnessed the horrible punishment of the traitor and of
the murderer:

   [Transcriber's note: Rendering 1]

                    "In a single gap,
  Fast froze together other two I saw,
  So that one head was his companion's cap:
  And as a famished man a crust might gnaw,
  So gnawed the upper one the wretch beneath,
    Just where the neck-bone's marrow joins the brain:
    Not otherwise did Tydeus fix his teeth
    On Menalippus' temples in disdain.
  While thus he mumbled skull and hair and all,
    I cried: 'Ho! thou who show'st such bestial hate
    Of him on whom thy ravenous teeth so fall,
    Why feedest thou thus? On this agreement state:
  That, if thou have good reason for thy spite,
    Knowing you both, and what his crime was, I
    Up in the world above may do thee right,
    Unless the tongue I talk with first grow dry.'
  From his foul feast that sinner raised his jaw,
    Wiping it on the hair, first, of the head
    Whose hinder part his craunching had made raw.
    Then thus: 'Thou wouldst that I renew,' he said,
  'The agony which still my heart doth wring,
    In thought even, ere a syllable I say;
    But if my words may future harvest bring
    To the vile traitor here on whom I prey
  Of infamy, then thou shalt hear me speak,
    And see my tears too. I know not thy mien,
    Nor by what means this region thou dost seek;
    But by thy tongue thou'rt sure Florentine.
  Know then, Count Ugolino once was I,
    And this Archbishop Ruggieri: fate
    Makes us close neighbors--I will tell thee why.
    'Tis needless all the story to relate,
  How through his malice, trusting in his words,
    I was a prisoner made and after slain.
    But that whereof thou never canst have heard,
    I mean how cruelly my life was ta'en,
  Thou shalt hear now, and thenceforth know if he
    Have done me wrong. A loophole in the mew
    Which hath its name of Famine's Tower from me,
    And where his doom some other yet must rue,
  Had shown me now already through its cleft
    Moon after moon, when that ill dream I dreamed
    Which from futurity the curtain reft.
    He, in my vision, lord and master seemed,
  Hunting the wolf and wolf-cubs on the height
    Which screeneth Lucca from the Pisan's eye:
    With eager hounds, well trained and lean and light,
    Gualandi and Lanfranchi darted by,
  With keen Sismondi--these the foremost went;
    But after some brief chase, too hardly borne,
    The sire and offspring seemed entirely spent,
    And by sharp fangs their bleeding sides were torn.
  When before morn from sleep I raised my head,
    I heard my boys, in prison there with me,
    Moaning in slumber and demanding bread.
    If thou weep not, a savage thou must be:
  Nay, if thou weep not, thinking of the fear
    My heart foreboded, canst thou weep at aught?
    Now they woke also, and the hour was near
    When used our daily pittance to be brought.
  His dream made each mistrustful; and I heard
    The door of that dread tower nailed up below:
    Then in my children's eyes, without a word,
    I gazed, but moved not; and I wept not: so
  Like stone was I within, that I could not.
    They wept, though, and my little Anselm cried,
    'Thou look'st so! Father, what's the matter, what?'
    But still I wept not, nor a word replied,
  All that long day, nor all the following night,
    Till earth beheld the sun's returning ray;
    And soon as one faint gleam of morning light
    Stole to the dismal dungeon where we lay,
  And soon as those four visages I saw
    Imaging back the horror of my own,
    Both hands through anguish I began to gnaw;
    And they, believing want of food alone
  Compelled me, started up, and cried, 'Far less,
    Dear father, it will torture us if thou
    Shouldst feed on us! Thou gavest us this dress
    Of wretched flesh--'tis thine, and take it now.'
  So to relieve their little hearts, at last
    I calmed myself, and, all in silence, thus
    That and the next day motionless we past.
    Ah thou hard earth! why didst not ope for us?
  On the fourth morning, Gaddo at my feet
    Cast himself prostrate, murmuring, 'Father! why
    Dost thou not help me? Give me food to eat."
    With that he died: and even so saw I,
  As thou seest me now, three more, one by one,
    Betwixt the fifth day and the sixth day fall;
    By which time, sightless grown, o'er each dear son
    I groped, and two days on the dead did call:
  But, what grief could not do, hunger did then.
    This said, he rolled his eyes askance, and fell
    To gnaw the skull with greedy teeth again,
    Strong as a dog upon the bony shell.
  Ah Pisa! shame of all in that fair land
    Where _si_ is uttered, since thy neighbors round
    Take vengeance on thee with a tardy hand,
    Broke be Capraja's and Gorgona's bound!
  Let them dam Arno's mouth up, till the wave
    Whelm every soul of thine in its o'erflow!
    What though _'twas said_ Count Ugolino gave,
    Through treachery, thy strongholds to the foe?
  Thou needst not have tormented so his sons,
    Thou modern Thebes!--their youth saved them from blame--
    Brigata, Hugh, and those two innocent ones
    Whom, just above, the canto calls by name."

    [Transcriber's note: Rendering 2; the dash at the end of each
    line is probably a typesetting artifact; all the poetic lines
    are run together.]

  I saw two _persons_ frozen in one hole,--
  so that one head to the other was hat:--
  and as bread in hunger is eaten,--
  so the uppermost his teeth into the other stuck,--
  there where the brain is joined to the nape.--
  Not otherwise did Tydeus gnaw--
  the temples of Menalippus through disdain--
  than he did the skull and the other things.--
  O thou who showest by so bestial token--
  hatred over him whom thou eatest,--[Footnote 95]
  tell me the why, said I: on such condition,--
  that, if thou with reason of him complainest,--
  knowing who you are, and his offence,--
  in the world above I also may repay thee for it,--
  if that [tongue] with which I speak does not _become_ dry.

  The mouth [he] raised from the beastly [Footnote 96] food,--
  that sinner, wiping it on the hair--
  of the head which he had disfigured (maimed) behind.--
  Then [he] began: Thou wishest that I renew--
  desperate grief, which me to the heart oppresses,--
  even only thinking, before I speak of it.--
  But if my words must (may) be a seed--
  that will bear fruit of infamy to the traitor I gnaw,--
  thou shalt see me both speak and weep.--
  I know not who thou be nor by what means--
  art thou come here below; but Florentine--
  _thou_ seemest to me truly, when I hear thee.--
  Thou shouldst know that I was Count Ugolino,--
  and this Archbishop Ruggieri:--
  now I'll tell thee why I am such [Footnote 97] neighbor.--
  How by the means of his evil mind,--
  trusting in him, I was taken--
  and then killed, there is no need of telling.--
  But that which _thou_ canst not have heard, (known), [Footnote 98]
  that is, how cruel my death was,--
  thou shalt hear; and [thou] shalt know whether he hath done me wrong.--
  A narrow hole within the mew-- [Footnote 99]
  which from me has the title of Hunger,--
  and in which it needs that others be confined,--
  had shown me through its opening--
  many moons already, when I had the fatal dream--
  which tore from me the veil of the future.--
  This [man] seemed to me leader and lord,--
  driving the wolf and wolf-cubs [Footnote 100] to the mountain,
  for which the Pisans cannot see Lucca.--[Footnote 101]
  With hounds, [she-hounds,] lean, keen on the scent,
  and well trained, (_cagne magre studiose e conte_,)--
  Gualandi with Sismondi, and with Lanfranchi--
  had [he] put before him in the van.--
  After a short run they seemed to me borne down,--
  the father and the sons, and by those sharp teeth--
  I deemed their sides torn open.--
  When I became awake ere the morning--
  I heard weeping in their sleep my children,--
  who were with me, and ask for bread.--
  Indeed thou art cruel if thou dost not already grieve,--
  thinking of what to my heart was then foreboded:--
  and if thou weepest not, at what art thou wont to weep?--
  They were now awake, and the hour was drawing near--
  when food used to be brought in,--
  and his dream gave each misgivings.--
  And _then_ I heard the door bolted [Footnote 102] below--
  in the horrible tower: whereat I looked--
  into the face of my children without saying a word.--
  I was not weeping, so was I petrified (_impietrai_) within:--
  they were weeping; and my little Anselm--
  said: Thou lookest so! Father, what aileth thee?--
  Yet I shed no tear, nor answered I--
  all that day, nor the following night,--
  until another sun arose over the world.--
  As soon as a little gleam of light (_un poco di raggio_) began to creep--
  into the doleful prison, and I saw in four faces my own very image,
  both my hands through pain I bit;--
  and they, thinking that I did it for wish of food, instantly arose,--
  and said: Father, far less painful will it be to us--
  if thou eatest of us; thou didst dress--
  [us with] this miserable flesh, do thou take it off.--
  I then calmed myself, not to make them more wretched.--
  That day and the next we all lay silent:--
  alas! cruel earth, why didn'tst thou open?--
  After we had reached the fourth day--
  Gaddo threw himself prostrate at my feet,--
  saying: Father mine, why dost thou not help me?--
  There he died; and, as thou seest me,--
  did I see the three fall one by one,--
  betwixt the fifth day and the sixth, whereat I began,--
  already blind, to grope over each:--
  and three days I called them after they were dead.--
  Then more than the grief did the fasting overwhelm me.--
  When he had said this, with eyes distorted--
  he resumed the loathsome skull between his teeth,--
  which, like a dog's, stuck to the bone.--
  Ah Pisa! disgrace to the people--
  of the fair land where the _si_ sounds;--[Footnote 103]
  as thy neighbors are slow to punish thee,--
  let Capraja and Gorgona [Footnote 104] arise,--
  and build a dam on Arno's mouth--
  that may drown every mother's child in thee.--
  For if Count Ugolino had the name--
  of having defrauded thee of thy castles,--
  thou shouldst not have put the children to such torture.--
  Innocent were by their youthful age,--
  Modern Thebes! Uguccione and Brigata,--
  and the other two whom my song has mentioned."

     [Footnote 95: _Ti mangi_, "thou selfishly holdest for
     thy dainty food." This is one of those idioms expressed by
     the reciprocal pronoun "ti," almost impossible to translate.
     Its meaning is felt only by the native Italian.]

    [Footnote 96: _Fiero_, here as the carcass on which a
    beast of prey will feed, from _fiera_, savage beast.]

    [Footnote 97: _Tal vicino_, a neighbor so barbarously
    distressing another.]

    [Footnote 98: _Inteso Udire_, hear by chance;
    _ascoltare_, to listen, _intendere_, to understand
    what you hear, or are told.]

    [Footnote 99: _Muda_, the place where the republic's
    eagles were kept during moulting-time. _Mudare_, to
    moult.]

    [Footnote 100: Ugolino had the dream while suffering the
    acute pangs of hunger. He dreamt of a famished wolf and its
    whelps, hunted by she-hounds, under which allegory he
    recognizes the Ghibellines, himself being a Guelf.]

    [Footnote 101: _San Giuliano_, a mountain between
    Pisa and Lucca.]

    [Footnote 102: The Pisans, about eight months after Ugolino's
    imprisonment, bolted the dungeon's massive doors, locked
    them, and threw the keys into the Arno.]

    [Footnote 103: Dante calls the language of Southern France
    the language of _oc_, and the Italian the language of
    _si_; both _oc_ and _si_ meaning "yes."]

    [Footnote 104: Two small islands at the mouth of the Arno.]

We had marked one or two more pieces for transcription, but we
deem it useless; for a diligent collation of Mr. Parsons's text
with the literal translation we have given _ad calcem_ will
at once convince the reader of the faithfulness of the work. Of
course, it would be absurd to expect that words were rendered for
words. It is simply impossible. Again: there are words which
cannot be rendered. We know the Italian language pretty well--and
why shouldn't we?--yet we have never been able to find the
Italian word corresponding with the English "home"; nor have
twenty-three years of close and earnest study of the English
language yet enabled us to find an English word corresponding
with the Italian _vagheggiare_. We say, "He was lost in the
contemplation of a picture:" the Italian will simply say,
"_Vagheggiava la pittura._" Translate, if you can, "L'amante
vagheggia la sua bella!" You can do it no more than the Italian
can render with corresponding meaning the words, "Home! sweet
home!"

In our opinion a too literal translation will not give us Dante;
it will only give his words. Although we must admit that the
meaning of the word, as it conveys the idea, must be scrupulously
rendered as well as the idiom, yet it is evident that too great
an anxiety in translating the word into that which bears the
greatest resemblance to the original may lead into a
misconception or misrepresentation of the author's idea. In an
elaborate article in the _Atlantic Monthly_, of August,
1867, the word _height_, employed by Mr. Longfellow in his
translation of Dante, (_Purgat_, xxviii. v. 106,) receives
the preference over _summit_, employed by Cary. True,
_height_ is the literal rendition for _altezza_; yet
Dante there employs _altezza_ not in its literal meaning,
which is one of measurement, but in that of a _summit_, or a
_top_. A comparison with parallel cases in the
_Commedia_ will bear us out in our remark. We must not be
understood as if we meant to prefer Cary to Longfellow. By no
means: for the former gives us Cary's Dante, whereas the latter
gives us, if we may be allowed the expression, _Dante's
Dante._ Which remark, however, must not be taken as if we were
disposed to endorse the fidelity of every line of the American
translator.
{220}
The very narrow limits to which he has confined himself often
place him under the necessity of employing words which convey not
the original's idea; while, on the other hand, often must he add
words in order to fill up his line; for example,

  "When he had said this, with _his_ eyes distorted."

That _his_ Dante never put there; why, it is a pleonasm.

While we do not like nor did ever like the freedom of Cary, nay,
have felt indignant at the liberties he has taken with the text,
we are amazed at the boldness with which Mr. Longfellow has
endeavored to master his Procrustean difficulties; but we give
preference to the work of Dr. Parsons, because his translation is
easy (_disinvolta_, the Italians would call it) and yet
faithful; it is poetical, and yet we challenge our readers to
point to any idea which is not conveyed to the English mind in
scrupulous fidelity to Dante's ideas. He sits in Alighieri's
chair, and he is at home.

Were we requested by him who knew Italian only moderately as to
the easiest method to understand and enjoy Dante, we would say:
Read the text, collating it verse for verse with Longfellow; then
read Parsons. Yet, to be candid, we hope no American scholar will
form his idea of Dante's transcendental merit on the translation
of Mr. Longfellow, who, it must be admitted, has done more
meritorious work in behalf of Dante than the one hundred thousand
and one who have written comments on him. But one feels a painful
sensation in alighting from Dante's text on Longfellow's
translation, whereas the transition from the perusal of the
original to Parsons's causes no jerking in our soul, and the
pleasure, _decies repetita_, never abates. To the Italian
scholar Mr. Longfellow's translation will never prove
satisfactory.

Lest our readers should think that we are _blind_ admirers
of Dr. Parsons, we will conclude this part of our paper with the
remark that we wish different words were in a few occasions
employed by him. Thus, for instance, the word, "in blackest
letters," (_Inf_. c. iii, v. 10,) do not convey the full
meaning of Dante's "parole di colore oscuro." Of course the
doctor can easily defend his rendition (and we know he long
pondered on the suitableness of the word) with the obvious remark
that a _scoundrel_ may be _black_ without being an
Abyssinian, hence his "blackest letters" must be taken in a moral
sense; yet it requires an after-thought to understand it, whereas
the word "oscuro" at once hints at something black in itself and
dreadful in its forebodings. But what English word will convey
the idea?

Our article, incomplete as it is, would yet appear more deficient
were we not to give our readers a general idea of what the
_Divina Commedia_ is, what it proposes to convey to the
reader's mind. Were we to form an idea of the nature of this poem
from what has been written about it, we should call it _a
saddle_. For there is no system, theological, philosophical,
or political, the supporters whereof have not taken their proofs
from Dante. According to some, Dante was a Catholic devotee;
while others, especially in these our days, will represent him as
the most determined and conscientious foe of everything Catholic,
_et sic de ceteris_.

{221}

In the language of an accurate modern Italian scholar, "Dante
lifted the Italian language from its cradle, and laid it on a
throne: in spite of the rudeness of the times not yet freed from
barbarism, he dared to conceive a poem, in which he embodied
whatever there was most abstruse in philosophical and theological
doctrines; in his three canticles he massed whatever was known in
the scientific world; after the example of Homer and Virgil, he
knew how to select a national subject which would interest all
Italy, nay, all whose hearts were warmed by the warmth of
Catholic faith; in a word, he became the mark either of decay or
of prosperity in the Italian literature, which was always
enhanced according as his divine poem was studied and
appreciated, or laid aside and neglected." [Footnote 105]

    [Footnote 105: Cav. G. Maffei,
    _Storia Lit. Ital._ I. iii.]

Dante was born in Florence, in March, 1265, and died in Ravenna
an exile in 1321, September 14. His father's name was Alighiero
degli Alighieri. His education was as perfect as the times could
afford in science, belles-lettres, and arts. When only nine years
old he became acquainted with Beatrice di Folco Portinari, a
young damsel of eight summers, but endowed with great gifts of
soul and body, and her praises he sang in prose and verse, and to
her he allotted a distinguished place in paradise. Dante served
his country faithfully both in the councils of peace and under
the panoply of war. When only thirty-five years old, he attained
the highest dignity in the gift of his countrymen. On the
occupation of Florence by Charles of Valois, whose pretensions he
had opposed and so far thwarted, Dante was banished from
Florence, (Jan. 27, 1302.) At the time, he was in Rome
endeavoring to interest Pope Boniface VIII. in behalf of his dear
Florence. Dante never saw his native place again, but after
nineteen years of exile and poverty he died highly honored and
very tenderly cared for by the Polentas, the masters of Ravenna.

Dante was the author of many excellent works; but to the
_Divina Commedia_he owes that fame by which he stands of all
the Italians _facile princeps_. At first, it was his
intention to write his poem in Latin verse; but seeing that that
language was not understood by all, and many even among the
educated laity could not read it, and just then the great
transformation of the new language taking place he wisely
conceived the plan of gathering all the words which were then
used from the Alps to the sea, and exhibited a uniformity of
sound and formation, and thus to write a poem that might be
called national, and at the same time be a bond that would unite
all the Italian hearts. This may be looked upon as the political
or patriotic aim of his work. A moral end had he then in view:
thus, laying down as the principle of common destiny that man was
created for the double end of enjoying an imperishable happiness
hereafter, to be attained by securing a happiness in this world,
which should arise from attending to the pursuits of virtue, in
_Paradise_ he described the former, which cannot be attained
without a soul entirely detached from the affections of this
earth, a process of schooling one's self and purification so well
represented by what he imagines to have witnessed in
_Purgatory_. But as the soul needs be animated to do works
of justice by the promise of reward, as well as by the
intimidation of deadly punishment, so he depicts the horrors to
which the lost people, those who were dead to even the aspiration
of a virtuous nature, will be doomed in _Hell_.

Naturally, this triple state of the soul, lost, redeeming
herself, glorified, gave him a chance of embodying into his work
theological expositions of the duties of man, of the working of
grace, and of the economy of religion; revelation, natural
religion, and science, all in turn lend him a helping hand.
{222}
And because examples should be adduced to practically prove the
truth of his assertions, he freely quotes from the past and from
the present; and while he is perfectly alive to the importance of
placing in high relief the beautiful deeds of those who gained
glory in paradise because of their being faithful to the behests
of faith and religion in whatever concerns our relations to God,
ourselves, and our neighbors, at the same time, his heart burning
with love for his country, he will admit of no mitigation in the
Conduct Of such as he considers unfaithful to it or in the least
hostile to that Florence he loved so well.

And here we pause. We have not done justice to the subject: we
have not said all we could wish about Dante and Mr. Parsons. Yet
we hope the few remarks we have made will enkindle in the breast
of some of our readers a desire of becoming better acquainted
with the father of Italian literature, the idol of the Italian
student, the _Fiero Ghibellino_:

  "Onorate l'altissimo Poeta."

           ----------

          Aspirations.

  O dread Jehovah! who before the world
      Had being dwelt eternal and alone,
  Ere yet our planet on its path was hurled
      Through space, ere angel or archangel shone,
      Ere waves had learned to roll or winds to sweep,
      And darkness brooded on the mighty deep!

  Thy glance searched through infinity around,
      And there was none save thee; thy spirit warm
  Moved over chaos, and its vast profound
      Heaved up a thousand worlds, dark, without form.
     "Let there be light!" And, kindled at thy ray,
      Burst radiant morning teeming with the day.

  And what am I to thee? A raindrop placed
      In an o'erteeming cloud?
  A snowflake drifting o'er the northern waste
      When winds are loud?
      An atom or a nothing where sublime
      Worlds, planets piled, thy praise unceasing chime?

  Not so; for in thy living image made,
      Conscious of will, of immortality,
  In thy tremendous attributes arrayed,
      Like thee, a Lord, yielding alone to thee--
      What awful dignity! what power divine!
      A semblance of infinitude is mine.

{223}

  Yet did thy breath no less
      Create me; sprung from thy eternal fires,
  I glow; without thee, I am nothingness;
      Thy wisdom guides me and thy love inspires.
     "Give me thy heart"--O strange benignity!
      What is a mortal's heart, O God! to thee?

  My bursting heart expands
      To meet thee, and thy presence weighs me down:
  He who contains the heavens within his hands,
      Annihilating systems with his frown,
      Comes clad in garments of mortality
      To dwell on this dim, shadowy earth with me.

  For what shall I exchange thee? For the shine
      Of worldly pomp and pageantry and power?
  This spark, within eternal and divine,
      Spurns the false baubles of a fleeting hour.
      Thou art all glory, power, infinity--
      Thou _art_; what can I want, possessing thee?

  Thou shalt unchanged behold
      The starry host, quenched like a firebrand, die;
  The firmament is as a vesture rolled
      Around thee--as a vesture 'tis cast by.
      A thousand years are nothing in thy sight--
      Or as a watch that passes in the night.

  And when this earth shall fly
      To atoms; when the mountains shall be tossed
  As chaff; when like a scroll rolls back the sky,
      And Nature and her laws for ever lost;
      When thou shalt speak in fire the dread command
      And hurl it from the hollow of thy hand--

  What hope for me? Thy promises sublime
      That o'er the wreck of worlds I shall survey,
  With eye unmoved, beyond the touch of Time,
      The stars grow dark, the melting heavens decay,
      And sit arrayed in immortality
      In peace eternal and supreme with thee.

                                   C. E. B.

                   ----------

{224}

       Shall we have a Catholic Congress?


All our readers must have read with interest the account given of
the last Catholic Congress at Malines. The importance and utility
of such assemblies are generally understood. Shall we have a
Catholic Congress? The feasibility of introducing it into the
United States can scarcely be doubted. The people here are more
accustomed to self-government than in Europe. We are thoroughly
acquainted with the management and rules of popular, deliberative
assemblies. We have learned members of the clergy, and educated
laymen, who appreciate the value of a congress, and are competent
to render its workings practical and make its deliberations
effective. The episcopacy is ever ready to aid undertakings for
the benefit of religion. There can, therefore, be no doubt of
obtaining the necessary sanction from the ecclesiastical
hierarchy for the assembling of the congress.

Who, then, will begin it? And when will it be held? Many earnest
Catholics of the country, who have seen the great benefits
derived to Belgium and France from the congresses at Malines; and
to Germany from those at Munich and elsewhere; who have witnessed
the powerful influence for propagating doctrines and
concentrating forces of the sectarian or philanthropical
assemblies which annually meet in New York or elsewhere, are
asking these questions. Our forces are scattered; a congress
would unite them. There is no centre, no unanimity, no harmony of
action among us in reference to many important matters which
might be treated of in a congress.

Let us briefly enumerate some of the objects which could be
discussed and studied in an assembly of our learned clergy and
educated laity.

FREE SUNDAY AND DAY SCHOOLS, their regulation and amelioration,
might be one of the objects. In large cities like New York,
Baltimore, Boston, and Philadelphia, where Catholics are, many of
them, wealthy and instructed, the teachers of parochial or Sunday
schools are often highly capable of conducting their
establishments. The large cities afford so many opportunities of
study and improvement that every one can learn. But in the poor
country districts, how is it? The teachers are isolated. They
need more system. There is no central point to which they may
look for light. The rural clergy in remote districts are often
suffering from want of some large and powerful organization which
could assist them in their labors, either for the improvement of
their schools, their choirs, etc., or for the counteracting of
Protestant propagandism.

The influence which has been exercised on education in Belgium by
the Catholic congresses is well known. The labors of the German
Catholic congresses is not so public. The Nineteenth General
Assembly of the Catholic associations of Germany took place at
Bamberg, in Bavaria, during the interval between the 31st of
August and the 3d of September, A.D. 1868. These German
congresses, like those of Belgium, are composed of laymen as well
as ecclesiastics. They exclude all political questions from their
sessions.
{225}
Their only aim is to sustain and support the Catholic cause. In
the three first meetings, one at Mayence, in 1848, under the
presidency of the Chevalier Buss; the other at Breslau, presided
over by M. Lieber, while the city was in a state of siege, in
1849; and in the third, held at Ratisbon in 1850, the members
organized a unity of action among the societies of St. Vincent de
Paul, established schools and reading-rooms in the interest of
Catholic literature, and watched over the religious wants of the
Germans in Paris and throughout the rest of France. The Congress
of Ratisbon, presided over by Count Joseph de Stolberg, founded
the Society of St. Boniface, which has since then realized the
sum of $700,000, and by this means established one hundred and
ten missions and one hundred and fifty schools for the poor
German Catholics living in Protestant countries.

Münster, in Westphalia, had a Congress in 1852. The president was
the Baron of Andlau. In it was discussed the method which the
Catholic associations could take to promote Christian education
and to found a Catholic university. These deliberations were
continued the following year at the Vienna Congress, where Dr.
Zell presided. In 1856, at another Congress, in which Count
O'Donnel was president, the foundation of children's asylums was
discussed. Salzburg was proposed as the seat of the Catholic
university. The Salzburg Congress, in 1857, was specially
occupied with this project, and with the means of developing the
power of the Catholic press, founding Catholic publication
societies, and giving pecuniary aid to the Catholics of the East.
At Freyburg, in 1859, the Congress, presided over by the Count de
Brandis, treated of the Catholic press and religious music. The
Thirteenth Congress at Munich, in 1861, founded the literary
review known as the _Litterarischer Handweiser_, edited by
Hulskam and Rump, at Münster.

The Congress of Aix-la-Chapelle, in the following year, took up
again the question of the establishment of a Catholic university.
A committee was appointed to found it; but the government opposed
them. This rather excited than diminished the zeal of the
persevering German Catholics. Professor Moeller, of Louvain, on
this occasion said: "_The word impossible is not
Christian._" There was not one of those congresses that did
not oppose the secularization of education; not one of them that
did not materially and morally aid the cause of Christian
doctrine.

In these German congresses we have a good model to imitate.
Isolated attempts to obtain public support for our own schools
will rarely if ever succeed. There must be union; a union of the
Catholic brain, intelligence, and wealth, not only in one state,
but all over the country.

Our CATHOLIC REFORMATORIES is another object worthy the attention
of a Catholic congress. No one can exaggerate the importance of
these institutions. That of New York, supported and maintained by
our good and zealous archbishop, has produced incalculable
benefits in our city already. A Catholic congress would
strengthen the hands of our zealous prelate; would increase the
efficiency of the institution; would encourage the Catholics of
other cities, where they are not already established, to found
similar establishments for the orphaned or homeless children who
swarm in our country. How many of the poor sons and daughters of
our Catholic emigrants are lost for ever to faith and virtue in
our cities!
{226}
Will not their blood cry out on the last day against their
fellow-Christians, who have the wealth and the intelligence, but
not the zeal, to save them from a life of crime and ignominy?

The ST. VINCENT DE PAUL SOCIETIES could also profit by union of
action among the different conferences throughout the country. In
the South, especially, the war has multiplied widows and orphans.
The poor there have not the same advantages as in the North. Some
of the dioceses were poor before the war. They are now all very
poor. The bishops and priests are trying to build up what the
sword or the cannon destroyed. It is true there are regular
assemblies of the different conferences; but they need a stronger
impulse from without to make them flourish as they should and as
they are needed.

Then there is the question of RELIGIOUS MUSIC, [Footnote 106]
which none of the European congresses ever omit in their
deliberations.

    [Footnote 106: Professor Jacovacci, of the Propaganda
    College, in a recent circular to the bishops, urges this
    point on the next General Council.]

We are not disposed to find fault; but every one knows that the
music of our churches is frequently anything but rubrical or
ecclesiastical. We are in favor of the best music; the very best,
whether it be figured or plain chant; but let it be at least
CHURCH music, not rehashed operas. We know that many of the
pastors are unable to procure singers who are competent to render
Catholic music as it should be in our churches. We need a
Catholic training-school of music. A Catholic conservatory might
easily be formed in New York. It is no exaggeration to say that
the best of the foreign musicians in the United States are
Catholics, whether they be remarkable for their skill with
instruments or for the culture of their voices. There is besides
much native talent, which only needs the opportunity to become
distinguished. Let there be founded a national Catholic
conservatory of music, with prizes and exhibitions; let the
members of it see that their efforts will be even pecuniarily and
profitably remunerated, and we venture to predict that in a short
time America will stand as high as her European sisters in
religious music. Toward the close of the last Malines Congress, a
multitude of Belgian Catholic amateurs gave an oratorio on the
_Last Judgment_, which was magnificent. A Catholic
conservatory of music in New York could give similar
entertainments, as an appropriate termination to our Catholic
congresses, and be able thereby to pay all its expenses, and have
even much left with which to remunerate its members.

LIBRARIES, READING-ROOMS, and the PRESS could also be discussed.
Nothing will do more good in a community than a supply of good
reading matter. We have already discussed the method of founding
family and Sunday-school libraries in the pages of this magazine.
A Catholic congress would encourage those who wished to found
them; would bring out the energies of many of the laity and
clergy who only seek a good opportunity to display them. In this
respect we might learn a lesson from many of the Protestant
sects. Whatever we may think of the real zeal of Protestants,
however much we may condemn their external show of piety, their
confounding Christian charity with philanthropism, we must admire
the energy which they manifest in the cause of education. No
church of theirs but has its Bible class, its well-organized
Sunday-school, its Sunday-school library, its young men's
association, reading-room, and newspaper.
{227}
No doubt these are but the accidentals of Christianity; but they
help very much in propagating or sustaining the essentials.

It is certain that our CATHOLIC PRESS does not receive all the
support which it deserves. We have Catholic newspapers, which
could be rendered much more useful and efficient were they better
patronized; and as for our magazine, our readers must judge
whether we do not endeavor our utmost to satisfy their
intellectual wants. In Europe, every petty, poor Catholic
community is willing to support a journal. We often find many
reviews flourishing in countries far less wealthy and populous
than our own. Ought not the five millions of Catholics of the
United States to give THE CATHOLIC WORLD a subscription list of
at least fifty thousand? And if they do not, what is the reason?
Is it because they are poor? No, but because there is no central
point from which the current of electricity can be sent leaping
through the brain and heart of our population. Let us have a
congress for these purposes also.

Then there is the project of a CATHOLIC UNIVERSITY. Every day we
read of wealthy gentlemen leaving donations of thousands of
dollars to educational establishments belonging to the state or
to religious denominations other than Catholic. In Europe this is
also a common custom. We have read of Mr. Peabody's donation to
Yale College. Girard, an infidel, founded the institution in
Philadelphia which bears his name. Our Catholic millionaires of
New York and other cities, we are sure, only need to be asked to
show their generosity in the founding of a Catholic university.
Several of the petty German states have theirs. Even impoverished
Ireland has had the courage to originate one. Will not rich
America follow her example? What is wanting? Not the money; not
the patronage; not the ability to conduct it; but simply that
there is no united, powerful body of Catholics to undertake it.
Give us a congress, and we can have this union; a congress of the
brain, good sense, and faith of the American church.

Are we to have a school of CATHOLIC ARTISTS in this country?
Shall we do anything to promote the Catholic arts of painting,
sculpture, and architecture? What style of church ornament shall
we keep? Shall we cultivate the taste of our clergy in these
matters? After what fashion shall our churches be built? Will we
make no effort to unite the Catholic architects and artists of
the country to consult, compare their experiences, and improve
their taste and talent by mutual contact? They individually
desire to be brought together. There is no true artist who does
not wish for an opportunity to be appreciated; and where can so
just an appreciation of an artist's work be had as in a Catholic
congress of American Catholic talent which would influence even
the remotest parts of our vast country?

Our priests all feel the want more or less of a central point to
which they can look with safety for _proper vestments, altar
furniture_, and _altar wine_, It may be suspected without
rashness that many of the merchants who sell wines for the altar
are not always reliable. In many cases the wine is adulterated.
In such a state of uncertainty, would it not be well to have a
"Bureau of Safety" established? Would it not be well to have some
authorized and reliable agents who could transport to this
country, cheaply and safely, some of the treasures of
Europe--vestments, chalices, pictures, and the like--instead of
obliging every priest to depend on his own individual knowledge,
or leave him at the mercy of some purely mercantile monopoly?
{228}
If there were a Catholic congress, all this state of disorder
could be remedied, if not in one year, at least in two or three.
There are zealous Catholics enough in the country to devote a
portion of their time to the general interests of religion.

The condition of CATHOLIC PRISONERS in jails or penitentiaries
could form not the least important object of a Catholic assembly.
There are many unfortunate members of our church in the prisons
on the neighboring islands of New York who are in the best
dispositions to profit by spiritual consolation, yet they have no
books, save the few which the devoted chaplain may give them when
charity affords him the necessary funds. The prisoners in more
remote districts are worse off. Does it not stir up the fire of
zeal in the heart of a Catholic to know that he can save a soul,
reclaim the vicious, and give consolation to a poor wretch who
may have unfortunately forgotten the sanctity prescribed by his
religion? Would not a supply of good books be a godsend to
Catholic prisoners? Would it not tend to reform them, to beguile
their weary hours, and sanctify them? Now, a Catholic congress
could establish a permanent committee, to see that the prisons of
the country were supplied with Catholic literature. If we want to
convert the United States, we must be in earnest about our work.
We must take every method that our means will enable us to use
and our piety suggest. Let Catholic doctrines percolate through
the veins of society not only by preaching in our churches, but
by spreading Catholic tracts, Catholic newspapers, Catholic books
in the city, in the country, in the work-house, even in the jail
and penitentiary. Let our religion be like its Founder, "going
about everywhere doing good:" "_pertransiit benefaciendo._"

Although centralization, in a political point of view, when
carried to excess, is injurious to liberty, too much
individualism is equally pernicious, for it entails too much
responsibility. A Catholic congress would not destroy individual
zeal, but only concentrate it. A Catholic congress could coerce
no man's will. It would only be an index to show men what they
could do; to ask them to be unanimous and to pull together.

The details of the congress could be arranged at its meeting. The
constitution and by-laws of the Malines congresses, or of those
which succeeded so admirably in Germany, could be adopted with
slight modifications. The approbation of the Holy Father would be
given to it as to those in Europe. Our venerable archbishops and
bishops would sanction it. The prelate in whose diocese it would
assemble might preside at its deliberations or appoint a
substitute. Committees would be appointed, some permanent, others
transitory.

In the interest of the laity, then, we ask for a Catholic
congress. We ask for it in the interest of the clergy also, who
are anxious to keep up their own tone of respectability, and at
the same time influence by unanimity the great work of the
conversion of the whole United States to Catholicity.

                   ----------

{229}

        Translated From Le Correspondant.

    The Present Disputes in Philosophy and Science.

  By Dr. Chauffaid, of The Imperial Academy Of Medicine.


                    I.

Philosophy or rather philosophical discussions are being renewed.
On the one hand, materialism rages like a tempest over the
regions of science; menacing our scientific, intellectual, and
moral past and future with destruction. On the other side, we
behold noble efforts, beautiful works, and eloquent
protestations, on the part of reason and liberty, in favor of the
dignity of human nature against the debasing tenets of
positivism. We know what shall be the result of this struggle.
Materialistic doctrines and hypotheses can never conquer the best
aspirations and real glory of humanity. But if final triumph is
certain, when will it take place? Immediately, or only after a
passing victory of the great philosophical error of the day? This
is a serious question; for a temporary victory by materialism
would be a fatal sign of our time, and humiliate our race beyond
anything that can be imagined. The philosophical discussions,
therefore, which have been raised around us are not a mere
useless noise; but they are the most important subject for our
consideration, bearing with them great destinies--those of
science, and perhaps of national life.

To appreciate the true character of the materialistic movement
which is stirring every layer of society, and whose action the
learned and the ignorant equally feel, we must examine all the
remote and proximate, latent and manifest, causes which influence
the currents, the ebb and flow of materialism. It would be well
to determine how actual materialism has its exclusive origin and
its new sources in the bowels of modern science; what new support
it has met with in recent scientific discoveries, and what are
the value and bearing of those discoveries.

In beholding the tumult which the partisans of the experimental
method in philosophy create, the enthusiasm which they show, and
the passionate defence of their theory, one would suppose they
had made a new conquest of the human mind, and made some
astounding discovery. Yet we know what the exact value of the
experimental method is. Why, then, so much nervous excitement
over it? Yet the excitement is probably only artificial; still it
has an aim. The experimental method is clamorously extolled for
the purpose of covering with its authority sophisms destructive
of all philosophy and of all science. This method is a great flag
under which all causes that are not science are sheltered. M.
Caro, in his excellent book, _Materialism and Science_, has
endeavored to dispel all confusion on this subject, and to
re-establish facts and the truth. Positivism--which must not be
confounded with positive science--tries to unite its destiny with
that of the experimental method; calling itself the necessary
fruit of the latter, the systematized result of a method which
subjects all visible nature to man. Positivism concludes from the
premises that it has the same certainty as the experimental
method.

{230}

M. Caro, with a strong hand, upsets all such pretensions. He
demonstrates that, if positivism has skilfully stolen the name
and some of the processes of positive science, the experimental
school, to which the positive sciences owe so much, owes nothing
to positivism. Taking for guide, in the study of the experimental
method, one of the _savants_ who understands it best, and
who, after practising it successfully, has exposed its precepts
with incomparable authority, M. Caro proves that this method is
not bound by the tyranny of positivism. "Nothing is less evident
to my eyes," he writes, "than the agreement of M. Cl. Bernard's
manner of thinking with certain essential principles of
positivism. His independence is clearly manifested especially in
regard to two points: Firstly, in opposition to the spirit of the
positive doctrine, he gives place to the idea _a priori_ in
the constitution of science. Secondly, contrary to one of the
most decided dogmas of the positivist school, he leaves a great
many open questions, and thus allows his readers to revert to
metaphysical conceptions for their solution."

In the thought of M. Cl. Bernard, the _a priori_ element
loses all absolute sense and becomes a purely relative and
accidental fact. It has no longer any of those eternal forms of
the understanding, of those necessary conceptions through the aid
of which the human mind sees and judges the things of nature,
contingent facts, and phenomena which happen before our eyes. It
is not that power, obscure yet admirable reflection of the divine
power, which enables us to apprehend the immutable relations of
things, and establishes science by compelling us, by an
irresistible attraction, to seek in their cause the reason of
phenomena. No; M. Cl. Bernard does not rise directly to that
alliance of the infinite and finite, of cause and effect, which
takes place in the active depths of the human mind. To this great
experimentalist the idea _a priori_ is revealed only in face
of experience; it is an instinct, a sudden illumination which
strikes and seizes the mind, when the senses act and perceive, as
impassible and mute witnesses. "Its apparition is entirely
spontaneous and individual. It is a particular sentiment, a
_quid proprium_, which constitutes the originality, the
invention, and genius of every man. It happens that a fact--that
an observation--remains for a long time before the eyes of a
_savant_ without inspiring him with anything, when suddenly
a ray of light flashes on him. The new idea appears then with the
rapidity of lightning, as a sort of sudden revelation." This
flash, this ray of light, is well known to medical tradition, and
often called tact, sense, and medical skill. These expressions
will exist notwithstanding the denials of a narrow science, which
thinks to ennoble itself by suppressing art. There are physicians
who, in face of the obscure manifestations of a disease,
perceive, with a rapid and sure intuition, the hidden relations
of the malady, its nature buried in the living depths of the
organization, its future tendencies and probable solutions. This
intuition has nothing mysterious in it, and is not the play of a
capricious fancy; it is the flash of light, the new idea, the
sudden revelation, of which M. Cl. Bernard, the learned
_savant_ and most severe of experimentalists, writes. This,
then, is what M. Cl. Bernard calls the idea _a priori;_
certainly he does not pretend nor think that he is writing
metaphysics.
{231}
Nevertheless, when we attentively consider it, is not this idea
_a priori_ a species of prolongation or consequence of the
necessary ideas, the true ideas _a priori_, of the human
mind? Is not the idea _a priori_ a perception of a cause
through its effects; at one time the perception of a contingent
and particular cause; and again the perception of a cause in
itself--of the supreme, necessary, and infinite cause? Does not
M. Cl. Bernard himself seem to admit metaphysical conceptions,
when, after considering the spontaneity of the intellect under a
general aspect, he writes as follows, "It may be said that we
have in the mind the intuition or sentiment of the laws of
nature, but we do not know their form"?

The experimental school has not, however, determined this point
of doctrine; it has so confusedly felt and expressed it that the
positivist school could not avoid refuting those rather vague
aspirations, and admit, without denying its own principles, those
soarings of the understanding in presence of facts. But the
experimental school, of which M. Cl. Bernard is the interpreter,
puts itself in opposition to positivism. He allows those high
truths which cannot be demonstrated by sensible phenomena to have
some place in science. He tells us that true science suppresses
nothing, but always seeks and considers, without being troubled,
those things which it does not understand. "Deny those things,"
says M. Cl. Bernard, "and you do not suppress them; you shut your
eyes and imagine that there is no light." Positivism could not be
more formally condemned by positive science.

Will it be pretended that, although the experimental school
accepts the order of metaphysical truths, it rejects, them
disdainfully when there is question of the natural sciences; and
that thus rejected by science they cannot be counted among the
serious knowledge of humanity? Nothing could be more unjust than
such a condemnation; for nothing proves that there is not another
knowledge besides that of experience. M. Cl. Bernard discovers,
even in the order of biological truths, capital truths which are
not at all experimental, susceptible of a _real
determinism_, to use the expression of which he is so fond.
When he tries to define life by using a word which expresses
exactly the idea, he calls it _creation_. In every living
germ he admits a _creating idea_, which is developed by
organization, and is derived neither from chemistry nor physical
nature. In fine, the experimental school, such as tradition
presents it to us and its ablest expounders teach it, must not be
confounded with _positivism_, which tries to steal its name
and flag.

The experimental school, healthy and fruitful, gives to
metaphysical truths their legitimate influence, their superior
and imperishable sight, and does not suppress them by a violent
and arbitrary decision. Especially, it does not resolve
difficulties by denying all other causes and activity than what
is purely material. The experimental school is not fatally
materialism.

Materialism is the legitimate consequence of positivism. The
positivist sect, at the beginning of its career, pretended to
take hold of materialism with a superb indifference and dogmatic
insolence, in presence of those eternal problems which, to the
honor of humanity, have always puzzled and tormented it. But it
is easy to show that most of the definitions and teaching of
positivist philosophy correspond with the materialist dogmas,
from which positivism pretended to hold itself aloof.
{232}
How could it be otherwise? Those supreme questions and their
answers are not isolated facts, distinct from our particular
knowledge, regarding the things of this world. They penetrate
necessarily into all our cognitions; become incarnate and visible
under the form of all the particular existences which we analyze.
We cannot give the character of one of those existences, without
this definite character implying a corresponding solution of the
primary truths, which were supposed to be entirely forgotten. All
the special science of positivism is identical with materialistic
interpretation; and one would have wished that the human mind had
not tried to ascend from these special sciences to general and
primary science and explain it like them. Was this possible? No;
and hence illusion is no longer possible. Positivism has
logically terminated in materialism.

To demonstrate this inevitable fusion, M. Caro examines one of
the absolute precepts of positivism, namely, the subjection of
psychology to cerebral physiology. He proves that this subjection
is only an indirect method of resolving both psychology and
cerebral physiology by materialism. Stuart Mill has been rejected
by the positivists for not having followed the founder of the
positivist school, resumed in the principle that there is no
psychology outside of biology. "Psychology, we are told," writes
M. Caro, "is identical with biology; faculties, consciousness
which observes them, attention which analyzes them, and, thanks
to memory, classes them; all these are in the dependence of the
organs on each other. This dependence is called by a very
expressive word: the affective and intellectual faculties become,
in positivist language, the _cerebral faculties_. The rest
follows. We are assured that there is identity between those two
relations: the intellectual and moral manifestations are to the
nervous substance what weight is to matter, that is to say, an
irreducible phenomenon, which in the actual state of our
knowledge is its own explanation. 'Just as the physician observes
that matter is heavy, so the physiologist proves that the nervous
substance thinks, without either of them being able to explain
why the one is heavy and the other thinks.'" [Footnote 107]

    [Footnote 107: M. Littré, préface au livre intitulé
    _Matérialisme et Spiritualisme_.]

"Let it be so," continues M. Caro; "yet which of the materialists
has ever pretended to explain why the nervous substance thinks?
They merely attest the existence of the fact. The real question
is to know if it is the nervous substance which thinks, and if it
can think. To affirm that it thinks is to close the question. I
take as witness M. Moleschott, whose teaching is not doubtful,
and which has been published with applause. What does he say in a
discourse recently delivered at Zurich? 'The identification of
spirit and matter is not an explanation; it is a fact, neither
more nor less simple, more nor less mysterious, than any other
fact; it is a fact like weight. No one assuredly pretends to
explain gravitation by means of distinctions between it and
matter.' Is there, I ask, an appreciable difference on this
question between the language of the present chief of the
positivists and that of the most decided positivists?"

A journal, devoted to the defence and propagation of scientific
materialism, _La Pensée Nouvelle_, proclaimed the same
doctrine: "The positivist school is a sect which proceeds from
materialism; it has no value or aim except through materialism."

{233}

                   II.

Materialism absorbs, therefore, the positivist school. It tries
to resolve the important questions regarding the origin and end
of man. It does not proscribe metaphysics on the pretence that it
wishes to know the eternal unknown, and approach the
inaccessible. It admits neither unknown nor inaccessible. It
substitutes for the primary causes of metaphysics, considered as
pure chimeras, other causes the reality of which it pretends to
prove. This is a bold but frank attitude, and preferable in every
respect to the constrained position of positivism.

How has materialism tried to solve the questions it proposes? It
cannot appeal to pure reason or to the revealing faculties of the
human understanding, affirming or denying God as primary cause of
existences, and the soul as secondary cause of the human person.
Where would be the authority of materialism if its process of
demonstration, if its methods were not separated from the process
and methods of traditional spiritualism? The latter cannot be
conquered on its own ground; it would always find there the
height of its moral inspirations, and the power of its
demonstrations. Materialism has felt this, and pretends to
repudiate both the methods and the doctrines of the old
metaphysics. Instead of asking the understanding for imaginary
means of demonstration, it proclaims its adherence to infallible
experience, its belief in the senses alone, and the analysis of
sensations. Just like positivism, it calls itself the immediate
production of the experimental method, and attributes to itself
the certitude which belongs to the positive and experimental
sciences. The old doubt should thus be dissipated, and man would
enjoy the full brightness of this universe, whose secrets would
no longer be redoubtable, and whose eternal and necessary laws
would be opposed to all idea of a higher origin, and government
regulated by any exterior will.

But let us leave aside for a moment the examination of those sad
illusions and past solutions and the part which experience has in
them. Let us consider at first, from the stand-point of method
alone, those problems of origin which materialism pretends to
resolve. How are those problems capable of being solved by the
experimental method? Such is the true question, and it is this
one the study of which completes the beautiful book of M. Caro.
"We shall not be opposed," says the eloquent author of the
_Idée de Dieu_, "by any unprejudiced _savant_, when we
assert that, in the actual state of science, no positivist dogma
authorizes conclusions like those of materialism on the problem
of the origin and ends of beings, on that of substances and
causes; that to give exact knowledge on these points is contrary
to the idea of experimental science; that this science gives us
the actual, the present, the fact, not the beginning of things;
at most, the immediate _how_, the proximate conditions of
beings, and never their remote causes; finally, that from the
moment materialism becomes an express and doctrinal negation of
metaphysics, it becomes itself another metaphysics; it falls
immediately under the control of pure reason, which may be freely
used to criticise its hypotheses, as it uses them itself to
establish them and bind them together."

This _a priori_ dogmatism imposes itself as a necessity on
materialism, and destroys the experimental character which it
loves.
{234}
The learned, devoted to the worship of positive science, are
obliged to admit this, and M. Caro cites, on this point, the
precious admission of an illustrious _savant_, M. Virchow,
whom the materialists claim as one of themselves. "No one, after
all," says M. Virchow, "knows what was before what is. ...
Science has nothing but the world which exists. ... Materialism
is a tendency to explain all that exists, or has been created, by
the properties of matter. Materialism goes beyond experience; it
makes itself a system. But systems are more the result of
speculation than of experience. They prove in us a certain want
of perfection which speculation alone can satisfy; for all
knowledge which is the result of experience is incomplete and
defective."

It is not a metaphysician who speaks thus; it is a _savant_,
who, in Germany, ranks at the head of experimental biology, who
leans to materialism, and admits, nevertheless, that materialism
has no other root than an undemonstrable _a priori_;
consequently M. Caro has the right with ironical good sense to
draw these conclusions: "Until materialism leaves that vicious
circle which logic traces around its fundamental conception;
until it succeeds in proving experimentally that that which is
has always been as it is in the actual form of the recognized
order of phenomena; so long as it cannot strip those questions of
their essentially transcendental character, and subject its
negative solutions to a verification of which the idea alone is
contradictory; until then--and we have good reason to think that
period far distant--materialism will keep the common condition of
every demonstration that cannot be verified. It may reason, after
a fashion, on the impossibility of conceiving a beginning to the
system of things, to the existence of matter and its properties,
but it will prove nothing experimentally, which is, according to
its principles, the only way of proving anything; it will
speculate, which is very humiliating for those who despise
speculation; it will recommence a system of metaphysics, which is
the greatest disgrace for those who profess to despise
metaphysics. We are continually reproached with the _a
priori_ character of our solutions concerning first causes.
Materialism must necessarily accept its share of the blame, no
matter how full it may be of illusions regarding its scientific
bearing and value, no matter how intoxicated with the conquest of
positive science with which it essays in vain to identify its
fortune and right."

We have just seen, with M. Caro, whether materialism can call
itself the faithful representation and direct product of the
experimental method. M. Janet, in one of those little volumes,
_Le Matérialisme Contemporain_, destined to a happy
popularity, and in which high reason and good science are made
clear and simple to convince better, shows us what is the value
of the solutions proposed, even nowadays, by materialism. The two
works of MM. Caro and Janet thus complete each other: the one
discusses the question of methods, and judges materialism in face
of its own work, and systematic development; the other asks it,
after its labors, whither the method it has used has led it, and
interrogates it on those questions of origin and end which it
treats and so boldly resolves.

{235}

                   III.

Materialism has two grand problems to solve: matter and life. No
one would hesitate to say that the first of these is within its
scope, and the solution easy for it. What should be better able
to teach us what matter is than a system which recognizes nothing
but matter? Has matter in itself the reason of its existence, the
reason especially of the motion which impels and moves it, causes
all its changes, and what seems now to be the only origin of all
its properties and of all its manifestations? M. Janet, in a
chapter particularly original, _La Matière et le Mouvement_,
demonstrates that matter cannot present the conditions of
absolute existence which are necessary to it if we admit nothing
above it. Materialism, instead of arriving at a substantial and
freed matter, has nothing ever before it but an intangible
unknown. To find nothing for basis of its affirmations but the
unknown, and pretend on this basis to build a philosophical
belief, seat the destinies of humanity on the unknown, is an
outrage on reason and good sense. What a chimerical enterprise!
"What would signify, I ask," writes M. Janet, "the pretensions of
materialism in a system in which one would be obliged to confess
that matter is reduced to a principle absolutely unknown? Is it
not the same to say that matter is the principle of all things,
in this hypothesis; and to assert that _x_, that is, any
unknown quantity, is the principle of all things? It would be as
if one should say, 'I do not know what is the principle of
things.' What a luminous materialism this is!" But let us leave
pure matter aside; although it touches and bounds us on every
side, it does not seem to contain the peculiar secret of our
origins and destinies. Let us go further and interrogate
materialism regarding life and living beings, among which we are
counted, and the study of which penetrates so deeply into our own
life.

Materialism pretends to explain the mysterious origin and first
appearance of life; and imagines that it can establish by
experience the conditions and cause of the formation of simple
and rudimentary organizations. The theory of spontaneous
generation answers these experimental conditions, and is the
proximate and sufficient cause of the existence of life. Having
obtained those primary organic forms, materialism explains the
immense multiplicity of living species by the gradual
transformation of the rudimentary organic forms, produced by
spontaneous generation; a transformation effected by natural
conditions. Spontaneous generation is consequently a primary
thesis of materialism.

"We see," says Lucretius, "living worms come out of fetid matter
when, having been moistened by the rain, it has reached a
sufficient degree of putrefaction. The elements put in motion and
into new relations produce animals." The whole theory and all the
errors of spontaneous generation are contained in these phrases.

The progress of the natural sciences gradually extinguished the
belief in spontaneous generation. In proportion as science
studied this pretended generation it disappeared, and ancestral
generation became evident. M. Pouchet has reawakened the
discussion of the question by transporting it into the study of
those lives of only an instant in duration, which the immense
multitude of animalcula presents. Those lives, still so little
known and so hard to observe in their rapid evolution, offered a
favorable field for confusion, premature assertion, and arbitrary
systems. To affirm their spontaneous generation, or demonstrate
their generation by germs detached from infinitely small
organizations in their complete development, was a task equally
obscure and apparently impenetrable to experimentation.
{236}
The one theory was opposed to all the known laws of life, while
the other was in conformity with those laws. It seemed,
therefore, that unless demonstrated by all the force of evidence,
the spontaneous generation of animalcula should find no
legitimate place in science. But not only was evidence always
wanting, but thanks to the wonderful ability displayed by M.
Pasteur; thanks to the beauty, precision, clearness, and variety
of the experiments performed by him; thanks to the penetrating
sagacity with which he has exposed the defects of the contrary
experiments of M. Pouchet and M. Jolly, all the evidence is in
favor of ancestral generation; and the Academy of Science, so
prudent and ordinarily so reserved in its judgments, has not
hesitated to pronounce openly in this sense. Let us hear the
eminent M. Cl. Bernard, judging spontaneous generation; even that
which, not daring to maintain the complete generation of the
being, sought refuge in the spontaneous generation of the ovulum
or germ, which being evolved produced the entire being:

"That generation," says M. Cl. Bernard, "which governs the
organic creation of living beings has been justly regarded as the
most mysterious function of physiology. It has been always
observed that there is a filiation among living beings, and that
the greatest number of them proceed visibly from parents.
Nevertheless there are cases in which this filiation has not been
apparent, and then some have admitted _spontaneous
generation_, that is, production without parentage. This
question, already very old, has been investigated in recent times
and subjected to new study. In France, many _savants_ have
rejected the theory of spontaneous generation, particularly M.
Pouchet, who defended the theory of spontaneous ovulation. M.
Pouchet wished to prove that there was no spontaneous generation
of the adult being, but of its egg or germ. This view seems to me
altogether inadmissible even as a hypothesis. I consider, in
fact, that the egg represents a sort of organic formula, which
resumes the evolutive conditions of a being determined by the
fact that it proceeds from the egg. The egg is egg only because
it possesses a virtuality which has been given to it by one or
several anterior evolutions, the remembrance of which it in some
sort preserves. It is this original direction, which is only a
parentage more or less remote, which I regard as being incapable
of spontaneous manifestation. We must have necessarily a
hereditary influence. I cannot conceive that a cell formed
spontaneously and without ancestry can have an evolution, since
it has had no prior state. Whatever may be thought of the
hypothesis, the experiment on which the proofs of spontaneous
generation rested were for the most part defective. M. Pasteur
has the merit of having cleared up the problem of spontaneous
generation, by reducing the experiments to their just value and
arranging them according to science. He has proved that the air
was the vehicle of a multitude of germs of living beings, and he
has shown that it was necessary before all to reduce the argument
to precise and well-formed observations.

"In order to express my thought on the subject of spontaneous
generation, I have only to repeat here what I have already said
in a report which I have had to make on this question; that is to
say, that in proportion as our means of investigation become more
perfect, it will be found that the cases of supposed spontaneous
generation must be necessarily classed with the cases of ordinary
physiological generation. This is what the works of M. Balbiani
and of MM. Coste and Gerbe have recently proved in reference to
the infusory animalcula."

{237}

These latter works, especially those of M. Balbiani, [Footnote
108] completely overturn the basis of the doctrine of spontaneous
generation. Those infusory animalcula which were supposed to be
produced by a silent self-formation are really produced by sexual
generation, and those germs floating in the atmosphere are real
eggs, the laying of which M. Balbiani discovered.

    [Footnote 108: Balbiani "Sur l'Existence d'une
    Reproduction sexuelle chez les Infusoires."]

Nevertheless, spontaneous generation has still some decided
partisans. Some, like Messrs. Pouchet and Jolly, still believe
the theory as _savants_. The observations which they trusted
in affirming spontaneous generation or ovulation still preserve
their value for them. It is not easy to give up one's ideas and
works. The children of our mind are often dearer to us than the
offspring of our blood. It requires a species of heroism for a
_savant_ to immolate what he has conceived with labor,
protected and defended against all assailers. But besides these
illusions and attachments which may be respected, interested
passion arose and transformed into aggression and violent quarrel
the peaceful discussions of science. _The Origin of Life_,
[Footnote 109] such is the title of a recent publication on
spontaneous generation; such is the problem which those who
nowadays maintain a cause scientifically lost pretend to resolve.

    [Footnote 109: L'Origine de la Vie: Histoire de la Question
    des Générations spontanées. Par le docteur George Pennetier,
    avec une préface par le docteur Pouchet.]

The origin of life! Observe the general meaning of the terms;
there is question of life in itself, of the essence of all living
beings. Human life is a particular case of this general problem;
the solution of both is the same. Behind the animalcula and their
spontaneous apparition is man. The higher origin, the high
aspirations, the predestined end of which man thought he had the
right to feel proud--all these vanish like vain dreams and puffs
of pride in presence of the origin of primary life through the
energy of matter alone. It alone is the true creator, the only
cause, and it alone contains our end; beyond it there is nothing;
science shows it, at least that science which places spontaneous
generation at the top of its conceptions. The importance of the
consequences explains the reason why the partisans of materialism
have been so ardent in defence of their principles. If a simple
problem of chemistry had no more proofs in its favor than the
theory of spontaneous generation, no _savant_ worthy of the
name would have maintained it or founded on so fragile a basis a
multitude of scientific deductions. But there was question of the
order and constitution of the world, of the reason, of the being
of every creature, and hence the proofs seemed good and
sufficient to a materialism which calls itself scientific and
experimental. An aggressive polemic represented even as enemies
of progress, as retrograde spirits, all those who rejected errors
to which too easy a popularity had been given.

{238}

                   IV.

Spontaneous generation gave materialism a point of departure at
once rash and weak; bold if one looked behind, almost miserable
if one looked ahead! What efforts to draw out of some rudimentary
animalcula the regular development of the whole animal kingdom,
man included--that being who thinks and wills, who is conscious
of its acts and liberty, who possesses the notion of good and
evil, who aspires after the true and the beautiful, who feels
himself as cause and admits other causes in nature! How can the
abyss which separates those two extremities of living creation be
bridged? What omnipotence will be able to produce from these
infusoria the prodigious number, the infinite variety of those
animated beings, all those living species which, no matter how
profoundly or how far the world may be investigated, are almost
like each other, as it were immutable in their precipitate
succession, stationary even in motion!

The same science which affirmed spontaneous generation has not
balked before this enterprise, and it has pretended to prove the
hidden mechanism which, from the egg spontaneously laid, produces
the fearful immensity of animate forms! There have been found
naturalists, eminent _savants_ in other respects and
possessing great authority, like Lamarck and Darwin, who have
imagined that they discovered the laws of the transformation of
species.

M. Paul Janet, in the book which we cited above, has made a sharp
and searching criticism of the theories of Lamarck and Darwin. He
asks, in the first place, in what the hypothesis of a plan and of
a design of nature, otherwise called the doctrine of final
causes, would be contrary to the spirit of science. We must not
undertake phenomenal analysis with the premeditated design of
finding the phenomena conformable to an object decreed in
advance; this preconceived object should never take the place of
reason and be the explanation of the facts observed; such a
manner of proceeding is hardly scientific, and leads fatally to
arbitrary and erroneous conceptions. But does it follow that the
facts observed and analyzed in themselves should not, by their
collection and connection, express to the human intelligence a
superior design, a progressive and ascending harmony, which are
its final reason and vivifying spirit? To refuse in advance every
final cause is an error similar to that of imagining it
altogether and before the observation of the phenomena. Flourens
has well said: "We must proceed not from the final causes to the
facts, but from the facts to the final causes." These are the
fruitful principles, and this is true natural philosophy.

"The naturalists," says M. Janet, "imagine that they have
destroyed final causes in nature when they have proved that
certain effects result necessarily from certain given causes. The
discovery of efficient causes appears to them a decisive argument
against the existence of final causes. We must not say, according
to them, "that the bird has wings _for the purpose_ of
flying, but that it flies because it has wings." But in what,
pray, are these two propositions contradictory? Supposing that
the bird has wings to fly, must not its flight be the result of
the structure of its wings? And from the fact that the flight is
a result, we have not the right to conclude that it is not an
end. In order, then, that your materialists should recognize an
aim and a choice, must there be in nature effects without a
cause, or effects disproportioned to their causes? Final causes
are not miracles; to obtain a certain end the author of things
must choose secondary causes precisely adapted to the intended
effect.
{239}
Consequently, what is there astonishing in the fact that in the
study of those causes you should be able to deduce mechanically
from them their effects? The contrary would be impossible and
absurd. Thus, explain to us as much as you please that, a wing
being given, the bird must fly; that does not at all prove that
the wings were not given to it for the purpose of flying. In good
faith we ask, If the author of nature willed that birds should
fly, what could he do better than give them wings for that
object?

The demonstration of the reality of final causes, and of a
decreed and premeditated plan in nature, furnishes a primary and
powerful refutation of the systems which pretend to explain the
successive formation of organized beings by the sole action of
natural forces, acting fatally, petrifying, modifying,
transforming living matter in an unconscious and blind manner.
Lamarck and Darwin, as we have said, are the two naturalists who
have substituted most successfully a fatal, necessary, and in
some sort mechanical plan, instead of a premeditated plan,
realized by an intelligent and spontaneous cause. Lamarck
appealed especially to the action of means, habit, and want. The
combined action of those agents sufficed to him to conclude from
the rudimentary cell to man himself.

The action of means, exterior conditions, can modify the form and
the functions of living beings; this is a fact of which the
domestication of animals offers the most striking examples. But
does it follow that because we can modify certain animal and
vegetable species, we can therefore create their species? Can we
imagine the possibility of modifications so active and powerful
that they arrive at the most complex creations, at the
construction of the great organs of animal life, and of those
organs of the senses, so diverse and so marvellously adapted to
their functions? "For instance," says M. Janet, "certain animals
breathe through their lungs, and others by the bronchial tubes,
and these two kinds of organs are perfectly adapted to the two
means of air and water. How can we conceive that these two means
should be able to produce so complicated and so suitable
organizations? Is there a single fact among all those proved by
science which could justify so great an extension of the action
of means? If it is said that by _means_ we must not
understand merely the element in which the animal lives, but
every kind of exterior circumstance, then, I ask, let the
materialists determine what is precisely the circumstance which
has caused such an organ to take the form of the lung, and such
another to take the form of the bronchia; what is the precise
cause which has created the heart--that hydraulic machine so
powerful and so easy, and whose movements are so industriously
combined to receive the blood which comes from all the organs to
the heart and send it back through the veins; what is the cause,
finally, which binds all these organs together and makes the
living being, according to the expression of Cuvier, "a closed
system, all of whose parts concur to a common action by a
reciprocal reaction?" What will it be if we pass to the organs of
sense; to the most marvellous of them, the eye of man or that of
the eagle? Is there one of those _savants_ who have no
system who would dare to maintain that he sees in any way how
light could produce by its action the organ which is appropriated
to it? Or, if it is not light, what is the exterior agent
sufficiently powerful, sufficiently ingenious, sufficiently
skilled in geometry, to construct that marvellous apparatus which
has made Newton say: "Can he that made the eye be ignorant of the
laws of optics?"
{240}
Remarkable expression, which, coming from so great a master,
should make the forgers of systems of cosmogony reflect an
instant, no matter how learnedly they may dilate on the origin of
planets, and who pass with so much complacency over the origin of
conscience and life!

If the action of means is incapable by itself of explaining the
formation of organs and the production of species--what Lamarck
calls the power of life, namely, habit and want--how can they
give us the sufficient reason for those great facts? According to
Lamarck, necessity produces organs, habit develops and fortifies
them. But what is this necessity and this habit which are
appealed to so complacently, and who proves their strange power?
Let us take the necessity of breathing, of which M. Janet wrote
as we have quoted. Whence comes this necessity? From the
necessity of giving to the blood the oxygen which is necessary
for it; and this latter necessity is derived from the necessity
of keeping up the organic combustion, and furnishing the nervous
system with an appropriate stimulant. Who does not see that there
is here a connection of functions and organs which requires a
simultaneous creation, which displays a preconceived plan, and
not a successive growth of organs according to wants which find
in each other the principle of their being, and which cannot be
perceived and satisfied separately? What unheard-of aberration,
what decadence of the scientific spirit, to transform necessity
into a sort of effective and creative power; to make of a
sentiment, ordinarily vague and obscure, a new and active entity,
which not only animates the created being, but actually creates
it!

Lamarck, it is true, admits that observation cannot demonstrate
the producing power which he attributes to want; but if a direct
proof is wanting, he considers an indirect proof sufficient by
appealing to custom. What does he mean? Habit can develop and
fortify existing organs by an appropriate and sustained exercise;
but how does that prove that want can create them? How can habit
develop an organ which does not exist? How can the development of
an organ be compared to the creation of this organ, or make us
realize the mode of creation of the organ? We can conceive want
as the reason not of the creation but of the development of an
organ, and habit as excited and sustained by this need; but the
need of an organ which is absolutely wanting cannot be born of
itself, cannot produce the organ, cannot excite habit. How can an
animal deprived of every organ of seeing or hearing experience
the want of sight or hearing, or acquire the habit of either?
What chimerical hypotheses!

Let us hold to the judgment of Cuvier on all these hypotheses,
whose authority is very great:

  "Some naturalists, more material in their ideas, and relying on
  the philosophical observations of which we have just spoken,
  have remained humble followers of Maillet, (Talliamed,)
  [Footnote 110] seeing that the greater or less use of a member
  increases or diminishes its force and volume, have imagined
  that habits and exterior influences, continued for a long time,
  could change by degrees the forms of animals so as to make them
  attain successively all those shapes which the different
  species of animals now have.
{241}
  No more superficial and foolish idea could be imagined.
  Organized bodies are considered as a mere mass of paste or
  clay, which could be moulded by the fingers. Consequently, the
  moment these authors wish to enter into detail, they fall into
  absurdities. Whoever dares to advance seriously that a fish by
  keeping on dry land could change its scales into feathers and
  become a bird, or that a quadruped by passing through narrow
  places would become elongated like a thread and transformed
  into a serpent, only proves his profound ignorance of anatomy."

    [Footnote 110: Benoit de Maillet was the predecessor of Lamarck.]

The forms of scientific error change rapidly; only the principle
always remains. But this principle requires to be clothed from
time to time in new garments, which rejuvenate and disguise it.
The system of Lamarck, for a moment popular on account of the
philosophic ideas to which it gave support, could not maintain
itself in lasting honor in science. It was as it were buried in
deep oblivion, when Darwin undertook to awaken it from its ashes
by substituting for the antiquated conceptions new ones, destined
to give a similar satisfaction to the passions which had
applauded the enterprise of Lamarck.

The work of Darwin--we must do him the justice to say it--is an
important work, and displays rare science. The author, gifted
with great penetration, employs to the greatest advantage what he
knows to deduce from it what he does not know; and if he goes
beyond experience, it is always in appealing to experience; so
that he seems to remain faithful to observation even when he
ventures far beyond its limits. Nevertheless so much science and
sagacity can hardly blind us to the radical weakness of the
system; and it would not have met with so favorable a reception
if all the prejudices of the materialists whom it satisfied had
not become its ardent champions. A first fact strikes one who
studies impartially the theory of Darwin, namely, the
incalculable disproportion between the means of demonstration and
the immense problem to be resolved. There is question, let it be
remembered, of the origin of living species. Darwin tries to
explain this origin by the action of a natural selection,
incessantly at work, which draws the collection of organisms out
of one or several primitive, simple, and rudimentary types formed
by the simple action of forces proper to matter. This natural
selection is the image of the method according to which new races
of domestic animals have been created, as the modern doctors
maintain. In order that this, natural selection should produce
the powerful effects which Darwin gives to it, he imagines two
agents always active--changes in the conditions of existence, and
especially _vital concurrence_. The changes in the
conditions of existence, the accidental characters acquired by a
living individual and transmitted by inheritance to its
descendants, create certain varieties of type. Vital concurrence,
the battle of life, the struggle of animated beings to subsist,
allow only some of those varieties to last on the scene of the
world; the others are vanquished and disappear. These
transformations, continued and accumulated from age to age,
increased by the indefatigable labor of an immense number of
ages, have produced all the animal species actually existing;
which are imperceptibly their predecessors in a continuous line
of transformation, under the permanent influence of the same
natural forces.

{242}

The notion of species as well as that of variety and race
disappear in this order of ideas, or at least lose the determined
sense which the naturalists had attributed to them. Variety and
race become species in the way of transformation, in course of
development. The living form passes insensibly and by eternal
motion from the one to the other, from the species to the
variety, from the variety to the race, and from the latter to a
new species which appears only to disappear in its turn. It is
only an affair of time. The living kingdom is in perpetual
transformation. No one can tell what it will become naturally.

Such is the essence of the Darwinian theory. It begins by the
hypothesis of a natural selection which no direct fact proves or
confirms. But can the method of selection as Darwin explains it
be the foundation of such a hypothesis? But in this artificial
election, due to the labor of man, man is the agent who chooses,
who works; he becomes the final and active cause of the
transformation undergone by the species; he takes care that the
character of the races which he has obtained should be maintained
by an ever-vigilant election. Can anything of this kind be
invoked in the natural selection of Darwin? Who replaces the
choice of man? If the natural selection is made according to a
plan decreed and premeditated by the omnipotence which has
created nature, this selection changes its character; it is no
longer anything but one of the forms of creation; it is an
interpretation of the mode of acting of the creating cause, it is
no longer the negation of this cause. Darwinism, which consists
in conceiving the order of things without any superior
intervention, under the simple action of accidents passing
fortuitously to permanence; Darwinism, hostile to all finality,
disappears if the idea of plan is perceptible in the natural
selection. Can vital concurrence replace the intelligent action,
and assure to the natural selection that fecundity and power
which are not in it, and which must come to it from without? But
can "vital concurrence, the battle of life," be the means of
creation; can they engender directly organic modifications,
varieties, animal species? Evidently not  the battle of life can
make subjects; it is an agent of elimination for weak and
defective species; it cannot produce by itself a new species.
Natural selection remains always delivered up to itself, to its
blind resources, which nothing directs or regulates, which
acquire fecundity only by chance. To imagine that the harmonic
and infinite collection of living species can be legitimately
referred to a given agent, even by granting to it thousands of
years to manifest its action, seems to me arbitrary and sterile
rashness, which has nothing in common with a noble rashness of
science, with the intuitions of a genius which sometimes
forestalls experience and the proofs which it adduces.

M. Janet has given a general refutation of the theories of
Darwin, and sufficiently strong to show their folly. General
facts have their own light, but it does not shine the less far or
the less brilliantly for being general. Nevertheless, in a
question obscured by so many prejudices, and by the assertions of
a science which calls itself entirely experimental, that is to
say, entirely particular, particular facts acquire a singular
eloquence and power of demonstration which the most audacious
systematizers cannot refuse to acknowledge.

{243}

Those facts embrace the infinite individualities of the living
kingdom continued across the known ages. The source of
information is inexhaustible. What does it teach us? Do
particular facts confirm the ideas of Darwin regarding the
gradual mutability of species; do they even furnish the sketch of
a demonstration limited to certain determined points, to certain
animal or vegetable species; do they finally show us some of
those transformations which are the foundation of the system? Man
has been observing and studying nature for centuries: tradition,
the ruins preserved from the past, permit us to remount far up
the stream of time; have they apprehended in nature any traces of
those great changes which incessantly and fatally transform the
vegetable and animal species? Or, on the contrary, does not
everything go against those supposed transformations, and prove
the fixity in time and space of those real species; a fixity
which is not contradictory, which rather adapts itself to a
certain normal physiological variability, which always allows to
subsist and be perceptible through it the type of the species,
the essential and primary form? We easily conceive the importance
that a sincere response to these questions may acquire. They
strike at the experimental foundation of Darwin's theory; if this
experimental basis is wanting, what becomes of those theories?
Are they not mere personal and arbitrary conceptions; brilliant
plays of an imagination strong and creative, it is true, but
which cannot be substituted for Nature herself and her direct
teachings?

A learned professor of the faculty of science of Lyons, M. Ernest
Faivre, has just undertaken this particular and experimental
study of the origin of species, of their variability and
essentiality; and we signalize his work to our readers--_La
Variabilité des Espèces et les Limites_. It is impossible to
write, on so complex and obscure a question, a book more rich in
facts, more clear in its developments, or more authoritative in
its conclusions. It seems to us the condemnation without appeal
of the system of Darwin.

The vegetable kingdom is considered less rebellious than the
others to the theories of Darwin; variety has more extended
limits in it, less fixed than in the animal; generation,
increase, the exterior conditions, present the occasion of many
changes often profound in appearance. M. Faivre shows that the
true species exists through all these changes, and that it is
reproduced of itself from modified types, when circumstances or
the artificial selection of man no longer supports the latter.
Nowhere has man been able to create a real and durable species;
and the species from the most remote times to our days are
maintained with a fixity which has become one of the essential
characters of species. The ancient land of Egypt is full of
moving revelations on this subject: the animals, the plants, the
grains buried in the caves, are the same as the plants and
animals which cover the borders of the Nile at the present time.
All the naturalists have proved this identity of a considerable
quantity of animal and vegetable species. Hence, Lamarck and
Darwin, to lessen the value of an experience of more than three
thousand years' duration, have pretended that the conditions of
life and the conditions of the exterior medium had not changed in
Egypt from the historical times, and that the permanency of the
species became consequently an ordinary and logical fact. But
history, geography, the study of the soil, prove that the
situation of Egypt has been profoundly modified.
{244}
The level of the Nile, the limits of the desert, the extent of
the cultivated lands, the culture of the soil, the number of
populous cities, the proximity or distance of the sea, the great
public works, everything which transforms a country under the
action of men, all have changed in Egypt as much if not more than
in other countries, and nothing is found changed in the
productions of this soil, in the living beings which it supports
and nourishes. But we may go further than the historical period.
The permanence of species is proved to-day from the glacial
period; the bogs of Ireland, the submarine forests of England and
of the United States, conceal in their depths relics of mammifera
or of vegetable species exactly comparable to the vegetable and
animal species actually living in those same countries. We could
not enumerate all the proofs which establish the great fact of
the permanency of species; the number of these proofs is immense,
and no fact seriously contradicts them, and yet it is in the name
of experience that the partisans of natural selection pretend to
speak! The accidental, temporary, and superficial varieties which
they produce become for them a sufficient warrant of absolute and
permanent varieties which they cannot produce, but of which they
impudently suppose the formal existence; thus destroying species
by a mere hypothesis.

Natural selection has artificial selection for its ideal
godfather, but what has the latter produced? Not only no species,
but not even a permanent race definitively fixed and acquired.
All the races made by the hand of man die if they are left to
themselves, unsupported by an artificial selection constantly at
work. It is a fact which M. Faivre supports with superabundant
demonstration, taken from both the vegetable and animal kingdoms.
The collection of those facts is truly irresistible. What! the
continued transformation of species is given to us as a law, and
yet we cannot find a solitary transformed species! The
transformation of races, which must not be confounded with that
of species, is itself conditional and relative, is soon effaced
if nothing disturbs the return of the race to the pure type of
the species, and yet we are told of the power of natural
selection and of the battle of life which consecrates this power!
This selection, this vital concurrence, this action of means,
have been all employed to modify the proximate species, as the
horse and the ass; domestication offered here all its resources;
the hand of man could choose, ally, and cross the types at will.

"Assuredly," says M. Flourens, "if ever a complete reunion of all
the conditions most favorable to the transformation of one
species into another could be imagined, this reunion is found in
the species of the ass and horse. And, nevertheless, has there
been a transformation? ... Are not those species as distinct
to-day as they have always been? Among all the almost innumerable
races which have been produced by them, is there one which passed
from the species of the horse to that of the ass, or,
reciprocally, from the species of the ass to that of the horse?"
Why, say we with M. Faivre, pay no attention to such simple
facts, and take so much trouble to seek outside of evidence
explanations which do not agree with the reality?

The theories of Darwin have become the chief support of those who
attribute to man a monkey origin. "I prefer to be a perfect
monkey to a degenerate Adam," says one of the partisans of these
theories.
{245}
But why can they not perfect an ass so as to make a horse of it?
There is not between these two latter species the profound
anatomical difference which exists between the monkey and man--a
difference so well established by Gratiolet, a great mind and a
true _savant_. On what, then, can be founded the theory of
our descent from the monkey species, since the slightest change
resists all fusion, all transition from one neighboring species
to another?

The book of the _Variabilité des Espèces_ is the answer of
facts to the spirit of system. Calm and severe, rigorous and
cold, this book admits only the testimony of nature. It will
instruct and convince those who doubt on those questions. The
author terminates by those conclusions which we willingly
reproduce because they allow us to divine something else besides
the indifferent study of facts; they are perhaps the only lines
of the work where the sentiment of the moral dignity of man is
apparent. "This hypothesis (namely, of the mutability of species)
is not authorized," says M. Faivre, "either by its principle,
which is a mere conjecture; or by its deductions, which the
reality does not confirm; or by its direct demonstrations, which
are hardly probabilities; or by its too extreme consequences,
which science as well as human dignity forbid us to accept--the
theory of spontaneous generation, the intimate and degrading
relationship between man and the brute."

Notwithstanding the ability--we may almost say the genius--which
illustrious _savants_ have employed in defending the
doctrine, reason and experience have not weakened the reserved
and just judgment which Cuvier has passed upon it, and which will
serve as the conclusion to this essay: "Among the different
systems on the origin of organized beings, there is none less
probable than that which causes the different kinds of them to
spring up, successively, by developments or gradual
metamorphosis."

One word more before quitting the subject. All these great forms
of scientific error spring up in our old Europe, where they find
at the same time numerous and passionate adherents, and firm and
eloquent opponents. The attack and the struggle are kept up
incessantly in the press, in our books, in our learned bodies, in
our teaching faculties. If we examine the general character of
these conflicts, we find in them truth almost intimidated,
certainly less bold and less respected than error. Truth is
self-conscious, and that is sufficient to prevent it from
becoming weak or yielding to fatigue and discouragement; but it
has not popular favor; it is tolerated, but hardly ever greatly
encouraged. If we quit this tormented Europe, which is drawn only
toward new errors, and cast our eyes toward those great United
States of America, that fertile land appears to us as favorable
to truth as to liberty. Let us listen an instant to that
illustrious _savant_ who has no superior in the domain of
natural science, M. Agassiz; let us follow his teaching in the
University of Cambridge. What elevation and what sincerity! How
all those systems which seduce so many minds in these cisatlantic
regions are brought to their true proportions--judged in their
profound disregard of the laws of nature! Let us take, for
instance, the influence of exterior conditions and of physical
agents on animals--the basis of the system of Lamarck, and one of
the principal conditions of the mutability of species in
Darwinism. M. Agassiz, on this point, uses again the firm
language which from the days of Cuvier natural science has not
spoken in France:

{246}

  "In so far as the diversity of animals and plants which live in
  the same physical circumstances proves the independence as to
  the origin of organized beings, from the medium in which they
  reside, so far does this independence become evident anew when
  we consider that identical types are found everywhere on the
  earth in the most varied conditions. Let all those different
  influences be united--all the conditions of existence, under
  the common apellation of cosmic influences, of physical causes,
  or of climates--and we shall always find in this regard extreme
  differences on the surface of the globe, and nevertheless we
  shall see living normally together under their action the most
  similar or even identical types. ... Does not all this prove
  that organized beings manifest the most surprising independence
  of the physical forces in the midst of which they live, an
  independence so complete that it is impossible to attribute it
  to any other cause than to a supreme power governing, at the
  same time, physical forces and the existence of animals and
  plants, maintaining between both a harmonical relation by a
  reciprocal adaptation in which we can find neither cause nor
  effect? ... It would be necessary to write a volume on the
  independence of organized beings of physical agents. Almost
  everything which is generally attributed to the influence of
  the latter must be considered as a simple correlation between
  them and the animal kingdom resulting from the general plan of
  creation." [Footnote 111]

    [Footnote 111: _Revue des Cours scientifique_,
    Mai 2, 1868.]


                   ----------

                Canadian Customs.


The neighboring British provinces of the north--the new Dominion
of Canada--from various reasons, claim at this time the public
attention. From intrinsic merits they are worthy of notice. With
much of interest in the natural prospects and the interior life
of this country and its denizens, it is almost a _terra
incognita_ to the general traveller, and few penetrate to
those remote portions where the ancient customs of the original
settlers are faithfully retained and kept up in their primitive
simplicity. Although closely contiguous to the American line,
bordered by its lakes and its forests of dense timber, rich in
valuable mines and costly furs indigenous to northern latitudes,
it is chiefly for these possessions that the province is sought
by the utilitarian trader, rather than visited by the
pleasure-seeking tourist. And yet the general beauty of scenery
and the peculiar characteristics of the people are worthy of
close observation, and one might vainly seek in a wider range for
material so grand, or characteristics better deserving of
appreciation. The noble St. Lawrence is bordered by shores of
smiling fertility in the summer months. The country rises in
gradual ascent from the present boundaries of the stream, and
geological inquiry demonstrates that at an earlier period the bed
of the river extended to much wider limits than at present.
{247}
Still it is a grand and noble stream, as it goes sweeping onward
majestically to the ocean, gemmed with a thousand isles, and
having hundreds of peaceful villages that nestle on either shore.
A mere passing voyage on this route of travel presents a rich and
varied panorama of natural beauty. Still more interesting to the
mind of serious thought than this mere material attraction, is
the suggested idea presented in every village, crowned hill, or
hamlet, nestling in some nook along the shore, of the happy unity
and devotion of a people who make, within their humble homes and
in the practice of piety, the sacred faith of their worship the
_main_ object of their existence. Strangers to their zeal
many deride this devotion and call it _fanaticism_; but no
system can offer, in practical moral results, a higher order of
virtuous life than that presented by the Catholic
_Habitants_ [Footnote 112] of Lower Canada.

    [Footnote 112: The _Habitant_ is a generic
    name applied to the farming population of Canada East.]

Retaining, with their French origin, the happy temperament of the
Latin race--courteous, hospitable, and enthusiastic--foreign
refinements have not destroyed original purity of character; and
in their simple lives, wisely directed by zealous, self-denying
curés, they illustrate in piety and contentment the happy results
of this influence. To notice, then, the habitudes of this class,
to enter their homes and penetrate the _arcana_ of their
inner life, is a profitable study to all who are willing to
receive the high moral lessons that grandeur does not constitute
comfort, and that contentment may prevail where wealth does not
abound, and that piety in simple faith presents a consolation
that mere material possessions fail to bestow. While the
patriotic Canadian claims as his motto,

"_Notre culte, notre langue, notre lois,_" he properly
places his religion first and above all other mundane
considerations. This religion is the Catholic faith; and while
the Canadian submits to political innovations, and recognizes the
rights of the conquering arm of the British, he claims, in
unbending adherence to his church, the observance of every
ancient rite. The Code Napoleon may be modified by Saxon
legislation; but the great common law of traditions in religious
forms must ever remain undisturbed. Hence arises a peculiar charm
in the simplicity, fervor, and unity of devotion among the
Catholic Canadians. Voyaging from Montreal to La Rivière du Loup,
at every intervening two or three leagues are defined the
boundaries of a Catholic parish, denoted by the dome or spire of
the village church. The proportions of these edifices present a
solid character and generally harmonize in style; and, although
lacking the finish of architectural design, they are constructed
of stone, with ample accommodations for from one to two thousand
worshippers. In this one edifice gathers, for miles around, the
populace of the entire district; for here no discordant sects
prevail to divide and weaken congregations. This one church,
then, is the grand centre around which the people cluster, and
which usually occupies the most commanding point of observation.
If an ancient edifice, the building occupies the centre of the
plateau of cottages, at once in former times the house of worship
and fortress of defence. Should the approach of hostile Indians
be signalled, the populace retired within the sacred precincts
until after the danger passed, which was generally escaped by the
appeal for peace, on terms of mutual accommodation, by the
venerable priest.
{248}
The influence of moral force often served to lead the minds of
the aggressive savage to better and higher purposes.

Thus in this barren and bleak land whole tribes have been
reclaimed from heathenism, though many priests, especially those
of the Jesuit order, fell victims to their holy zeal, and offered
their lives in sacrifice to their sacred efforts. Others lingered
for years, prisoners in the hands of their captors, but still
teaching in bondage, and finally, gaining influence from their
virtues and learning, made proselytes of their persecutors. Thus
whole tribes were brought within the influence of Christianity,
and Canada was reclaimed from the savage customs of the natives,
who have been elevated and preserved by the happy influence of
the Church. These tribes have not disappeared, as elsewhere,
before the rude invading march of the Christian, so-called, but
continue in their united character and distinctive habits to live
prosperously with their white brethren, and to venerate the
religion they have embraced. Their principal villages dot the
shores of the St. John and St. Lawrence, and even approach so
near Quebec as Loretto. Their church edifices are generally of a
simple character; but of late years, throughout Canada, many have
been rebuilt, enlarged, or superseded by magnificent structures
of more modern style than the ancient village church, in which,
in times of a more primitive civilization, their forefathers
worshipped. But the worship, in its outward ceremonies, remains
unchanged. The same faith that won amid Siberian snows the land
from savage rites, is alone fostered tenaciously in all its
ancient forms. The devoted zeal of the French mission priest,
driven from France by the bloody Revolution, carried the seeds of
the true faith to the bleak shores of the Canadas; and their
influence is well maintained by the curés of the present day, who
continue not only to console spiritually, but in all the affairs
of life give that wise direction which their superior
intelligence enables them to exercise. The efforts of modern
missionaries, who exhaust themselves in temporary efforts in
remote regions, might take a wise lesson from this concentration
of labor and dedication of life to the service of religion within
fixed limits. It is granted, (for the fact cannot be
controverted) that this people and country have been
Christianized by the labors of the Catholic missionaries, and
that the religion they inculcated is universally established and
practised by the French population of the rural districts. It
must, also, in fairness be admitted that the good effects of the
system is demonstrated by the superior _morale_ of the
people under this control, who compare favorably with other
sections where mixed sects predominate. Canada East, from the
ocean to Quebec, is settled almost universally by Catholics,
principally agriculturists, though along the shores the fisheries
and pilotage occupy their attention as a means of livelihood.
Among this people crime is almost unknown, so efficient have been
the influences of their faith upon their moral habitudes.
Notwithstanding this favorable condition of morality, emissaries
from Canada West are diligently sent yearly with their stock of
tracts for distribution and well-bound Bibles for sale. The
preaching from one text, "Be not a busy-body in other people's
matters," would be a judicious commentary on this course,
especially as the influence of their own system fails to produce
the benign influences of Catholicity, in freedom from the
ordinary evils from which these happy, peaceful French parishes
are exempted.

{249}

Devotion to their religion defends them from the influences of
vice. Murder is a crime that rarely occurs among the native
population, and other minor offences are equally unfrequent. To a
people thus living harmoniously under an established religious
influence, faithful in observance of their duties in patriarchal
simplicity, and devoted to their religion, such invasion of the
Protestant colporteur is a gratuitous impertinence. If the
Catholic faith protects its votaries practically from sin, the
substitution of another system, from the section of Canada West,
(which by no means contrasts favorably with Catholic Canada East
in comparative statistics of crime,) is no recommendation for the
propagation of a faith that does not produce equal exemption from
evil where their own influence prevails. Notwithstanding this
common-sense proposition, zealots from the Bible societies yearly
arrive among these devoted Christians, each one successively
quarrelling about the proper construction of a book they
universally recommend. The logical Canadian might well ask: "Why
don't you agree among yourselves before you come to teach us? We
are all happy in one opinion here!" Notwithstanding such rebuffs,
the colporteurs proceed from house to house, leaving their
incendiary documents, which inform the people that the creed that
defends them from the influence of sin is a snare and delusion,
and that to be saved they must forego its exercise, and
advantageously adopt that of some one of the fifty Protestant
sects. Any of these may be supposed to possess a sufficient
diversity of doctrine to satisfy the most exacting inquirers in
their search after religious novelties. If these so-called
religious propagandists confined themselves exclusively to these
statements, in conscientious diversity of belief, their action
might be regarded as an ardent desire to do good to the souls of
their fellow-men. But the basest means are used to proselytize,
by deliberate forgeries of the truth. The following incident is
recorded from personal knowledge of its occurrence, and can be
verified by witnesses to the transaction: A colporteur of this
beneficent class, from Canada West, entered the cottage of a poor
_Habitant_ family in the third range of the village of
Saint-Michel, some fifteen miles from Quebec. One of the family
was dying, in a room apart, and the priest of the parish was
administering the last rites of the Church. The other members of
the family were in the general room, during the confession
preparatory to the anointing, and, although in grief, their
circumstances did not protect them from the intrusion of the
insidious stranger. The pedlar in piety vaunted his tracts, but
as they were unable to read, these were unappreciated, and he
finally displayed his costly Bible, which, he informed them,
unless they possessed, studied, and read, they never could be
saved. A stranger present--companion of the curé--asked the
question: "Is it a Catholic edition?" "Oh! yes, certainly, a
Catholic Bible," pointing to the binding with the embellishment
of a large cross, the imprimatur of a bishop in France, and the
recommendatory note from some Pope recommending its perusal to
the study of the faithful. One had only to look within at the
text to discover the perversion from the truth, and expose the
fact that all these emblems were but a _false pretence_, to
make the book sell among those who would be more attracted by its
external resemblance to the authorized version of Holy
Scriptures.
{250}
The curé at this moment entered, and, in taxing the man with his
duplicity, he answered with effrontery, "It is a Catholic Bible,
but not the Romish edition;" adding, unless all read it they must
certainly perish. "Then," answered the priest, "all here must be
lost, for not one can read; and unless you remain, in your
Christian benevolence, and instruct them, they cannot avail
themselves of your written instructions." Fortunately, as a
protection against the insidious wiles of such base pretenders to
exclusive possession of religious truth, the laws of Lower Canada
protect the people against dangerous forms of proselytism,
calculated to create breaches of the peace; and the invasion of a
harmonious parish by these disturbers of the contented people can
be promptly punished as a penal offence. They may sell or give
away their books, but here their influence for evil ends; and the
trouble these colporteurs give themselves, if expended in a more
legitimate manner, might prove quite as effective for their
personal good in earning an honest livelihood by more worthy
methods. To uproot these tares of evil is the one trouble given
to the worthy curés, who diligently watch and guard their flocks
from the invasions of wolves, as well as instruct and guide them
truthfully in the way of life. The result of their self-denying
labors is manifest; and Catholic Canada compares favorably in its
morality with any portion of the Christian world. An American
Catholic entering one of these rural parish churches described,
though recognizing the same service in the offering of the holy
sacrifice, would be struck by several distinctive features in the
Mass and congregation, and perhaps more than one observance that,
as a republican Catholic, he never before witnessed. Distinctions
in society are observed, but the deference is paid to superior
goodness only; the lines that mark the grades of superiority in
society being drawn by the personal worth of the possessor in his
elevation to the place of honor. Three chief officers are elected
from among the congregation every two years. They occupy the seat
of honor in the church on a raised _banc_, in some cases
canopied, but always decorated by two candles and a crucifix. To
these points the priest first proceeds at the aspersion, and,
making his obeisance and blessing, proceeds with the ceremony.
And they are likewise first served on the distribution of the
_pain bénit_, and always take precedence in the grander
ceremonies of the church, being admitted within the sanctuary to
receive the palms, and on other appropriate occasions having the
_place notée_ assigned to their occupation. This gives the
laity an active part and place of honor in the service of the
church. Personal worth, and aptitude to look after the secular
interests of the church, are the sole qualifications for this
position, and the united voice of the congregation, in assembly,
declares their choice. No alteration or repairs, or any movement
connected with changes in matters pertaining to the interests of
the church, can be undertaken without their approval. They are
the defenders of the secular interests, as the priest is
exclusively of the spiritual direction, but most generally
harmonize with their curé in any plans of improvement he may
suggest.

{251}

An American participating in these Canadian services could
intelligently follow all that is exhibited in the ritual, though
he would be surprised in a simple rural population at the pomp
and exactitude with which on grand occasions the services would
be performed. No ceremony is omitted that would give dignity to
devotion, and the Roman ritual is closely followed. Although the
American stranger might not understand the French sermon or hymn,
generally sung during the gradual or communion service, still in
common faith he would recognize the offering of the great
sacrifice, expressed in the same sonorous language in which the
service of the Church offers her devotions in every clime. Thus,
as a foreigner, in the Catholic Church he would in the most
solemn parts of the service feel at home. In common with Roman
discipline, the Diocese of Quebec excludes female singers from
the organ-loft, save by dispensation during the month of Mary,
when this joyful season is marked by this indulgence. The
choristers, composed of men and boys, sit within the sanctuary,
in stalls arranged in a double row on either side, and these are
chosen for their excellent character as well as vocal powers.
[Footnote 113]

    [Footnote 113: They sometimes number forty
    or fifty in an ordinary village church.]

None would be admitted who did not possess the one qualification
of piety. All are decently surpliced, and on Sundays and
fête-days four of the boys wear, in addition to the surplice,
pendent wings of muslin, neatly plaited, and act as the prominent
assistants to the Mass. At the feast of Corpus Christi, the
grandest ceremonial of the Church, (after the consecration of a
bishop,) as many as eight censers are used, and the road through
which the _cortége_ passes is garlanded with flowers, and
banners are waving from every point. The grandeur of the
ceremonial exceeds that of cathedral pomp in American cities, for
the procession makes the out-door circuit of the village,
stopping at four sections for the benediction. Two of these are
erected temporarily of boughs of trees tastefully decorated, and
most villages possess two small chapels distinct from the church
that are permanently constructed for these purposes, and used on
various occasions, whenever the bishop prescribes peculiar
devotions. Thus, at the blessing of the seeds of the earth, in
invoking prayers for a plentiful harvest, in times of plague,
war, or inundation, these specialty services are peculiarly
enjoined, and these chapels are then ever ready for the reception
of the sacrament. Otherwise they are closed and unused, and only
stand as memorials of the faith of the people; marking with the
emblem of Christianity the Catholic land of Canada. At every mile
a black cross stands as a milestone to point the way and keep
religious hope alive on every side and every step; and sometimes,
to mark special blessings in answer to prayers, these crosses are
handsomely carved and of stone, and almost always enclose, even
when of ordinary material, some sacred statue of venerated saint.
Thus in the frigid clime and snow-capped hills of Canada, a
Catholic love of the beautiful, pure, and good stands in
memorials as frequent as may be found in the sunny climes of
Italy or of the smiling lands of the south. Who will say that
these objects of veneration do not tend to keep faith alive? The
rustic Canadian, as he passes the memorial, lifts his mind to the
higher reality to which it points, and in respectful adoration
either raises his hat or devoutly crosses himself in prayer. Call
it superstition if you will, but it is at least a harmless form
of decent respect to the earthly insignia of heavenly realities
which the emblem represents.
{252}
The same respect, too, is universally extended to the curé when
he passes abroad; all bow or lowly make their obeisance to the
man of God. These outward manifestations of human respect only
teach lessons of honor for the office proper to be observed; and,
to the credit of Protestant gentlemen it may be added, in Lower
Canada, the character and influence of the priest are so highly
esteemed that, even though strangers to the Church, in many
instances they conform to the custom. A Catholic never passes the
clergy of the church without the compliment of the _salut_;
to omit the observance would be a mark of disrespect. These
peculiarities, like the order of the church service, arrest the
attention of the American Catholic. The whole Mass is uniformly
performed in Gregorian tones. The versicle of the day and the
_Introit_ are chanted by leading voices in the sanctuary.
The choir commence the _Kyrie_, and it is likewise
responsively intoned alternately, first by voices in the
sanctuary, and then, with organ accompaniment, answered by
singers in the organ-loft. And so the service is carried on most
impressively, throughout the _Gloria_ and _Credo_, even
unto the canon of the Mass, with the same tone that is proper to
the Mass of the day. Thus is produced an effect of solemn harmony
and unity with the celebrant at the altar. No light operatic air
clashes with the severe ritual, but all is grave and subdued, and
only relieved by the simple pathos of some French hymn,
creditably chanted, and most frequently as a solo, by the best
voice of the choir. The Canadians are a music-loving people, and
all orders cultivate this gift of nature. Their melodies are
spirit-stirring and deserving of wider cultivation. As it is,
many of our popular airs spring from _la chanson
Canadienne_. Frugal in their tastes, the simple pleasures of
social companionship are their chief relaxation; though the games
and enjoyments of their hardy clime have their many votaries, and
they excel in all the manly out-door exercises, in which even
their women participate. Perhaps this may be one reason, besides
higher moral causes, that account for the peculiar longevity and
large families of the Canadian people. If more primitive in their
customs than in lands where luxurious habits prevail, they are
exempted from many evils consequent on their indulgence, and the
virtues of the heart flourish and abound in luxuriance as the
teachings of the church prevail and are practised. Hospitality is
the crowning merit of the Canadian people. The stranger ever
receives a generous welcome and courteous attentions. The French
origin of the people retains all the idiosyncrasies of the latter
race, and that easy grace of manner inseparable from French
habitude. A Canadian peasant will receive a stranger with a ready
tact that is universal, even to those in the simplest rank in
life. This frankness and generosity of manner are partially the
influence of the Church, which inculcates the practice of
courtesy springing from goodness of heart and virtuous intention,
and it is especially inculcated in a rite peculiar to the
Catholic Church in Canada. During the course of the Mass, every
Sunday, is duly observed the generally obsolete custom called the
_Agapae_, of apostolic institution. It is one of those
ceremonials which in its latent significance teaches a wholesome
truth and duty, and it is to be regretted that it should have
fallen into desuetude elsewhere.
{253}
Significant of the good-fellowship that should prevail among all
members of the human family, and in recognition of our common
dependence one upon the other, and the duty of mutual aid and
support to our brother-man, this feast of love is eaten in common
by all ranks and conditions in life. If a Protestant should be
present, and conduct himself orderly during the service, the
courteous Canadian would extend a portion of the bread for the
acceptance of his dissenting brother, as there is nothing of a
sacramental character in its reception, and it is as free as the
holy water fount in which the curious unbeliever often dips his
hand with more superstitious dread than the Catholic believer. In
this rite, large loaves of bread are prepared in rotation by the
respective families of the parish, each in their order supplying
the demand. This is called _le pain bénit_, blessed bread;
and, after its benediction by prayer, that our daily food may be
used to our advantage, which ceremony takes place from the steps
of the altar, just before the _Gloria_, it is cut and
divided into small pieces among the congregation, who receive it
from the ushers, (the _maires_ being first served,) in
whatever position they may be in during the course of the
service--either kneeling, seated, or standing. Its distribution
usually commences during the course of the _Credo_, and,
unless the congregation is very large, concludes at least before
the commencement of the most solemn period of the Holy Sacrifice.
The ceremony creates no confusion, but is received as an ordinary
part of the day's duties. The morsel is accepted, the recipient
blesses himself, with a short prayer, and the particle is
consumed. The value of the observance of this rite is, the sacred
lesson that it so significantly teaches. Its absence would only
create remark in the mind of the _Habitant_, who is
singularly tenacious of any innovation on the established customs
of his forefathers, even where they manifestly are somewhat
burdensome to be observed; for the preparation of bread in three
or four large loaves for a thousand people is not entirely an
insignificant matter. In the city churches of Quebec, the rite by
dispensation is not observed, but it is universal in all the
rural parishes. "_La religion est changée_." the
_Habitant_ would say with a sigh, should an effort be made
to cut loose from any of the ancient landmarks and customs to
whose practice he had been accustomed. The observance of this
habit is therefore wisely retained, as teaching a wholesome
lesson of charity to our fellow-man. All are recipients alike,
young and old, the sinner as well as the saintly, for all have
need of the tender indulgence of each other in deference to their
common infirmities. Many lands of softer clime possess fairer
scenes and a richer soil; but for the elevated affections of the
heart in simplicity, none possess in a rarer degree those virtues
calculated to render man noble and happy, and to elevate him in
the social scale, than the people of these northern possessions
that bound our American limits. Perhaps in the march of events,
should their country ever be absorbed with our own republican
institutions, the strongest bond of fellowship will be, the
common religion they hold in such perfect unity with numbers of
their American brethren. It is this principle that will render
them adaptive to our political institutions as good citizens;
and, perhaps, in simple faith, earnest devotion, and rigid
standard of observances of the Catholic faith, the American
Catholic could well borrow from his Canadian brethren a portion
of that zeal for which they are so justly conspicuous.

{254}

Our limits forbid all that might be said of the Catholic
hierarchy in Canada; a body of men who, for learning, piety, and
self-sacrifice, furnish so many glorious examples worthy of
imitation. Zealous in the cause of education, as fervent in their
piety, they have made the sterling worth of the Canadian Church a
subject for praise and imitation in every land. The simplest
Canadian follows the language of the Church in his daily prayers;
and as the Angelus sounds within her borders thrice a day, or the
passing-bell tells of a soul departed, or the joyful chime
proclaims a Christian received within the Church, the Latin
prayer universally ascends from a thousand hearts, and Heaven's
benisons follow in benignant response. May the sun of prosperity
ever lighten her borders!

                   ----------

             Translated From The French.

                The Story Of Marcel,
            The Little Mettray Colonist.


                   Chapter I.

  "O grief beyond all other griefs! when fate
   First leaves the young heart desolate
   In the wide world."
                                  Moore.

It was at the close of the memorable 26th of June, 1848, one of
the most dreadful days of that sanguinary strife called "the
Revolution," which had desolated Paris since the month of
February, that a man, dressed in a torn and blood-stained blouse,
his face and hands black with gunpowder, and carrying a gun on
his shoulder, climbed hastily the dark, dirty staircase of a
house in the Rue de la Parcheminerie. He was followed by a
miserable-looking child of apparently about eight years old,
whose little, trembling legs managed with difficulty to keep up
with the long strides of the individual before him, who from time
to time looked back to see that he was coming.

On reaching the third story, the revolutionist, for such he
evidently was, opened a door, and entered a dismal, bad-smelling
room of poverty-stricken aspect. A woman of about forty was
there, busily occupied over a small iron furnace casting lead
bullets, of which a number ready for use were lying on the dirty
brick floor beside her.

"Here they are, all hot, all hot," cried she with a fierce laugh
as he came in. "I don't keep you waiting for your tools, you see;
there's not a citizen of Paris that has a better help-mate than
you, Auguste; is there, now? And I'm as ready with my knife
as--but what have you there?" And the dreadful woman strode
forward a step as she caught sight of the child, half-hidden
behind her husband.

{255}

"It's a poor little devil I picked up on a barricade," replied
Auguste. "Ma foi! I believe that he had followed his father to
the fight, where the citizen received his passport for the other
world; the little one had hooked himself on to the corpse, and I
had some trouble to loosen his hold, and afterward to put him on
his legs again; but a drop of brandy did it at last, and here he
is!"

"And what on earth are we to do with him?" vociferated the woman,
who had listened to this explanation with many a shrug and
menacing gesture. "I shall not feed him, I tell you. Where's the
grub to come from, I should like to know?"

"Come, now," said Auguste soothingly, "be reasonable, do. Now
that the dog's dead, you can give him the bones and lickings,
can't you? It won't cost more to keep this little wretch than it
did to keep the dog. Not so much, I believe."

"He's not worth either bones or lickings," screamed the wife.
"Medor earned his living, while this beast of a child"--here she
caught the frightened boy by the arm and whirled him violently
round--"hasn't the strength of a fly!"

"He'll be able to pick up rags in a day or two, Pelagie, you will
see; Come, now, let us keep him. Here, sit down, young one." And
Auguste pushed the child down on a wooden stool.

Pelagie stormed, but Auguste at last gained the day, and even
obtained a crust of bread for the wretched little creature, whose
large eyes glanced from the one to the other of the speakers
while they debated his fate. His thin, pale cheek still bore the
traces of the tears he had shed when his father fell, shot
through the heart, on the barricade, and his little blouse and
torn trousers were stained with his father's blood!

We shall not repeat the conversation of the husband and wife on
the events of the day--that day when the infatuated workpeople
and proletaires of Paris murdered the venerable priest who,
obedient to the call of his sacred duties, had come to the scene
of strife and slaughter to preach mercy and forbearance. "The
shepherd gives his life for his sheep," and, "May my blood be the
last shed," were the last words of Archbishop Affre. Alas! when
the torch of civil war is once lighted, men seem to grow mad; the
fiercest passions of humanity are let loose, and ruin and death
seem alone able to end the struggle. So has it ever been with the
excitable people of Paris; so will it ever be with the ignorant
and vicious. Many fell after the good archbishop, and among them
Auguste Vautrin. He had gone off, carrying with him the
newly-made bullets, and leaving the child whose life he had
probably saved; he returned no more. A neighbor whispered to
Pelagie that same night that her husband was lying dead in the
Rue St. Antoine, but the depraved and unloving wife did not care
to reclaim his body, and all that was left of the miserable man
was consequently thrown ignominiously into the common grave of
the misguided revolutionists.


                   Chapter II.

  "Pinn'd, beaten, cold, pinch'd, threaten'd, and abused,
   His efforts punish'd and his food refused,
   Awake tormented, soon aroused from sleep,
   Struck if he wept, and yet compelled to weep,
   The trembling boy dropped down, and strove to pray,
   Received a blow, and trembling turned away."

                                       Crabbe.


Pelagie Vautrin, now a widow, continued to gain her living as
before. She was what is called in France a "merchant of the four
seasons," that is, a costermonger, hawking about the streets in a
handcart the different vegetables and fruits of each season,
sometimes even venturing on a load of salt mackerel, sometimes of
dried figs. She was a strong, masculine-looking virago, who might
have gained a tolerable living, for one day with another brought
her in about three francs, had she not been given to drink.
{256}
Every bargain she made either to buy or to sell was ratified by a
glass of brandy, so that by the time she had emptied her cart,
her pocket was nearly empty too. At all times without gentleness
or pity, she became almost ferocious when excited by liquor, and
it was a cruel fate that had made the little orphan fall into her
hands. He, poor fellow, seemed to be quite friendless. Questioned
and cross-questioned by Pelagie and her neighbors, he could give
no further account of himself than that he was called Marcel, and
that his father was shot on the barricade; the child shuddered
each time that he was forced to answer this. He appeared never to
have known his mother, replying always that he had lived with his
father, only with his father, and nobody else. He was a slight,
elegantly formed boy, with the intelligent, delicate features
peculiar to the true Parisian. Timid and nervous, he trembled
each time that Pelagie addressed him, and implicitly obeyed her
slightest order.

During the two days that followed the death of Auguste, Pelagie
remained shut up in her dirty, close-smelling room. Whether she
feared that the restoration of public order might expose her to
the unpleasant observation of the law, or that the loss of her
husband did really somewhat affect her, we know not; certain it
is that she staid quietly at home, and even shared the bread and
boiled beef that a neighbor had fetched for her from a
_gargote_, or poor eating-house, near by, with Marcel. He
had been provided with a heap of rags for a bed, and permitted to
sleep. And for two nights, poor boy, he had slept as children,
happily the poor as well as the rich, only can sleep--forgetful
of the past and unthinking of the future. But on the morning of
the third day, Pelagie got up in full possession of all her
wonted energy and brutality.

"Out of bed, little beggar!" were her first words, as she pushed
the sleeping child with her foot; "out of bed; you must begin to
work for your bread. Now, listen to me," she continued, as
Marcel, with a scared look, started up ready-dressed from his bed
of rags; "listen, do you hear, to me. You will go search for all
the bits of old iron, old nails, and things of that sort, that
you can find in the streets and gutters. Here is a leathern bag
to put them in; do you see? I shall tie it about your waist, and
take care you don't lose it. And here is a basket and a hook;
with this hook you will catch up all the pieces of paper and rag
that you see, and put them into the basket. Now, mind what you're
about: I shall have an eye on you, wherever you may be. Here is a
piece of bread; and don't come back until your basket is full, or
I shall skin you."

So saying, she thrust the bewildered, frightened boy out of the
door, which she shut immediately, leaving him to grope his way
down the dark, crazy staircase as he best might.

After two or three falls he reached the door of the house, and
found himself in the narrow, filthy gutter called the Rue de la
Parcheminerie--one of the impure, airless thoroughfares of that
old Paris which the present ruler of France is levelling to give
place to wide, healthful, handsome streets and squares. He stood
a moment hesitating whether he should turn to the right or to the
left, when the voice of Pelagie calling to him from the window
above made him look up. "Be off!" she screamed. "I'm watching
you, and mind you bring me back all you get!"

{257}

The child shouldered his basket and ran on. Turning the corner
and out of sight of his fierce protectress, if we may call her
so, he stopped, poor little fellow! His basket and hook dropped
to the ground, as with a gesture of despair he threw up his hands
toward heaven and cried aloud, "O my father! my father!"

The cry and the gesture were not addressed to that Heavenly
Father whose eye was then as ever upon him, full of pity and
mercy though unseen and incomprehensible, for the unhappy orphan
knew not how to pray; but we can believe that it was heard and
answered, as if it had been a direct supplication to the throne
of grace; not then, perhaps, but in the fulness of that time
which he hath chosen for our consolation. A moment after, the boy
gathered up his fallen basket and hook and diligently set to
work. Not a rag or scrap of paper escaped his searching eye.
Nails and metal buttons, and bits of old iron, and many a
flattened bullet that had probably done some deadly work, all
found their way into his basket or his leathern bag.

Toward twelve o'clock he found himself near the fountain in St.
Michael's Place; tired and hot, he took a drink, and, seating
himself on the curbstone near by, began to eat the piece of bread
that Pelagie had given him that morning. His appetite was good,
and he enjoyed his dry crust better than many a rich man did his
sumptuous dinner that day. His little teeth went so busily and
vigorously to work, that a hackney-coachman belonging to the
coach-stand in the place, and who was lazily contemplating
humanity from his box-seat, after watching him awhile with
admiration, threw him a sou, telling him to buy some sausage,
because he deserved something for the way in which he attacked
that piece of brick-bat.

"He has teeth like a rat," cried the coachman, grinning, to one
of his comrades; "the way he nibbles that crust, that's as hard
as the stone he's sitting on, is a sight!"

Marcel took the sou, and returned a look of such smiling
gratitude that the observant coachman again remarked to his
friend that that little chap had eyes like the gazelle's in the
Garden of Plants; "they're just as soft and tender," added he,
"only blue." But the child dared not spend the money on
himself--had not Pelagie told him to bring her back everything he
got? So he put it into the bag with the old iron, and once more
went to work. Steadily and earnestly he plodded on, all his
little faculties concentrated on his task, so that at five in the
afternoon his leathern bag was full, and his basket piled up and
pressed down.

Glad and triumphant, with some hope of kind words this time at
least, he turned toward the Rue de la Parcheminerie, and reached
the wretched house just as Pelagie was pushing her empty handcart
through the narrow passage into the yard, where it was put up
under a shed for the night. He climbed the staircase and stood
waiting for her on the landing-place before the door of her room.

"You here!" she cried when she perceived him. "What's brought you
back so soon, you little _vaurien_?" [Footnote 114]

    [Footnote 114: Worth-nothing.]

"My basket and my bag are both full, madam," replied Marcel,
trembling as he looked up into the furious eyes of the drunken
virago.

"I shall soon see that." She pushed him violently into the room.
"Now, give me the bag."

She snatched it from him as she spoke and emptied out the
contents on the floor.

{258}

"Why, what is this?" she exclaimed as she caught sight of the
sou. "Did you find this? don't you know what it is?"

"I know what it is, madam; it was given to me to buy some sausage
with to flavor my bread."

"To flavor your bread, you little beggar! Good bread's not good
enough for you, then! I'll flavor your bread, you idiot." And
with her strong right hand she dealt him a blow on the side of
the head that felled him instantly to the floor.

He hid his bruised face in his little trembling hands and lay
there weeping silently.

"Get up, get up, you idle dog; you're not going to stay there, I
can tell you! Come, take your basket and hook and be off again."
The unfeeling woman pulled up the wretched child as she spoke.
"What! crying! I'll have none of that! Come, be off! You'll get
no supper, I promise you, until your basket's full again."

Down the crazy staircase once more the little orphan stumbled
into the street--hungry and tired, his cheek blue with the cruel
blow, and his young heart swelling with the sense of so much
injustice and oppression. The thought came to him suddenly that
he would not return again to that wicked woman; but then, where
should he go? Who would take care of him? He wandered through
many dirty, narrow streets while he thus meditated, and at last
found himself before the old church of St. Etienne du Mont. He
saw some children going in, and followed them. There was so
profound a silence in the sacred edifice, such a soft, subdued
light streamed in from the beautiful painted windows, that the
child's agitated, angry heart seemed calmed almost by a miracle.
He slunk into a dark corner, and there, doing as he saw the
happier children with whom he had entered do, he knelt. He did
not pray; he had never known a mother's care, never been taught
to lisp "Our Father who art in heaven" at his mother's knee; but
peace and forgiveness entered into the orphan's soul as he knelt,
silent, unheeded, in that dark corner of God's house.

Half an hour after he slunk out again into the street, feeling
better, he knew not why, poor ignorant boy, and only anxious to
try to satisfy his task-mistress.

All the evening he went to and fro, filling his basket from the
heaps of rubbish thrown into the streets as soon as night comes
by the numerous inhabitants of Parisian houses. At last, when ten
o'clock had struck from all the church-towers in the quarter, he
again climbed to the third story. The door was ajar, he entered
softly, and saw, by the light of a gas-lamp that was on the
opposite side of the street, Pelagie Vautrin lying extended on
her bed, and snoring the heavy sleep of the drunkard.

He crept, tired and hungry, to his heap of rags, and soon happily
forgot for a few hours that he was motherless and fatherless, a
little waif adrift on the sea of life.

Thus passed and ended Marcel's first day of labor.



                 Chapter III.


  "Thus liv'd the lad, in hunger, peril, pain,
   His tears despis'd, his supplications vain.
   ...
   Strange that a frame so weak could bear so long
   The grossest insult and the foulest wrong;
   But there were causes."
                                    Crabbe.

{259}

Marcel had continued to ply this business for the profit of
Pelagie Vautrin about two years, most times half-starved, and
ofttimes beaten, and had become one of the quickest-sighted and
quickest-witted of the little rag-pickers of Paris, when one wet
winter's night, as he passed near St. Michael's Bridge, he put
his foot on something hard.

To pick it up, to see by the nearest gaslight that it was a
coarse linen bag, containing a quantity of gold coin, was the
work of a minute; the next saw him running as if for dear life to
the office of the Commissary of Police in the Rue des Noyers; he
knew the place well by the red-glass lamp over the door. Almost
breathless he handed his prize to the worthy magistrate, telling
him at the same time where he had found it.

The commissary looked into his little, eager, intelligent face
while he told his story, then taking his hand kindly, "You are a
good boy," said he, "and, mark my words, your honesty will bring
you good luck."

Marcel blushed with pleasure and surprise to be praised, but
stood nervously twirling his ragged cap round and round.

"The man who lost the bag of gold," continued the commissary,
"was here half an hour since; he is a poor clerk, and is in
despair; he is afraid of going back to his employers to tell them
that he has lost their money. You have saved him and his poor
wife and children from much misery. Go, you are a good boy; but
first tell me your name and where you live."

The child told him, it was written carefully down, and he then
went away happier than he had ever been since that dreadful day
when he had convulsively fastened himself to his father's dead
body as it lay on the barricade.

But as he approached his miserable home, this happy feeling
decreased; and he began to think of what Pelagie would say if she
knew what he had been doing. To tell or not to tell, that was the
question, and it was not yet decided when he opened the door of
the dismal room, where Pelagie, drunk as usual, was making her
preparations for going to bed.

"And where do you come from, _vaurien?_" asked she as he
came in.

He did not reply; he was not prepared with a lie, and he feared
to tell the truth. Pelagie, accustomed to prompt and ready
answers from her victims, turned round and stared at him,
surprised beyond measure at this unwonted hesitation.

"Do you hear, little beast, do you hear!" she screamed presently.
"Where do you come from? Why don't you answer me?" And she seized
him violently by the arm.

"Pray don't beat me!" said the child imploringly. "I will tell
you. As I was passing over St. Michael's Bridge, I--I found--a
bag--"

"A bag!" exclaimed Pelagie, still holding him fast. "A bag of
what? Quick! quick! Speak faster!"

"Of gold," whispered the child, trembling, for he _knew_ now
that he should suffer for what he had done.

"Of gold? of gold? Where is it? Give it to me!" And she fumbled
about his little breast, as if she thought it must be hidden
there.

"I haven't got it!" said the boy, whose cheeks waxed paler and
paler, but whose blue eyes met hers for once undauntedly. "I
carried it to the Commissary of Police."

For one moment the drunken fury looked at him silently, and then
burst forth in bitter curses and bitterer blows. Hard and fast
they fell on the young head and tender face; he was knocked down
and kicked up again--hurled against the wall--pushed into the
fire-place--and at last thrown upon the cranky table, which fell
with so terrible a crash that the noise fortunately brought up
the tenants of the story beneath in time to prevent a murder; for
it is too probable that would have been the end of this frightful
scene, if no one had come to save poor Marcel.

{260}

"Madame, Madame Vautrin!" cried M. Poquet, as he rushed into the
room, followed by his wife and a number of the neighbors, "what
is the matter here? Pray, be calm. You've beaten that child too
much! Now, stop, or I'll go for the police." And the strong man
seized the furious woman in his arms, while his wife and one or
two other women got hold of Marcel and carried him down-stairs,
covered with blood and bruises, to the Poquets' room.

Covered with blood and bruises! Such was this wretched child's
reward for the first act of probity he had as yet found an
opportunity of performing!

Be gentle, then, in your judgment of his future errings. O
children of happier fortunes! ye who are encouraged in every
generous thought and honest deed by the tender caresses of a
mother and the approving smiles of a father, remember that
_he_ was an ignorant, homeless orphan, whose first good
impulses were beaten out of him, or stifled by the vicious
influences which surrounded him.

Monsieur and Madame Poquet were--it is a pity to be obliged to
say it of such a kind-hearted couple--no better than they should
be, rather, indeed, far worse. M. Poquet called himself a
cobbler, but few, very few were the boots or shoes that could
show trace of his handiwork. Talking politics in the
_cabaret_ [Footnote 115] at the corner, with idlers like
himself, seemed to be his principal occupation; but there were
rumors afloat that, at night, when honest men were sleeping
peacefully in their beds, he and his companions were dodging the
police, and trying to _find_ the money they would not
_work_ for. Certain it is he generally had a forty-sous
piece in his pocket, and few people knew how he got it.

    [Footnote 115: Wine-shop.]

Madame Poquet earned or rather thieved her living as a _femme
de ménage_ [Footnote 116] and a very good living she made too;
for, not satisfied with stuffing herself as full as she could of
victuals at her employer's house, she regularly brought back
every evening in a great basket, that was continually suspended
at her arm, such a supply of cheese, charcoal, sugar, garlic,
bread, cigars, cold meat, and such like, that there was not a
better furnished cupboard nor better fed children than hers in
the neighborhood.

    [Footnote 116: Charwoman.]

These children consisted of a boy and a girl--Polycarpe and
Loulou--cunning, ready-witted, unprincipled, and idle. Never had
they heard a word of truth; their only teaching since they came
into the world had been to lie and steal, but like their parents
they were naturally merry and good-tempered; they had never been
ill-treated, as children generally are among the vicious poor,
and they were well-disposed to be generous with their pilfered
plenty.

Such were the people who had rescued the orphan from Pelagie
Vautrin's murderous hands, and who now washed away the blood from
several cuts on his head, and applied such remedies to his poor
bruised limbs as they were acquainted with. And Madame Poquet had
a kind, motherly way with her that comforted poor Marcel
wonderfully, and Polycarpe and Loulou showed much sympathy; and
at last he was put into bed (a dirty one, it is true, but warm)
with Polycarpe; and the boy fell asleep happier, notwithstanding
his aches and pains, than he had been for many a year of his
short life.

{261}

For three whole days Marcel remained quietly with the Poquets,
who would willingly have kept him altogether, and only hoped that
Pelagie would let things be as they were. The fourth morning,
however, brought a change. Scarcely had Madame Poquet taken
herself and her great basket off for her day's work and
pilfering, and M. Poquet slunk off a moment after to the
_cabaret_ at the corner, when Madame Vautrin appeared
suddenly before the frightened eyes of the three children. She
was sober, and in few words ordered Marcel to get his basket and
hook and go to work. The trembling boy silently obeyed.


              Chapter IV.

  "Alas! regardless of their doom,
     The little victims play!
   No sense have they of ills to come,
     Nor care beyond to-day.
   Yet see how all around them wait
   The ministers of human fate
     And black misfortune's baleful train."

                                     Gray.

But Polycarpe Poquet did not drop the acquaintance so well begun;
far from it; he seemed to have become really attached to the
pale, weak child, who was about a year younger than himself, and
proved his friendship by becoming a kind of amateur rag-picker
and helping to fill the dreadful basket and leathern bag that
Pelagie exacted twice a day. This business finished, he would
lead off Marcel in quest of amusement, with the understood
intention also of picking up a few sous as he best could, and
Polycarpe was not at all particular.

All was new to Marcel; he had never yet had time to stroll
through the great thoroughfares at the hours when the magnificent
shops of Paris display their wonderful merchandise to tempt the
luxurious rich. He had not even ever crossed the bridges since
that fatal 26th of June, 1848, and knew nothing of beautiful
Paris but the narrow and busy streets of the "Quartier Latin,"
the quarter of the great schools, of the College of France, the
Sorbonne, and the Institute.

How wonder-stricken was he the day that Polycarpe conducted him
to the Place de la Concorde! The sky was blue, the sun bright,
the two beautiful fountains were spouting their many waters in
feathery spray, the grand old chestnut-trees of the Tuileries
gardens were in full bloom behind him, palaces on either side of
him, and before him stretched away the magnificent avenue of the
Champs Elysées, bordered by trees and flowers and grassy lawns,
and bounded in the far distance by the Arch of Triumph! The boy's
heart swelled within him, for the love of the beautiful was
hidden in it, as well as the sense of the good and true, and he
could not speak. He had never gazed before on so brilliant a
scene, and he could find no words to express his feelings.

Polycarpe understood nothing of this silent admiration, and after
loitering a short time around some of the _cafés_ among the
trees in the avenue, proposed going down on the quay to look at
the river. They stopped for a glass of brandy at the nearest
_cabaret_--for Marcel had learnt this dreadful habit from
his friend, who had been accustomed to tipple from his very
birth--and then, ready for any mischief, descended to the river's
side. An old lady was standing there, gazing at the swift-flowing
water, as if she were longing to throw into it a very
apoplectic-looking little dog she held by a string.

"Marcel, Marcel," whispered Polycarpe, "I'm going to have some
fun with that old woman. I'll squeeze some sous out of her, you
see if I don't!"

{262}

He started off running as he spoke, then suddenly stopped close
to the dog.

"What a love of a dog!" cried he in apparent ecstasy. "I never
saw a prettier little animal in my life! What kind of a dog do
you call that, madam?"

"It is a Scotch dog, my young friend," replied the old lady,
evidently much flattered; "you have very good taste, for he is
really a very pretty creature."

"He is a love!" ejaculated Polycarpe.

"I have brought him here for a bath," continued the old lady. "I
think that it would do him good if he would swim a little."

"That it would, madam," answered Polycarpe, stroking and kissing
the fat, wheezy little animal; "but it would be well to give him
a little rubbing first; his skin is rather dirty, I perceive,
madam, on looking close. I'll wash him for you, if you like. I'm
used to washing dogs. I wash my mother's dog every Saturday,
madam."

"Really!" said the old lady. "Well, I _should_ be glad to
give Zozor a good washing, but I'm afraid he's difficult; he
don't like it; he never did."

"That's nothing, madam. Julius Caesar--that's my mother's dog--
don't like it, but he's obliged to, for it's for his good. You
should just see Julius Caesar when I've washed and dressed him!
He's perfectly beautiful! He's a poodle, quite white, and I've
cut his coat so that he has a flounce round each ankle, three
rows of fringe on his hips, a fine bandelet on his side, a frill
on his chest, and a magnificent tassel at the end of his tail."

"He must be very handsome," remarked the old lady, who had
listened with much interest to this description.

"He is, madam. My mother says no one can dress a dog better than
I can. So I'll wash Zozor, if you like; I'll not hurt him in the
least."

"You're very kind, indeed," said the old lady. "I really shall be
very much obliged to you. Now then, Zozor, don't be naughty; it
will do you good, Zozor."

So saying, the trustful old lady undid the string attached to her
pet's collar, and delivered the victim into the hypocrite's
hands. In an instant the wretched little creature was smeared
from head to tail with a villanous compound of black soap and
soot that Polycarpe drew from one of his dirty pockets. The poor
animal howled dismally as his tormentor daubed him all over, and
more vehemently still when his eyes, nose, and mouth were crammed
with the nasty, stinging mixture.

"Now, madam," said Polycarpe, when the poor beast was well
plastered and utterly unrecognizable, "that's the first
operation; and if you want me to go on, and wash it off, my
charge is forty sous, paid in advance. I never give credit: it's
a bad system; I've learnt that by experience."

"You wicked boy!" screamed the old lady, "you little impostor!
you've killed my poor Zozor!"

The unlucky pet was rolling himself in the mud, in an agony of
pain.

"You cruel, wicked boy! Oh! what shall I do? what shall I do?"

"Why, you've only to pay me the forty sous," said Polycarpe, who
stood calmly contemplating the contortions of his victim, "and
I'll continue my operations. Forty sous is not dear, madam,
especially as I provide the soap."

{263}

The old lady, unable to endure any longer the sight of her
darling's sufferings, at last drew from her purse a piece of
forty sous, and put it into the outstretched palm of the young
scamp, who no sooner had closed his dirty fingers on the coin
than he burst into an insulting laugh and took to his heels,
leaving Zozor's mistress inarticulate with astonishment and rage.

Marcel had stood a little distance off while this scene was
enacting. At first he laughed; but when he saw how much the poor
dog suffered, the innate humanity of his nature was awakened, and
as soon as his friend had disappeared he approached the yelling
animal, and, with much difficulty and no little danger of being
bitten, managed to seize him by the nape of the neck and throw
him into the water. The miserable animal struggled desperately,
and so got rid of a great part of the soap and soot; with the
help of a boatman who had come up just in time, Marcel got him
out again, and, after a little rubbing and rinsing, restored him
to his weeping mistress, clean, but with blood-shot eyes and
inflamed nostrils, and certainly very much the worse for his
adventure.

The poor lady was profuse in her thanks. "You have saved his
life," she cried; "I shall be eternally grateful to you; I will
never forget you!" And she pressed her dripping darling to her
heart, while she hastily climbed the steep that led from the
river's side to the quay above.

Marcel followed when she was out of sight, and soon perceived
Polycarpe waiting for him, and half-hidden behind one of the
kiosks on the sidewalk in which newspapers are sold in Paris.

"So you washed that old woman's little monster!" cried he, as
soon as he saw Marcel. "You needn't have done that. Here I've
been waiting for you to go to Mother Crapaud's for a real
blow-out. Come along, now, I'm as hungry as a wolf. Did you ever
see an old woman so nicely done? O my eye! poor Zozor! wasn't he
well soaped?"


                  Chapter V.

  "Let not Ambition mock their humble toil,
     Their vulgar crimes and villany obscure;
   Nor rich folks hear with a disdainful smile
     The low and petty knaveries of the poor.

  "The titled villain and the thief of power,
     The greatest rogue that ever bore a name,
   Awaits alike the inevitable hour:
     The paths of wickedness but lead to shame."

                       Parody On Gray's Elegy.


Polycarpe's favorite dining-saloon, the gargote, or eating-house,
of the Mère Crapaud, was situated in the Rue de la Huchette, one
of the narrowest, darkest, and dirtiest of the old streets of
Paris. It was a large, low room, opening from the street; the
whole length of one side of it was taken up by four great
furnaces which cooked the contents of the four great marmites, or
boilers, that were constantly suspended over them. The contents
of three of these marmites consisted of beef-soup, flavored with
carrots, turnips, cabbage, onions, and garlic. The fourth
generally contained stewed beans, a favorite accompaniment to the
boiled beef. A kind of counter, on which stood baskets of cut
bread and bowls of salad, separated the furnaces and marmites
from the other part of the room, which was furnished with tables
of six places each, and benches, all painted dark green. The
place was smoky and grimy, and not rendered pleasanter by the
presence of the Mère Crapaud herself, an enormously fat,
blear-eyed old woman, possessed of a most abusive tongue. Indeed,
she would have seemed better fitted to drive away than to attract
customers. The Mère Crapaud, however, was very popular, and with
good reason; for not only were her beef and soup the very best
that could be bought for the money, but she also could be
depended on in critical moments, when those whom she recognized
as regular customers were in difficulties with the authorities.

{264}

Fifteen or sixteen customers, of all ages and of both sexes, were
seated at the tables when the two boys entered, and the Mère
Crapaud, brandishing the great spoon with which she measured her
soup, was busy behind the counter, assisted by two perspiring
marmitons. [Footnote 117]

    [Footnote 117: Scullions.]

"Bonjour, la mère," said Polycarpe, as he entered with the ease
and swagger of a well-known and favored guest; "how goes it with
you?"

"Bonjour, mauvais sujet," returned the hostess; "what brings you
here, to-day?"

"Well, I followed my nose, good mother, which was attracted by
the smell of your bouillon and beef, and brought me straight
here. Permit me to present my friend M. Marcel, a young gentleman
who is as yet unacquainted with the mysteries of your marmites."

"Mysteries! what do you mean by that, you little polisson? There
are no mysteries in my soup-pots; good beef and good vegetables;
find any better if you can."

"Why, I know I can't, Mother Crapaud, and that's why I've come."

"I don't intend running up a score for you, M. Polycarpe, I can
tell you; so clear out, you and your friend, if you've nothing to
pay with."

"But I have, Mother Crapaud. I'm a millionaire to-day, or very
nearly so, and so I'm going to treat my friend and myself to two
sous apiece of soup, and we'll see presently if you can give me
change for this." And he tossed up into the air and caught again
the silver piece he had extorted from poor Zozor's mistress.

The boys then seated themselves at one of the tables, and were
presently served with a bowl of good bouillon and a hunk of
bread.

"Now for a slice of fat beef, la mère," said Polycarpe, when the
soup had disappeared; "six sous' worth will be enough for us two,
and two sous each of stewed beans. What a cram! isn't it,
Marcel?"

Marcel did indeed like his good hot dinner. Poor fellow! it was
only when Polycarpe treated him that he knew what it was to eat
his fill. No conscientious scruples prevented his full enjoyment
of the present. Conscience, that mirror of the soul, which never
flatters, never deceives, was veiled in him by the thick mists of
ignorance, and the only kindnesses he ever received were from the
hands of thieves.

They were finishing their beef and beans when two big, rough
boys, dressed in dirty blue blouses and dirtier trousers of some
nondescript color, rushed into the gargote and bellowed for
something to eat. Throwing themselves on the bench opposite to
that on which Polycarpe and Marcel were seated, they commenced a
series of contortions, elbow nudges, whispers, and loud guffaws,
which were only stopped by the arrival of their victuals. The
elder of the two presently looked up, and, catching Polycarpe's
fixed gaze, after a moment's hesitation exclaimed, "Well, yes!
'tis you, Polycarpe! I thought I remembered your face. I'm glad
to meet you; you're a good one, I know."

Polycarpe was evidently much flattered by this recognition. "I
thought I knew your face too, as soon as you sat down, Guguste,
but you were so full of fun that I wouldn't interrupt you."

{265}

"I'll make you laugh presently," replied Guguste, bursting out
afresh, as did his companion also. "I'll tell you something
that'll tickle you. Come now, stop your noise," he continued to
his friend, who wriggled and choked in a convulsion of merriment,
"or I'll punch you quiet. I'll tell you, Polycarpe, when I've put
this plateful away. My eyes, what fun!"

So saying, he and his friend fell to again, and had soon finished
both beef and beans. When the plates were empty, Guguste leaned
his two elbows on the table and took breath. "That matter being
happily finished," said he presently, "I'll tell you the other;
it's a joke, a real good joke, in my opinion; what old Gorgibus
the shoemaker calls it, is another thing. What do you think he
calls it, eh! Touton? A riddle, perhaps. Ha, ha, a riddle!"

His friend Touton twisted and wriggled and giggled so heartily at
this idea, that he fell off the bench in his ecstasy. "What a
fellow you are for fun!" exclaimed Guguste, pulling him up; "but
really I don't wonder at you, to-day! You must know, Poly, that I
haven't had a shoe to my feet that was decent for an age, and
you'll agree that _that_ was uncomfortable and unpleasant,
not to say inconvenient, especially for a man of business like
myself--ha, ha! So when I got up, this morning, I said to
myself--while I shaved, you know, ha, ha, ha!--that I really must
find some kind of covering for my trotters. But where? That was
the question. So, to settle it, Touton and I strolled about the
streets until we found ourselves pretty far in the Rue St.
Antoine. What should we come upon all at once but a shoe-shop,
and there in the window the very kind of shoes that suited my
taste. Gorgibus was the name over the door. I shall always
remember it; sha'n't you, Touton?"

"Don't speak to me, Guguste; I shall burst with laughing,"
replied Touton. "Poor old Gorgibus, at the sign of holy Saint
Crispin! Oh! don't we owe him a candle, Guguste?"

"That we do, Touton, and you shall go to the church of St.
Severin, it's close by, and pay it to the good saint!"

"Not now, Guguste. Go on with the story, do; I want to know how
you got your shoes," cried Polycarpe.

"Well, then," continued the young reprobate, "Touton and I
consulted together for a minute, and then in we went. 'I want a
good pair of shoes, monsieur,' said I very politely. 'I'm just
going as clerk to a notary, and I must be well shod. What is the
price of this pair?'

"Ten francs,' said he.

"So I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out my cash, and
counted it over with him, and I had just nine francs. 'That's all
I have,' said I, putting the money back again into my pocket;
'will you give them to me for nine francs, if they fit me?'

"'Well, yes, I will, my boy,' said the old fellow good-naturedly.
Upon that I sat down and put on both shoes; they went on like
gloves, so comfortable, you have no idea! Then said I, 'Now, let
me see if nothing hurts when I walk;' so I walked up and down the
shop, old Gorgibus standing by admiring the fit, when, just as I
was passing near the door, this great vaurien of a Touton gave me
a punch in the nose!"

"Ha, ha, ha!" screamed Touton, unable any longer to restrain
himself, "how I cut up the street when I'd done it! and Guguste
cried, 'Stop, you rascal, I'll make you pay for that!' And he ran
and I ran, and old Gorgibus looked after us and laughed till he
cried, and he's crying still very likely!--ha, ha, ha!--and
waiting for Guguste to come back and pay for the shoes! Ha, ha,
ha!"

{266}

"Ha, ha, ha!" echoed the listeners.

"And then the neighbors," continued Guguste, wiping his eyes,
"came to their doors, and kept calling out, 'He'll catch him,
he'll catch him!' O Lord! what fun! And what a capital pair of
shoes!" And the scamp put a foot on the table to show his prize,
while the numerous customers around who had overheard the story
applauded him with enthusiasm. Excited by the universal
admiration, Guguste now invited the two boys to accompany him and
his friend to the cabaret at the corner of the street to take a
glass, an invitation most willingly accepted. The four
unfortunate children accordingly, after paying for their dinners,
adjourned to the wine-shop, where, in the society of bad men and
worse women, they were initiated still deeper into the mysteries
and the practice of crime.

Poor Marcel! poor little orphan!


                 To Be Continued.

                   ----------

        Treatise On Purgatory. [Footnote 118]

	     By Saint Catharine Of Genoa.

    [Footnote 118: The month of November is usually set apart by
    pious Catholics for commemoration of the souls in purgatory,
    and for prayers and offerings in their behalf. As specially
    befitting the season, therefore, we republish anew the
    beautiful _Treatise on Purgatory_ by St. Catharine of
    Genoa, with the above prefatory remarks by the translator.
    There have been several translations of the treatise
    heretofore published, and it might seem a needless work to
    give another. But besides its appropriateness to the season,
    and that many will read it in the pages of _The Catholic
    World_ who might not elsewhere see it, the new translation
    we now give has special merits of its own which will justify
    its publication.--ED. C. W.]


When the gates of purgatory opened to Dante and his companion
with awful thunderous roar, he heard mingling with the sound a
chorus of voices--"We praise thee, O God!"--rising and fading
away like a solemn chant and sound of the organ under the arches
of some vast cathedral.

And afterward, while pursuing their journey, they felt the whole
mountain of purgatory tremble. A shout arose--"Glory be to God in
the Highest!"--swelled by the voice of every suffering soul in
that vast realm. It was the expression of universal, unselfish
joy over the deliverance of one soul from its bounds.

Such are the tones that ring all through the _Treatise on
Purgatory_ by St. Catharine of Genoa--full of praise, of holy
joy, and of unselfish love. It ought to be read beneath the mild
eyes of the Madonna in some old church, to the sound of solemn
music. If you do not meet in it the dazzling angels of the great
Florentine poet, you feel their presence, and you rejoice like
him in the nooks of beauty where "spring sweet, pale flowers of
penitence," refreshed by the fragrant dews of God's mercy.

The patient, silent suffering of the tried souls she describes,
which are living on the glimpse they had of the divine Splendor
at the moment of death, is full of eloquence. They suffer
intensely, but peace and joy rise above pain, as in the beautiful
bay of Spezia, we are told, the sweet water rises up out of the
salt and bitter sea.

{267}

While reading this production of genius and of inspiration, we no
longer shrink from that dark region, lighted up, as it is, by
rays of God's wonderful goodness. With St. Catharine, we regard
it as a provision of great mercy which the soul gladly avails
itself of as a means of purification, which will fit it for the
awful presence of him in whose sight the very stars are not
pure--a presence the soul could not endure till it had purged
"the world's gross darkness off." As Faber says, "The moment that
in his sight it perceives its own unfitness for heaven, it wings
its voluntary flight to purgatory, like a dove to her proper nest
in the shades of the forest." It cries:

  "Take me away, and in the lowest deep
     There let me be,
   And there in hope the lone night-watches keep,
     Told out for me.
   There, motionless and happy in my pain,
     Lone, not forlorn,
   There will I sing my sad perpetual strain,
     Until the morn.
   There will I sing, and soothe my stricken breast,
     Which ne'er can cease
   To throb, and pine, and languish, till possessed
     Of its sole peace.
   There will I sing my absent Lord and Love:--
     Take me away,
   That sooner I may rise, and go above,
     And see him in the truth of everlasting day." [Footnote 119]

    [Footnote 119: _Dream of Gerontius_, by Father Newman.]

M. le Vicomte de Bussierre, in writing of this treatise, says:
"But is the state described by the saint that of all the souls
detained by divine justice in this place of expiation?" The reply
to this question requires some preliminary observations.

The dogma of the church respecting purgatory is very brief. The
Holy Council of Trent is satisfied with declaring that there is a
purgatory, and that the souls therein detained are helped by the
suffrages of the faithful.

The church does not define the nature of the sufferings endured
there, but this is our idea of them:

This world is a place of probation. In it are prepared the
materials for the construction of the New Jerusalem. Not only
stones are wanted for its walls, but jewels for its decoration.
Diamonds are not cut in the same manner as common stones. Thence
we can perceive the necessity of different ways of preparing the
righteous for a higher state of existence. The place each one
will occupy in heaven is irrevocably fixed at the moment of
death, but, before taking possession of it, he must have the
highest polish of which he is susceptible, and be without any
defect or stain.

Take two persons who are entering purgatory. One has passed his
life in gross sensual pleasures, but absolution with the
necessary dispositions has restored him to the paths of
righteousness; the other has always lived in innocence and in the
closest union with God, but slight imperfections deprive him for
a time of the beatific vision. Shall it be said that the manner
of purifying these two souls is the same, and that their
purgatory only differs in point of duration? It does not seem
probable. We do not use the same means for removing a stain from
a garment that we should for a particle of dust on a polished
mirror.

This explanation will better enable us to understand St.
Catharine's treatise. Most Christians believe there are sensible
pains in purgatory. It is the view commonly taken of that state
by our preachers. Our saint does not contradict this opinion. She
speaks of a special purification for certain souls, but without
excluding any. The soul in question in her treatise is a diamond
already cut with wonderful exactness, and from which the Divine
Artist is removing the last stain before placing it among his
choicest jewels.

{268}

Faber says there are two views of purgatory prevailing among
Christians, indicative of the peculiar tone of the mind of those
who have embraced them.

One is, that it is a place of sensible torture, where the least
pain is greater than all the pains of earth put together--an
intolerable prison-house, full of wailing and horror; visited by
angels, indeed, but only as the instruments of God's awful
justice. The spirit of this view is a horror of offending
Almighty God, a habitual trembling before his judgments, and a
great desire for bodily austerities.

The second view does not deny any of these features, but it gives
more prominence to other considerations. "The spirit of this view
is love, an extreme desire that God should not be offended, and a
yearning for the interests of Jesus." It is not so much a
question of selfish consideration with the soul, as of God's will
and glory. "Its sweet prison, its holy sepulchre, is in the
adorable will of its Heavenly Father, and there it abides the
term of its purification with the most perfect contentment and
the most unutterable love."

In short, this second view is that of St. Catharine of Genoa,
which comes home to our hearts, as we read her treatise, with
joyful conviction--giving new conceptions of that holy realm of
pain.

This treatise is not the production of human vanity. St.
Catharine only wrote by the express wish of her spiritual
director, who fathomed her genius and knew her familiarity with
the secrets of the Most High. It is, in the estimation of judges
of the highest authority, one of the most astonishing and
admirable productions of mystical theology, says M. de Bussierre.
And it has been approved of by the Holy See, and by the Sacred
Congregation of Rites.

It was one of the favorite books of St. Francis de Sales, with
whose spirit it is so greatly in harmony, and he calls the
authoress a seraph.

And Faber styles her, "The Great Doctress of Purgatory."

St. Catharine was contemporary with Christopher Columbus, being
born a few years later in the same city. And she was the
grand-niece of Pope Innocent IV., who first gave,
authoritatively, the name of Purgatory to the Intermediate State,
and who was, like her, of the noble house of the Fieschi.

The French author so often quoted says: "There are many
expressions in this work to which a forced meaning is not to be
given. St. Catharine represents a soul as strictly united to God
as it can be without being absorbed in the divinity. But she does
not annihilate individuality. She does not teach pantheism. She
only expresses the doctrine of St. Paul, '_In ipso vivimus, et
movemur, et sumus:_' 'In him we live, and we move, and we
are.'"

How she makes us long for that union, and welcome all that
hastens it! We would join with all our earth-worn heart in that
"liturgy of hallowed pain." "O world!" we cry with Faber--"O
weary, clamorous, sinful world! who would not break away, if he
could, like an uncaged dove, from thy perilous toils and unsafe
pilgrimage, and fly with joy to the lowest place in that most
pure, most safe, most holy land of suffering and of sinless
love?"

(Hector Vernaccia, who first published the works of St. Catharine
of Genoa, wrote the following preface to her _Treatise on
Purgatory:_)

{269}

"The soul of Catharine, still clad in the flesh, was plunged in
the furnace of God's ardent love, which consumed and purified her
from every imperfection, so that at the end of her life she was
fitted to pass at once into the presence of God, the only object
of her affection. This interior fire made her comprehend that the
souls in purgatory are placed there to be purified from the rust
and stain of the sins which they had not expiated on earth.
Swallowed up in this divine and purging fire, she acquiesced in
the will of God, rejoicing in all his love wrought in her; she
clearly understood what must be the state of the souls in
purgatory, and thus wrote thereof:"


                 Chapter I.

      State Of The Souls In Purgatory--
      They Are Divested Of All Self-love.

The souls which are confined in purgatory, as it is given me to
understand, can wish for no other dwelling-place than that
wherein God hath justly placed them.

They have no longer the power of reviewing their past lives. Nor
can they say: "I deserve to remain here for such and such sins.
Would that I had not committed them! Then should I be
participating in the joys of heaven." Neither can they compare
the duration of their punishment with that of others. They have
neither in good nor evil any remembrance which aggravates their
pains, not even respecting others; but they feel a great
satisfaction in being at the disposal of God, who doeth all that
seemeth to him good, and as it pleaseth him, so that in their
greatest sufferings they cannot think of themselves. They regard
only the goodness of God, whose infinite mercy would draw all men
to himself. They anticipate neither the pain nor the solace that
may be their portion: if they could, they would not be in a state
of pure love.

Nor do they see that they are suffering in punishment of their
sins. They cannot retain such a view in their minds, for that
would be an active imperfection, and impossible in a place where
there is no actual sin.

Only once, at the moment of quitting this world, do they see the
cause of purgatory which they have in themselves, but never
afterward, or there would be some selfish consideration. Being in
a state of pure love, from which they cannot deviate by actual
fault, they can only will and desire what is conformable to that
pure love. For in the flames of purgatory they are under the
divine ordinance and will; that is to say, in that state of pure
charity from which they can no longer be separated by any cause
whatever, because it is as impossible for them to commit actual
sin as it is to acquire actual merit.


             Chapter II.

  Of The Joy Of The Souls In Purgatory--
  Comparison Which Shows How These
  Souls Behold God More And More Clearly--
  Difficulty Of Describing This State.

I do not believe that there can be any peace comparable to that
felt by the souls in purgatory, unless that of the saints in
paradise. And each day this peace increases by the influence
which God exercises over the soul. It increases in proportion as
the impediment to that influence is consumed.

{270}

This impediment is nothing else than the rust of sin. The fire
consuming the rust, the soul is more and more exposed to the
divine influence. An object which is covered cannot correspond to
the reverberation of the sun's rays; not by any fault of the sun,
which ceases not to shine, but because of the covering on the
object. If that be consumed, the object beneath is laid open to
the sun; and the more completely the covering is consumed, the
more perfect the reverberation.

So the fire of purgatory wears away the rust of sin which covers
the soul, exposing it to God--the true sun--in proportion to its
purity, and, in the same proportion, increasing its peace. So
that its happiness goes on increasing and the rust wearing away
till the time be fully accomplished.

The pain which results from the desire of beholding God does not
diminish, but the time of its duration does. As to their will,
these souls can never say their pains _are_ pains, so
satisfied are they with the will of God, with which their will is
united in purest love.

On the other hand, nevertheless, they endure a torment so extreme
that no tongue can depict it--no understanding grasp the least
comprehension of it, unless by a special grace from God. He has
given me some idea of it, but I cannot well express it. What the
Lord has revealed to me has always remained imprinted on my mind.
I will relate what I can of it. They will understand me to whom
God giveth the intelligence.


                 Chapter III.

   Separation From God The Greatest Torment Of Purgatory--
   Wherein Purgatory Differs From Hell.

All pain is the consequence of original or actual sin. God
created the soul perfectly pure, and gave it a certain instinct
for happiness which forces it toward him as its true centre.

Original sin enfeebles this instinct in the soul at the
beginning. Actual sin diminishes it still more. The more this
instinct diminishes the worse the soul becomes, because God's
grace to the soul is withdrawn in proportion.

All goodness is only by participation in the goodness of God,
which is constantly communicated, even to those creatures which
are deprived of reason, according to his will and ordinance. As
to the soul endowed with reason, he communicates his grace to it
in proportion as he finds it freed from the obstacle of sin.
Consequently, when a guilty soul recovers in a measure its
primitive purity, its instinct for happiness also returns and
increases with such impetuosity and so great an ardor of love,
drawing it to its chief end, that every obstacle becomes to it an
insupportable torment. And the more clearly it sees what detains
it from union with God, the more excessive is its pain.

But the souls in purgatory being freed from the guilt of sin,
there is no other impediment between God and them but this pain
which prevents the complete satisfaction of their instinct for
happiness; and they see in the clearest manner that the least
impediment delays this satisfaction by a necessity of justice:
thence springs up a devouring fire, like to that of hell,
excepting the guilt.

This guilt constitutes the malignant will of the damned, which
obliges God to withhold his goodness from them; so they remain in
a fixed state of despair and malignity, with a will wholly
opposed to the divine will.

{271}

                Chapter IV.

    State Of The Soul In Hell--
    Difference Between It And That Of The Soul In Purgatory--
    Reflections Upon Those Who Neglect The Affairs Of Salvation.

It is, then, clear that the perverse will of man in revolt
against the will of God constitutes sin, and that the guilt of
sin cannot be effaced from the soul while it is under the
dominion of that evil will.

Now, the souls in hell departed this life with a perverse will;
consequently, their guilt has not been washed away, and now
cannot be, because death has rendered their will unchangeable.
The soul is for ever fixed in a state of good or evil, according
to the disposition of the will at the moment of death. Wherefore
it is written: _Ubi te invenero_, that is to say, Wherever I
find thee at the hour of death--with a will to sin or to repent
of sin--_ibi te judicabo_, there will I judge thee; and from
this judgment there is no appeal, because, all freedom of choice
ceasing with life, the soul must remain unalterably fixed in the
state in which death finds it.

The souls in hell are guilty to an infinite degree, being found
with a sinful will at the moment of death. Their pain is not so
great as they merit, but it will never end.

As for the souls in purgatory, they only endure pain. Guilt was
effaced before death by a true sorrow for having offended the
divine goodness. This pain is finite, and the time of its
duration is constantly diminishing.

O misery transcending all other woes, and so much the greater
because the blindness of man takes no precaution against it!

The torments of the damned, we have said, are not infinite in
their rigor. The great goodness of God extends a ray of mercy
even to hell. A man expiring in a state of deadly sin merits a
punishment infinite in duration and in intensity. God, in his
justice, could have inflicted on the damned torments far greater
than they have to endure; but while he has rendered them infinite
as to their duration, he has limited their intensity.

Oh! how dangerous is voluntary sin; for repentance is difficult,
and, unrepented of, the guilt of sin remains, and will remain as
long as man retains his affection for past sins or has the will
to commit them anew.


                  Chapter V.

        Of The Peace And Joy In Purgatory.

The souls in purgatory, being entirely freed from the guilt of
sin, and thus far restored to their original purity, and their
volition being entirely conformed to that of God, they are
constantly participating in his goodness.

Their guilt is remitted because, before departing this life, they
repented of their sins and confessed them with a firm purpose not
to commit any more. They retain, then, only the rust of sin which
is worn away by those penal fires.

Being thus cleansed from all sin and united to God by their will,
they contemplate him clearly according to the degree of light
which is given them. They comprehend how important it is that
they should enjoy God, the end for which they were created. They
feel so united to him by entire conformity of will, and are
attracted so powerfully toward him by a natural instinct, that I
find no comparison, or examples, or way by which I can express
this impetuosity as I understand it. Nevertheless, I will give a
comparison which has been suggested to my mind.

{272}

             Chapter VI.

    Comparison Illustrating The Ardent Love With Which The Souls
    In Purgatory Long For Union With God.


If in all the world there were but one loaf, the mere sight of
which would satiate the hunger of all creatures, what would be
the feelings of a man, with a natural instinct to eat when he is
in health, if he were neither able to eat, nor yet to be ill or
to die? His hunger would always be increasing with its
undiminished instinct, and, knowing that he could be satiated by
the very sight of this loaf of which he is deprived, he remains
in unbearable torments. The nearer he approaches it, the more
ravenous is his hunger, which draws him toward this food, the
object of his desire.

If he were sure of never beholding this bread, he would endure a
kind of hell, like that of the eternally lost, who are deprived
of the Bread of Life and of the hope of ever beholding Christ our
Redeemer.

The souls in purgatory, on the contrary, hope to behold this
bread and to eat their fill thereof; but meanwhile they suffer
the torments of a cruel hunger after it--that is to say, after
Jesus Christ, the God of our salvation and our love.


               Chapter VII.

      Of The Wonderful Wisdom Of God In
      The Creation Of Purgatory And Hell.

As the purified soul finds its repose only in God, for whom it
was created, so the soul defiled by sin has no other place but
hell assigned it for its destination.

The soul, at the moment of its separation from the body,
naturally gravitates toward its true centre. If in a state of
deadly sin, it goes to its appointed place, carried there by the
very nature of sin. If it did not find this place provided for it
by divine justice, it would remain in a worse hell; for it would
no longer be under the ordinance of God, still participating in
his mercy, and where the pain is less than the soul merits.

Not finding, then, any place better suited to it, or less fearful
than hell, by divine appointment it gees thither as to its own
place.

It is the same with purgatory. The soul, separated from the body,
not finding in itself all its primitive purity, and seeing that
this impediment to its union with God can only be removed by
means of purgatory, voluntarily throws itself therein. If the
place prepared for the removal of this impediment did not exist,
there would instantaneously be generated in the soul a torture
far worse than purgatory, for it would comprehend that this
impediment would hinder it from union with God, its aim and its
end.

This end is so ardently longed for, that the torments of
purgatory seem as nothing, although, as we have said, they are
like those of hell in some respects. But, I repeat, they seem as
nothing compared with the soul's true end.

{273}

             Chapter VIII.

    Of The Necessity Of Purgatory And
    The Terrible Nature Of Its Torments.

Furthermore I will say: the gates of heaven, through the goodness
of God, are closed against no one. Whoever wishes can enter, for
the Lord is full of mercy, and his arms are constantly extended
to receive us into glory.

But I see also that this divine essence is of such purity,
surpassing all we can imagine, that the soul which perceives in
itself the slightest mote of imperfection would cast itself into
a thousand hells rather than remain with a single stain in the
presence of infinite Majesty.

Therefore, seeing purgatory ordained for the removal of these
stains, the soul plunges into it, esteeming it a provision of
wonderful mercy by which it can be freed from the impediment it
finds in itself.

No tongue can express, no mind conceive, the nature of purgatory.
As to the severity of its torments, they equal those of hell.
[Footnote 120] Nevertheless, the soul with the slightest stain
endures them as a merciful dispensation, regarding them as
nothing in comparison with what opposes their union with God.

    [Footnote 120: Except that the souls in purgatory are not
    separated from the love and will of God, and have hope.]

I seem to understand that the sorrow of the souls in purgatory
for having in themselves the cause of God's displeasure,
resulting from their past offences against his great goodness--I
seem to understand, I say, that this sorrow surpasses all the
other torments which they endure in this place of purification.
Being in a state of grace, they comprehend the force and
seriousness of the obstacle which hinders their union with God.


                 Chapter IX.

  The Mutual Love Of God And The Souls In Purgatory--
  Difficulty Of Finding Expressions On This Subject.


Everything which has been revealed to me upon this subject, and
which I have comprehended according to the capacity of my mind,
is of so much importance that, compared therewith, all the
knowledge, all the sayings, all the opinions, all the reason, and
all the wisdom of man in this life seem as vain trifles and as
things of no account. I acknowledge, to my confusion, that I can
find no other words to express my meaning.

I perceive so great a conformity between God and the soul in
purgatory that, in order to restore the latter to its original
purity, God inspires in the soul an ardent love which draws it
toward him--a love forcible enough to annihilate it, were it not
immortal. It transforms it to such a degree that the soul beholds
nothing but God, who draws and inflames it continually, without
ever abandoning it, till he has brought it back to the source
whence it issued, that is to say, to the perfect purity in which
it was created.

And when the soul, interiorly enlightened, feels itself thus
attracted by the fire of God's great love, it melts completely in
its ardor. It sees, by a supernatural light, that God never
ceases to lead it on, with constant providential care, to its
entire perfection; it sees that God is prompted only by pure
love, and that the soul, impeded by the effects of sin, can only
follow the divine impulse, that is to say, that attraction which
draws it toward God; it comprehends also the greatness of the
obstacle which hinders its admission to the presence of the
divine light; finally, it is drawn by that powerful instinct
which would have nothing hinder it from yielding to the divine
attraction: it sees and feels all these things, I say, and
therein is the source of the soul's torments in purgatory.

{274}

But it does not regard its pain, however great: it regards
infinitely more the obstacle the will of God finds in it, that
will which it clearly sees is full of the purest and most ardent
love for it.

This love and this unitive attraction act so continually and so
powerfully upon the soul, that if it could find another purgatory
more terrible than this, in which it could be sooner delivered
from all that separates it from the Sovereign Good, it would
speedily plunge therein, through the impetuosity of the love it
bears to God.

              Chapter X.

  How God Purifies The Soul In Purgatory--
  The Soul Acquires Therein
  Such Perfect Purity That Were It
  To Remain There After Its Purification
  It Would Suffer No More.

I behold, also, the ardent rays of divine love toward the souls
of men penetrating and potent enough to destroy, not only the
body, but the soul even, if that were possible.

These rays produce two effects: they purify, and they annihilate.

Look at gold: the more you melt it the purer it becomes, and you
could go on refining it till every impurity is destroyed. Such is
the effect of fire upon material things. Though the soul cannot
annihilate itself in God, it can in its own self; and the more it
is purified, the more completely is it annihilated in itself,
till at last it rests quite pure in God.

It is said that gold, when it is purified to a certain degree, no
longer diminishes, whatever degree of heat it may be exposed to,
because nothing but the dross can be consumed. The divine fire
acts in like manner upon the soul. God holds it in the fire till
every imperfection is consumed. He thus reduces all souls to a
state of purity, each one according to its own degree of
perfection.

And when the soul is thus purified it rests altogether in God,
without retaining anything in itself. It has its being then in
God. And when he has brought the soul to himself, thus purified,
it becomes impassible, for there is nothing left in it to be
consumed. And should it still remain in the fire after being thus
purified, it would suffer no longer. That fire would be to it a
flame of divine love itself eternal life, in which the soul could
experience no more contradictions.


              Chapter XI.

  The Souls In Purgatory Desire To
  Purified From Every Stain Of Sin--
  Of The Wisdom Of God In Immediately
  Concealing From These Souls Their Faults.--

The soul was originally endowed with all the means of attaining
its own degree of perfection, by living in conformity with the
laws of God and keeping itself pure from all stain of sin. But,
being contaminated by original sin, it loses its gifts and
graces. It dies, and can only rise again by the assistance of
God. And when he has raised it to life again by baptism, a bad
inclination still remains in the soul, leading it, if unresisted,
to actual sin, by which it dies anew. God raises it again by
another special grace; nevertheless it remains so soiled, so
fallen back upon itself, that, to be restored to the state of
purity in which God created it, it has need of all the divine
operations before mentioned to enable it to return to its
primitive condition.

When the soul is on its way back to this state, its desire of
being lost in God is so great as to become the purgatory of the
soul.

Purgatory is nothing to it _as_ purgatory. The burning
instinct which forces it toward God, only to find an impediment,
constitutes its real torture.

{275}

By a last act of love, God, the author of this plan for the
perfection of the soul, works without the concurrence of man; for
there are in the soul so many hidden imperfections that if it saw
them it would be in despair. But the state of which we have just
spoken destroys them all. It is only when they are obliterated
that God shows them to the soul, in order that it may comprehend
the divine operation wrought by this fire of love consuming all
its imperfections.



                Chapter XII.

  How Joyfully Suffering Is Endured In Purgatory.

Remember that what man considers perfect in itself, is full of
defects in the eyes of God. Everything man does which has the
appearance of perfection from the point of view in which he sees
it, or feels, understands, wills, or recalls it, is soiled and
infected if he does not attribute it to God.

Our deeds are perfect only when they are wrought by us, without
considering ourselves the principal agents, and when they are
referred to God, we being only his instruments.

Such are precisely the final operations of pure love wrought by
God himself in the soul, without any merit on our part. These
operations are so ardent and so penetrating in their effects upon
the soul, that it seems as though the body which envelops it
would be consumed as in a great fire where death alone could give
relief.

It is true that the love of God which fills the soul in purgatory
inspires it, according to my comprehension, with a joy that
cannot be expressed. But this satisfaction does not take away one
particle of the pain. Nay, it is the hindering of love from the
possession of its object which causes the pain, and the pain is
in proportion to the perfection of the love of which God has made
the soul capable.

Thus it is that the souls in purgatory at once enjoy the greatest
tranquillity and endure the greatest pain; and the one in no way
hinders the other.


              Chapter XIII.

  No Merit Is Acquired In Purgatory--
  In What Manner The Souls In Purgatory Regard The
  Suffrages Made In Their Behalf On Earth.

If the stains of the souls in purgatory could be effaced by
contrition, the divine justice might in an instant be satisfied,
so profound and ardent is their sorrow in view of the great
obstacle which opposes their union with God, their chief end and
their love.

But, remember, God has decreed that the last farthing is to be
demanded of these souls for the satisfaction of eternal justice.
As to them, they have no choice; they can now see and wish only
what God wishes. This is the unalterable state of their souls.

If some spiritual alms are given on earth to abridge the time of
their sufferings, they cannot regard them with affection, only as
they are weighed in the equitable scales of the divine will,
leaving God to act according to his own pleasure, and to pay
himself and his justice in the way his own infinite goodness
chooses to select.

{276}

If it were possible for them to regard these alms apart from the
good pleasure of God, they would be guilty of an act of
appropriation which would deprive them of the knowledge of the
divine will, and thus making their abode a hell.

Thus they receive every appointment of God with tranquillity, and
neither joy, nor satisfaction, nor sufferings can ever induce
them to fall back upon themselves.


            Chapter XIV.

  Of The Submission Of The Souls In
  Purgatory To The Will Of God.

These souls are so perfectly conformed to the will of God that
they are always satisfied with his holy decrees.

If a soul were admitted to the vision of God, having still
something left to be cleansed away, it would consider itself
grievously injured and its sufferings worse than many
purgatories, for it would be unable to endure that excessive
goodness and that perfect justice.

What an incongruity it would be in the sight of God, as well as
of the soul, for his justice not to be entirely satisfied! If
this soul lacked a single moment of expiation, it would feel an
insupportable torture, and would plunge into a thousand hells to
remove this little rust rather than remain in the presence of God
without being entirely purified.


            Chapter XV.

  A Warning To People Of The World.

Would that I could cry loud enough to frighten all the men who
dwell upon the face of the earth, and say to them: O miserable
men! why do you suffer yourselves to be so blinded by the world
as not to make any provision for that imperious necessity in
which you will find yourselves at the moment of death?

You all shelter yourselves under the hope of God's mercy, which
you call so infinite. But do you not see that it is precisely
this great goodness of God which will rise up in judgment against
you, miserable men, for rebelling against the will of so good a
Lord?

His goodness should incite you to the full accomplishment of his
will, instead of encouraging you to sin with impunity; for, be
fully assured, his justice can never fail, and it must, in some
way, be entirely satisfied.

Do not reassure yourself by saying: I will confess all my sins, I
will gain a plenary indulgence, and thus I shall be cleansed at
once from all my iniquities; and so I shall be saved. Remember
that contrition and confession are necessary to gain a plenary
indulgence. And perfect contrition is so difficult to acquire
that, if you knew how difficult it is, you would tremble for very
fear, and would be much more certain of not gaining the
indulgence than of obtaining such a grace.


            Chapter XVI.

  In Which It Is Shown That The Torments
  Of Purgatory Do Not Affect The Peace And
  Joy Of The Souls Therein Detained.

I see that the souls suffering in purgatory are conscious of two
operations of divine grace in them.

By the first of these operations they willingly endure their
sufferings. Considering, on the one hand, what they have merited,
and, on the other, the incomprehensible majesty of an offended
God, they understand the extent of his mercy toward them. For a
single sin merits a thousand hells eternal in duration; but the
goodness of God tempers justice with mercy in accepting the
precious blood of Jesus Christ in satisfaction for sin. So that
these souls endure their torments so willingly that they would
not have them diminish one iota. They see how fully they are
merited, and how righteously they are ordained: and as to their
will, it no more revolts against that of God than if they were
participating in the joys of eternal life.

{277}

The second operation of grace in these souls consists in the
peace with which they are filled in view of the divine
ordinances, and the love and mercy of God manifested in their
behalf.

The knowledge of these two operations is imprinted by God on
these souls in an instant, and, as they are in a state of grace,
they comprehend them, every one according to his capacity. They
feel a great joy, which, far from diminishing, goes on increasing
in proportion as the time for their union with God approaches.

These souls do not view these things in themselves or as
belonging to themselves; they view them in God, with whom they
are far more occupied than with their own torments. For the least
glimpse man has of God transcends every pain and every imaginable
joy.

Nevertheless, their excessive joy does not in the least detract
from their pain, nor their extreme pain in the least from their
joy.


           Chapter XVII.

  In Which St. Catharine Applies What
  She Has Written Of The Souls In
  Purgatory To What She Has Felt
  And Experienced In Her Own Soul.

My own soul has experienced the same state of purification as
that of the souls in purgatory--especially within two years--and
each day I see and feel this more clearly. My soul remains in the
body as in a purgatory, but only in such a degree of suffering as
the body can endure without dying. And this suffering will go on
increasing by degrees till the body is no longer able to support
it, and will really die.

My mind has become unused to all things, even spiritual, which
could refresh it, such as joy, pleasure, or consolation. It is no
longer able, by will, understanding, or memory, to relish
anything, whether of a temporal or spiritual nature, so that I
can say one thing pleases me more than another.

My soul has been so besieged, as it were, that by degrees it has
been deprived of all that could refresh me spiritually or
corporally. Even this privation makes me feel the power these
things have of nourishing and refreshing me; but the soul,
conscious of this power, loathes and abhors them to such a degree
that they have ceased for ever to tempt me.

For it is an instinct of the soul to strive to overcome every
obstacle to its perfection--an instinct so cruelly exacting that
it would, as it were, allow itself to be cast into hell to
achieve its object. It goes on then depriving itself of
everything in which the inner man can delight, and this with so
much subtlety that the slightest imperfection is noted and
detested.

The outer man, being no longer sustained by the consolations of
the soul, suffers to such a degree that, humanly speaking, it can
find nothing on earth to sustain it. There remains for it no
other consolation than God, who ordereth all these things in
infinite mercy and love, for the satisfaction of his justice.
This view inspires me with great peace and joy, which,
nevertheless, do net diminish the violence of my sufferings; but
no pain could be severe enough to induce me to deviate in the
least from the order of things established by God.
{278}
Nor would I leave this prison till the Lord hath accomplished his
designs upon me. My peace consists in satisfying the justice of
God, and I could find no torment greater than in deviating from
his ordinance, so perfectly just and good does it seem to me.

I see--I feel, as it were--all the things I have here related;
but I find no words to express my meaning suitably as to what I
have here written. I have felt its operation in my own soul,
which has given me the necessary knowledge for writing about it.

The prison in which I seem to be is the world; the chain that
binds me therein is the body. And the soul, illuminated by grace,
recognizes the importance of the obstacles which hinder it from
attaining its true end. This causes great grief to the soul, on
account of its extreme sensibility. Nevertheless, it receives,
through the pure grace of God, a certain impress of dignity,
which not only assimilates it to God, but renders it in a manner
one with him by a participation of his goodness. And, as it is
impossible for God to suffer, so the soul which lives in union
with him becomes impassible, and the more complete this union the
more it shares in the divine attributes.

But the delay of this union causes an intolerable suffering in
the soul. And this suffering and this delay make it different
from what it was at its creation. God, by his grace, makes known
to it its original condition. Without the power of returning to
it, and yet feeling itself adapted to that condition, it remains
in a state of suffering proportionate to its love for God. This
love increases with the soul's knowledge of God, and its
knowledge increases in the same ratio as the soul is purified
from sin. Thus this delay becomes more and more intolerable,
because the soul, entirely absorbed in God, has nothing more to
hinder it from truly knowing him.

The man who prefers to suffer death rather than offend God is not
the less fully alive to its pangs, but the divine grace inspires
him with a fervor which makes him think more of the honor of God
than the life of the body. It is the same with the soul that
knows the will of God. It regards that as of infinitely more
importance than all interior or exterior sufferings whatever,
however terrible they may be; for the Lord who worketh in it
surpasses all that can be felt or imagined. The result is that
the slightest hold of God upon the soul keeps it so united to his
supreme will that everything else is esteemed as nothing. The
soul thus loses all consideration of self. It becomes so
regardless of pain that it does not speak of it or even feel it.
It is conscious of its real condition for one moment only--as has
been said before--when passing from this life to the next.

I will only add, in conclusion: let us become thoroughly
impressed with the fact that God, at once good and powerful, has
created purgatory for the purification of man, wherein is
consumed and annihilated all that he is by nature.

               ----------

{279}

         The Charities of New York.

If we recur again to a subject on which we have two or three
times already addressed the readers of _The Catholic World_,
it is because we are so deeply impressed with its importance, and
because we are persuaded that in any matter which so highly
concerns the Catholic cause all our friends must be heartily
interested. The generosity of Catholics toward their church is
almost proverbial. They give more to religion than any other
denomination; they give more liberally in proportion to their
means; and they give spontaneously. And nowhere is their
generosity more strikingly shown than in the great cities of
America, where they have built so many scores of costly churches,
and raised up convents and orphan asylums, and where they have
given almost every parish its free school, though the law has
compelled them likewise to pay taxes for the support of
common-schools to which they cannot in conscience entrust their
children. Here, in New York City, we have had a particularly
heavy task to perform. As this is the landing-place of most of
the Catholic immigrants, besides being the chief city and
business centre of the country, the growth of the Catholic
population has been especially rapid, and it has grown in
principal measure by the influx of the poorer classes, who, while
they stand in greatest need of the help of the Church, are able
to do least for its support. It is a notorious fact that, while a
large proportion of the more thrifty immigrants move out to the
West, and help to build up Catholicism in our new States and
territories, the destitute and shiftless almost invariably remain
in the large cities. Hence, the growth in the material resources
of the Church in New York does not keep pace with the growth in
its numbers. The well-to-do immigrants who have settled here, and
the American-born Catholics, children of the last generation of
settlers, or else converts from Protestantism, have a task of
peculiar difficulty, as they must provide not only for the
natural increase in their own numbers, but for the spiritual
wants of their poorer brethren, who have no means of providing
for themselves. And it is a task which seems to grow harder and
harder every year. The congregations increase much faster than
the churches. Children multiply faster than the schools. With all
the unremitting labors of our successive bishops and archbishops,
and all the untiring exertions of our zealous priests, there are
not yet churches enough in New York City.

We must remember this peculiar condition of our Church when we
undertake to compare Catholic with Protestant charities. The
noblest work of benevolence is that which assists our neighbor to
save his soul; and Catholics understand perfectly well that they
can make no better disposition of their alms than in contributing
to supply the poor with opportunities of hearing Mass, receiving
the sacraments, and learning the principles and precepts of their
faith. Hence, their liberality has been directed first toward the
building of churches and the education of priests, and next
toward the support of Catholic schools.
{280}
While there was so much to be done in these directions, they felt
comparatively little disposition to spare either money or
attention in feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, or nursing
the sick. Of these corporal works of mercy they have, indeed,
done much in proportion to their means; but they have, very
rightly, thought more of feeding the hungry soul than the hungry
stomach, more of curing the sick heart than the wounded body.

While Catholics have thus been so much occupied in looking after
the things of God, that they have been unable to devote more than
an ordinary amount of care to the physical wants of God's
unfortunate children, the case with Protestants has been very
different. They are in no want of churches; they have more
already than they know how to fill. They need no free-schools,
for the State system of education satisfies all their
requirements. They have abundant wealth, and are willing to
devote a share of it to benevolent purposes. In the majority of
cases we believe that they give to such enterprises out of the
best religious motives; for we have no patience with the
narrowness of mind which suspects the disinterestedness of all
Protestant charity, and seems to imagine that no man who is so
unfortunate as to be a heretic can possibly do a good deed from a
good impulse. Many Protestant benevolent institutions are
maintained, no doubt, for the purpose of bribing poor destitute
Catholics to abandon their faith; but all are not. Protestants
are doing a great deal in the way of genuine beneficence; and it
is more becoming, as well as more politic, for us to frankly
recognize and imitate whatever praiseworthy actions they perform,
than to inquire too closely and suspiciously into their ulterior
motives.

A book which has recently been published in New York puts us in a
position to compare, with very little trouble, the work
accomplished by Protestants and Catholics in the way of organized
charity in this city. Its title is, _The Charities of New York,
Brooklyn, and Staten Island_, by Henry J. Cammann and Hugh N.
Camp. (Octavo, pp. 597. Hurd & Houghton.) The authors have had
much to do with various institutions of benevolence--principally,
we believe, with those connected with the Protestant Episcopal
denomination; and their purpose in preparing this volume was to
give a brief history and description of all the organized private
charities of New York and its suburbs, partly to show what has
been done for the relief of suffering humanity, and partly to
guide alms-givers in making an intelligent disposition of their
liberality. They seem to have performed their task with care and
impartiality, permitting each institution to speak for itself
through one of its officers or special friends, or in an official
report, and making no attempt to compare the number and
efficiency of the establishments of different faiths. A
conscientious desire to be just toward Catholic, Protestant, and
Jew is apparent throughout. The record is not a complete one; but
the deficiency, we have reason to believe, is the consequence, in
chief measure, of the neglect or unwillingness of the proper
persons to furnish the requisite information. We have supplied
these omissions as far as possible, but the story is not yet told
in full; though for purposes of comparison the table which we
give below is probably sufficient. We have added several
important societies and institutions which are not included in
the book, namely, the New York Prison Association, St. Stephen's
Home, St. Francis' German Hospital, the Society of St. Vincent de
Paul, and some others; and we have omitted all which are
supported entirely, or almost entirely, by appropriations from
the city or State, such as Bellevue Hospital, the New York Blind
Asylum, etc., as well as those which do not properly belong to
New York City.
{281}
The figures represent the number of persons who have obtained aid
of shelter from these various organizations during the past year.
The admirable Mission-House in St. James' parish has gone into
operation since last year, and therefore cannot be included in
the table.

         CATHOLIC.

1.  St. Vincent's Hospital,                        832
2.  St. Francis's German Hospital,                 592
3.  St. Stephen's Home for Destitute Little Girls, 100
4.  St. Patrick's Male Orphan Asylum,              550
5.  St. Patrick's Female Orphan Asylum,            390
6.  St. Joseph's Orphan Asylum,                    150
7.  St. Vincent's Orphan Asylum,                    85
8.  House of the Good Shepherd,                    500
9.  Institution of Mercy,                         2845
10. St. Vincent de Paul Society, [Footnote 121]   ----
Total                                             6044

    [Footnote 121: Lack of information obliges us to leave several
     blanks in the above table, where figures should appear.]


     PROTESTANT AND JEWISH.

 1. St. Luke's Hospital                                           1027
 2. Society for the Relief of the Ruptured and Crippled,          1684
 3. Women's Hospital,                                              189
 4. German Hospital and Dispensary,                               ----
 5. Eye and Ear Infirmary,                                        8038
 6. Mount Sinai Hospital,                                         1028
 7. Infirmary for Women and Children,                              137
 8. Nursery and Child's Hospital                                   572
 9. Leake and Watts Orphan House,                                  100
10. St. Luke's Home for Indigent Christian Females,                 31
11. American Female Guardian Society and Home for the Friendless, 5033
12. P. E. House of Mercy,                                          112
13. Orphan Asylum,                                                 186
14. Colored Orphan Asylum,                                         254
15. Orphan Home and Asylum of the Protestant Episcopal Church,     158
16. Society for the Relief of Half-Orphan and Destitute Children   230
17. Hebrew Benevolent and Orphan Asylum Society                    150
18. Five Points House of Industry,                                1000
19. The Sheltering Arms,                                           157
20. Children's Aid Society,                                       8192
21. Five Points Mission                                           ----
22. Association for the Relief of
    Respectable Aged Indigent Females,                              79
23. Magdalen Society,                                               37
24. Ladies' Union Aid Society,                                      65
25. Colored Home                                                   800
26. Union Home and School for Children of
    Volunteer Soldiers and Sailors,                                330
27. Asylum for Lying-in Women,                                     395
28. Women's Prison Association,                                    350
29. New-York Prison Association                                   ----
30. Presbyterian Home for Aged Women,                               22
31. Society for the Relief of Poor Widows with small Children,    ----
32. Howard Mission and Home for Little Wanderers,                  100
33. Working-Women's Protective Union,                             ----
34. Association for Improving the Condition of the Poor,          ----
35. The Home, in West-Houston street,                              112
36. Samaritan Home for the Aged,                                  ----
37. Protestant Episcopal City Mission,                            ----
38. Working-Woman's Home,                                          120
39. Ladies' Christian Union,                                       150
40. House and School of Industry,                                  102
Total,                                                          31,860

This is not a pleasing comparison. Out of fifty institutions here
enumerated, only ten belong to us. Out of 37,904 persons annually
relieved by the fifty charities, our share is only 6044. The case
is not so bad, however, as it appears on first inspection. Our
Sisters of Charity and Mercy perform an immense amount of
benevolent work outside of their own houses and asylums, nursing
the sick, consoling the afflicted, watching in public hospitals,
feeding the hungry, and visiting the prisoner; work which cannot
be measured by figures, because there is no record of it except
in heaven. Benevolent labor of the kind to which our sisterhoods
devote themselves is undertaken by various of the non-Catholic
organizations enumerated in the above table, and largely
increases their apparent predominance over our own
establishments, because they sum up in statistical form what is
done, and we do not. Then again, several of the charities set
down as Protestant are entirely unsectarian in their character,
and we dare say draw a fair proportion of their support from
Catholic sources. Not so bad as it seems, we say; yet surely bad
enough.
{282}
Perhaps we ought not even to claim credit for what the
sisterhoods do; for theirs are in reality labors of individual
benevolence, and the Catholic community at large shares little or
nothing of the expense, the trouble, or the merit of them. The
Catholics of New York are supposed to number four hundred
thousand--nearly half the population of the city--and it is
notorious that they comprise a great deal more than half the
pauper population. Are we doing a fair proportion of the work of
taking care of our poor? Moreover, pauperism increases _ten
times as fast_ as the whole population. The growth of the
entire number of inhabitants in thirty-four years has been ninety
per cent; the increase in the number of those receiving
charitable relief has been during the same period no less than
nine hundred per cent. What provision are we making to meet the
terrible responsibility which this state of society entails?

We can hardly question that the time has come when the physical
wants of these unfortunate classes should awaken in us serious
consideration. We have done well to look so carefully after the
building of churches, and of course we must not relax our efforts
or check our generosity in the slightest degree on account of
these additional calls upon us. We must work also for our schools
as we have never worked before. Systems of education all around
us are daily improving, and Catholic schools must not be left
behind. Perhaps it may be found possible to make some arrangement
by which we can be relieved of the disadvantage under which we
now rest. Catholics and Protestants should have but one and the
same end in view in the education of the young; and we are not
without hope that the love of fair play which belongs to the
American people will enable us in time to compose the old
school-quarrel, which has been such an injury to the community.
How this may be done, it would lead us far from our present
subject to consider. We trust it will be done some day, but
meanwhile our church schools have a right to the most generous
support. Churches and schools must come first; but when we have
given them all they need, we are not to stop there. Protestants
are fully awake to the danger which threatens the public welfare
from this rapid increase of a destitute class, and are working
hard to effect a reform. If we do not take care of our own poor,
they will not only provide for their physical wants, but will
soon acquire charge of their souls. Such institutions as the Five
Points Mission, the Howard Mission, the Children's Aid Society,
the Association for Improving the Condition of the Poor, however
honestly they may be conducted, are powerful engines of
proselytism. Their managers may be actuated by the most
disinterested benevolence, they may use none but legitimate means
of influence; but is it any wonder that they draw many Catholics,
especially children, away from the faith, when we let them have
the field so completely to themselves? Against the Association
for Improving the Condition of the Poor, we can set off, indeed,
our noble Society of St. Vincent de Paul, though its resources
are far smaller than they should be; but to take the place of the
three other important charities mentioned above, we Catholics can
show little or nothing.

First, we ought to look after the children. The adult sick and
suffering are in less spiritual danger; for in most of the
hospitals, except those of a strictly denominational character,
they can enjoy the visits of priests and sisters. For the
destitute who are strong enough to work we can offer no better
resource than that which the Citizens' Association is now
striving to afford in the organization of a Labor Bureau, by
which the superfluous hands of the city may be distributed among
the farming regions, where labor is badly needed.
{283}
Sectarianism appears to have nothing to do with this enterprise,
and it offers relief in the best possible way, by enabling the
poor not to eat the bread of idleness, but to earn an honest
living. For the aged and friendless, who are past work and have
no provision for the sunset of life, we still have no asylums;
but their claims must be postponed until those of the children
are satisfied. We are told that our city contains no fewer than
40,000 vagrant and destitute children. What a fearful seed of
crime and misery this sad multitude constitutes, growing up in
every kind of ignorance and vice, and ripening for the prisons!
What are we doing for them? We have orphan asylums; but most of
these children are not orphans, and even if they were, the
asylums have not room for a tithe of them. We have the
Protectory, at Westchester; but that is only for young criminals,
who must be committed on a magistrate's warrant, and must,
moreover, be the children of Catholic parents. Now, thousands of
these young vagrants have never yet fallen within the grasp of
the law; thousands are the children of no faith whatever, and, if
brought before a justice, would have to be sent to the Protestant
instead of the Catholic asylum. And, even if all these children
could be brought under the control of our Protectory Association,
twenty such asylums as the excellent one at Westchester would not
hold them. No! there is much for us yet to do; there are
thousands of poor little children upon whom Catholic charity has
not yet laid a finger.

We spoke, in a former number of _The Catholic World_, of the
noble mission-school which the zeal and perseverance of one good
priest has founded in St. James's parish in this city. If almost
every church in New York were able to build an institution of a
similar kind, we might rest satisfied; but what is one
mission-school among 40,000 children? What can one over-worked
clergyman do toward performing a task which is the duty of the
entire Catholic community? It is a sad and humiliating thing to
confess; but Protestants seem to appreciate the claim which these
vagrant children have upon the public much better than we do. The
Protestants are not idle: they have their Refuges, their
Industrial Schools, their "Homes," their missionaries, right in
the heart of the vagabond population; they spare neither trouble
nor money to catch these souls; and we are ashamed to say they
capture a great many who are rightfully our charges. If we let
this continue, will not God have a terrible account to exact of
us some day?

We are gratified to know that what we have heretofore said on
this subject has not been without its effect. There are some good
brethren who seem to believe that it is the duty of all Catholic
writers to defend those of the faith from every aspersion, to
cover up all their defects, to excuse all their wrong-doings, to
hold them up as perfect models of the Christian life, and to
ignore or decry every good work undertaken by heretics. Such as
these were offended at the account we gave of the Howard Mission,
and similar Protestant institutions. But others have listened to
us in a more sensible frame of mind, have acknowledged the
justice of our remarks, and have offered to contribute their
purses whenever an effort is made to supply the want we have
indicated. Made it will be and must be, before long. Now, who
will make it?

{284}

We had written thus far, when we received an unexpected answer to
our question in the following letter from a charitable Catholic
lady:

  To The Editor Of _The Catholic World_:

  Rev. Father:
  The thought of doing something for the neglected children of
  New York prompts me to write to you. Since the moment that I
  read the letter that you published in _The Catholic
  World_, they have scarcely been out of my mind. I have
  offered up all my prayers and communions for them, and I have
  prayed especially for them every day. I had no thought that I
  could do anything else, but sometimes I think that, if all
  should content themselves with praying, there would be nothing
  done. I am afraid I cannot do much, for I do not know how to
  begin, and I have so little confidence and I know so few
  people. But I felt as if I could not pray any more without
  trying to do something also. Perhaps the work could be begun by
  an appeal something like the following:

    To Catholic Mothers.

    "Of forty thousand vagrant children in New York we cannot
    doubt that far more than one half have inherited the Catholic
    faith."--_Catholic World_ for Aug. 1868.

    More than twenty thousand Catholic children in New York,
    homeless, uncared for, ignorant, and abandoned! Can we
    Catholic mothers think of this and sit quietly in our homes
    with our little ones around us? Can we shut from our ears
    their cries of sorrow, from our eyes their little forms
    trembling with cold and hunger, or from our hearts the
    thought of their desolation? No, we cannot, and we would not;
    for is it not most especially our right, our duty, and our
    privilege to do for them? Our priests are overworked, they
    cannot do everything; let us, then, beg their blessing and
    begin this noble undertaking. We have not much to do, only to
    prepare the way. The Sisters of Charity or Mercy are ready
    and longing to care for these little desolate ones. We have
    only to put the means in their hands. Already a Catholic lady
    of New York has given one thousand dollars for this end, and
    we have only to follow her as far as we are able. I think ten
    others can be found in our city to imitate her example. If we
    can, let us give largely, for it is but lending to the Lord;
    if we have but little, let us give of that, not forgetting
    that the widow's mite was more than all else cast into the
    treasury. Shall we let the snows of another winter find these
    little ones still unclothed and unsheltered; shall we let
    their souls perish here in the midst of churches and altars,
    while our priests and missionaries in distant lands are
    shedding their blood for the heathen? Let us Christian
    mothers begin our work earnestly, let us pray and labor for
    these little ones; they are here in our midst, and before God
    we are responsible for them.

  Respectfully, ----

Our correspondent, we believe, has gone to work in the right way,
and, unless we greatly misjudge the Catholic ladies of New York,
her appeal will be heard. The best plan, we think, would be to
establish, in the heart of the poorer quarters of the city, a
mission-house under the charge of Sisters of Charity, or Sisters
of Mercy, who should make it their whole business to visit the
destitute in their homes, teach them how to lead decent lives,
see that their children were brought into Sunday and day-schools,
that the whole family went to mass and confession, and that the
children received proper care at home. It is much better to
persuade parents to train up their offspring properly than to
take the children out of their hands and rear them in
mission-houses and asylums. The family relation ought to be
rigidly respected; for God's plan of education is a good deal
better than anything we can invent in place of it. For homeless
and orphan children, the Sisters might see that admission was
procured into the Catholic establishments already provided for
those classes; for the sick and the starving they would ask
relief from the charitable throughout the city, and whatever we
placed in their hands we might be sure would be judiciously
distributed.
{285}
There are generous Catholic women enough in New York to the
foundation of such a house, and provide for the support of a
small community to take charge of it; and there are many who
would highly value the privilege of co-operating with the Sisters
in their holy work. Let them come forth, effect an organization
under the sanction of the ecclesiastical authority of the
diocese, begin at once to raise the money required, and a great
undertaking, the parent of many others, will be effected. When we
once get into the way of practical benevolence, we shall be
surprised to see how easily one foundation will follow another,
and how the habit of alms-deeds will become so fixed that it will
seem easier and more natural to give than to refrain from giving.

              ----------

           New Publications.


  Symbolism; or, Exposition of the Doctrinal Differences between
  Catholics and Protestants, as evidenced by their Symbolical
  Writings.
  By John A. Moehler, D.D.
  Translated from the German, with a Memoir of the Author,
  preceded by an Historical Sketch of the state of Protestantism
  and Catholicism in Germany for the last hundred years.
  By J. B. Robertson.
  New edition, revised and annotated by the Translator.
  One vol. 8vo, pp. 504,
  New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1868.

The Symbolism of Dr. Möhler is, perhaps, the most remarkable
polemical work which has appeared since the days of Bellarmine
and Bossuet. Its influence in Germany has been extraordinary, and
the translation by Mr. Robertson has exerted an influence of
similar importance in Great Britain and the United States, as
well as in every part of the world where English is spoken. The
late illustrious convert from the Protestant Episcopal hierarchy,
Dr. Ives, was greatly indebted to this book for the convictions
which brought him into the Church, and many others might
doubtless say the same of themselves. It may be well to say, for
the benefit of non-professional readers, that "Symbolism" in
German phraseology means the exposition of symbols of faith or
authorized formularies of doctrines, and that this work is a
thorough discussion of the dogmatic differences between the
Catholic Church and the principal Protestant denominations. The
present edition is a very convenient one, in one volume, neatly
executed and well printed. We cannot too earnestly recommend to
our intelligent readers, who desire thorough and solid
information on the great topics of Catholic doctrine, to study
carefully this great masterpiece of learning and thought.

               ----

  The Pope And The Church Considered In Their Mutual Relations
  With Reference To The Errors Of The High Church Party In
  England.
  By the Rev. Paul Bottalla, S.J.,
  Professor of Theology in St. Beuno's College, North Wales.
  Part I. The Supreme Authority of the Pope.
  London: Burns, Gates & Co. 1868.

  The Apostolical And Infallible Authority Of The Pope.
  By F. X. Weninger, D.D., S.J.
  New York: Sadlier. Cincinnati: John P. Walsh. 1868.

The first named of these two works is one of the very best and
most learned treatises on the subject discussed which has
appeared in the English language, and will prove an invaluable
addition to every clergyman's or educated layman's library. It
is, moreover, of very moderate size, and written with remarkable
logical terseness and lucidness of style and order.

{286}

The second work also contains a valuable and extensive collection
of authorities and testimonies to the supreme teaching authority
of the Holy See, and a _résumé_ of the arguments usually
given by theologians in support of the author's thesis. The
moderate and gentle spirit in which the venerated author speaks
of the adherents of another school of Catholic theologians is
especially commendable and worthy of imitation, particularly as
we are now awaiting the assembling of an Ecumenical Council,
which will doubtless decide all questions heretofore in
controversy in regard to which the good of the Church requires
any clearer definitions than those which have been already made
and universally accepted. There are some few corrections called
for in the construction of the author's sentences, especially one
which occurs in the note to page 206. The mechanical execution of
the book cannot receive any high commendation.

----

  The Illustrated Catholic Sunday-school Library.
  Second Series. Twelve volumes, pp. 144 each.
  New York: The Catholic Publication Society,
  126 Nassau street. 1868.

The titles of the volumes in this series are as follows:
  _Nettlethorpe, the Miser;
  Tales of Naval and Military Life;
  Harry O'Brien, and Other Tales;
  The Hermit of Mount Atlas;
  Leo, or The Choice of a Friend;
  Antonio, or The Orphan of Florence;
  Tales of the South of France;
  Stories of Other Lands;
  Emma's Cross, and Other Tales;
  Uncle Edward's Stories;
  Joe Baker;
  The Two Painters._

These tales were evidently selected with good taste and sound
judgment. All are interesting, of a high moral tone, and well
adapted to carry out the praiseworthy object for which this
"library" was intended: furnishing Catholic youth of both sexes
with reading matter both useful and entertaining.

These volumes, in diversity of scene, variety of incident, etc.,
fully equal those which appeared in the "First Series;" while in
external elegance, and in beauty of illustration, they are
decidedly superior. We find one fault, however. Considering how
far girls outnumber boys in our Sunday-schools, we think it
hardly fair that but one volume should be devoted to the joys and
sorrows, the temptations and triumphs, of girlhood. In our
opinion, several volumes in each series should be, in an especial
manner, set apart for their particular pleasure and benefit. We
hope our suggestion will be, if possible, acted upon in the next
series.

                 ----

  Leaf And Flower Pictures, And How To Make Them.
  New York: Anson D. F. Randolph. 1868.

This pleasantly written and instructive little work is dedicated
most affectionately to the authoress's "Two dear little
'Doppies,'" two little girls named respectively Nellie and Anna,
who one day 'dopted her for their aunt. Hence their name. Whoever
H. B. may be, (for this is all that is given us to know of this
good "aunt,") we are sure that many persons who are interested in
the delightful recreation of making leaf and flower pictures will
thank her for the composition of this book. That our readers may
understand its object, we quote from the preface: "I think even
quite small children, both boys and girls, as well as older
persons, will find it delightful to make themselves pictures, and
have a collection 'of their own' of all sorts of leaves, mosses,
grasses, flowers, and lichens. Will it not add greatly to the
pleasure of being out of doors, if, in every walk you take, from
May to October, you carry home some leaf, or flower, or spike of
grass, to add to the treasures of your _hortus siccus_, or
to lay aside until the long cold hours of winter come, when, in
varnishing and arranging them as pictures and decorations, you
can almost restore to yourself the delight of your summer
rambles, and make into a permanent and abiding pleasure a portion
of the beauty which then charmed and refreshed your soul?
Therefore, dear reader, be you child or woman, boy or man, if you
would open your eyes some frosty morning next January, and behold
a lovely wreath of flowers blooming upon the walls of your
chamber, with all the freshness of June--a wreath that Jack
Frost cannot wither, even if he has sent the mercury out of sight
below zero--read this little book; for you can have one by
following its directions."

{287}

  Personal Sketches Of His Own Times.
  By Sir Jonah Barrington, Judge of the High Court of the
  Admiralty in Ireland, etc., etc.
  One vol. 12mo.

  The Life Of The Right Honorable John Philpot Curran,
  Late Master Of The Rolls In Ireland.
  By his son, William Henry Curran.
  With additions and notes by R. Shelton Mackenzie, D.C.L.
  One vol. 12mo.

  Sketches Of The Irish Bar.
  By the Right Hon. Richard Lalor Sheil, M.P.
  With Memoir and Notes by R. Shelton Mackenzie, D.C.L.
  Two volumes, pp. 388, 380.
  New York: W. J. Widdleton. 1868.

Above we give the titles of three works which have been out of
print for some time, but new editions of which have just
appeared. Sheil's "Sketches," commenced in 1822 and continued
until 1829, embrace short, piquant biographies of the most
prominent members of the Irish Bar--O'Connell, Plunket, Burke,
O'Loghlin, Norbury, etc.; with incidental allusions to other
celebrities--Lady Morgan, Lord Edward Fitzgerald, Robert Emmet,
etc., etc. There are, in addition, the author's personal
recollections of the Catholic Association in 1823; of the visit
of the Catholic deputation to London in 1825, and its reception
in the House of Commons; and of the great Clare Election in 1828.

Barrington's Sketches are also racy and piquant, and give an
insight into Irish manners and customs fifty years ago. The "Life
of Curran" has been a standard work, and this new edition will
bring it anew before the rising generation.

                ----

  The Works Of Rev. Arthur O'leary, O.S.F.
  Edited by a clergyman of Massachusetts.
  One vol. 8vo, pp. 596. Boston: Patrick Donahoe. 1868.

The reputation of F. O'Leary is universal among all who take an
interest in Irish history and literature. His works, which abound
with learning, humor, and passages of remarkably fine writing of
the rich, ornate style of the old school, have been carefully
edited by the learned clergyman whose name is modestly withheld
on the title-page, and published in good style by Mr. Donahoe. We
thank them both for this valuable service to Catholic literature,
and have no suggestion to make, except that the small number of
typographical errors which have escaped the vigilance of the
proof-reader should be corrected in the second edition.

              ----

  The Lily Of The Valley;
  or, Margie and I, and other Poems.
  By Amy Gray.
  Baltimore: Kelly & Piet. 1868.

The gentle authoress of these poems, which have, at least, the
merit of conveying a genuine expression of her sentiments,
presents the volume to the public with this preface, which we
copy entire:

  "The object of the publication of the poems, and in view of
  which most of them were written, is to aid in the education of
  destitute little girls of the South, orphaned by the late war.
  The author cannot hope for more than a mite from so small a
  volume--the production, too, of an unknown writer; but the
  proceeds, whatever they may be, will be unreservedly
  appropriated to the object above named. To an intelligent and
  generous reading public the author confides this little work,
  feeling sure that their generosity will secure for it a
  patronage that its intrinsic merit cannot hope to obtain. It
  was of old the duty and privilege of the chosen people of God
  to offer the first-fruits of all their possessions to his
  service; and it is with gratitude for many mercies received,
  and with earnest prayers for the divine blessing, that the
  author would dedicate the first-fruits of her pen to an object
  which seems in accordance with the teachings of our blessed
  Lord, who has said: 'Take heed that ye despise not one of these
  little ones; for I say unto you, that in heaven their angels do
  always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven.'"

{288}

  Excelsior;
  or, Essays on Politeness, Education,
  and the Means of Attaining Success in Life.
  Part I. For young gentlemen. By T. E. Howard, A.M.
  Part II. For young ladies. By a lady, (R. V. R.)
  Baltimore: Kelly & Piet 1868.

A capital book, and one we would like to have placed in the hands
of every student, boy or girl, in the country. It is not easy to
write books of this character, at least books that young persons
will read; but Mr. Howard and his gentle co-author have produced
a volume as pleasantly written as it is solidly instructive. It
is said that it requires a high degree of moral courage to
purchase at the bookseller's a book "on politeness." We trust
that few among our young friends will be wanting in this courage
when the purchase of the present volume is concerned, and we will
guarantee that not one will fail to peruse it with very great
pleasure.

               ----

  Mac Carthy More; or, The Fortunes of an Irish Chief
  in the Reign of Queen Elizabeth.
  By Mrs. J. Sadlier.
  New York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co. Pp. 277. 1868.

This, the latest production of Mrs. Sadlier's prolific pen, is in
no wise inferior to its predecessors. The incidents which form
its groundwork are strictly historical, and can be found in
_The Life and Letters of Florence Mac Carthy Reagh, Tanist of
Carberry, Mac Carthy Mor_, compiled from unpublished documents
in her Majesty's State Paper Office, by Daniel Mac Carthy,
(Glas,) and published by Longman & Co., London. For those who
cannot afford to purchase the more expensive English work, Mrs.
Sadlier's condensation of the life and times of the great Irish
chieftain will prove a very agreeable substitute. Besides being
thus presented under the guise of a graceful little story, they
will doubtless be more acceptable to most readers than the dry
and prosaic details of mere historical narration.

              ----

  Plain Talk About The Protestantism Of To-day.
  From the French of Mgr. Segur.
  Boston: P. Donahoe. 1868.

The best word we can say about this little book is to copy the
first few lines of the translator's note:

  "You ask me, dear sir, 'What makes me so anxious to publish
  this work in America?' Well, I wish to have it published for
  the sake of Catholic children tending common schools--of
  Catholic girls living out in families--of Catholic boys serving
  their time--of all dear and poor friends so often wounded in
  the affections dearest to their hearts, and whose religion is
  so often attacked in rude words. I herewith hope to place in
  their hands such arms as they can easily use, and which will
  have a telling effect on the enemies of their faith."

              ----

  Mignon. A Tale.
  Translated from the French.
  New York: P. O'Shea. Pp. 202. 1868.

A charming little story, neatly got up; but the pleasure to be
derived from its perusal would, however, be considerably
increased if the thread of the narrative were not so often and so
needlessly broken by whole pages devoted to sentimentalisms of
the shallowest type.

                   ----------
{289}

                The Catholic World.

        Vol. VIII., No. 45 December, 1868.

                   ----------

                    Hypnotics.


The craving for opiates indicates either pain or restlessness.
The wounded man longs for that which may dull the sensation of
physical suffering and procure the temporary oblivion of sleep.
One who is wearied by the morbid activity of his brain, and the
lassitude which is caused by it, desires some artificial remedy
to give him the repose which refuses to come naturally to his
sleepless eyelids. A person in health has no need, and,
consequently, no desire for opiates. His activity is healthful
and pleasurable; his weariness is natural, making rest pleasant,
and giving sound, recreative slumbers. In like manner, when one
begins to talk about a craving for an intellectual or spiritual
opiate, the presence of some malady making the soul restless is
manifest. Its activity is morbid and irregular, preventing that
repose which is the natural consequence of a perfectly sound and
normal condition of the mental and spiritual faculties.

These remarks were suggested by reading, in an article written
with much refinement of taste and delicacy of sentiment in one of
our principal literary papers, [Footnote 122] the following
passage on the hypnotic qualities of Catholicity:

    [Footnote 122: _The Nation_, August 18th, 1868;
    Review of Mrs. Craven's _Sister's Story_.]

  "Mrs. Craven certainly offers very abundant and convincing
  testimony on this point--a point which probably no one ever
  dreams of controverting. Given natures like these, in which the
  emotional element entirely predominates; to which the pursuit
  of truth, as an ultimate object, is totally incomprehensible;
  which crave happiness and repose with a passionate longing, and
  the Church certainly offers a satisfactory and comprehensive
  solution of all their difficulties. _We should all be
  Catholics were it not that the Church sets too high a price
  upon her opiates_. One generally pays for extreme wealth of
  emotional power by a corresponding poverty of judgment, and
  though, if we had our choice, we might all be willing to be
  born blind, that we might never feel afraid in the dark, the
  settlement of the matter is certainly not optional with us. It
  is a congenital impossibility for some people to conceive of
  their natural passions, of their judgment, will, and reason, as
  mere counters with which they can purchase eternal rest, and a
  tardy but complete gratification of the wants which are here
  unsupplied. Such people do not, in rejecting Catholicism,
  necessarily disavow the yearning for this rest, nor the belief
  that it will be attained. _The craving is universal, the
  Church's answer only partial--it allows the claims of the
  emotions, but it disallows those of the intellect_. There is
  no doubt that she does her legitimate work well and thoroughly,
  that she gives hope to the despairing, comfort to the
  sorrowing, and sometimes mends the morals of the vicious--we
  quarrel with her only because in virtue of doing this she
  claims the right to outrage or ignore wants yet profounder than
  those which she supplies."

{290}

We have selected this passage as the theme of some brief
discussion, without any reference to the particular topic of the
article in which it is contained, or intention of raising any
special controversy with the writer of it, whose personality is
entirely unknown to us. It has struck our attention simply as a
remarkably tangible and felicitous expression of a sentiment or
opinion shared in common by a large class of minds, and well
worthy of our most serious consideration. They think that those
who have embraced the Catholic religion have been driven, by the
unrest and weariness of the soul, to take a spiritual opiate--a
metaphorical expression, but one whose meaning is so obvious that
it needs no explanation. They acknowledge the existence of the
same unrest in their own souls, but refuse to accept the remedy
offered by the Catholic Church, because they imagine that it can
only produce its effect of relieving the pain of the soul by
superinducing an artificial sleep of the intellect. The mind must
slumber, intelligence must cease its activity, in order that the
heart may be made peaceful and happy in the practice of the
Catholic religion. They are unwilling to purchase rest at such a
price, and, it may be, would be unable to do it if they were
willing. Therefore, they prefer to endure the pain of doubt, the
restlessness of scepticism, the weariness of a yearning after an
unknown good, in the vague expectation of finding it at some
distant period, if not in this world, yet in some future sphere
of existence. The objection of these persons to Catholicity is,
that it does not acknowledge or adequately satisfy the just
demands of the intellect. Those who embrace it, they say, cannot
justify their conversion on rational grounds, or allege
sufficient and conclusive evidence of the truth of its doctrines.
They have either never sought for a religion which satisfies
reason, or have abandoned their search in despair, and laid their
intellect to sleep upon the soft pillow of an unreasoning
submission to an authority that supersedes all exercise of
thought, and quiets all action of intelligence. The correctness
of this assumption is the precise topic of discussion we now
propose. It is evidently altogether useless to frame an argument
on the supposition that we have to deal with any form of
Protestant orthodoxy, so-called. Persons who profess to believe
in a definite system of doctrine as revealed truth cannot admit
any such unsatisfied yearnings after truth as those are whose
existence is denoted by the writer of the paragraphs we have
cited. It is, therefore, useless to take as data any of the
principles or doctrines of the common Protestant theology. It is
with a sceptical state of mind we have to deal, which rejects
every received version of Christianity as incomplete and
unsatisfactory, however it may admit, in a general way, that
Christianity itself is something divine. We think we may take it
for granted that the very state of mind indicated by the language
on which we are commenting has been produced by a revolt of the
reason against Protestant theology. Probably those whose
sentiments are represented by this language have been more or
less strictly educated in the tenets of some one of the
Protestant churches.
{291}
They have found these tenets to be absurd--incredible; based on
no solid evidence; mere individual theories, contradicted by the
facts of history and the dictates of mature reason. They have,
consequently, abjured all allegiance to any sect or school of
Protestant Christianity, and have fallen back upon their own
reason as the exponent of the Christian religion, and of all
other religions, as the only criterion of truth in all orders of
thought, and the only guide which has been given to man amid the
perplexities which beset his intellect on every side. The
Catholic system of doctrines is supposed to be essentially the
same with orthodox Protestantism, _plus_ a few more dogmas,
a system of elaborate ceremonial, and a peculiar hierarchical
organization, which openly claims and enforces submission to its
own doctrinal decisions and moral precepts as infallible and
supreme. The same absurdities which exist in the Protestant
system of theology are supposed to be contained also in the
Catholic system. It does not occur to these persons that these
absurdities maybe traced to exaggerated or distorted theories
respecting the ancient dogmas of Christianity, which are rejected
by the Catholic theology, and to the incompleteness of the
Protestant systems, which are built up from fragments of the
sublime edifice they have destroyed, without plan, order, or
architectural harmony. This is, however, the fact; and when we
speak of the unreasonableness of the orthodox Protestant form of
Christianity as the occasion and temptation to scepticism, we
must be understood to speak in accordance with this fact. We do
not mean to say that the evidences of the divine revelation and
truth of Christianity, and a vast body of true and reasonable
doctrines, are not retained in the Protestant teaching, or that
it makes scepticism justifiable. We merely intend to say that it
does not satisfy reason or command assent as a system in all its
essential parts, and therefore leaves the mind in a bewilderment
by its partial truths and partial errors, which is the occasion
of a kind of intellectual despair, resulting frequently in
scepticism. The truly rational part would be to hold on to the
conviction of the great facts of Christianity and its substantial
truth, and to search for some more reasonable and satisfactory
exposition of the true meaning of Christianity than that given by
these self-constituted, unauthorized, and mutually conflicting
expositors of divine revelation. Such a search would inevitably
land the honest and persevering seeker in the Catholic Church, as
it has done so many and will so many more in time to come. There
is a divine philosophy in the Catholic religion which satisfies
all the legitimate demands of reason--that same philosophy which
attracted Dionysius of Athens, Sergius Paulus, Cornelius, Pudens,
Justin, Tatian, Athenagoras, Clement, Pantaenus, St. Augustine,
and a host of other noble intellects, to Christianity in the days
of old, and in which they found that perennial source of truth
from which Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle, Lao-Tseu and
Confucius, had only drawn some rills.

It is not within the scope of our thesis to show positively the
truth of the above affirmation. We merely intend to show that it
is made; that the church does not "disallow the claims of the
intellect," or "claim the right to outrage or ignore wants yet
profounder than those which she supplies;" that "the pursuit of
truth as an ultimate object" is not "totally incomprehensible" to
those who yield the allegiance of their minds to the light of
faith; that they do not "conceive of their judgment, will, and
reason, as mere counters with which to purchase eternal rest."
{292}
Whether the Catholic solution of the problems of reason is
objectively the true one is not the direct aim of our reasoning.
The point is, whether Catholic theology and philosophy propose
any solution at all; whether any class of minds who seek
earnestly after such a solution find one which they hold and
maintain to be completely satisfactory to reason in the Catholic
Church. The writer whose language we have quoted denies it, and
Dr. Bellows has recently denied it, asserting boldly that those
who have embraced the Catholic faith have done so by a reaction
from an extreme rationalism into superstition. What is
gratuitously asserted may be gratuitously denied, and we deny it
accordingly. Some few persons, perceiving that they were
following principles which lead logically to Pantheism and
Atheism, and that there is no real logical alternative of the
denial of God except Catholicity, have been led to examine and
embrace the Catholic faith. Neither Dr. Bellows nor any other
person professing to be rational is entitled to call this act a
superstitious one, unless it can be shown that the motives of it
are reducible to an irrational credulity, or a voluntary
submission to some claim of supernatural authority which is
destitute of probability, on grounds which are incapable of
convincing a prudent man. The remark of Dr. Bellows is,
therefore, simply an intolerable impertinence. The statement
which he makes is, moreover, false in point of fact, since a
large proportion of modern converts to the Catholic Church have
travelled the road of orthodox Protestantism, and not that of
rationalism.

It is no less incorrect to state that it is only persons in whom
the sentimental element predominates who find satisfaction for
the wants of their souls in the Catholic religion. In the first
place, it is absurd to suppose that the legitimate cravings or
aspirations of any one part of human nature can be satisfied
completely by that which is not real, and therefore not true.
Truth, goodness, and beauty are identical in respect to their
being or reality. The religion which is adapted to one class of
minds is adapted to all. It is, moreover, incorrect to reduce all
men to two classes--those who are led by the logical faculty, and
those who are led by sensibility. The intelligence has its
intuitions in an order of thought far superior to the mere
understanding. The will has also a sublime range in an order far
superior to the sphere of sensible emotions. Those who never
occupy their minds in any metaphysical or theological
speculations whatever may, therefore, in their spiritual nature,
apprehend divine truth far more immediately and perfectly, and
may possess the truest and highest wisdom in a much more eminent
sense, than the most acute philosopher. The interior or spiritual
life, moreover, of those persons who are rather seeking to
perfect their souls in virtue than their intellects in knowledge,
is by no means a life of indulgence in pleasurable emotions, the
enjoyments of sensible devotion, or anything else which gives
sensitive nature the pabulum or the opiates after which it
hankers. This whole order of ideas belongs to sentimental
Protestantism, and is totally alien from Catholic ascetics, as is
well known to the youngest novice in any religious community.

{293}

Of course we cannot expect literary gentlemen to understand these
matters, and cannot wonder at the mistakes they make when they
write about them. We can justly require of them nothing more than
a supreme love of truth for its own sake, and a willingness to
see it when it is presented to them. Any one who loves the truth
on this point sufficiently to read Rodriguez on _Christian
Perfection_, F. Baker's _Sancta Sophia_, or F. Faber's
_Growth in Holiness_, can satisfy himself of the very low
estimate in which sensible devotion is held by our spiritual
writers. If he should wish for a more extensive course of
reading, we would recommend Tauler's Sermons and the works of St.
John of the Cross. He will there see that the pleasures of
sensibility, imagination, taste, the affections, the romance and
poetry of religion, are not condemned or rudely trampled on, but
simply relegated to the lowest place, made use of as the
waiting-maids of the divine wisdom and strong virtue which
constitute solid perfection. The Catholic religion satisfies not
merely the emotional nature of man, but his spiritual nature. It
could not do this unless it were capable of placing the soul in
its true relation to its proper object, to its final end, to its
real destiny, and furnishing it with all the means of advancing
continually toward the union with God in which beatitude
consists. It could not be capable of doing this unless it came
from God; and, coming from God, it must teach the truth which is
necessary and adequate to the perfection of the reason, as well
as the perfection of the will. We will take up the question,
however, in a more historical and inductive manner, in order to
show, as a matter of fact, that those minds in which the logical
faculty and the taste for the cultivation of pure reason is more
strongly developed and active, find an equal scope and
satisfaction in Catholicity with the other class above mentioned.

One needs but a moderate acquaintance with the method and spirit
which have always prevailed in the great Catholic schools to know
how powerfully they stimulate the activity of the intellect,
awaken the thirst for rational investigation, encourage the
effort to penetrate as far as possible into the domain of ideal
truth, and to trace the relations of all things in the world of
thought to their first and final cause. The basis and foundation
of the whole structure of the higher education, especially in the
department of theology, is laid in a thorough training in logic
and philosophy. The same logical and philosophical method
pervades the entire system of theological instruction. Every
dogma of faith, every opinion of the schools, every principle of
philosophy, is subjected to a rigid and critical analysis,
including an examination of all the difficulties and objections
which have ever been raised by the adversaries of the Church,
during all past ages and in the present. In the theses which the
students of theology and philosophy are obliged to defend,
covering the whole field of these higher sciences, sceptical,
atheistical, pantheistic, infidel, and heretical arguments,
stated with the utmost logical subtlety of which the objector is
possessed, are presented without any restriction or reserve, not
only by other pupils but by the professors and other learned
theologians. In the universities, colleges, and religious houses,
where bodies of men are collected possessing the means and
requisites for a life of study and learned labor, there is every
facility and inducement afforded for the most thorough
prosecution of every branch of human knowledge which can possibly
have any bearing on the advancement of the queen and mistress of
all sciences, theology.
{294}
Moreover, in modern times there has sprung up among the educated
laity, among the statesmen, professional men, scholars, and
gentlemen of leisure and intellectual tastes, a school of
students and authors in the same high department of thought,
independent, so far as their private and temporal interests are
concerned, of any ecclesiastical authority, and free to follow
the dictates of their reason and conscience wherever these may
lead them. It is the easiest thing in the world to make a
catalogue of names, illustrious among the advocates and defenders
of the Church, in whom the intellectual powers have been, through
the force of native genius and acquired culture, brought to the
highest grade of development. Bellarmine, Suarez, Canus, Cajetan,
Sfondrati, Petavius, Molina, Gerdil, Thomassin, Mabillon,
Muratori, Bossuet, Malebranche, Des Cartes, Galluppi, Rosmini,
Gioberti, Mastrofini, Mai, Mezzofanti, Görres, Möhler, Theiner,
Lacordaire, Ozanam, Donoso Cortes, Balmes, Wiseman, England,
Montalembert, De Broglie, Cantù; are these the names of men of
weak judgment and strong emotions, who were mastered by an
unreasoning, pietistic sentiment? Or, are they the names of
hypocrites and impostors, who prostituted their genius to the
support of a cause which they knew to be based on falsehood,
illusion, and deceit? Listen to the words written from his couch
of pain by Montalembert, near the close of the last volume of his
_Monks of the West_:

  "The more I advance in my laborious and thankless task--that is
  to say, the nearer I approach to my grave--the more do I feel
  mastered and overpowered by an ardent and respectful love of
  truth, the more do I feel myself incapable of betraying truth,
  even for the benefit of what I most love here below. The mere
  idea of adding a shadow to those which already shroud it fills
  me with horror. To veil the truth, to hide it, to forsake it
  under the pretence of serving the cause of religion, which is
  nothing but supreme truth, would be, in my opinion, to
  aggravate a lie by a kind of sacrilege. Forgive me, all timid
  and scrupulous souls! But I hold that in history everything
  should be sacrificed to truth--that it must be always spoken,
  on every subject, and in its full integrity." [Footnote 123]

    [Footnote 123:  _Monks of the West_, vol. v. p. 305.]

Hear also the language used by the eminent historian Cesare
Cantù:

  "After having replaced Christianity face to face with history,
  with reason, with conscience; after having interpreted it with
  all liberty of mind, we feel ourselves confirmed in our respect
  for the Catholic tradition. We have drawn from our studies new
  motives for the conviction that the actual organization of the
  church is excellent, both for moderating in a suitable degree
  the sovereignty of the smaller number, while at the same time
  infusing a spirit of subordination into the masses, and also
  for procuring the largest possible dose of happiness for men;
  we mean by this that happiness which arises from the voluntary
  submission of their minds to a mild and persuasive moral power,
  and not to a mere coercive restraint." [Footnote 124]

    [Footnote 124: _La Réforme en Itilie_, pref. p. xi.]

This is not the language of superstition or of unintelligent
enthusiasm, but of calm, well-reasoned conviction, the language
of men supremely devoted to the pursuit of truth for its own
sake; and it is but a fair specimen of the language of all the
great advocates of the Catholic religion. It would be utterly
impossible for any system, destitute of solid foundations and
unsupported by reasonable proofs, to endure the perpetual and
thorough researches and investigations carried on by a vast body
of learned men in the Catholic schools for ages, with the full
approbation and encouragement of the highest authorities in the
church. The theory that such a set of men could be made the dupes
of an arbitrary authority administered with the intention of
swaying the minds of men by a systematic violation of all the
rights of reason, or made the partisans and upholders of what
they knew to be an imposture, is too incredible for anything less
than a boundless credulity to embrace.

{295}

Let us turn our attention now to that class of minds nurtured in
anti-Catholic opinions, over whom the Catholic Church has
regained in part or completely an influence, bringing them to the
recognition of her divine authority. What is the force which has
made itself felt at the great distance to which the Protestant
mind has been violently thrown by the revolution of the sixteenth
century, and which has drawn back toward the Catholic centre a
body of persons who cannot be either ignored or despised without
the most stolid prejudice or the sheerest affectation? Is it a
mere force which is capable of acting only on the emotions, the
imagination, the sensible portion of the nature of individuals in
whom reason does not exercise her just and rightful supremacy?
Are there none who have been led by the philosophy of history, by
metaphysics, by theological reasoning, by the investigation of
Scripture, by the search for a supreme and universal science, by
the deductions of logic, and the inductions of experience and
observation, to a calm and rational conviction that the highest
wisdom and the most perfect law are embodied in the Catholic
Church? The statement of Lord Macaulay is familiar to all, that
the doctrines of the Catholic Church have heretofore commanded
the assent of the wisest and best of mankind, and may therefore
command the assent of men similar to them in the future. A fair
examination of the question will convince any one of the fact,
which cannot be gainsaid by any one professing to love the truth
supremely for its own sake, that numbers of men fully qualified
to judge of evidence and to comprehend the most abstruse
reasoning have given the homage of their minds to Catholic
doctrine precisely because of the invincible logic both of facts
and arguments by which its truth was demonstrated to their
reason.

Leibnitz is one instance in point. Although he never joined the
communion of the Catholic Church, yet the whole weight of his
authority as a philosopher and a theologian is on the side of the
Catholic principles and doctrines, which are the most obnoxious
to our modern rationalists. The same is true of Baron Stark, the
author of the _Banquet of Theodulus_. The celebrated Leo,
one of the greatest historians of Germany, began his career as a
Pantheist, and by his profound historical studies was brought to
a full conviction of the divine authority of revelation, and of
the necessity of a return to the communion of the Holy See on the
part of all the dissentient and separated communions. His
_Universal History_ is an irrefutable argument for the truth
of Christianity and the authority of the Roman Church. Although,
therefore, none of these three distinguished men can be counted
among the converts to the Catholic Church, yet their names can be
cited in support of the position we have taken, since we are
persuaded that our candid opponents will admit that strict
logical consistency would require any one admitting their
premises to draw the practical conclusion that it is obligatory
on his conscience to become a member of the Catholic Church.

{296}

Hurter, Phillipps, and Stolberg are instances of German scholars
whom profound and learned studies brought to a full Catholic
conviction. Mayne de Biran is an example of a philosopher, who
reasoned himself out of infidelity into a firm conviction of the
truth of the Catholic religion by a metaphysical process. Passing
by those well-known persons in England and America whose
education was ecclesiastical, we may cite an Englishman, Sir
George Bowyer, and an American, Judge Burnett, first governor of
California, as instances of men who applied the principles of law
and jurisprudence to the evidence of the claims of the Catholic
Church, and were led to submit to them by a process of legal
argument, which the latter gentleman has developed at length in
his able work, entitled _The Path which led a Protestant Lawyer
to the Catholic Church_. The late Dr. Bellinger, of
Charleston, S. C., a physician who stood at the head of the
medical profession in his State, devoted thirteen years to a
careful study of the Catholic doctrines, before he publicly
embraced them.

Among those who have devoted their pens to the Catholic cause in
our own country, whether they have been educated to the Catholic
faith or have been converted to it from Protestantism, without
doubt the man who surpasses all others in intellectual power is
Dr. Brownson. No one would think of reckoning him among devotees
or _dilettanti_. If Dr. Bellows were to express his opinion
upon the motives which induced him to submit his masculine
intelligence to the teaching of the church, he would probably
acknowledge that he had him chiefly in view when he made the
statement referred to in a former part of this article. That is,
he would say that Dr. Brownson's conversion to Catholicity was an
act of intellectual despair, a suicide committed by his reason
because of its failure to attain by its own efforts that
transcendental science after which it was aspiring. The reply to
this is the same which AEschylus made before the judge at whose
tribunal he was accused of having lost the use of his reason
through old age. He recited a play which he had recently
composed, as evidence that his intellect still remained in its
pristine vigor. And so Dr. Brownson may with equal justice point
to the unanswered and unanswerable works which his pen has
produced since his conversion, and challenge those who pretend
that he has yielded his mind to an irrational superstition to
refute the arguments of his _Essays_ and _The Convert_.
The mere effort to read understandingly the latter book is the
severest tax which any ordinary brain can submit to. The
philosophical articles published in the _Review_, which Dr.
Brownson conducted with such remarkable ability for a long
period, surpass by far any specimens of metaphysical writing
contained in the English language. The frivolity of the age, and
various causes connected with temporary and personal
controversies, have prevented the full recognition of the value
and merit of these philosophical essays, which it is probable
they will receive in the future time. The doctor has written a
vast amount on a great number of topics both ecclesiastical and
secular, since he devoted his labors to the Catholic cause, and
no doubt there are many inconsistent and varying opinions to be
found in his works, especially in regard to matters outside the
domain of pure philosophy and theology. Nevertheless, in our
judgment, which we believe posterity will ratify, the pure gold
stands in a very large proportion to the ore, and will only
become brightened and purified by the severest tests of the
crucible which reduces every reputation to its just dimensions.
{297}
We believe that Dr. Brownson's writings contain the most complete
refutation of the sceptical, pantheistic, sensist, and
pseudo-inductive or positivist errors of the day, as well as of
the chief heterodox systems of doctrine. In that noblest and most
essential portion of philosophy which includes ontology and
theodicy, he has laid down the metaphysical basis of natural
theology with a Platonic depth and an Aristotelian precision of
reasoning. Beside the massive structure of arguments respecting
the positive evidences of the authority and infallibility of the
church which he has erected, a work in which he has many able
compeers, who though not more logical are more erudite than
himself, he has thrown out some masterpieces in that more
difficult and more rarely executed branch of labor, the
exposition of the hidden, abstruse harmonies between rational
truths and the mysteries of faith. Prescinding all question
respecting the fact of his having presented the Catholic doctrine
in such a light as to demonstrate its reasonableness, which is
not the point at issue, he has at least attempted it. He has
shown that a man can be a thorough-going, orthodox Catholic, and
at the same time a philosopher in the highest and best sense of
the word.

These instances are only examples and illustrations of a general
rule. The two maxims of St. Augustine, _intellectum valde
ama_, and _fides quaerens intellectum_ have always been
and are now maxims of the Catholic schools. The church has no
fear of light, no dread of the progress of science; in point of
fact, the greatest obstacles which advocates of the Catholic
cause have to contend with are ignorance, disregard of the laws
of logic, and the lack of belief in the reality and certainty of
the affirmations or judgments of pure reason. It is only slowly
and with great difficulty that we can get the public either of
writers or readers to pay attention to the facts of history, and
cast away the fables with which they have been duped themselves
and duping others for so long. It is equally difficult to force
the controversy respecting philosophical and theological
principles to the true logical issues, to get attention to our
arguments, or to extract from our opponents any clear and
distinct answers to them, or definite and precise statements of
their own positions. Bishop England scarcely did anything else in
his masterly controversies than to point out the rules of logic
violated by his opponents, and the misstatements of historical
facts and Catholic doctrines made by them. The truth is, that our
conflict is far less with any positive system of heterodoxy or
rationalism than with a vague but universal scepticism. It is not
so much that men disbelieve in the specific doctrines of
revelation, as that they disbelieve in the existence of any
truth. The power of reason, the capacity of the intellect to
grasp the intelligible, the certainty of rational principles and
logical deductions, the dignity of philosophy, are not
exaggerated, they are depreciated. Those who revolt from the
legitimate and supreme authority of God, divine revelation, and
the infallible teaching of the church over the mind of man, are
not the legitimate offspring of the ancient philosophers, or the
true continuators of philosophy. The ancient philosophers of
Greece and China recognized the need of a divine revelation, a
supernatural light, a teacher sent from God. The whole civilized
world of heathenism was gasping in agony for the advent of the
divine Redeemer when he appeared on the earth.
{298}
Our modern self-styled rationalists have turned their backs on
that light toward which Lao-Tseu, Confucius, Socrates, and Plato
had their faces turned; and they have cut themselves loose from
the traditional wisdom, not only of Christianity and Judaism, but
of all the sages of heathendom and of the whole human race.
Consequently, they are smitten with intellectual death, they
cannot advance or construct; they can only go backward, destroy,
doubt, deny, groan with despairing agony, and _die_. The
modern literature of unbelief is either a sneer or a lament; as
to philosophy, it has fallen into contempt, and is generally
scouted. Those who profess to handle grave themes in earnest are
usually inconsequent, vague, full of hypotheses and random
statements; by their own confession mere wanderers in search of
truth who have lost their way; rhetoricians, guessers, men who
teach not as having authority, even the authority of reason, but
_as the Scribes_. The few men who possess rare native
philosophical genius, like Mill and Spencer, having no principles
or data to begin with, imitate the great master of modern
philosophical scepticism, Immanuel Kant, and pervert reason and
logic into an instrument for destroying all true intellectual
science. Mr. Mill denies that we know that it is a necessary and
universal truth that two and two make four. It may be therefore
that in some future state of existence he will have the same
evidence that one is equal to two which he now has that one is
only equal to one, and that he is therefore some one else as well
as himself, and perhaps responsible for all the crimes committed
by Caligula. Nevertheless, he assures us that the ideas of
justice and right in God must be the same that they are in his
own mind, and that if any punishment is inflicted on him
hereafter, which does not accord with his present sense of
justice, he will never admit the right of inflicting it. Yet,
upon his own principles, he cannot be sure that his own ideas of
right and justice will not be totally altered in the next world,
and that his reason will not compel him to admit that what now
seems to him unjust will then appear to be precisely the
contrary. No matter, therefore, how absurd may be the doctrines
which are professed as dogmas by any religious sect, no follower
of Mr. Mill can have any right to reject them on purely rational
grounds. Mr. Spencer laboriously argues to convince us that we
are compelled by the principles of logic to admit the truth of a
number of directly contradictory propositions, and that
consequently all pure metaphysics are worthless, and all that is
worth knowing is unknowable. When such laughable follies are
seriously put forth and lauded to the skies as the sum of human
wisdom in its most advanced stage of progress, and when the
fanciful hypotheses of Darwin are vaunted as science by men who
profess to follow the inductive philosophy, it is the turn of the
advocates of revelation and the mysteries of the Catholic faith
to cry out upon the outrage that is put upon reason, and to
deride the credulity of those who can be duped by such crude
absurdities. Human reason and the mind of man are indeed
extremely weak and fallible if the estimate of them made by these
sceptical writers is to be taken as correct. Weak and fallible as
they are, and incapable of affirming anything in the order of
pure reason and objective reality, according to this humiliating
theory, yet nevertheless they can be forced to admit as much
reality in the revealed truths of the Catholic faith as in
anything else.
{299}
The capacity of the mind to take note of particular facts and
phenomena, and by induction to reduce these particulars to
general laws, and also the necessity of following practical
reason as an actual guide, will be admitted even by the most
extreme unbelievers. The facts and phenomena produced by the
action of the Catholic Church on the human race, and by Jesus
Christ himself in his life, death, and resurrection, as observed
and attested by competent witnesses, just as much warrant us in
making the induction that he is a superhuman intelligence, as all
the observations of astronomy warrant us in accepting the
heliocentric theory of Copernicus. Practical reason tells us that
the religion of Jesus Christ as explained by the Catholic Church
is good for mankind, and the safest rule we can follow. If,
therefore, we find probable evidence of the fact that Jesus
Christ has taught certain doctrines through the church regarding
that sphere of the unknowable into which reason cannot penetrate,
it would seem to be the dictate of good sense and of a right
conscience that we should submit to that teaching. The power of
objecting to any doctrine that does not satisfy reason or
apparently contradicts it has been surrendered. Reason cannot
judge of the unknowable. We have all the certainty that the case
admits of that Jesus Christ possesses a reason of higher order to
which that which is unknowable to us is clearly intelligible, and
that he has declared to us the truth of these doctrines. We have,
moreover, evidence of his benevolence and veracity, and therefore
all the motives which we are capable of appreciating combine to
induce us to give the same assent to his teaching that we do to
any generally received truths. Even on this low level,
Christianity and Catholicity can stand their ground far better
than any other subject of analytical investigation. It is true
that logically and philosophically we attain only to the apparent
and the abstract truth of Christianity. But if the individual
asserts for himself, or the Catholic Church asserts for herself,
a supernatural light, an illumination of the intellect giving
certainty, how can the allegation be refuted? How can any
advocate of the ignoramus theory show that, if we are naturally
in such a deep darkness of the unknowable, it is not probable
that God would send a ray of supernatural light to enlighten us?
The natural outcry of one in such a state would be, "O my God! if
there be a God, send the light of truth, if there is any truth,
to enlighten my soul, if I have a soul!"

We will leave, however, this soft and marshy ground to those who
like the prospect of fighting the enemies of Christianity in such
a region of swamps and sloughs. We retort the charge of ignoring
or outraging reason upon our adversaries in a far different way.
We accuse them not only of rejecting revelation but of denying
reason, and in their assault upon the supernatural order of
subverting the natural order upon which it is based. We affirm
that the Catholic Church not only protects revelation and grace,
but reason and nature, by the aegis of her authority against a
universal doubt or denial. She affirms the existence of the
spiritual, thinking, reasoning principle in man as a truth known
with infallible certainty by the very light of reason itself, and
therefore affirms the intrinsic infallibility of reason within
its proper sphere. It is to reason that it appertains to judge of
the evidences of revelation. And although reason does not furnish
a positive criterion wherewith to judge the intrinsic credibility
of mysteries transcending the grasp of reason, yet it is
acknowledged by all theologians that it is competent to apply a
negative criterion and to reject whatever is proposed as a
revealed truth which is evidently or demonstrably contrary to the
principles of reason or to certain facts.
{300}
Where now does the collision exist between reason and faith,
science and revelation? Is the existence of God the point where
reason is outraged? The advocates of the Catholic religion always
profess to demonstrate that truth from reason, and it can hardly
be pretended that their atheistical or pantheistical opponents
have ever thoroughly refuted their arguments or demonstrated a
contrary doctrine. The credibility of the divine revelation is
also proved by evidence and argument, and it is certainly rather
bold to say that this entire fabric of learning and thought is so
palpably weak as to be an outrage on reason. The institution,
authority, and infallibility of the Catholic Church are
established in the same manner. And, although the mysteries of
faith are not demonstrated by their nexus with necessary
metaphysical truths, all the arguments brought from reason
against them are repelled by similar arguments, and their harmony
with rational truths is shown in so far as reason partially
apprehends their relations. Wherein consists the palpable, open
denial of the rights of reason? Is it denied that God can make a
revelation of truths which surpass the grasp of reason, or that
he has done it, or that the church has authority to proclaim it?
At whatever point we are met by the accusation of professedly and
openly denying the rights of reason and imposing on it a tyranny,
or stupefying it by a soporific drug, that accusation must be
specific and must be sustained by proofs. Vague assertions will
not do. Where are the self-evident or demonstrated truths, where
are the undeniable, indubitable facts, which are contradicted by
any dogma of the Catholic faith, or any definition which the
supreme authority in the church requires us to believe as an
infallible expression of the truth? Where is the flaw in the
whole structure of the Catholic argument? The advocates of the
Catholic cause cannot desire anything more heartily than that the
whole subject should be brought to the test of the most stringent
logic, and that all the claims of the Catholic Church should be
confronted with the whole array of truths that can be
demonstrated by philosophy, and of facts that can be established
by history or science.

                   ----------

{301}

      From The French Of Erckmann And Chatrian.

      The Invasion; Or, Yegof The Fool.


                    Chapter IX.

The farm-house presented a bustling scene when Jean-Claude,
Doctor Lorquin, and the others arrived. The kitchen-fire had been
blazing since day-break, and old Duchêne was drawing from the
oven innumerable loaves of bread, the fresh, crisp odor of which
filled the whole house. Annette piled them in heaps beside the
hearth, Louise waited upon the guests, and Catherine saw to
everything.

Hullin, from his seat, gazed at his old cousin.

"What a woman she is!" he muttered. "She forgets nothing.
Comrades," he exclaimed, "to Catherine Lefevre's health!"

"To Catherine's health!" cried the others; and the glasses
clinked in the midst of discussions on battles, attacks,
defences, and retreats. Every one was full of cheerful
confidence; every one declared that all would go well.

But heaven had still a joy reserved for that day--especially for
Louise and Mother Lefevre. Toward noon, when the bright sunshine
sparkled on the snow and melted the frost upon the window-panes,
old _Yohan_, the toothless and almost blind watchdog, began
to bay so joyously that all present stopped talking, and
listened.

"What can it mean?" thought Catherine. "Since my boy's departure
Yohan has not barked like that."

Swift steps were heard crossing the yard; Louise sprang to the
door; a soldier appeared on the threshold--but a soldier so
worn, thin, weary, and ragged--his old grey great-coat so torn,
his canvas gaiters so tattered, that a murmur of pity ran from
mouth to mouth.

He seemed unable to go a step further, and slowly placed the butt
of his musket upon the ground; his face was the color of bronze,
but his unkempt moustaches trembled, his cheeks grew pale beneath
their brown skin, and his hollow eyes filled with tears when he
gazed on the party within.

Without, the old dog barked, whined, and tugged at his chain;
within, you could hear the fire crackle in the deep silence. But
in a moment Catherine had rushed forward, and was hanging upon
the soldier's neck.

"Gaspard! Gaspard! my boy!" she cried, while the tears burst from
her eyes.

"Yes, mother!" he replied, in a voice choked by a sob.

Then Louise sobbed too, and then the whole kitchen was filled
with voices. Gaspard's name was on every tongue, and every hand
was stretched forth to clasp his.

But the mother would not yet give up her son; the woman, a moment
before so strong, so brave, so resolute, still hung weeping upon
his neck, his brown hair mingling with her grey locks, as he
murmured:

"Mother! mother! how often have I thought of this meeting! But
where is Louise?" he said. "I thought I saw her."

And then Louise ran forward, blushing, while she exclaimed:

{302}

"I knew it was Gaspard! I knew him by his step!" And old Duchene,
twirling his cotton cap in his hand, muttered:

"Great heaven Is that my poor child in such a plight?"

He had taken care of Gaspard from infancy, and, since his
departure, had always imagined him fresh and stout, in a fine
blue uniform with red facings. He struggled to collect his ideas
so rudely scattered.

But his friends surrounded the young soldier; his musket, his
shako, his knapsack, and his belts were merrily captured, and at
last old Hullin cried, with moist eyes:

"Poor Gaspard! How glad I am to see you safe and sound! Ha! ha!"
he continued, trying hard to laugh, "I would rather, though, see
you as you are than with the fat, round cheeks you took away with
you. You are a man now; you remind me of the old days of the
Sambre and of Egypt. Ha! ha! ha! our noses were sharp enough
then, my boy; and our teeth were long and sharp too."

"Yes, yes; I know what that means, Father Jean-Claude; but let us
sit down and talk. What is going on? What brings you all to the
farm?"

"Have you not heard? All the country is in arms, from La Houpe to
Saint-Sauveur, and I am commander-in-chief."

"Hurrah! Then the Kaiserlik beggars sha'n't find a road here so
easily. But pass me the knife. That ham is not yet finished. Sit
by me, Louise, and help me to the bread. A few days like this
would soon make my bones grow smaller. They wouldn't know me in
the company."

All wondered at the speed with which the provisions disappeared.
The soldier's eyes often turned to his mother and Louise, and he
smiled sadly as he gazed upon them; but all this was without
losing time in his attack. The poor fellow was well-nigh
famished, and old Duchene muttered, as he looked at him:

"Great heaven! No wonder that so many die of want!"

"But tell us, Gaspard," said Hullin, "without interrupting your
breakfast, how comes it that you are here? We thought you on the
banks of the Rhine, near Strasbourg."

"Aha! I understand you," replied Gaspard, with a knowing wink of
the eye; "you mean that there are a good many deserters running
about, don't you?"

"Such an idea in regard to you never struck me, and yet--"

"You would not be sorry to know that I am all right. Well, Father
Jean-Claude, you are right; for whoever runs from roll-call when
the Kaiserliks are in France, deserves to be shot. But look
here."

Hullin took a paper which the young man held out to him and read:

  "Twenty-four hours' leave is given
  to the grenadier Gaspard Lefevre.
  January 3d, 1814.
    Gemeau,
    Chief of Battalion."

"Very good," said the old man; "put it in your knapsack; you
might lose it. You see, my friends," he continued gayly, "I know
all about this thing called love. It is very good and very bad,
but particularly bad for young soldiers who happen to be near
their village after a campaign. They sometimes forget themselves
and return to camp with three or four gendarmes showing them the
way. I have seen it once or twice. But, now, as everything is in
order, let us drink a glass to Gaspard's health. What say you,
Catherine? The men from the Sarre may be here any moment, so we
have no time to lose."

{303}

"You are right, Jean-Claude," replied the old woman sadly.
"Annette, go to the cellar and bring three bottles here! But your
leave, Gaspard," she asked; "how long does it last?"

"I received it last night at eight o'clock at Vasselonne. The
regiment is retreating on Lorraine, and I must rejoin it this
evening at Phalsbourg."

"Then you have yet seven hours before you; you will only need six
to reach there, although there is much snow on Foxthal."

The good woman sat by her son; her heart beat painfully; she
could not conceal her trouble. Louise leaned on Gaspard's
worn-out epaulette and sobbed. Hullin bent his brows, but said
nothing until the bottles arrived and the glasses were filled.

"Come, come, Louise!" he cried, "Courage! These wars cannot last
for ever; they must end one way or the other; and then Gaspard
will return, and we shall have a merry wedding of it."

He filled up the glasses, and Catherine dried her eyes,
muttering, however, as she did so:

"And to think that those robbers are the cause of all this! But
let them come! They will rue it."

The old wine, however, cheered all, and Gaspard told the story of
Bautzen, Lutzen, Leipsic, and Hanau, where conscripts fought like
veterans, winning victory after victory until treason ruined all.

Every one listened in silence. Jean-Claude's eyes flashed as he
heard how rivers were forded and crossed amid storms of shells
and bullets; how batteries were carried by the bayonet alone; and
how hussars and cossacks were hurled back from the steady
squares. The doctor inquired particularly about the positions of
the field-hospitals; Materne and his sons bent forward with ears
erect, and lips pressed tight together, fearing to lose a word;
Catherine looked with pride upon a son who had borne a part in
scenes over which ages will grieve or rejoice; and the ardor of
all present mounted to the highest pitch as more than one
muttered that the end was not yet.

At length the hour for Gaspard's departure arrived. He arose, but
when Louise clung to his neck and with sobs implored him to stay,
the color left his cheeks.

"I am a soldier," he said; "my name is Gaspard Lefevre; I love
thee a thousand times better than my life; but I must not
disgrace that name."

He unclasped her arms, and Hullin tore them apart.

"Well said!" cried the old sabot-maker; "and spoken as a man
should speak."

Catherine buckled the knapsack on her son's back; she did so
calmly, but her brows were knitted, and she tried hard to press
her quivering lips tightly together, while two great tears rolled
down her wrinkled cheeks.

"Go--go--my child," she sobbed, "and take your mother's blessing
with you, and if it should be the will of God that--that--"

But the poor woman's stout heart could sustain her no longer; she
burst into an agony of weeping. Gaspard seized his musket, and,
covering his eyes with his hand, rushed from the house.

All this while the men from the Sarre with picks and their axes
were making their way up along the Valtin path. The sounds of
their voices could already be heard, as they laughed and jested
as if on the way to a festival, and not to privation, danger, and
death.

{304}

                   Chapter x.

But while Hullin and his mountaineers were thus preparing for
battle, where was the tin-crowned King of Diamonds--Yegof the
Fool? Wandering barefoot over the snow-covered paths, his breast
open to the cutting winds, cold, hungry, and companionless, save
for his grim friend the raven.

Night was approaching, the cold growing keener and keener; even
the fox seemed to shiver as he pursued his unseen prey, and the
famished birds of prey had hidden themselves in the rocky nooks
of the mountains. But the fool, his raven upon his shoulder, kept
on--on--talking to himself, gesticulating wildly, from
Holderloch to Sonneberg, from Sonneberg to Blutfeld.

And that very night, Robin, the old herdsman of Bois-de-Chênes,
saw a strange and fearful sight.

A few days before, having been surprised by the snows at the
bottom of the gorge of Blutfeld, he left his wagon behind him and
drove home the cattle, but finding upon his arrival that he had
forgotten his sheep-skin cloak, he started at about four o'clock
that evening to seek it.

Blutfeld is a narrow gorge between Schneeberg and Grosmann,
bordered by pointed rocks. A thread of water winds its way
through the valley, in summer and winter, and on its sides, among
the grey rocks, spots of good pasturage are found: but the place
is rarely visited; something weird and ghostly seems to hang over
it, and the cold, white light of a winter's moon serves to
intensify its sinister aspect. Tradition says that here was
fought a great battle between the Triboci and the Germans, who,
under a chief named Luitprandt, attempted to penetrate into Gaul.
It tells how the Triboci from the peaks around flung huge stones
upon their foes, crushing them by thousands, and that from the
frightful carnage the defile derived its name--Blutfeld the field
of blood. Rusted spearheads, broken helmets, and cross-handled
swords two ells in length are yet found there.

At night, when the moonlight falls upon the snow-covered rocks,
when the wind whistles through the bare bushes, the cries of the
surprised Germans seem borne upon the air, mingled with the
wailing of their women and the neighing of steeds, and the
rattling of chariots through the defile. The Triboci ceased not
from the slaughter for two entire days, and on the third they
retired to their homes, every man bending beneath the weight of
his booty.

Such was the legend of the gorge which Robin reached just as the
moon was rising.

The good man had a hundred times descended to its depths, but
never had it seemed so bright or so ghastly. His wagon, at the
bottom, seemed one of those masses of rock under which the
invaders were crushed. It stood at the entrance of the valley,
behind a thick clump of bushes, and the little stream dashed
along by it, flashing like a thousand swords. The old herdsman
soon found his cloak and an old hatchet too, which he had
regarded as lost; but, when he turned to depart, his blood ran
cold.

A tall figure was advancing straight toward him. Behind it
followed five grey wolves, two full-grown and three young. He
recognized Yegof, and at first thought the wolves were dogs. They
followed the fool step by step, but he seemed not to see them;
his raven flew about, now in the clear moonlight, now in the dark
shadows of the rocks; the wolves, with glittering eyes, sniffed
the air as if scenting their prey. The fool lifted his sceptre.

{305}

Robin darted like a flash into his wagon unobserved. Yegof
advanced down the valley as if walking some great castle-hall,
and the raven with glittering black plumage flew to the branch of
a dead tree near by, and there perched, and seemed to listen.

It was a strange scene, Robin thought. If the fool slipped, if he
fell, there was an end of him; the wolves would instantly devour
him.

But in the middle of the gorge, Yegof turned and sat down upon a
stone, and the five wolves sat around him in the snow.

Then the fool, raising his sceptre, addressed them, calling each
one by name, and they replied with mournful howlings.

"Ha, child, Bléed, Merweg, and you, my old Siramar," he cried,
"here we are once more together! You have grown fat; you have had
good cheer in Germany, have you not?"

Stretching his arm, after a moment's pause, over the moonlit
valley, he continued:

"Remember ye not the great battle?"

One of the wolves howled plaintively as if in reply; then
another, and at last all five together.

This lasted full ten minutes, the raven the while sitting
motionless on its withered branch. Robin would have fled, but
dared not.

Still the wolves howled, and the echoes of Blutfeld replied to
their chorus, until at last the largest ceased, and the rest
followed his example. Yegof spoke again:

"Ay; 'tis a sorrowful story. There runs the stream that
overflowed with our blood; but others fell too, and for three
days and three nights their women tore their hair. But how the
accursed dogs triumphed in their victory!"

The fool seized his crown and dashed it upon the ground; then,
sighing, stooped and placed it again upon his head. The wolves
sat as if listening attentively, and the largest again howled
mournfully.

"Thou art hungry, Siramar," said Yegof, as if replying to him;
"but rejoice; flesh will soon be yours in plenty; the battle will
again be fought. Our war-cry was long hushed, but the hour is
near, and it will again shake these mountains, and you shall
again be warriors; you shall again own these valleys. The air is
full of the shrieks of women, of the flashing of swords, the
creaking of wagons. They rushed down upon us and we were
surrounded; your bones sleep here on every side, but your
children are coming; rejoice!' sing, sing!"

And he himself began to howl like a wolf, and his hearers took up
the savage strain.

These cries, growing every moment more horrible, the
reverberating echoes, the motionless rocks, white and ghastly, or
buried in blackness and gloom, the bare branches bending beneath
their load of snow--all filled the old herdsman with speechless
horror.

But the scene soon ended. Yegof spoke no more, but moved slowly
with his strange train toward Hazlach, and the raven, uttering a
hoarse cry, spread its sable wings and followed through the dark
blue air.

All disappeared like a dream, but for a long time Robin could
hear the howling growing fainter and further away. It had,
however, ceased for nearly half an hour, and the silence of a
winter night taken its place, before the good man dared leave his
wagon, and make at his best speed for the farm-house.

{306}

Arriving at Bois-de-Chênes he found every one excited and busy.
They were about killing an ox for the Donon men, and Hullin,
Doctor Lorquin, and Louise had departed with those from the
Sarre. Catherine was having her great four-horse wagon loaded
with bread, meat, and brandy, and all were busy in the
preparations.

Robin would not tell any one of his adventure. It seemed, even to
himself, so incredible that he dared not speak of it. The whole
affair puzzled him sorely, and it was not until he was lying in
his crib in the stable that he concluded that Yegof had some time
or other captured and tamed a litter of wolves, to whom he
uttered his folly as men sometimes speak to their dogs; but the
rencounter left a superstitious dread in his mind, and even years
after, the honest old man could not speak of it without a
shudder.


                   Chapter XI.

All Hullin's orders had been carried out. The defiles of Zorn and
of the Sarre were securely guarded, and that of Blanru, the
extreme point of their position, had been placed in a state of
defence by Jean-Claude himself and the three hundred men who
formed his principal force.

Thither, on the eastern slope of Donon, near Grandfontaine, must
we wend our way.

Above the main road, which winds up the mountain for two thirds
of its height, might be seen a farm-house, surrounded by a few
acres of cultivated land--a large flat-roofed building, belonging
to Pelsly, the Anabaptist. The stables and barn were behind,
toward the summit of the mountain.

Here was the camp of our partisans. Beneath them lay
Grandfontaine and Framont, locked in a narrow ravine; further on,
at a turn of the valley, was Shirmeck, with its piles of feudal
ruins; still further La Bruche stretched onward into the grey
mists of Alsace. To their left rose the sterile peak of Donon,
covered with huge rocks and a few stunted firs. Before them lay
the road, made impassable by the wearing away of the earth caused
by the melting snow, and by huge trees, with all their branches
on, thrown across it.

It was a scene of stern grandeur. Not a living thing appeared on
all the long road; the country seemed a desert, and only a few
scattered fires, sending their long wreaths of smoke toward the
sky, showed the position of the bivouac.

For three days had the mountaineers been awaiting the enemy, and
the delay had told not a little upon their ardor. When,
therefore, at about eight in the morning, the sentinels descried
a man coming toward them, waving his hat, expectation at once
stood on tiptoe, and messengers were at once despatched for
Hullin, who since one o'clock had been sleeping in the
farm-house, on a wide mattress, side by side with Doctor Lorquin
and his dog Pluto.

The cause of the commotion was Nickel Bentz, the old forester of
La Houpe, and Hullin at once saluted him with--

"Well, Nickel, what tidings?"

"Nothing, master Jean-Claude, save that toward Phalsbourg there
is a noise as of a storm. Labarbe says it is artillery; for all
night long we saw flashes like lightning in the wood of
Hildehouse, and this morning the plain is covered with grey
clouds."

"The city is attacked!" exclaimed Hullin; "but from the
Lutzelstein side. They are trying to cut it off. The allies are
there; Alsace is overrun."

{307}

Then turning to Materne, who stood behind him, he added,

"We can remain no longer in uncertainty. Make a reconnoissance
with your two sons."

The old hunter's face lighted up.

"Good!" he cried. "We will have a chance to stretch our legs and
bring down an Austrian or Cossack or two before we return."

"Steady, my friend," said Jean-Claude sternly; "you must not
think of bringing down Cossacks, but only of observing what is
going on. Frantz and Kasper will be armed, but you will leave
your rifle, and powder-horn, and hunting-knife here."

"Leave my arms here, Jean-Claude! And why?"

"Because you must go into the villages; and if you are caught
there armed, you would be shot at once."

"Shot?"

"Yes, shot. We are not regular troops; they will not make
prisoners of us; we can expect no quarter. You will follow the
Shirmeck road, and your sons will follow you in the copse, half a
rifle-shot off. If any marauders should attack you, they will
come to your aid; but if a detachment meet you, they will let you
be taken."

"Let me be taken!" cried the old man indignantly. "I would like
to see them do so."

"Obey orders, Materne. An unarmed man will be released; an armed
one shot. I need not tell you not to let those Germans know you
come as a spy."

"I understand, Jean-Claude, and although I never parted yet with
my rifle, you may take it, and my horn and knife. Who will lend
me a blouse and staff?"

Nickel Bentz pulled off his blue smock-frock and hat, and passed
them to the old man; and when he had donned them, no one would
imagine the old hunter to be other than a simple peasant of the
mountains.

His two sons, proud to be selected for such an expedition,
reprimed their pieces, fixed their long, straight, wild-boar
bayonets, and tried their hunting-knives in the sheaths; then,
assured that everything was in proper order, they turned to go,
their eyes sparkling with pleasure.

"Do not forget Jean-Claude's words," said Doctor Lorquin; "a
German more or less makes little difference among a hundred
thousand, but we should find it difficult to replace you."

"Fear nothing, doctor," replied old Materne. "My boys are
hunters, and know how to bide their time, and profit by any
chance that offers. And now, forward; we must be back before
night."


                    Chapter XII.

Materne and his sons pursued their way for a long distance in
silence. The weather was fine; the winter sun shone on the
dazzling snow without thawing it, so that the path was firm and
solid. Afar off, in the valley, the tall firs, pointed rocks, and
the roofs of the houses, with their hanging icicles and little
glittering windows and steep gables, were sharply outlined in the
clear air, and in the street of Grandfontaine they could see a
troop of young girls around the wash-house, and a few old men in
cotton caps smoking their pipes at their cottage doors; but of
all the busy life so plainly seen, not a sound reached their
ears.

The old hunter halted at the edge of the wood, saying:

"I will go down to the village, to Dubreuil's, the keeper of the
Pine-Cone."

He pointed with his staff to a long white building, with doors
and windows surrounded by a yellow border, and a pine branch
hanging from the wall by way of sign.

{308}

"Wait for me here," said the old man, "unless I come to the door
and raise my hat, when you may follow, and take a glass of wine
with me."

He descended the snow-covered mountain-side, gained the plain,
and crossed the village common, and his two boys, resting upon
their pieces, saw him enter the inn. A few moments after, he
reappeared on the threshold and raised his hat. Fifteen minutes
after, they had rejoined their father in the large hall of the
Pine-Cone--a long, low room, warmed by a huge stove on the sanded
floor.

Except for the presence of the innkeeper, Dubreuil, the fattest
and most apoplectic man in the Vosges, with little round eyes, a
flat nose, and a triple chin falling upon his breast--except, I
say, for the presence of this redoubtable personage, who was
sitting in a large arm-chair near the fire, Materne found himself
alone when he entered the inn. He ordered the glasses filled as
the old clock struck nine, and the wooden cock upon it flapped
his wings with a strange rusty noise.

"Good morning, Father Dubreuil!" said both the young men.

"Good morning, my boys, good morning!" replied the inn-keeper, in
an oily voice, smiling an oily smile. "Any news?"

"No, faith," answered Kasper. "Winter is upon us, the season for
boar-hunting."

Then both, placing their rifles in a corner of the window, at
hand in case of need, sat down at a table opposite their father,
and drank, saying. "To our health!" as they had been taught to be
always careful to do.

"So," said Materne, turning to the innkeeper, and apparently
resuming a conversation that had been interrupted, "you think,
Father Dubreuil, that we may hunt without fear in the wood of
Baronies?"

"Oh! as for that I can't say," replied mine host, shrugging his
shoulders; "I only know that at present the Allies have not got
beyond Mutzig. But they don't injure any one; but receive all
well-disposed people--who wish to fight the usurper."

"The usurper? Who is that?"

"Eh? Why, Napoleon Bonaparte, the usurper, to be sure. Look on
the wall there."

He pointed to a large placard hanging near the clock.

"Look there, and you will see that the Austrians are our true
friends."

Old Materne's brows knitted, but he repressed his feelings, and
said,

"But I cannot read, Monsieur Dubreuil, nor my boys. Explain the
matter to us."

Then the old publican, raising himself with much difficulty from
his armchair, and puffing like a porpoise with the unwonted
exertion, placed himself before the placard, with his arms folded
across his enormous breast, and in a majestic tone read a
proclamation of the allied sovereigns setting forth that they,
said sovereigns, were waging war against Napoleon and not against
France, and that, consequently, it behoved all good people to
remain at home and to mind their own business, under pain of
having their houses, goods, and chattels pillaged and burnt, and
themselves shot.

The three hunters listened to all this, and then looked at each
other.

When Dubreuil had finished reading, he again took his seat,
saying,

"Well, you see now, do you not?"

"Where did you get that?" asked Kasper.

"It is posted everywhere."

"We are glad to hear it," said Materne, pressing the arm of
Frantz, who had risen with flaming eyes. "Do you want some fire,
Frantz? Here is my steel."

{309}

Frantz sat down, and the old man proceeded good-humoredly,

"And so, our good friends, the Austrians, will take nothing from
us?"

"Well-disposed people have nothing to fear, but those who rise in
arms are stripped of everything; which is only right, for it is
not just that the good should suffer for the bad. Thus, for
instance, you would be very well received at the allied
headquarters; you know the country and could serve as guides, for
which you would be well paid."

There was a moment of silence; again the three hunters gazed at
each other; the father placed his hands upon the table, as if
beseeching his sons to remain calm, but he himself was pale with
rage.

The innkeeper, perceiving nothing of this, continued,

"You have more reason to fear in the woods of Baronies those
villains of Dagsberg, of the Sarre, and of Blanru, who have
revolted, and wish to commence '93 over again."

"Are you sure they have?" asked Materne, struggling hard to
contain himself.

"Am I sure? You have only to look out the window and you will see
them on the Donon road. They have captured the Anabaptist,
Pelsly, and bound him to the foot of his bed; they are pillaging,
stealing, destroying the roads; but let them beware! In a few
days they will have their hands full, and it is not with a
thousand, or ten thousand, men they will have to deal, but with
hundreds of thousands. They will all be hung."

Materne arose.

"It is time for us to be on our way," said he shortly. "By two
o'clock we must be in the woods. Farewell, Father Dubreuil."

All three rushed out, anger choking them.

"Reflect well upon what I told you," cried the innkeeper, from
his arm-chair.

Once without, Materne turned with quivering lips, and cried,

"If I had not restrained myself, I would have broken the bottle
over his head."

"And I," said Frantz, "would have thrust my bayonet through his
body."

Kasper still stood at the threshold, hesitating. His fingers
clutched the hilt of his hunting-knife, and his eyes were almost
savage in their glare; but the old man seized him by the arm and
dragged him away, saying:

"Away! We will meet the wretch again. To advise me to betray my
country! Hullin said well when he told us to be on our guard."

They passed down the street gazing fiercely around.

At the end of the village, opposite the ancient cross, and near
the church, they halted. Materne then, somewhat calmed, showed
his sons the path which winds around Phrâmond, through the
bushes, and said:

"You will take that foot-path. I will follow the road to
Schirmeck, going slowly, so that you may get there as soon as I."

They separated, and the old hunter walked thoughtfully on, his
head bowed, and his eyes fixed upon the ground, wondering all the
while how he managed to restrain himself from breaking the
inn-keeper's head. From time to time herds of cattle passed him,
and flocks of sheep and goats, all on their way to the mountain.
They came from Wisch, from Urmatt, and even from Mutzig, and the
poor animals seemed scarcely able to move.

"Where are you going so fast?" cried the old hunter to the
sad-looking herdsmen. "Have you not heard the proclamation of the
Russians and Austrians?"

{310}

But they seemed in no humor for jesting, and replied:

"It is easy for you to laugh at us. Proclamations indeed! We know
what they are worth. Those Russians and Austrians are pillaging
and stealing all they can lay hands on; laying forced
contributions, carrying off horses, cows, cattle, wagons."

"Hold there; it cannot be possible!" returned Materne. "They are
the saviours of France; her brave, good friends. I cannot believe
it. Such a beautiful proclamation!" "Go down into Alsace and
see!" The poor fellows went on, dragging themselves wearily
along, while the old hunter laughed bitterly.

As he approached Schirmeck, things grew worse. Wagons, cattle,
horses, even flocks of geese, thronged the road, mingled with
women and children, carrying whatever of their household effects
they could bear off, and often beating their breasts and tearing
their hair. The air was filled with wailing and lamentation,
while ever and anon a cry arose,

"We are lost! The Cossacks! the Cossacks!"

These words of fear passed like lightning through the mass; women
fainted, children stood up in the wagons to see further along the
road, and Materne blushed for the cowardice of people who might
have made a stout defence against the enemy.

Just outside Schirmeck, Frantz and Kasper rejoined their father,
and all three entered the tavern of the Golden Key, kept by the
widow Faltaux.

The poor woman and her two daughters were standing at the window
gazing at the flight, and wringing their hands; for indeed the
tumult was increasing every moment, and now cattle, men, and
wagons fairly blocked the street, and shouts, screams, and even
curses, arose on all sides.

Materne pushing open the door and seeing the three women standing
pale, groaning, more dead than alive, struck his staff angrily
upon the floor, and cried:

"Are you becoming mad, Mother Faltaux! You, who should set your
daughters a good example? It is shameful!"

The old woman turned round and replied in a heart-broken voice:

"Ah Materne! If you only knew--"

"Knew what? The enemy are coming, but they won't eat you."

"No, but they will devour all I have! Old Ursula, of Schlestadt,
arrived here last night, and says they are never satisfied. Ah!
those Russians and Austrians--"

"But where are they?" cried the old hunter. "I have not yet seen
one."

"They are in Alsace, near Urmatt, on their way hither."

"Well," observed Kasper, "before they arrive you may give us a
cup of wine; here is a crown for you; you can hide it more easily
than your casks."

One of the daughters went to the cellar to bring the refreshment,
and at the same time several strangers entered. One was a seller
of almanacs, from Strasbourg; the others were a wagoner from
Sarrebrück, and two or three people from Mutzig, Wisch, and
Shirmeck, who were flying with their cattle: all seemed
completely jaded.

They sat down at the same table, opposite the windows, so that
they might look out upon the road, and, the wine served, each
began to tell all he knew. One said that the Cossacks had fired a
village in Alsace, because candles were refused them for dessert
after dinner; another that the Calmucks ate soap for cheese, and
that many of them drank brandy by the pint, after putting
handfuls of pepper in it; that their filthiness was beyond
description; and that everything had to be hidden from them, for
that there was nothing they would not devour. The stories these
good people told, of what they had seen with their own eyes,
seemed almost incredible.

{311}

Toward noon, the old hunter and his sons rose to depart, when
suddenly a cry, louder than any they had yet heard, arose
without,

"The Cossacks! The Cossacks!"

The entire party rushed to the door, except the three hunters,
who contented themselves with opening a window and looking out.
Every one was now fleeing across the fields; men, flocks, and
wagons were scattering, like autumn leaves before the wind. In
less than five minutes the road was clear, except in the village
street, where the crowd was jammed and blocked by its mass.
Materne gazed for a while and then shut the window.

"I see nothing," he said.

"Nor I," replied Kasper.

"I see how it is," cried the old hunter; "fear adds to the
enemy's strength; and fear," he added, shrugging his shoulders
disdainfully, "is a miserable thing. We have only one poor life
to lose. Let us go."

They left the inn, the old man taking the road to the top of
Hirschberg, his sons following. They soon reached the edge of the
woods, and Materne sought the highest point, whence he might
obtain a view of the plain; for he utterly despised the wild
tales of the fugitives he had met.

When they reached the summit of the mountain--which forms a sort
of promontory extending into the plain--they could see distinctly
the enemy's position, three leagues away, between Urmatt and
Lutzelhouse, like long black lines upon the snow; further on, the
artillery and baggage appeared in dark masses. Other lines and
masses were winding among the villages, and, notwithstanding the
distance, the flashing of bayonets told that a column was on the
march to Wisch.

After long gazing at the picture before him, the old hunter said
thoughtfully:

"There are at least thirty thousand men yonder. They are
advancing toward us, and we shall be assailed to-morrow, or the
day after at the latest. It will be no holiday work to check
them, my boys; but if they have numbers, we have a good position,
and in such masses as those there will be no balls lost."

Having made these reflections, he measured the height of the sun,
and added:

"It is now two o'clock, and we know all we want to know. Let us
return to the bivouac."

The young men slung their rifles upon their backs, and, leaving
the valley of the Broque to the left, they pushed up the steep
ascent of Hengsbach and descended on the further side, without
following any path through the snow, but guiding themselves
solely by the peaks, to cut short their journey.

They had thus proceeded for about two hours; the winter sun was
drooping to the horizon, and night was fast approaching, but calm
and light. They had only to cross the solitary gorge of Riel,
which forms a wide circular basin in the midst of the forest,
enclosing a blue lake, often the resort of the roebuck.

Suddenly, as they left the cover of the trees, the old man
stopped short behind a clump of bushes.

"Hist!"

{312}

He pointed to the little lake, which was covered with a thin and
transparent coating of ice. A strange spectacle greeted their
eyes. Twenty Cossacks, with matted yellow beards, heads covered
with old funnel-shaped caps of the skin of some animal, and long
ragged cloaks hanging from their shoulders, were before them,
seated on their little horses. Their stirrups were simply looped
ropes, and the steeds, with long manes, thin tails, and flanks
matted with yellow, black, and white, looked not unlike goats.
Some of the riders were armed only with long lances, others with
sabres, others with merely a hatchet hanging by a cord from their
saddle, and a large horse-pistol in their belt. Some gazed with
ecstasy upon the lines of green firs, and one tall, lean fellow
was breaking the ice with the butt of his spear, while his horse
drank. Others dismounted, and began to remove the snow
preparatory to encamping.

They formed a singular picture--those men from afar, with their
bronzed features, flat foreheads and noses, and grey fluttering
rags, as they stood by the side of the lake under the tall
tree-covered crags. It seemed a glimpse of another world than the
one we live in, and as the three hunters gazed and caught the
sounds of their uncouth speech, curiosity for a while mastered
all other feelings. But Kasper and Frantz soon fixed their long
bayonets on their rifles and retired once more into the cover of
the woods. They reached a rock some twenty feet high, which
Materne climbed; then, after a few words exchanged in a low
voice, Kasper examined his priming, slowly brought his piece to
his shoulder, and aimed, while his brother stood by ready to
follow his example.

The Cossack whose horse was drinking was about two hundred paces
from our little party. The report of the rifle rang through the
forest and awoke the deep echoes of the gorge, and the horseman
bent forward and disappeared beneath the ice of the lake.

It would be impossible to describe the stupefaction which seemed
to seize the band. The echoes rolled like a volley of musketry;
the dismounted barbarians bounded on their steeds, gazing wildly
around, while a thick wreath of smoke rolled above the clump of
trees behind which the hunters stood.

Kasper had in a moment reloaded, but at the same instant the
Cossacks dashed toward the slope of Hartz, following in single
file and shouting savagely, "Hurrah! Hurrah!"

They disappeared like a flash, and as Kasper aimed again the last
horse disappeared in the woods.

The steed of the dead Cossack stood alone by the lake. His fallen
master's foot yet remained in the stirrup, although the body was
submerged in the water.

Materne listened on his rock, and then said joyfully:

"They are gone! Let us press on. Frantz, remain here for a while.
If any should return--"

But despite this direction all three ran to where the horse yet
stood, and Materne, seizing the animal's bridle, cried:

"Now, old fellow, we will teach thee to speak French. These
Cossacks have famous horses, my boys," he continued, "and when I
am too old to go afoot, I will keep this one to hunt with."

"Let us go," cried Kasper.

Toward six o'clock they heard the first challenge of their
sentinels:

"Who goes there?"

"France!" answered Materne, advancing.

{313}

He was soon recognized, and all rushed forth to meet the three
hunters. Hullin himself, as curious as the rest, came out with
Doctor Lorquin. The partisans stood around the horse, gazing with
looks of wonder and admiration.

"It is a Cossack's," said Hullin, squeezing his old friend's
hand.

"Yes, Jean-Claude; we captured it at the pond of Riel. Kasper
shot its master."

Kasper, leaning upon his rifle, seemed well pleased with his
prize, and old Materne, rubbing his hands, added:

"We were determined to bring something back with us, for my boys
and I never return empty-handed."

Hullin took him aside, and they entered the farm-house together,
while the young hunters gratified the curiosity of their
comrades.


                   Chapter XIII.

That whole night long the little farm of the Anabaptist was
filled with partisans going and coming.

Hullin had established his headquarters in the large hall of the
ground floor of the house; on this floor, too, was the hospital,
and the farm people occupied the upper stories.

Although the night was calm and innumerable stars shone in the
sky, the cold was so keen that the frost seemed almost an inch
thick upon the window-panes.

Without, the cry of "Who goes there?" occasionally broke the
stillness, while ever and anon the howling of wolves was borne on
the air from the neighboring peaks; for since 1812 wolves had
followed our armies by hundreds, and now, stretched on the snow,
their pointed muzzles between their fore-paws, they called from
Grosmann to Donon, and from Donon to Grosmann, until the breeze
seemed filled with their plaintive cries. More than one
mountaineer grew pale as he listened to them, and muttered:

"It is the song of death; he scents the battle from afar, and
calls us to follow him."

Then the cattle lowed in their stables, and the horses neighed
with affright.

Some thirty fires were burning on the plateau where was the camp;
the old Anabaptist's wood-pile had paid tribute, and log after
log was heaped on; but though the face might scorch, the back
quivered with the cold, and frost hung from the beards and
moustaches of those who stood warming their backs.

Hullin, in the house, sat before the great fir table, absorbed in
thought. From the latest reports he had received, he was
convinced that the first attack would be made the next day. He
had had cartridges distributed, had doubled the sentries, ordered
patrols through the mountain, and fixed the posts of all along
the abatis. He had also caused Piorette, Jerome of Saint-Quirin,
and Labarbe to send their best marksmen to him.

The hall where he sat was lit by a dim lantern, and full of snow;
and every moment his officers came and went, their hats drawn far
down over their heads, and icicles hanging from their beards.

"Master Jean-Claude, something is moving near Grandfontaine; we
can hear horses galloping."

"Master Jean-Claude, the brandy is frozen."

"Master Jean-Claude, many of the men are without powder."

Such were the reports and complaints that every moment assailed
the leader's ears.

"Watch well toward Grandfontaine and change the sentries on that
side every half-hour."

"Thaw the brandy at the fires."

{314}

"Wait until Dives comes; he has ammunition. Distribute what
cartridges remain, and let all who have more than twenty rounds
divide the surplus among their comrades."

And so the night passed.

Toward five in the morning Kasper reported that Marc-Dives with a
load of cartridges, Catherine Lefevre, and a detachment from
Labarbe had arrived and were at the farm.

The news eased the old sabot-maker's mind, for he feared greatly
the result of a delay in the supplies. He rose at once and went
out with Kasper.

At the approach of day, huge masses of fog had begun to rise from
the valley; the fires crackled in the damp air, and all around
lay the sleeping mountaineers. All was silent, and a cloud,
purple or grey, as the fire rose or fell, hung around each
bivouac. Further off, the dim outlines of the sentinels could be
seen as they paced to and fro with arms shouldered, or stood
gazing into the misty abysses.

To the right, fifty yards beyond the last fire, horses were
neighing, and men stamping to keep their feet warm.

"Master Jean-Claude is coming," said Kasper approaching the
group.

One of the partisans had just thrown a bundle of dry sticks upon
the fire, and by the light of the blaze Hullin saw Marc-Dives and
his twelve men on horseback, standing sabre in hand, motionless
around their charge. Catherine was further on, half covered with
the straw of her wagon, her back leaning against a large cask;
behind her were a huge pot, a gridiron, a fresh-killed hog ready
for cooking, and some strings of onions and cabbages for soup.
All started for a moment from the darkness, and disappeared again
as the blaze fell.

Dives left his party and rode forward.

"Is that you, Jean-Claude?"

"Yes, Marc."

"I have already several thousand cartridges. Hexe-Baizel is
working night and day."

"Good! good!"

"And Catherine Lefevre is here with provisions."

"We shall need all, Marc. The battle is near."

"I do not doubt it; we shall not have long to wait. But where
shall I put the powder?"

"Yonder; under the shed, behind the house. Is that you,
Catherine?"

"It is indeed, Jean-Claude. A cold morning."

"Always the same, Catherine. Do you fear nothing?"

"Would I be a woman if I lacked curiosity? I must see all that is
going on, you know."

"Yes, you have always excuses for your good deeds."

"No compliments, Hullin. People cannot live on air, and I have
taken my measures. Yesterday we killed an ox--poor Schwartz--he
weighed nine hundred, and I have brought a quarter for soup. Let
me warm myself."

She threw the reins to Duchene and alighted, saying:

"Those fires yonder are a pretty sight, but where is Louise?"

"Louise has passed the night making bandages with Pelsly's two
daughters. She is there in the hospital, where you see my lantern
shining."

"Poor child!" said Catherine; "I will run and help her. It will
warm me."

Hullin gazing at her retreating figure could only mutter, "What a
woman! What a woman!"

{315}

Dives and his men took the powder to the shed; and what was
Jean-Claude's surprise, on approaching the nearest fire, to see
the fool Yegof, his crown upon his head, gravely sitting upon a
stone, his feet at the embers, and his rags draped around him
like a royal mantle.

Nothing could be stranger than his figure. He was the only one
waking there, and seemed a barbarian king surrounded by his
sleeping horde.

Hullin, however, only saw the fool, and gently placing his hand
upon his shoulder, said in a tone of ironical respect:

"Hail, Yegof! thou art come to offer us the aid of thine
invincible arm and the help of thy numberless armies!"

The fool, without showing the least surprise, answered:

"That depends upon thee, Hullin. Thy fate and that of thy people
around thee are in thy hands. I have checked my wrath, and I
leave it to thee to pronounce the sentence."

"What sentence?" asked Jean-Claude.

The fool, without replying, continued in a low and solemn tone:

"We are here now, as we were sixteen hundred years ago, on the
eve of a great battle. Then I, the chief of so many nations, came
to thy clan to demand a passage--"

"Sixteen hundred years ago!" interrupted Hullin; "that would make
us fearfully old, Yegof. But no matter; go on."

"Yes," said the fool; "but thine obstinacy would hear nothing;
hundreds of dead lie at Blutfeld; they cry for vengeance!"

"Ah! yes, Blutfeld," said Jean-Claude; "it is an old story; I
have heard you tell it before."

Yegof rose with flushed face and flashing eyes.

"Barest thou boast of thy victory?" he cried. "But beware,
beware! Blood calls for blood!"

Then his tone softened, and he added:

"Listen! I would not harm thee; thou art brave, and the children
of thy race may mingle their blood with mine. I desire thy
alliance--thou knowest it."

"He is coming back to Louise," thought Jean-Claude, and,
foreseeing another demand in form, he said:

"Yegof, I am sorry, but I must leave you; I have so many things
to see to--"

The fool bent an angry look on him.

"Dost refuse me thy daughter?" he cried, raising his finger
solemnly.

"We will talk of it hereafter."

"Thou refusest!"

"Your cries are arousing my men, Yegof."

"Thou hast refused, and for the third time. Beware! Beware!"

Hullin, despairing of calming him, strode away, but the fool's
voice followed:

"Woe to thee, Huldrix! Thy latest hour is nigh. Soon will the
wolves banquet upon thy flesh! The storm of my wrath is
unchained, and for thee and thine there is no longer grace, pity,
nor mercy! Thou hast spoken thy doom!"

And throwing the ragged end of his cloak over his shoulder, the
poor wretch hurried toward the peak of Donon.

Many of the partisans, half awakened by his voice, gazed with
dull eyes at his vanishing form. They heard a flapping of wings
around the fire, but it seemed like a dream, and they turned and
slept again.

{316}

An hour later, the horn of Lagarmitte sounded the
_reveille_. In a few moments every one was upon his feet.

The chiefs assembled their men. Some went to the shed, where
cartridges were distributed; others filled their flasks at the
cask, but everything was done in order. Then each platoon
departed in the grey dawn to take its place at the _abatis_.

When the sun rose, the farm was deserted, and, save five or six
fires yet smoking, nothing announced that the partisans held all
the passes of the mountain, and had so lately been encamped
there.

                   ----------

               Glimpses Of Tuscany.

               The Passion At Prato.


                       IV.


As Good Friday drew near, I was more than once asked by our
_maestro di casa_ if I meant to attend the Passion at Prato.
Prato is an old walled town in the valley of the Arno, about ten
miles from Florence. It contains some twelve thousand
inhabitants, whose principal occupation consists in plaiting
Leghorn straw, manufacturing Turkish red-caps, smelting copper,
and quarrying the dark green serpentine, which figures so
extensively in Italian church architecture. It is renowned in
Christian art as the shrine of the Sacratissima Cintola. Our
_maestro_ explained that once in every three years, from
time immemorial, the citizens of Prato had celebrated Good Friday
by a nocturnal representation of the Passion; that it was a sight
well worth seeing, and famous throughout Northern Italy; that he
and his family were going, and that they had a window, or stand,
very much at my service. My aunt, who thought nothing worth
seeing but the Cascine and her native Lucca, shook her head
despairingly, leaving me somehow under the impression that the
affair was a large puppet-show accompanied by fireworks. So the
matter dropped, and I quite forgot it, until invited on Holy
Thursday by an English gentleman, long resident in Florence, to
make one of a party to Prato, Friday afternoon. As the trains
were uncomfortably full, and all the better public barouches
engaged weeks before, we had to put up with an old blue hack,
drawn by two lank, slovenly bays. But the hack-horses of Florence
are singed cats. Although not unlike crop-eared mules, they can
hold a trot or canter all day long, without seeming much more
distressed than when they started. We were hardly through the
Porta al Prato before our team struck an honest, even, steady
lope that soon brought us to the Villa Demidoff.

The spring is a slow one, but the violets are out, the
fruit-trees in bloom, and the roses budding. There is no dust;
the road, like all Tuscan roads, smooth and firm, curbed and
guttered, weeded to the edge, fringed with unbroken borders of
olive, mulberry, and vines.
{317}
Along the wayside, and in the doorways, old women and children
are braiding straw. Men and girls, in holiday attire, are
flocking to the great triennial festa; some in carts, drawn by
mild-eyed, dove-colored oxen; some on foot; others in jaunty
spring-wagons, jerked along by plucky little ponies. The whole
country is astir, with a general concentration on Prato. It must
surely be something worth seeing that provokes such a deliberate
crowd. Still, I asked no questions. It is so much more
interesting to anticipate a spectacle vaguely than exactly. The
indefinite anxiety about the form in which a dawning unknown will
finally present itself is always more engrossing than mere
curiosity to realize a picture distinctly foreshadowed. Yet,
while speculating on what the good people of Prato could possibly
make of the awful mystery they were undertaking to represent, I
must confess that I felt apprehensive lest some awkward handling
should affront the unutterably sacred.

At sunset we reached the fine old walls, and came to a halt just
inside the gate. To drive further was impossible. The city
swarmed with _contadini_ from the neighborhood; with natives
and _forestieri_ from Florence, Pisa, Pistoia, Lucca, and
even Milan; with the beautiful maidens of Segna and the dark
silk-venders of Pescia. It was evident, at a glance, that the
ceremony was to be a procession. The piazzas were all ready for
illumination; every window along the line of march displayed at
least two lamps suspended from brackets of thick iron wire; every
door and balcony was thronged with still, expectant faces.

As two of our party, a young artist and a mature cosmopolitan,
were bent on seeing the cathedral, we managed to reach it after
toiling through the crowd. It is wonderful how many objects your
disciplined sight-seer can absorb at once. He is never satisfied
with less than a constellation in his field of vision. The
emotional jumble that maddens a novice serves only to
tranquillize his nerves. He is utterly insensible to the charm of
a separately entertained idea--the undulating, widening waves of
thought dispersed evenly and unbrokenly from one central point of
agitation. He is, apparently, never so happy as when the surface
of sensation is pelted with fresh impressions, overshowered with
novelties, tremulous and titillating with myriads of clashing
circlets. But, although the Duomo is partly of the twelfth
century, although it is said to enshrine the Sacratissima
Cintola, although its choir contains the best specimens of Fra
Lippo Lippi, I was not sorry to find the doors locked. My mind
was so preoccupied with the coming Passion that I scarcely cared
to do more than glance at the fine balcony built by Donatello for
the exposition of the treasured girdle.

We drifted about the piazza till dark, when an electrical
movement and murmur of the people announced the near approach of
the initial moment. Instantly a thousand ladders are up against
the house-sides; swiftly and mysteriously the throng of
on-lookers melts away; the bands of Pistoia and Prato unite in a
minor march; the momently deserted streets are filled with
radiance and music--the great triennial festa has begun.
Half-past seven; a perfect night; no moon, a low breeze, and
faint starlight. We are in the rear of the starting-point; the
procession must traverse the whole town--two hours--before it
reaches us. But we shall have the best of it then, for the close
is said to be even more solemn and better ordered than the start.

{318}

The narrow sidewalks are lined with spectators; doors, windows,
and balconies alive with faces; but there is little movement and
less conversation. Although we had a room of our own, we found
ourselves addressing each other in whispers. At nine o'clock the
silence deepened; the low rustling in the balconies ceased; our
hostess crossed herself; the glare of coming torches lights up a
living lane of men bare-headed, of women mutely praying with
clasped hands; and then a solitary Roman knight, with casque and
spangled robe, and steed unshod, glides noiselessly into view,
like an apparition. After him a band of mounted knights, clad as
at Calvary, ride slowly, silently together; then a blast from
twenty trumpets, in superb unison, by twenty Bersaglieri of the
Guard; and then--a sight which to this day brings the tears to my
eyes as I recall it--thirty gladiatorial lictors, ten abreast,
stripped to the waist, bare-headed, belted, filleted--all picked
men of equal height--moving with a step that spurned the ground,
light but swift and stern as fate. How that wonderful step
startled us! How its determined energy transported us to
Jerusalem! They have sustained it for two hours without the
slightest symptom of weariness. They march on as if they could
keep the pace forever.

After these, in helmet and cuirass, with shield and sword and
spear, come the Roman legionaries, true to tradition in gait,
garb, and array.

"Watch the sway of their spears," whispered our artist friend, as
the long lances flashed through the air with the even sweep of an
admiral's oars.

It was worth watching: nearly as much so as the wonderful stride
of the lictors. And, all the while, you could not hear a
footfall, a comment, or a murmur; the procession passed like a
vision through the heart of that still, torchlit, reverent
multitude. But, as the dread sequel approached, I began to
tremble--began to fear they might overdo it--although the
marching of those drilled lictors and the swaying of those
legionary spears might have reassured me. Fresh companies of
knights, fresh sections of the cohort are filing forward, every
man of them as earnest and absorbed as if he were climbing the
hill of the Crosses Three. Not a sign or gesture of levity,
distraction, or fatigue; not even a side-glance at the living
walls that hemmed them in.

As the vanguard melts away, the sudden glare of many torches, the
sudden chaunt of many voices, again invade the solemn stillness
with music and light. Marshalled groups of ecclesiastics, each
group with its separate choir, are seen advancing in endless
perspective; and in the centre of each choir, between two
torch-bearers, a lovely boy, with downcast eyes and rigid face,
supports some symbol of the Passion. One by one, at measured
intervals, the precious emblems of salvation are thus
successively displayed--each with its guard of acolytes, its
escort of deacons and sub-deacons, its swelling choral, its
angelic boy-bearer. Those rapt, concentrated, inspired young
faces! I see them now bending in meek beauty over the Scourge,
the Crown, the Reed, the Cross, the Nails, the Sponge, the Spear.

And when these too have passed, there is another pause, another
interval of darkness, another pulseless silence, broken as before
by the tide of radiance and song. Seven white banners inscribed
with the Seven Last Words are borne by with the same mournful
pomp, the same separate array. Whose the music, I know not:
neither Haydn's, I am sure, nor Mercadante's, I think; but quite
as effective, for the moment, as either.
{319}
We looked and listened spell-bound; an overpowering illusion held
us speechless and motionless; a dread expectation weighed at our
hearts like lead; we were body and soul at Calvary, as once more
the torchlight died away. And in the darkness, we asked
ourselves, "Will they venture farther? Will they attempt the act
of sacrifice itself? Why, the city of Prato would reel like
Jerusalem--her graves would open and her dead would walk!"

But Prato is too merciful for that. After an interval of profound
suspense, a lofty sable catafalque, encircled by priests arrayed
in stole and surplice, is borne silently along--and on it, pale
and unmoving, the shrouded image of the divine Victim, with all
the agony of the Passion on the white lips and crimson brow.
_Consummatum est!_--But as we sat unexpectant of more,
another figure emerged from the settling gloom--the life-size
effigy of the Mater Dolorosa, "following with clasped hands and
streaming eyes the dead form of her Son." After all that long
array of _living_ actors, the introduction of any effigy,
however perfect, must create a disillusion. And this one is far
from perfect--far more suggestive of the Prado than of Calvary.
The dead on the catafalque is appropriately represented by the
inanimate; but when knights, soldiers, lictors, centurions, are
moving, breathing flesh and blood, its application to the equally
living Mother is a violent incongruity. The action has been too
intensely vitalized to assimilate a counterfeit vitality, however
sacred its significance.

"But what then?" asks the genius of Prato. "Am I to forego this
tribute to my dear Padrona because it shocks the sensibilities of
a speculative tourist? Does not my cathedral enshrine the very
girdle of the Assumption that fell to the kneeling Thomas? Can
you fix a single unorthodox or unscriptural significance upon
these time-honored obsequies? In the final throes of crucifixion,
was not the last thought of the dying Son, the last concern of
the expiring Redeemer, for his Mother? Was not 'Behold thy
Mother!' the last charge of the thirsting lips? We obey the
_Ecce Homo_ of Pilate: dare we disobey the _Ecce Mater_
of Jesus?"

Let it be discriminated, however, that in the _Ecce Mater_
we are summoned to contemplate our Blessed Lady, not in her
agony, but in her maternity--in her relationship rather to the
future than to the present. The Evangelists are singularly
careful not to distinguish any finite sorrow--not even
_hers_--from the overwhelming spectacle of immolated Deity.
Had the Mater Dolorosa formed _part_ of the funeral tableau,
had she been pictured _Dolentem_ CUM _filio_, had she
been stationed directly _at_ the bier so as to constitute a
group or Pietà--although the inconsistency of effigy remained,
yet the marbles of Angelo and the canvas of Raphael would have
abundantly prepared us for the sight. But at that supreme moment,
to present her, _after a distinct interval_, as a
_separate_ spectacle, was at variance with all the examples
of Christian art. The Stabat Mater does not wander an inch from
the Cross; though here, with exquisite propriety, as the sorrow
of the Mother is revealed, the cross she clings to is so dimmed
by her tears that we catch only mournful twilight glimpses of the
DULCEM _Natum_--veiled, infinite, triumphant woe, but none
of the vivid, minute, specific agony of the Passion.

{320}

The sublime reticence of the Evangelists, so far from diminishing
the true glory of the Handmaid of the Lord, is in inspired accord
both with her maiden humility and maternal dignity. The
fathomless processes of redemption present themselves to our
limited perceptions rather as consecutive than simultaneous. The
paternal, the filial, the spiritual aspect of the Holy Trinity
seems each consecutively prominent in the church. As the special
work of the Redeemer is consummated, the special work of the
Comforter begins. The sphere of the Paraclete is as broadly
defined, as lovingly respected by the Son, as the sphere of the
Padre Eterno. Infinitely dear as is the bond between babe and
mother, we instinctively sympathize with the mystical courtesy
that reserved the full exaltation of the Bride of the Dove, like
the gift of the cloven tongues of fire, for the operation of the
Holy Ghost.

  "Vergine sola al mondo sensa esempio,
   Che'l ciel di tue bellezze innamorasti."

And the hearts of the faithful, now as at Ephesus, are jealously
alive to the full significance of her paramount title, "_Mater
Dei_."

The mission of Peter, to feed the sheep, is not more emphatic
than the mission of John as the child and guardian of Mary. The
apostolic inheritor of the keys, and the executor of the cross
who took her as his own, walk side by side through the ages,
_not in the flesh, indeed, but in the spirit_, following the
Lord till his coming. In this relation, the dearest disciple is
as deathless as the church; under this aspect, Christian art
loves to depict him; under this aspect he becomes the preferred
of the Paraclete, as he has been the best beloved of
Jesus--becomes the great herald of the incarnation; the prophet
to whose vision the doors in heaven are opened; the bearer of the
mystic challenge, "_And the_ SPIRIT _and the_ BRIDE
_say come!_"

Salve Regina! Much as I should have preferred the chime of the
Stabat Mater to any more direct suggestion, or to aught in
imitative art save the very face of the San Sisto transformed by
maternal sorrow, yet no man in Prato bows with deeper heartfelt
reverence than I to the image of our ever honored Lady. Tuscany
is not Mariolatrous enough for me. I should like it better with a
Madonna presiding over every fountain and hallowing every
pathway. And, in the deep hush that precedes the stir with which
Prato struggles back to herself, the soul's conception of the
_Juxta crucem lacrymosa_ takes the place of the vanishing
effigy, and, aided by the inspired seers of art, constructs some
tenderer semblance of the blessed countenance.

     "----ch' a Christo
   Piu s' assomiglia."

There was but little conversation as we drove back in the
midnight. And when at last, in the starry distance, arose the
mighty cupola of Santa Maria del Fiore, I caught myself searching
among the towers of Florence for the lonely spire of Santo
Spirito.

                   ----------

{321}

          Galileo-Galilei, [Footnote 125]
            the Florentine Astronomer.

                   1564-1642.

  "Even so great a man as Bacon rejected the theory of Galileo
  with scorn. ... Bacon had not all the means of arriving at a
  sound conclusion which are within our reach; and which secure
  people who would not have been worthy to mend his pens from
  falling into his mistakes."--Macaulay.

    [Footnote 125: _Galileo--The Roman Inquisition_.
    Cincinnati. 1844.

    _Galileo e l'Inquisizione_. Marino-Marini. Roma. 1850.

    _Histoire des Sciences Mathématiques en Italie_.
    Par Libri. Paris. 1838.

    _Notes on the Ante-Galilean Copernicans._
    Prof. De Morgan. London. 1855.

    _Opere di Galileo-Galilei._ Alberi. Firenze.
    1842-1856. 16 vols. imp. 8vo.

    _Galileo-Galilei, sa Vie, son Procès et ses
    Contemporains_. Par Philarète Chasles. Paris. 1862.

    _Galileo and the Inquisition_. By R. Madden. London.
    1863.

    _Galilee, sa Vie, ses Découvertes et ses Travaux_.
    Par le Dr. Max Parchappe. Paris. 1866.

    _Galilee_. Tragédie de M. Ponsard. Paris. 1866.

    _La Condamnation de Galilée_. Par M. l'Abbé Bouix.
    Arras. 1866.

    _Articles on Galileo, in Dublin Review_. 1838-1865.

    _Articles on Galileo, in Revue des Deux Mondes_.
    1841-1864.

    _Mélanges Scientifiques et Littéraires_.
    Par J. B. Biot. 3 vols. Paris. 1858.

    _Galilée, les Droits da la Science
    et la Méthode des Sciences Physiques_.
    Par Thomas Henri Martin.
    Paris. 1868.]


Very few years of life now remain to the Galileo story as
heretofore accepted. It has received more than one mortal wound,
and, writhing in pain, must soon "die among its worshippers." And
yet some of them still battle for its truth. For these, too, the
end approaches. We therefore hasten to glean the field and gather
in our harvest of historic leaves, while yet the controversial
sun shines with fading warmth. We wish at once to present the
Galileo story as truly told; for soon there will be nothing left
of it to discuss, and the moving drama of

  "The starry Galileo, with his woes,"

will cease to be played to crowded and delighted anti-Catholic
audiences. A flood of historic daylight has been gradually let in
behind the scenes, and our pensive public now begin plainly to
discern the bungling framework, the coarse canvas, and the
roughly-daubed paint, that, in a light shed by a blaze of
religious bigotry, seemed the brilliancy of science and the
beauty of truth.

The "persecution," the "torture," the "_e pur si muove_" the
"shirt of penance," and all the other properties, scenery,
dresses, and decorations, constituting the "_mise en scène_"
of the wretched play that so long has had a sort of historic
_Black Crook_ run, are now about to be swept away with other
old rubbish, and the curtain will fall never again to rise.

The Galileo controversy is of comparatively recent date in our
literature. In the year 1838 a well-known article in the _The
Dublin Review_ gave the best statement of the case which, up
to that period, had ever been presented to English readers. It
was in this country generally attributed to Cardinal Wiseman, but
was in fact written by the Rev. Peter Cooper. Republished in 1844
at Cincinnati, with a timely preface, it has been largely
circulated among the Catholic reading public throughout the
United States. Since the dates mentioned, however, there are many
valuable accessions to our knowledge on this interesting subject;
and, not to mention others, the publications of Marini, Alberi,
and Biot have cleared up several important points heretofore in
doubt, and placed some disputed facts in an entirely new light.

{322}

The occasion of _The Dublin Review_ article was the
appearance of Whewell's _History of the Inductive Sciences_,
and Powell's _History of Philosophy_. Its republication in
Cincinnati, accompanied by an American introduction, was provoked
by some remarkable statements made concerning Galileo by John
Quincy Adams, in a discourse delivered before the Astronomical
Society of that city. In like manner, the controversy was lately
brought to the surface in France by the production of M.
Ponsard's five-act drama (_Galilée_) at the Théâtre
Français. Before it is put upon the stage, the play is objected
to by official censorship, on the ground of historical
misrepresentation. M. Ponsard justifies, censure responds. M.
Ponsard's friends, the _Avenir National_ and a compact
phalanx of ardent young _feuilletonistes_, spring to the
rescue; pamphlets fly from the press as thick as autumn leaves,
and the whole controversy is once again put in agitation.

Generally speaking, English and American boys emerge from their
school or college reading with an idea, more or less vague, that
the moment Galileo announced the doctrine of the earth's rotation
he was seized upon by the Inquisition, cast into prison, tortured
in various ways until all his bones were broken; that he
pretended to recant, but, with broken bones aforesaid, stood up
erect, stamped his foot, and-thundered out, "_e pur si
muove_"--and yet, it moves. We believe this is no exaggeration
of the main features of the version that in an undefined and
misty form still holds possession of the public mind; and the
distinguished Biot appears to recognize this fact in the title of
his memoir (1858) on the subject. _La Vérité sur Galilée_--
The truth at last--or, in other words, we have had enough of
fiction.

And no wonder; for, up to within comparatively few years, the
story has been systematically obscured by thick shades of fable
and falsehood. Falsehood as gross as that of Montucla, that the
astronomer's eyes were put out; or of Bernini, that he was
imprisoned for five years. Falsehood as flippant as that of
Moreri, (_Grand Dictionnaire Biographique_,) that Galileo
was "kept in prison five or six years," prefacing his statement
with "_je sais bien_." Fables as transparent as that of
Pontecoulant, who says Galileo was a martyr, leaving you free to
imagine the astronomer beheaded or burned, at your choice.

As liberal a quarterly as the _Westminster_ says of Galileo:
"For the remainder of his life he was subjected to the
persecution of the Inquisition." Even the last edition of the
_Encyclopedia Britannica_ tells us that "at the end of a
year the Grand Duke had the influence to procure his release from
prison;" and Sir Benjamin Brodie informs us, in his
_Psychological Inquiries_, that "the Inquisition of Rome
subjected Galileo to the torture because he asserted that the
earth moved round the sun, and not the sun round the earth." But
for a specimen of the most daring intrepidity of statement on
this topic, see an article by Libri in the _Revue des Deux
Mondes_, 1841; and for one out of a thousand silly rhetorical
flourishes, see _Introduction à l'Etude Philosophique de
l'Histoire de l'Humanité_, par Altmeyer, (p. 95,) "Galilée fut
forcé par un clergé retrograde de demander pardon à Dieu d'avoir
révelé aux hommes les éternelles et ravissantes harmonies par
lesquelles il régit l'univers."

{323}

Summing up this peculiar phase of historical treatment, there is
left from it a general impression that Galileo was persecuted,
imprisoned, maltreated, and tortured, wholly and solely by reason
of his scientific belief; that he pretended to abjure, but said
"_e pur si muove_" and did not abjure.

The Ponsard controversy in France, which had hardly died out at
the latest advices, produced many assertions, strong expression
of weak theories, loose statement, some fine writing, pleasing
amenities, such as "exagération," "inexactitude de
transcription," "menteurs," "mensonge complet," and very little
historical proof.

Throughout the entire range of the discussion one capital feature
appears, as usual, to be left totally out of sight. We mean

   The Condition Of The Scientific Question.

The theory of the earth's motion, A.D. 1868, is demonstrated.
There is no one to question it--unless, indeed, we except Pastor
Knaack, an orthodox Lutheran, or, at any rate, Protestant
preacher, in Berlin, who lately had an exciting controversy with
Pastor Liscow, in which he maintains that the accounts given of
the creation of the world in the first chapters of Genesis are
literally true; that the earth does not move, etc., etc. And most
persons nowadays, taking it for granted that Galileo had
demonstrated the truth of his system, appear to be satisfied that
the tribunal by which he was judged must have been perversely
blind and disgracefully ignorant in refusing assent to a
proposition so evident. Even in many books that treat this
discussion with comparative thoroughness, the true condition of
the scientific question in Galileo's day is passed over in
silence, or presented with startling incorrectness. Thus any one
might read Dr. Parchappe's pretentious work carefully through,
and never suspect that Galileo had not triumphantly demonstrated
the system.

For another, out of many examples, listen to M. Philarète
Chasles: "Galileo accomplished the noblest conquest of modern
science after that of Newton. _He determined the problem of the
movement of the earth_, and thus became culpable of three
crimes--against society, the _savants_, and the power of his
time." So intent is M. Chasles on his antithetical three crimes,
that he loses sight of the fact that this assertion prostrates
the whole _échafaudage_ of his defence of Rome--for,
ultra-liberal though he be, his book is written with unusual
fairness of intention. If Galileo did what M. Chasles thus claims
for him--namely, determine the problem of the movement of the
earth--_there is no excuse for Rome!_ But a candid
examination of the condition of astronomical science at that
period, and of the extent of Galileo's acquisitions, will show
that not only was

    THE SYSTEM NOT DEMONSTRATED BY GALILEO,

but that, with the entire fund of astronomical and physical
knowledge in existence in his day, it was not then susceptible of
demonstration by him or by any one else.

This examination we now proceed to make. And we set out with the
proposition that Galileo, with all the aid of the eighty years of
confirmation that grew with the theory of Copernicus, with the
light of his own remarkable discoveries, with his brilliant
genius and intimate conviction of the truth of his theory, was
yet not only powerless to prove it, but was so far wide of
demonstration that he assigned as evidence in its support reasons
that were utterly erroneous and delusive.

{324}

The truth is--and it is no derogation of Galileo's magnificent
talent to say so--it was not given to any single intellect here
below to solve a problem so gigantic. It was not possible for any
mortal to concentrate the patient labor of centuries within the
space of one short life, to master all the avenues of all the
sciences that approach it, to storm the firmament and lead
captive the stars. No! only the combined genius and ceaseless
toil of the illustrious men of science of all Christendom barely
succeeded in accomplishing the demonstration of which we speak,
nearly two centuries after the grave had closed over Galileo and
his judges.

It would require a volume to do the entire subject the merest
justice; for, in addition to the examination proposed, it is
absolutely necessary, if only for the sake of chronological
clearness, to present at least a sketch of Galileo's career, the
main events of his personal and scientific life, and a statement
of the difficulties that brought on his trial. This we will
endeavor to do.


                    BIOGRAPHY.

Born at Pisa, February 28th, 1564, Galileo-Galilei was, at the
age of twenty-six, noticed by the Cardinal Del Monte, and on his
recommendation installed lecturer on mathematics in his native
city. At this period the doctrines of Aristotle reigned in the
schools, although Leonardo da Vinci, Nizzoli, Benedetti, and
others, had, by many valuable experiments, already shaken the
authority of the Stagyrite on matters of science. The young Pisan
followed diligently in their path, and, with the favoring
locality of the Leaning Tower, demonstrated the incorrectness of
the accepted axiom that the velocity of falling bodies is
proportionate to their weight. He was also the first to whom the
mechanical principle, since denominated that of the
_virtual_ velocities, had occurred in its full extent; and
in pure geometry there is no doubt that, at a later period, he
anticipated Cavalcanti in the discovery of the calculus of the
indivisibles.

Unfortunately, his indiscreet zeal had only words of harshness
and rebuke for those who hesitated to accept his demonstrations,
and his sarcasms rapidly begot alienation and ill-will. For a
prejudice respectable by age he could make no allowance, and with
the blindness that in a blaze of light is unable to command
vision he had no patience. Galileo was, however, still young, and
not yet, if ever in his life, wise enough to reflect, with
another great astronomer, that men are not necessarily obstinate
because they cleave to rooted and venerable errors, nor are they
absolutely dull when they are long in understanding and slow in
embracing newly discovered truths.

The young lecturer made so many enemies at Pisa that he was glad
to leave it and accept the chair of mathematics at Padua.


                   THE TELESCOPE.

Here he invented, or rather improved, the telescope. Galileo
expressly states in his _Nuncius Siderius_ (March, 1610)
that he had heard that a certain Hollander constructed
(_elaboratum_) a glass, (_perspicillum_,) by means of
which distant objects were made to appear near. Whether this
unknown optician was Zachary Jansen, Moetius of Alkmar, or Henry
Lippersheim of Middleburg, it seems impossible to determine.

{325}

Indeed, it seems strange that the idea of the telescope had not
long before been put to practical use. Passing over the
"perspective glasses" of the English astronomer Dee, or
modifications of the suggestion in the _Pantometria_ of
Digges in 1571, we find that the idea of bringing nearer the
image of distant objects by means of a combination of lenses is
to be traced almost clearly to a very remote period. Baptist
Porta, in his _Magica Naturalis_, published in 1589, speaks
of crystal lenses by which he could read a letter at twenty
paces, and was confident of being able, by multiplying such
lenses, to decipher the smallest letters at a hundred paces.
Going further back, we read in the _Homocentrica_ of
Fracastorius, who died in the year 1553, of glasses through whose
aid we can decipher writing at a great distance; and yet further,
Roger Bacon, who died A.D. 1300, speaks of glasses by which very
small letters could be read at an incredible distance.

Galileo's first telescope had only a power of three, his second
magnified eight times, his third thirty-three, [Footnote 126] and
was soon succeeded by a better one made on a suggestion of
Kepler, who wrote to Galileo: "There is as much difference
between the dissertations of Ptolemy on the Antipodes and the
discovery of a new world by Columbus as between the bilenticular
tubes which are everywhere hawked about and thine instrument,
Galileo, wherewith thou hast penetrated the depths of the skies."

    [Footnote 126: The largest telescopes we now have are at
    Cincinnati, 204 focal feet: Greenwich, (England,) 210;
    Cambridge, (Mass.,) 270; Pultowa, (Russia,) 289; E. Cooper,
    (private observatory, Ireland,) 302. Auzont (Paris) is said
    to have made one of 600 focal feet, but it was found to be
    unmanageable.]

These embryo telescopes were from twenty to thirty inches in
length. Now, from a mere portable toy which Galileo held in his
hand, this instrument has become an immense construction capable
of supporting the astronomer himself, and which complicated and
powerful machinery is requisite to move.

It is a remarkable fact that, as late as 1637, no glasses could
be produced in Holland, the cradle of the telescope, capable of
showing the satellites of Jupiter, which, in our day, can be
discerned with a good field or opera-glass.

With his baby-telescope, then, in 1610, Galileo discovered the
irregularities or mountains of the moon, forty stars in the
Pleiades, and the satellites of Jupiter. These discoveries were
announced in a work bearing the appropriate title, The _Herald
of the Skies, (Nuncius Sidereus;)_ and it would be difficult
to describe the profound sensation this publication created.
Kepler, in a letter to Galileo, describes his impressions on
hearing of the discovers of the satellites of Jupiter in the
following graphic manner: "Wachenfels stopped his carriage at my
door to tell me, when such a fit of wonder seized me at a report
which seemed so absurd that, between his joy, my coloring, and
the laughter of both, confounded as we were by such a novelty, we
were hardly capable, he of speaking, or I of listening."


           GALILEO GOES TO ROME.

Galileo visited Rome for the first time in 1611. His fame had
preceded him, and his stay there was one long ovation. Attentions
beset him and honors were heaped upon him. "Whether we consider
cardinal, priest, or prelate," says Salsbury, "he found an
honorable welcome from all, and had their palaces as open to him
as the houses of his private friends." His reception was indeed,
as was beautifully remarked, "as though one of his own starry
wonders had dropped from the sky."

{326}

He erected his best telescope in the garden of Cardinal Bandini,
and for weeks all classes, priest and layman, noble and plebeian,
flocked to see the wonders for the first time given to human
gaze.

In 1611 and 1612, he had a protracted controversy, and wrote
treatises on the question whether "the shape of bodies has any
influence on their disposition to float or sink in a fluid," and
displayed much acute reasoning in support of the true principles
of hydrostatics.



               HIS SUCCESS.

Galileo had now obtained wealth, reputation, station, and high
honors. His pupils were received as professors. His disciples and
correspondents were philosophers, princes, and prelates.
Opposition was for him but a bridge to triumph, and even his
scientific errors were not noticed to his detriment. Not his the
fate of Kepler and Tycho Brahe, compelled to seek in exile the
hospitality of an opposing faith. Not his the essays of the
discouraged Fulton, jeered at up to the instant that
demonstration silenced cavil. Not his the labors of sad and
silent nights, destined only to see the light when the hand that
traced them was cold in the tomb. Not his the constant struggle
with years of poverty, of hope deferred, in spite of which
Columbus found a new world, not, like Galileo's, visible in the
vault of heaven, but unseen, unknown, beyond the trackless wave.

He wrote and spoke _ex cathedra_, and, whether with or
without proofs, in a tone of overbearing confidence. When
argument failed to enlighten the judgment of his adversaries,
says Lardner, "and reason to dispel their prejudices, he wielded
against them his powerful weapons of ridicule and sarcasm." His
progress was a triumphant march. Sovereigns received his
dedications, and learned academies sought a reflection of his
fame in sending forth his works with all the illustration of
their high authority. The path to the full establishment of the
Copernican system was open and broad before him; but the pride of
the man [Footnote 127] was stronger than the modest science of
the philosopher, and he made it rugged and difficult by obstacles
of his own erection. He strove not for truth, but victory.

    [Footnote 127:  Like Cicero, Galileo was "_avidior gloriae
    quam satis est_," a phrase used by himself when on his
    defence.]


               THE COPERNICAN THEORY

was, so to speak, born, cradled, nurtured and developed in the
Church and under the very shadow of St. Peter's.

Nicholas Copernicus was a priest, acquired his scientific
education at Bologna, was shortly afterward appointed to a
professorship in Rome, where he lectured many years, and
announced and discussed his theory of the solar system long
before it was published. The printing of his great work was long
urged in vain by Cardinal Scomberg, who sent money to defray the
expense. The Bishop of Culm superintended its publication, and
Copernicus dedicated it to the Head of the Church, Pope Paul
III., on the express ground "that the authority of the pontiff
might silence the calumnies of those who attacked these opinions
by arguments drawn from Scripture."
{327}
It was well understood that the authority of the pontiff might be
relied on; for in 1533, ten years before the publication of _De
Revolutionibus_ by Copernicus, John Albert Widmanstadt, just
arrived in Rome from Germany, was invited by Pope Clement VII. to
give in his presence at the Vatican an explanation of the
Copernican system. Widmanstadt accordingly delivered a lecture on
the subject in the garden of the Vatican; and his holiness, in
token of his high gratification, presented the distinguished
German a valuable Greek manuscript, (long preserved at Monaco,
and now belonging to the royal library at Munich,) on the
fly-leaf of which is recorded, by Widmanstadt, the gift and the
incident connected with it.

From that time (1533) to 1610, a period of seventy-seven years,
the Copernican theory was widely discussed and written upon
throughout Europe. Lectures were delivered and books published in
Italy, Germany, France, and Spain, without let or hindrance, in
which the new system was thoroughly debated and, to a great
extent, controverted--controverted, too, far more bitterly by
astronomers than theologians. It was, moreover, discussed amongst
all classes of men. So much so, indeed, that it was publicly
satirized in a farce put upon the stage at Elbing. So great,
however, was the personal popularity of Copernicus that the piece
was hissed.

Intentionally or not, the impression has been strongly made on
the English and American Protestant mind that before Galileo the
new system scarcely existed, and that he was the first to
announce it to the astonished and benighted priests and cardinals
at Rome. In like manner a certain amount of literary industry
appears to have been used to pass over in comparative silence the
merit of Copernicus and his fellow-priests--simply because they
were priests. [Footnote 128]

   [Footnote 128: In the interest of truth and historical
   accuracy, it is highly gratifying to be able to point out a
   signal and honorable exception in the following passage, which
   we read in the _National Quarterly Review_, a Protestant
   periodical published in this city: "Thus we are bound to
   admit, as beyond all dispute, that not only was the system of
   the universe now universally received founded by a priest of
   the church which is said to be an enemy to science, but that
   it was a bishop and cardinal of the same church who, above all
   others, took most pains to have the system promulgated to the
   world. It was, in fact, they who paid all the expenses of
   printing the work, and finally, it was to the head of the
   church the book was dedicated; nor was it dedicated to the
   pope without his having given full permission, and it is
   further proved that Paul III. had not given the permission
   until he had made himself acquainted with the character of the
   work."--_National Quarterly Review_, October, 1868, p.
   219.]

Much of this reprehensible effort is chargeable to English
literature, and even Hallam, fair and honorable usually, is not
free from the reproach of an apparent fear of stating boldly that
Copernicus was a Catholic priest.

As remarked, more than three quarters of a century--that is to
say, from the period of the Widmanstadt lecture to the discovery
of the satellites of Jupiter--the new theory as propounded by
Copernicus was publicly taught or discussed by numbers of the
first scholars and men of science in Europe.

Among them were Erasmus, Reinhold, and George Joachim Rheticus;
personal friends and survivors of Copernicus.

_Francis Patricias_, the distinguished Platonist, who from
1592 to 1597 taught the diurnal motion of the earth at Rome under
the patronage of the pope. In connection with the name of
Patricius it is interesting to note the fact that the most
careful biographers of Galileo have been unable to fix the
precise time when he abandoned the Ptolemaic system for that of
Copernicus. True, M. Libri, (in his _Histoire des Sciences
Mathématiques en Italie_,) with his usual readiness undertakes
to inform us, by stating that "_Dès sa première jeunesse
Galilée avait adopté le système de Copernic_," which
statement, in a question of dates, we find eminently
unsatisfactory.
{328}
The weight of authority, however, appears to place it somewhere
between 1593 and 1597, precisely the period when Patricius was
lecturing at Rome.

_Christian Urstisius_, who died in 1588, publicly taught the
theory of Copernicus in a course of lectures delivered in Italy,
and to him also is ascribed, by some, the conversion of Galileo
to Copernicanism.

_Diego_ or _Didacus a Stunica_, a Spaniard, a decided
Copernican, the first it is said who discussed the Bible
arguments, quoting Job: "Who shaketh the earth out of her place,
and the pillars thereof tremble."

_Peter Ramus_, who began his philosophical career by a
public attack on the authority of Aristotle, in offering to
maintain the contrary of any assertion of his whatever. It is
noted as a curious coincidence that the publication of the
opinions of Copernicus and of Ramus, controverting ancient
astronomy (Ptolemy) and ancient logic, (Aristotle,) were made in
the same year, (1543.) Although called by Bacon "a skulking-hole
of ignorance," a "pernicious book-worm," etc., he was
nevertheless a man of great powers and acquirements. Before
Galileo came on the stage, he appeared to favor the system of
Copernicus.

_Christopher Rothman_, who, although a friend and at one
time a follower of Tycho Brahe, was a defender both of the annual
and diurnal motion of the earth.

_William Gilbert_ and _Edward Wright_, two English
scientific men, who may be classed among the opponents of the
Copernican system.

_Benedetti_, who cautiously favored the system.

_Christopher Clavius_, a celebrated Jesuit, whose vast
learning was the admiration of his age. In 1570, he spoke of
Copernicus as the excellent restorer of astronomy whom all
posterity will gratefully celebrate and admire as a second
Ptolemy. We shall meet Clavius again.

Not to speak of Kepler, we might mention Raimarus, Maestlin,
Vieta, and many others who wrote or lectured on the subject of
the theory of Copernicus previous to the year 1610.

And yet we now reach a period when a professor of this same
Copernican theory, in its home in Italy, was to be subjected to
what are called the terrors of the Inquisition!

              WHENCE THE CHANGE?

How came it about? Were there elements in the controversy other
than scientific? And was it, or not, the fault of Galileo that
the question was shifted from the safe repose of the scientific
basis in which it had remained undisturbed more than four-score
years?

             SECOND VISIT TO ROME.

In 1615, Galileo was denounced to the Inquisition by Lorini for
having asserted, in a letter to Castelli, the consistency of his
theories with the Scriptures. Lorini produced a copy of the
letter in support of his charge. The officials demanded the
original, which the complainant could not produce, although every
one in Rome knew where it was. Galileo's denunciator was, so to
speak, _non-suited_, and there the matter ended. Meantime,
through Ciampoli, Cardinal Barberini, afterward Pope Urban VIII.,
conveyed to Galileo the advice "not to travel out of the limits
of _physics_ and _mathematics_, but confine himself to
such reasonings as Ptolemy and Copernicus used; because,
declaring the views of Scripture the theologians maintain to be
their particular province."
{329}
This advice, together with the opinion of the eminent Bellarmine,
shows precisely the condition of opinion and feeling in Rome at
the period in question.

Galileo did not leave Rome after the inquiry of 1615, and then
writes to Picchena Feb. 16th, 1616: "My affair has been brought
to a close, so far as I am individually concerned; the result has
been signified to me by all their eminences the cardinals, who
manage these affairs in the most liberal and kind manner, with
the assurance that they had felt, as it were with their own
hands, no less my own candor and sincerity, than the diabolical
malignity and iniquitous purposes of my persecutors. So that, so
far as I am concerned, I might return home at any moment."

But he did not choose to return, and remained in order to obtain
a decision that should declare his scientific opinion in
accordance with Scripture. His friend Cardinal Orsini entered
warmly into his views, and after having failed in having the
question taken up by the cardinals, had the imprudence to force
it (_arreptâ potius quam captâ occasione_) upon the
attention of the pope and the cardinals while in deliberation
upon matters of weighty concern in one of their largest meetings.
On a second interruption the pope, naturally impatient, declared
he would send the matter before the Inquisition. He kept his
word, and eleven consultative theologians had orders from him to
report, which they did, February 24th, 1616. By virtue of an
order, said to have been written by the pope himself upon this
report, and notified on the 25th February, to the Commissary of
the Holy Office by Cardinal Mellini, Galileo was summoned the
next day to the palace of the Inquisition, where he was brought
before Cardinal Bellarmine. The decree was not one of utter
condemnation, but a declaration that the system appeared to be
contrary to the sacred Scripture. Galileo was enjoined by the
decree to abandon the opinion of terrestrial motion, and neither
to teach nor treat of it. Nor was this a discrimination against
Galileo merely because he was a layman. A few days afterward the
congregation condemned the work of Foscarini, a Carmelite friar
and professor of philosophy, who published a letter defending the
systems of Copernicus and Galileo. It is important here to remark
that the decree of 26th February, 1616, forbidding Galileo to
teach the doctrine of the immobility of the _sun_ was
scientifically correct, even tried by our modern scientific
standard. "Ut supradictam opinionem quod sol sit centrum mundi et
immobilis ... omnino relinquat, nec eam de cetero quovis modo
teneat, doceat, aut defendat." Will any man of modern science
undertake to say that Galileo was right in denying the rotation
of the sun? Nevertheless, Galileo writes to Picchena: "The result
has not been favorable to my enemies, the doctrine of Copernicus
not having been declared _heretical_, but only as not
consonant with sacred Scripture; whence, the whole prohibition is
of those works in which that consonance was maintained."

Meantime these proceedings, imperfectly known abroad, doubtless
gave rise to reports which the "diabolical malignity" of
Galileo's enemies (as he styled it) did not fail to exaggerate.
Hence, the certificate which he procured shortly after from
Cardinal Bellarmine. The enemies Galileo speaks of were at first
not in Rome but in Tuscany, as Libri, in his _Histoire des
Sciences_, (p. 231,) is at some pains to explain.
{330}
The sermon of Caccini, who took for his text Josue x. 12, "Move
not, O sun, toward Gabaon; nor thou, O moon, toward the valley of
Ajalon," quoting from the Acts of the Apostles, "Ye men of
Galilee, why stand you here looking up to heaven?"--was preached
in Florence, and the friar-preacher was called to severe account
for it by his superior at Rome, the general of the Dominicans.
Here is the estimate in which Caccini's performance was held at
the time in Rome: "All to whom I have spoken," writes an eminent
ecclesiastic, Castelli, "think it great impertinence in preachers
to mount their pulpits to treat of such high, professor-like
matters, _(matterie di cattedra e tanto elevate,)_ before
women and people where there are so few to understand them." And
really Castelli's sentiment is not without its salt, even when we
transfer it from the 17th to the 19th century. Cardinal
Bellarmine's opinion as to Galileo appears in an extract from a
letter of Ciampoli, March 21st, 1615, who states the conclusion
of a long conversation between Cardinal del Monte and Cardinal
Bellarmine on the subject of the new opinions to be as follows:
"_By confining himself to the system_ AND IT'S
DEMONSTRATION, without interfering with the Scriptures, the
interpretation of which they wish to have confined to theological
professors approved and authorized for the purpose, Galileo would
be secure against any contradiction; but that otherwise
explanations of Scripture, however ingenious, will be admitted
with difficulty when they depart from the common opinion of the
fathers."

The sensation and consequent discussion resulting from Galileo's
discoveries had induced Bellarmine to submit them to four of the
most scientific fathers of his order (Jesuits) for their opinion.
One of these fathers was the renowned Clavius. Their answer is
published in _Venturi_, part I, p. 167, and shows that they
approved the discoveries. As to Cardinal Bellarmine himself, it
would take us too far out of our way to show from overwhelming
testimony that he never questioned the _truth_ of Galileo's
doctrine, but only his imprudent manner of propounding it. His
position, in his own words, was this, and his words are full of
wisdom: "_When a demonstration shall be found_ to establish
the earth's motion, it will be proper to interpret the sacred
Scriptures otherwise than they have been hitherto in those
passages where mention is made of the stability of the earth and
movements of the heavens." So ended the first judicial inquiry,
and these two great men, Cardinals Barberini and Bellarmine, thus
appear to have providentially left on record a sufficient answer
to modern misrepresentation, while showing themselves to be the
true friends of science. "Prove your system"--"Demonstrate it,"
they substantially say to Galileo--"and give yourself no concern
about the Scriptures!--the theologians will take care of them."
Indeed, the sentiments of these cardinals of the 17th seem to
anticipate the language of the Holy Father in the 19th century.
"This most tender mother, the Catholic Church, recognizes and
justly proclaims," says Pius IX. as cited by Father Hecker in his
_Aspirations of Nature_, "that among the gifts of Heaven the
most distinguished is that of reason, by means of which we raise
ourselves above the senses, and present in ourselves a certain
image of God. Certainly, the church does not condemn the labors
of those who wish to know the truth, since God has placed in
human nature the desire of laying hold of the true; nor does she
condemn the effort of sound and right reason, by which the mind
or cultivated nature is searched and her more hidden secrets
brought to light."
{331}
(Pius IX.'s letter to the bishops of Austria.) The Holy Father,
in his various encyclicals, has repeatedly given eloquent
expression to the necessity and true use of reason and of
science; and these are the worldly arms whose skilful use by our
priests and missionaries will most avail where worldly arms are
needed to carry the outposts of intrenched positions in which
there are conversions to make or souls to be saved.

On the termination of the inquiry of 1616, Galileo had an
audience with Pope Paul V., who received him very graciously and
gave him every assurance of good-will and friendship, his
Holiness assuring him in parting that the Congregation were no
longer in a humor to listen lightly to calumnies against him, and
that so long as he occupied the papal chair Galileo might
consider himself safe. In his introduction to the Dialogue,
(1630,) Galileo thus speaks of this visit: "_Mi trovai allora
presente in Roma; ebbi non solo udienze ma ancora applausi dei
piu eminenti Prelati di quella Corte_."

Here is the certificate referred to, which was given to Galileo
by Cardinal Bellarmine:

  "We, Robert Bellarmine, having learned that the Signor
  Galileo-Galilei has been subjected to false imputations, and
  that he has been reproached with having made before us
  abjuration of his errors, and that by our order certain
  penances were imposed upon him, declare conformably with truth
  that the said Galileo, neither before us nor before any other
  person whomsoever in Rome, nor in any other place that we are
  aware of, made any sort of retraction in relation to any of his
  opinions or of his ideas, that no punishment or penance was
  inflicted on him; but that a communication was made to him of a
  declaration of his Holiness, our sovereign, which declaration
  was promulgated by the Sacred Congregation of the Index, from
  the tenor of which it results, that 'the doctrine attributed to
  Copernicus as to the pretended movement of the earth round the
  sun, and as to the place which the sun occupies in the centre
  of the world without moving from its rising to its setting, is
  opposed to the Holy Scriptures, and consequently may not be
  defended or held.'

  "In faith of which we have written and signed the present the
  26th of May, 1616, as here below. (Signed)

    "Robert Cardinal Bellarmine."

The expression "Holy Scriptures," gives the key to the whole
difficulty. The Congregation, in the first place, discriminated
properly in refusing to recognize as a demonstrated proposition
that which as yet was and only could be hypothesis.

We have seen that it was the unyielding obstinacy of Galileo in
continuing to make it a theological or scriptural question that
created all the trouble; and if any one doubts it, he may be
corrected, as was Mr. Drinkwater, by an authority which will
hardly be questioned:

  "Mr. Drinkwater seems to be mistaken in supposing that Galileo
  did not endeavor to prove his system compatible with Scripture.
  In a letter to Christina, Grand-Duchess of Tuscany, the author
  (Brenna) of the life in Fabbroni's work tells us that he argued
  very elaborately for that purpose. It seems, in fact, to have
  been his over desire to prove his theory orthodox, which
  incensed the church against it." (Hallam, _Hist. Lit.
  Europe_, vol. iv. p. 171.)

In vain Bellarmine cautioned him, "It was essential that he
should _confine himself within his mathematical studies_, if
he wished to secure tranquillity for his labors." In vain
Cardinal Matteo Barberini gave him the same advice. Still Galileo
persisted, although from 1616 to 1632 he was not in the slightest
degree interfered with, and during all that time never ceased
receiving distinguished marks of honor and esteem from pope and
cardinals.

{332}

          URBAN VIII. (BARBERINI.)

In August, 1623, Cardinal Barberini was elected pope. His
promotion was hailed by scientific men with enthusiasm. He had
proved himself the friend of Galileo, and on his accession
addressed a letter to the Grand-Duke of Tuscany, felicitating him
on the glory redounding to Etruria by reason of the genius and
discoveries of Galileo.

Meantime, in 1618, Galileo had published his _Theory of the
Tides_, chiefly noted for its hostile tone of sarcasm, and its
scientific incorrectness. He had also been deeply occupied with
his method of finding the longitude at sea, and imagined he had
succeeded. He was, however, mistaken. His method was a failure.

       GALILEO'S THIRD VISIT TO ROME

was made in the spring of 1624. He was again enthusiastically
received, and admitted to six long and gratifying audiences with
Urban, whose kindness was most marked. Galileo returned home
laden with presents, besides a pension from Urban of one hundred
crowns yearly, and another of sixty pounds for his son Vincenzo.

"Thus," says the _Edinburgh Review_, "did the Roman pontiff
propitiate the excited spirit of the philosopher, and declare
before the Christian world that he was neither the enemy of
Galileo nor of science."

And now, honored with all these marks of esteem, confidence, and
favor; with the fullest license to prosecute his researches and
publish his discoveries, provided only that he abstained from any
theological complication by dragging the Scriptures into the
discussion, how did Galileo act?

But before answering the question, let us pause a moment to see
what was the condition and reputation, at Rome itself, of
astronomical research in the direction of the new doctrines, and
the estimate in which they were held.

          ASTRONOMY IN ROME.

The papal court was filled with the personal friends and
adherents of Galileo and his system. The Pope; Ciampoli, his
private secretary; Castelli, his mathematician; Caesarini, the
Grand Chamberlain, and the most distinguished among the
cardinals, were known to entertain the Copernican doctrine. The
distinguished Jesuit Torquato de Cuppis was delivering lectures
in the Roman College in support of Copernicanism. At the Sapienza
another Jesuit gave similar lectures. Yet another, the
distinguished Scheiner, advanced the system with observations and
discoveries, and, says Bailli, was the first astronomer who
observed and explained (_Sol ellipticus_) the elliptic form
which the sun takes in approaching the horizon. The celebrated
work of the Carmelite friar Foscarini, at Naples, was published
for Roman circulation, and boldly argued not only the Copernican
hypothesis in all its fulness, but its consistency with
Scripture. But more than and beyond all this, the chair of
astronomy in the pope's own university of Bologna, vacant by the
death of Magini in 1616, was tendered to Kepler; thus offering
the teaching of heretical astronomy to a Protestant heretic, who
was if not the most active yet the most efficient advocate of
Copernicanism!

{333}

Indeed, it may be remarked, since Kepler's name is mentioned,
that astronomers were far better off in Catholic Italy than in
Protestant Germany; for while Galileo was teaching in peace and
honor from his professor's chair at Padua, Kepler and Tycho Brahe
met for the first time at Prague. Protestant exiles from
Protestant lands, they found in the munificent protection of
Rudolph safe asylum and an appreciation of their scientific
merits denied them at home.

          TYCHO BRAHE.

Hostility was excited against Brahe at the court of Denmark, and,
on the ground of an exhausted treasury and the _inutility_
of his studies, he was degraded from his office, deprived of his
canonry, his pension, and his Norwegian estate, and both his wife
and family obliged to seek shelter in a foreign land. His
injuries and sufferings preyed upon his mind, and he survived
only two years the shameful treatment he had received at the
hands of his Lutheran countrymen. Lalande, in referring to the
persecution of Tycho Brahe, holds up the Minister Walchendorf to
execration and infamy.

               KEPLER

was forced to leave home, to accept a professorship at the
Catholic University of Gratz. Why? Wolfgang Menzel informs us,
(_Geschichte der Deutschen_, vol. ii. p. 645:) "The
theologians of Tübingen condemned his discovery, because the
Bible teaches that the sun revolves about the earth, and not the
earth about the sun. He was about to suppress his book, when an
asylum was opened at Gratz. The Jesuits, who better knew how to
prize his scientific talent, retained him, although he openly
avowed his Lutheranism. It was only at home that he suffered
persecution, and it was with difficulty that he succeeded in
saving his own mother from being burnt alive as a witch."
[Footnote 129]

    [Footnote 129: For other remarkable features of this
    persecution, see _Johann Kepler's Leben und Werken, von G.
    L. C. Freiherrn von Breitschwert_.]

If we maybe permitted such homely phrase, English literature
"draws it very mild" when obliged to refer to the shameful
treatment of Kepler and Tycho Brahe. Their persecutors were the
Protestant theologians of Tübingen, and the Lutheran ministers of
the Danish court. Consequently, these barbarous transactions are
always delicately alluded to when not suppressed, and are but
little known. If these preachers had been Roman priests and
cardinals--ah! then indeed! As astronomer, Kepler's first task
was to draw up the Styrian Calendar for 1594. This only served to
add fuel to the flames of the wrath of the Würtemberg divines,
inasmuch as Kepler used the Gregorian calendar. Having no
antipathy to popes as such, he was willing to take the good and
the useful without asking whence it came, and gladly used the
better measure of time.

The Academic Senate straightway addressed Duke Louis in protest
against the introduction of the detested papal calendar; and
their memorial is so eminently characteristic and comical that we
cannot deny our readers the enjoyment of its perusal. Here it is:

  "A Christian, sensible, and good-hearted governor knows that in
  reformations of this kind he should take counsel of the
  ministers of the church. As long as the kings of Judah followed
  the counsel of the prophets and other highly enlightened
  ministers of the church, they ruled laudably and well--pleasing
  unto God. It is only when the temporal power is in a member of
  the true church of God that it has authority, with the counsel
  of the ministers of the church, to change the outward
  ceremonies of the church.

{334}

  "As the emperor holds the pope to be the vicar of Christ on
  earth, it is not to be wondered at that he has introduced his
  calendar into his hereditary dominions, and sent it to the
  estates of the Roman empire. Julius Caesar had not members of
  his empire who were lords and rulers themselves like the
  estates of the present Roman empire. The imperial majesty
  understands itself, and, in its letter to the estates, merely
  gives them to understand that this accommodating themselves to
  his word will give the highest satisfaction.

  "But the new calendar has manifestly been devised for the
  furtherance of the idolatrous popish system, and we justly hold
  the pope to be a cruel, devouring, bear-wolf. If we adopt his
  calendar, we must go into the church when he rings for us.
  Shall we have fellowship with Antichrist? And what concord is
  there between Christ and Belial?

  "Should he succeed through the imperial authority in fastening
  his calendar about our neck, he would bring the cord in such a
  way about our horns that we could no longer defend ourselves
  against his tyranny in the church of God.

  "The pope hereby grasps at the electoral hats of the princes of
  the empire. If the new calendar be not generally adopted, the
  world will not go to ruin on that account. Summer will not come
  sooner or later if the vernal equinox should be set a few days
  further back or forward in the calendar; no peasant will be so
  simple as, on account of the calendar, to send out his reapers
  at Whitsuntide, or the gatherers into his vineyard at St.
  James' day. These are merely the pretexts of the people who
  stroke the foxtail of the pope and would not be thought to do
  so. Satan is driven out of the Christian church. We will not
  let him slip in again through his representative the pope."

And since we speak of Kepler, it may here be remarked that the
appreciation in which Galileo and Kepler are held in general
historical literature is far from according with the estimate of
scientific men. It is assumed that Galileo was persecuted, and
that the church was his persecutor. Elevated on the pedestal of
his trial at Rome, the man of science is lost in the martyr, and
the Tuscan philosopher appears in bold relief on the page of
history, while Kepler, the greater astronomer, remains invisible.
It is thought, and not without reason, that, but for the
Inquisition, the relative reputation of these two great men would
be reversed, and the transcendent genius of Galileo's Lutheran
contemporary, the legislator of the planets, have been long since
recognized. In their anxiety to make the strongest possible case
against Rome, anti-Catholic writers have, some perhaps
unconsciously, and some with set purpose, greatly exaggerated all
the abilities and good qualities of Galileo, and invested him
with a superiority far from merited. To believe them, one must
look upon Galileo as immeasurably excelling all his predecessors
and contemporaries--centring within himself almost superhuman
qualities of research and scientific attainment. Merit, talent,
genius, Galileo certainly possessed; but tried by a scientific
standard, it was inferior to that of the more modest and less
clamorous Kepler.

Galileo's true and enduring merit as founder of the modern
science of dynamics, and as the author of the grandly suggestive
principle of the virtual velocities, is entirely overlooked to
claim for him a position in modern astronomy which cannot justly
be accorded to him except as secondary to Copernicus, to Kepler,
and probably to Newton. The preeminence claimed for the Tuscan
astronomer will not stand the test of examination. With English
readers, it mainly rests on Hume's celebrated parallel between
Bacon and Galileo. "The discoveries of Kepler," remarks Professor
Playfair, "were secrets extracted from nature by the most
profound and laborious research. The astronomical discoveries of
Galileo, more brilliant and imposing, were made at a far less
expense of intellectual labor." [Footnote 130]

    [Footnote 130: M. Thomas Henri Martin, author of the very
    latest work on Galileo, is not at all of the Scotch
    professor's opinion, but follows and even surpasses Hume in
    laudation of Galileo.]

{335}

              MARTYRS OF SCIENCE.

But to return. If, besides Kepler and Tycho Brahe, another martyr
of science is needed, he may be seen in the person of Descartes,
hunted clown by the Protestant churchmen of Holland.

Nay, if suffering science herself is looked for, she may be found
in the Gregorian calendar, for more than a century refused
admission or recognition by an English parliament that would
rather quarrel with all the stars in heaven than count time with
Rome! "Truth," as Hallam remarks, "being no longer truth when
promulgated by the pope!" Among the very few men in all England
who treated the Gregorian calendar with any degree of politeness
was Lord Chesterfield, then a member of parliament. He writes,
(March 18th, 1751, old style,) "The Julian calendar was
erroneous, and had overcharged the solar year with eleven days.
Pope Gregory XIII. corrected this error. His reformed calendar
was immediately received by all the Catholic powers of Europe,
and afterward adopted by all the Protestant ones except Russia,
Sweden, and England. It was not, in my opinion, very honorable
for England to remain in a gross and avowed error, especially in
such company. The inconvenience of it was likewise felt by all
those who had foreign correspondences, whether political or
mercantile."

Lord Chesterfield was mainly instrumental in getting up the bill
for its introduction. On mentioning the project to the prime
minister, the Duke of Newcastle, then in the zenith of his power,
the noble duke seemed most conservatively alarmed at such an
undertaking, and conjured the earl (Chesterfield) not to stir
matters that had long been quiet; adding that he did not love
new-fangled things. Lord Mahon, in his history, gives several
curious instances of the resentment of the English people against
those who aided in bringing about the change in the calendar;
thus, when in 1754 Lord Macclesfield's son stood a great
contested election in Oxfordshire, one of the most vehement cries
raised against him was, "Give us back the eleven days we have
been robbed of!" and even several years later, when Bradley, the
astronomer, worn down by his labors in the cause of science, was
sinking under mortal disease, many of the common people ascribed
his sufferings to a judgment of Heaven for having taken part in
that infamous undertaking.

Suffering science may again be found in England in the person of
Alban Francis, insultingly refused the degree of A.M. by the
University of Cambridge in 1687, but afterward mockingly offered
it on condition that he--a Benedictine monk--should take the
state oath pronouncing the Catholic religion damnable and
idolatrous, when it was well known that the degree had been given
to men of every variety of nationality and religious profession,
even in one case to the Mohammedan secretary of the ambassador of
Morocco!

Suffering science again in the English statutes, 7th Will. III.,
ch. 4, s. 1 and 9, by virtue of which:

  1. If a Catholic in Ireland kept school, or taught any person
  any species of literature or science, such teacher was
  punishable by law with banishment; and if he returned, he was
  subject _to be hanged as a felon_.

  2. If a Catholic child received literary instruction from a
  Catholic, either privately or at school, such child, even
  though in its infancy, incurred a forfeiture of all its
  property present or future.

{336}

  3. And thus deprived of the means of knowledge, if the Catholic
  child went into a foreign country for education, the child
  incurred the same penalty, as also the person making any
  remittance of goods or money for its maintenance!

Suffering science again, within but a few years, in the persons
of such geological writers as Dr. Buckland, denounced by leading
English periodicals and respectable quarterlies--recognized
organs of Protestant opinion--(each one a special,
self-constituted, oecumenical council _ad hoc_,) for
assigning dates to rocks and fossil remains, which were supposed
by alarmed Protestant theologians to vary from the Mosaic
accounts.

We present these facts not by way of the justification that,
ignorance and persecution being alleged to exist on the Catholic
side, there are also such things as Protestant persecution and
ignorance; for the one will not excuse the other, any more than
two wrongs will make a right.

Pass your own conscientious verdict, reader, on all these
transactions, and bear in mind that Galileo's real enemies were
of the same class of men who persecuted Kepler in Würtemberg,
Tycho Brahe in Denmark, and Descartes in Holland. The first were
Catholic, all the last were Protestants; but all were adherents
of the old Ptolemaic system and the Aristotelian philosophy. And
that was the field on which the battle was fought in Italy, until
Galileo insisted on dragging in the Scriptures. The pope and the
cardinals esteemed and honored Galileo personally, and, as we
see, were far from being in the Peripatetic ranks.

But how did Galileo act after leaving Rome in 1616, and why was
he, of all the well-known Copernicans, singled out for
prosecution?

          WHENCE THE CHANGE?

How came it about? Were there elements in the controversy other
than scientific? Was it, or not, the fault of Galileo that the
question was shifted from the safe repose of the scientific basis
on which it had remained more than fourscore years?

Now we could readily answer these questions thoroughly in very
few words, feeling certain, in advance, that the reply would be
satisfactory to our Catholic readers. But, writing for the
general public, we prefer to present the results ascertained in
this much vexed matter by historians, astronomers, and men of
science removed by nationality and by religion from any possible
bias.

"It was not the doctrine itself," says Mr. Drinkwater, "so much
as the free, unyielding manner in which it was supported, which
was originally obnoxious."

"The church party," admits Sir David Brewster, "were not disposed
to interfere with the prosecution of science, however much they
may have dreaded its influence."

In the opinion of Dr. Whewell, "Under the sagacious and powerful
sway of Copernicus, astronomy had effected a glorious triumph;
but under the bold and uncompromising sceptre of Galileo, all her
conquests were irrevocably lost." And he adds, referring to the
misfortunes that assailed the reformers of philosophy, "But the
most unfortunate were, for the most part, the least temperate and
judicious." (_Philosophy of Discovery_, pp. 101-2.)

Even Fra Paolo (Sarpi) thought that if Galileo had been less
impetuous and more prudent, he need not have had the slightest
difficulty.

{337}

Tiraboschi expresses himself to the same effect. And Alberi, the
learned editor of the only complete edition of Galileo's works,
says: "Crediamo col Tiraboschi, che il fervore e l'impetuosità
sua contribuissero ad irritare gli avversari del sistema
Copernico."

"It is doubtless an extraordinary fact," says the _Edinburgh
Review_, (October, 1837,) "in the history of the human mind,
that the very same doctrines which had been published with
impunity by Copernicus, and in a work, too, dedicated to the
Roman Pontiff, Paul III., for the avowed purpose of sheltering
them under his sacred aegis, should, nearly a hundred years
afterward, when civilization had made some progress, have
subjected Galileo to all the terrors of the Inquisition. If we
study, however, the conduct of Galileo himself, and consider his
temper and tone of mind, and his connection with a political
party unfriendly to religion, as well as to papal government, we
shall be at no loss to account for the different feelings with
which the writings of Copernicus and Galileo were received. Had
the Tuscan philosopher been a recluse student of nature who, like
Copernicus, announced his opinions as accessions to knowledge,
and not as subversive of old and deeply cherished errors; had he
stood alone as the fearless arbiter and champion of truth, the
Roman pontiffs would, probably, like Paul III., have tolerated
the new doctrine; and like him, too, they might probably have
embraced it. But Galileo contrived to surround the truth with
every variety of obstruction. The tide of knowledge which had
hitherto advanced in peace, he crested with angry breakers; and
he involved in its surf both his friends and his enemies. When
the more violent partisans of the church, in opposition to the
wishes of some of its higher functionaries, and spurred on by the
school-men and the personal enemies of Galileo, had fixed the
public attention upon the obnoxious doctrine, it would not have
been easy for the most tolerant pontiff to dismiss charges of
heresy and irreligion without some formal decision on the
subject."

The astronomer Délambre: "On aurait passé à Galileo, de parler en
mathématicien de l'excellence de la nouvelle hypothèse; mais on
soutenait qu'il devait abandonner aux théologiens
l'interpretation de l'Ecriture." (It was free to Galileo to speak
as a mathematician of the merit of the new doctrine; but it was
claimed that he should leave interpretation of Scripture to the
theologians.)

The historian Hallam: "For eighty years the theory of the earth's
motion had been maintained without censure, and it could only be
the greater boldness of Galileo which drew upon him the notice of
the church."

Philarète Chasles, (Professor in the College of France:)
"Galileo, a man of vast and fertile intellect, was not in advance
of his age and country; he was incapable either of defending the
truth or eluding the efforts of those who endeavored to destroy
it. In his contests with the latter, he showed neither grandeur
of mind nor frankness of character. Unstable, timorous,
equivocating, and supple," etc., etc.

Alfred von Reumont, many years Prussian minister at the Court of
Tuscany, (see his _Beiträge zur Italienischen Geschichte_,
Berlin, 1853:) "Galileo's great mistake was, that he insisted on
bringing into conformity with the Scriptures the doctrine of the
earth's motion--a hypothetical and then incomplete doctrine, and
one denied by many of the most learned, such as Bacon and Tycho
Brahe.
{338}
So that, in the interpretation of certain passages in the Bible,
an arbitrary discretion was assumed which the Church, according
to her invariable principles, could not concede to an
astronomical doctrine as yet unproved."

Such citations as these might be multiplied indefinitely. But
they are sufficient, and more than sufficient.

Copernicus, as we have seen, dedicated his great work to Pope
Paul III., with these remarkable words: "Astronomers being
permitted to imagine circles, to explain the motions of the
stars, I thought myself equally entitled to examine if the
supposition of the motion of the earth would make the theory of
these appearances more exact and simple."

Eighty years had gone by, and the system had undergone no
"persecution," in Italy at least. Galileo was now sixty years of
age; nearly forty of these years had been passed, not only in the
safe but triumphant and even aggressive and defiant vindication
of his astronomical and physical doctrines, without let or
hindrance save the warning not to trench on the theological view.
But this he could not bring himself to consent to, and in 1618,
in publishing his _Theory of the Tides_, he indulged in a
stream of sarcasm and insult against the decree of 1616. "The
same hostile tone, more or less," says Drinkwater, "pervaded all
his writings; and while he labored to sharpen the edge of his
satire, he endeavored to guard himself against its effects by an
affectation of the humblest deference to the decisions of
theology." Nor was Galileo's letter to Christina forgotten. It
was a letter, widely diffused at Rome and in Tuscany, in which he
undertook to prove theologically, and from reasons drawn from the
fathers, that the terms of Scripture might be reconciled with his
new doctrines, etc. Délambre, Hallam, and Biot all take the same
view of it.

          THE CELEBRATED DIALOGUES.

Galileo had now resolved to publish a work demonstrating the
Copernican theory, or rather, his own views of the earth's
motion. But he lacked the courage or the sincerity to do it in an
open, straightforward manner, and adopted the plan of discussing
it in a supposed dialogue held by three disputants. The two
first, Sagredo and Salviati, are represented as accomplished and
learned gentlemen, whose arguments are marked by talent and
ability. The third, Simplicio, is an old Peripatetic, querulous
and dogmatic, measuring everything by Aristotle, and accepting or
rejecting accordingly.

This work, entitled _The System of the World of
Galileo-Galilei_, was completed in 1630; but, owing to the
delays attending the procuring a certificate, it was not
published until 1633. "It is prolix and diffuse," says Délambre,
"with high estimate of his own discoveries, but depreciation of
others." "Indeed, I would advise scholars," says Arago, "not to
lose their time reading it."

More than one historian has remarked that, in obtaining the
license to print, Galileo exhibited a dexterous management,
tinged with bad faith. Biot mentions, "par quels detours il s'en
procura une approbation a Rome;" Délambre speaks of his "manque
absolu de sincérité;" and Sir David Brewster says, "His memory
has not escaped the imputation of having acted unfairly, and of
having involved his personal friends in the consequences of his
imprudence."

{339}

In as few words as possible, the history of the license affair is
as follows. The censor of new publications at Rome was Riccardi,
a friend and pupil of Galileo, and devoted to his master. Anxious
to oblige him, Riccardi examined the manuscript of the dialogues,
suggested the change of some imprudent language, and required
absolutely that the Copernican doctrine, dogmatically presented,
should be--either in the exordium or peroration of the
argument--produced simply as a mathematical hypothesis. Under
these stipulations Riccardi returned the manuscript with his
written approbation, only to be used when the suggested
alterations should be made.

This was in 1630. In 1633, Galileo applied for leave to have his
book printed in Florence. Riccardi, with full confidence in
Galileo's fulfilment of his promises, merely inspected the
beginning and end of the book, which was all that Galileo then
submitted to his examination, and gave the desired leave to
print.

The introduction, addressed, with an air of sarcasm, "_to the
discreet reader_" was, to the last degree, imprudent. He
speaks of the decree of 1616 in language at once ironical and
insulting, and does not even spare his benefactors. In Simplicio,
every one instantly recognized Urban VIII., who was naturally
wounded beyond expression to find language put in Simplicio's
mouth that he, Urban, had used to Galileo in a private
conversation at his own table. And, as if to leave no doubt
possible, Galileo says, in introducing these passages, that he
had them from a most learned and eminent personage, ("_già
appreso da doctissima e eminentissima persona._")

Thus held up to ridicule and contempt, and made the butt of the
severest irony and sarcasm, Urban was placed in the false
position of the enemy of science, and forced into the attitude of
an antagonist of his former friend--unless, indeed, he would
consent to be dragged, a disgraced prisoner, at the
chariot-wheels of Galileo's philosophy.

We do not refer, in speaking of Galileo's philosophy, to a mere
astronomical theory, but to the philosophical and theological
opinion which the actual condition of science, the ability of
Galileo's adversaries, and the treacherous counsels of his false
friends had forced him to couple with it.

Alberi, who is high authority, denies that it was Galileo's
intention to attack Urban VIII. through Simplicio. But Olivieri,
quite as good authority, is of the contrary opinion.

We know certainly that Urban always maintained, in his
conversations with Galileo, the worthlessness of the tidal
theory, and told him plainly that he injured his position by
resting upon it. Now, the tidal theory was precisely Galileo's
cherished argument, and he devotes the whole of the fourth
dialogue to its development.

            Concluded In Our Next.

                   ----------

{340}

           Translated From Der Katholik.

             The Ancient Irish Church.


                      II.

We must say something about St. Columbanus, and his labors in
Luxeuil, Braganza, and Bobbio; and of St. Gall, the apostle of
Alemania; for it was through these two that the ancient Irish
Church did so much in Switzerland and south-western Germany.

Columbanus was born in the province of Leinster, about the year
534, when Christianity began to bear its first fruits in Ireland.
While the child was yet in the womb, his mother saw, in a vision,
as it were, a sun proceeding from her body and enlightening all
parts of the world. The son whom she bore became in fact, through
the light of his wisdom and the splendor of his virtues, a star
in the church; not only in Ireland, but also in Burgundy,
Alemania, and Italy. Instructed, from early youth, in grammar,
rhetoric, geometry, and in the study of the holy Scriptures, he
left his mother's house in manhood, in order to enter the
monastery of Cluain-Inis, and consecrate himself entirely to God.
In the year 565 he asked to be received among the monks of the
monastery at Bangor, which the Abbot Comgall, equally
distinguished by his personal sanctity as well as by the rigor of
the discipline which he used in governing, ruled with applause.
Columbanus became so remarkable here that Abbot Comgall entrusted
him with the directorship of the schools. The fame of the new
teacher spread far beyond the limits of Bangor, and the nobles of
the land deemed themselves happy to be able to leave their sons
to be educated by a man as well skilled in profane science as in
Christian perfection. Gall, born in Ireland in 545, became one of
his pupils. Columbanus and Gall taught and learned in a blessed
abode. Three thousand monks were united in the monastery of
Bangor, under Abbot Comgall, in common prayer, the practice of
virtue, and a virtuous life. The monastery was built in the year
558, by Comgall, and was, in its first form, a collection of many
cells and huts, somewhat straggling in their arrangement. Bangor
was fruitful in holy men and apostolic missionaries. Many
convents were founded from it. Comgall himself founded the
monastery of Heth, in Scotland, A.D. 565, and the monastery of
Cambar, and several other smaller communities, in Leinster.
Comgall died on the 10th of May, 602, in the 85th year of his
age, and the forty-fourth after the foundation of Bangor. Bangor
was laid waste by the Danes in the year 823, afterward entirely
destroyed by pirates, and on one day the Picts murdered 900
monks. Archbishop Malachy, of Armagh, re-erected Bangor. There
now remains on the coast of the bay of Belfast, where the
renowned cloister once stood, no vestige of its former greatness.

Columbanus had lived and taught a number of years in the cloister
of Bangor, when the desire of travelling and announcing the
gospel of Christ filled his soul. He was obliged, however, to
make repeated requests before Abbot Comgall gave him permission
to depart, and allowed him to choose a certain number of monks as
his companions.
{341}
Columbanus chose twelve, recommended himself to the prayers of
the rest, and set out, after receiving the blessings of his
abbot, with his chosen band about the year 589-590. We know the
travels of Columbanus, and must mention them here. The chosen
followers of the great apostle were: Gall, founder of Saint Gall,
and apostle of Alemania; Cominnius, Emroch, and Equanach, Lua,
and Patentianus, afterwards made bishop of Constance, in
Armorica, where he erected a monastery; Antiernus, who, becoming
homesick at Luxeuil, wished to return to Ireland, but was
retained by Columbanus; Columbanus the younger, a near relative
of our apostle, died in the early part of his life, at Luxeuil;
Deicola, the founder of the monastery of Lutra, in the diocese of
Besançon; Sigibert, the founder of Dissentis, in Croatia; Aldan,
later Bishop of Calboaldus. (_Greith_, p. 272.) In British
Cambria the holy company joined several British clerics to its
ranks.

Whither did these apostolic men wish to go?

It was not advisable to remain in Britain at that time. In the
south of this land the Anglo-Saxon conquerors laid waste the
country, destroyed the churches; both heathenism and barbarism
raised their heads triumphantly in the most populous parts and
cities of the island. The two last bishops of Britain, he of
London and he of York, fled to the mountains of Wales, with all
the holy relics and church vessels which they could save. On
account of these circumstances Columbanus determined to leave
Britain, to sail for Gaul, and there improve the moral condition
of the people, so that if success attended his labors, the good
seed might be scattered there with fruit; but if the people were
stiff-necked, he would turn to other nations.

The company went to Gaul. This land was divided into three
kingdoms: Neustria, Austrasia, and Burgundy. King Guntram ruled
in Burgundy; King Childebert in Austrasia; but after Guntram's
death, (A.D. 593,) Burgundy also fell to the share of Childebert.

Columbanus was warmly received at Metz by King Childebert, was
invited to remain in the land, and received from Count Agnoald
the ancient ruined castle of Luxovium in the Vosges, where the
apostle and his monks dwelt, and exercised an extraordinary
influence on the people of the neighboring countries.

But how did the noble wanderers find life in the Vosges?

They first rested at Anegrai. "In the wide circle around, the
region was a wild desert of thick woods, and steep, rock-ribbed
hills; bears and wolves dwelt in them, and only the shrill cry of
the birds of the forests broke the frightful stillness. The
friars built their huts with twigs and branches. They lived on
the bark of trees, wild vegetables, and apples, until, on the
third day after their arrival, a countryman brought them better
food on a wagon. But, as want returned after a short time, they
were well supplied with bread and herbs by the abbot of the
monastery of Sancy, three miles distant from them."

But the first monastery was erected, and the mission opened in
France. Soon the place in Anegrai was not large enough for the
increasing number of the brethren.

Columbanus looked around for a second place in the wilderness of
the Vosges. His eyes rested on Luxovium, which had already been
offered to him. It was eight miles from Anegrai. There were in it
the ruins of cities, of old baths; and in the thickest part of
the wood, stone idols, which had been worshipped in ancient
times.

{342}

In this spot Columbanus began the building of a larger monastery.
Soon so many came and consecrated themselves, under the guidance
of Columbanus, to piety and science, that the saint was compelled
to erect on a height, supplied by a fountain of fair water, a
third monastery, to which he gave the name of Fontaine,
(Fontanas.) Whilst he appointed approved men as rulers over these
monasteries, he maintained a general supervision over them all,
and gave them a common rule, which he copied in part from the
rule of the Abbot Comgall, of Bangor.

The Right Rev. Dr. Greith gives us a very interesting account of
the life and works of the monk Columbanus in the three
monasteries; but we can only give a small portion of it here.

In the year 600 the number of the monks at Luxeuil had increased
to 220; and crowds of scholars were instructed in the
monasteries.

"All must fast daily, but also daily take nourishment; and as all
must eat daily, so must they daily partake of spiritual food,
pray, work, and read in books every day." The special usages of
monastic discipline were observed most strictly in the three
cloisters; violators of rules were punished with rods,
imprisonment, or a portion of their food was kept from them.
"Before eating there was an examination of conscience, then grace
was said, and there was reading during the meals. Before a monk
used his spoon, he should make the sign of the cross; the same
should be done in taking his lamp, in undertaking any work, or in
going out of the cloister. He was commanded to pray before and
after labor, and on his return to the monastery he should go
before the abbot or superior and ask a blessing. Whoever cut the
table with his knife, spilled beer or anything else on the table,
did not gather the bread-crumbs, neglected to bow his head at the
end of the psalms, or disturbed the chaunt with coughing or loud
laughter, was punished," etc. Divine service at Luxeuil consisted
in the daily reciting of the psalms, and, especially on Sundays
and other festivals, in the celebration of Mass. The custom of
uninterrupted psalmody by day and night never prevailed at
Luxeuil, as was the case among the monks of Agane in Wallis, and
of Haben in Burgundy, and among the nuns of the convent of St.
Salaberga.

Columbanus, well educated in both profane and sacred literature,
taught his own monks, made them acquainted with the discipline of
the _Quadrivium_, and gave them a knowledge of holy
Scripture.

Columbanus often retired at the approach of the principal feasts
into the solitude of the forests to devote himself to piety and
meditation. He sometimes remained fifty days or longer in those
places. As in the ages of persecution the blood of the martyrs
tamed the tigers and leopards, so that they learned to pity the
saints in the circus and amphitheatre; as in the deserts of
Africa and Asia Minor holy monks formed a league with nature and
its animals, so Columbanus and Gall, whose life was like that of
the early fathers of the desert, stood in the most friendly
relations with the wild beasts of the Vosges. "As Columbanus was
walking one day in the wide forests of the Vosges with a book
under his arm, he saw a pack of wolves approaching. The saint
stood unmoved.
{343}
The wolves surrounded him on both hands, smelled the hem of his
garments while he prayed to God for protection; they did him no
harm, left him and went farther into the wood." Once Columbanus
found in a cave a tame bear, which left its abode at command of
the saint, who made it his place of shelter. Often, as he reposed
under the shadow of old oaks, he called the beasts of the forest
to him, and they followed him. He caressed them tenderly; and the
birds often flew to him, and sat quietly on his shoulders. A
little squirrel had become so accustomed to him as to leap from
the branches of the trees and hide in his bosom, run up his
sleeves, and then go back to the nearest boughs. A raven was so
obedient to him as to return the glove which he had stolen from
the saint. (Page 294.)

Columbanus could not remain long in his cloister. He became
engaged in a controversy with some French priests, and was
persecuted by the corrupt Merovingians, who finally compelled him
to quit Luxeuil.

The fact that the Irish clergy clung to the ancient custom of the
Irish Church regarding the celebration of Easter, and to the
Irish traditions regarding the liturgy of the Mass, gave the
French bishops and priests occasion to complain and make
opposition. Columbanus wrote three letters on the Easter
Controversy to Pope Gregory I. Two of them miscarried; the third
reached its destination, but was unsuccessful, because Gregory I.
maintained the discipline of the Roman Church on this disputed
point. A synod in France, A.D. 600-601, to which Columbanus sent
a memorial, did not favor him any more than the Pope. The
controversy gradually died out.

The controversy with the Merovingians was far more serious. The
crimes of Queen Brunhilda are well known; for instance, how she
systematically ruined her grandson, King Theodoric of Burgundy.
Columbanus on one occasion having refused to give his blessing to
the illegitimate sons of Theodoric, presented to the saint by
Brunhilda, she swore vengeance against him. A royal decree was
published that no monk of the order of Columbanus should leave
his monastery; that no Burgundian convert should for the future
hold communion with him, and that no one should establish another
foundation according to his discipline. Columbanus expostulated
in vain; he wrote a severe protest to the king and threatened him
with excommunication. This was the moment of revenge for
Brunhilda. She prevailed on the king to cause the abduction of
the saint to Besançon by Count Bandulf. Columbanus remained there
for some time, highly honored by the people, and doing much good.
But he soon returned to Luxeuil. The king, however, sent a whole
cohort to seize him and take him out of the kingdom. The soldiers
unwillingly executed their orders. The saint left the monastery
amid the sighs and tears of his monks, who followed him in
funereal procession with weeping and wailing. Only those whom he
had brought from Ireland and Britain were allowed to accompany
him. Columbanus lived twenty years in the wilderness of the
Vosges, and left it in the seventy-fourth year of his life. (A.D.
609-610.)

Let us be brief. Columbanus was brought to Nantes to sail for
Ireland; but God prevented him. King Clothaire of Neustria
allowed him to return to Austrasia. He went to Metz, then to
Mayence, up the Rhine, until he came to Zurich, where he decided
to make a longer stay.
{344}
But the inhabitants of the place were fierce idolaters. Many were
converted, while others took arms in hatred of the saint,
determined to kill himself and his companions. They consequently
left this region and went to Arbon, where they dwelt seven days;
thence travelling to Braganza, where they built cells near the
ancient Aurelia Church. St. Gall took the three idols from the
walls of the church, in the presence of a vast multitude, broke
them to pieces, and threw them into the sea. A portion of the
people became Christians, and the Aurelia Church was
reconsecrated. Columbanus remained a few years in Braganza, when
persecutions of various kinds compelled him to quit this region
also. (612-613.) He crossed the Rhetian Alps, accompanied only by
Attala, and arrived at Milan, where he was well received by
Agilulf, king of the Lombards, who offered him a new field for
the exercise of his apostolate. King Agilulf and Queen
Theodolinda used the holy man for the evangelizing of the
Lombards. But his days were numbered. After building a monastery
and a chapel at Bobbio, he lived only an entire year, and died on
the 21st December, in the year 615, in the seventy-ninth year of
his age, one year before the death of Agilulf, king of Lombardy.

"Whilst Ireland glories in being the fatherland of Columbanus,
France remembers him in her old abbeys in the Vosges, and his
vocation to Italy still lives, not only in the dear relics of
Bobbio, in his coffin, chalice, and holly staff, but also in the
still living monument of his glory the town of St. Columbano, in
the district of Lodi. The writings of this distinguished man,
which have come down to us, display a comprehensive and varied
knowledge not only of ecclesiastical but also of classic
literature. His eventful life has been written by the monk Jonas
of Bobbio."

We shall conclude with a few details of the mission of St. Gall,
the apostle of Alemania. We already know in what an illustrious
school he studied. When Columbanus was preparing himself for the
journey to Italy, Gall was sick with a fever, and excused himself
from travelling with his superior. In order to keep him and
compel him to go, Columbanus harshly said to him, "If thou wilt
not partake in my labors, I forbid thee to say Mass as long as I
live." He suspected that Gall feigned sickness out of love for
the place, so as not to depart from it. Thus Gall, who had been
so long under obedience, was at length left to his own will.

He went to Arbon to visit a priest, Willimar, and was nursed
during his illness by the clerics Maginald and Theodore, and,
having recovered his health, became again an efficient apostle
through the assistance of Christ. In 612-613, he began, with his
companion Hittibold, the building of a monastery on the bank of
the little river Steinach. This valley on the banks of the
Steinach, together with Thurgau, belonged at that time to the
kingdom of Austrasia, from which it had been severed under
Childebert II. (594) for a short time, and separated from
Burgundy, to which it was again annexed by King Dagobert. (A.D.
630-38.) Two hundred years later, in the days of Charlemagne,
this region was called High Alemania. When Gall came to it, it
was almost without dwellings or inhabitants. It was a primeval
forest, never inhabited for a thousand years, and never touched
by human hands. It was like the woods of the Vosges, a wilderness
for savage beasts to roam in without danger.
{345}
The wood which Gall and Hittibold found was full of underwood in
which serpents nestled; the Steinach was full of fish; on the
heights hawks built their nests; bears, wolves, and wild boars
were numerous around. In this spot St. Gall built his monastery.
Wonderful things happened at the building of this convent, all of
which is charmingly told in Greith's book. "As, in every spot
where, after the migration of the Germanic races, (p. 355.) holy
men founded religious institutions, a new life was infused and a
new impetus given to civilization, and the wild and savage
districts around the monasteries became changed into fertile and
well-tilled plains; so did it happen in the neighborhood of St.
Gall's monastery from the very beginning of the foundation. The
blessed place drew inhabitants near it; Christian worship became
the focus around which they gathered; religious instruction
ennobled their morals, led them to an orderly family life, made
their new home dear to them, and made them love labor and
industry. Under the mild protection and guidance of the monastic
fraternity, strangers and colonists came from far and near; they
became fiefs of the monastery, and aided in spreading its
influence and its possessions. From this centre civilization
spread far over the surrounding country, so that it became by
cultivation transformed from a wilderness into a blooming garden.
For twelve hundred years the numerous subjects of the monastery
of St. Gall led a happy and peaceful life without soldiers or
police. The only bayonet that governed them was the breviary of
the monk; and the only sword was the crosier of the abbot. We
must also remember that Gall and his followers, axe in hand,
hewed down the forest, or with the spade freed the earth from
thorns, thistles, and roots. He must therefore be considered as
the founder and originator of the agricultural and social glories
of Switzerland; for by the law of nature and of intelligence the
glories of the effect must redound to the honor of the cause."

The building of the monastery of St. Gall was far advanced when
Gall expelled an evil spirit from Fridiburga, the daughter of the
German Duke Cunzo, of Ueberlingen. Duke Cunzo gave him many
presents on this account, as did also King Sigibert, to whom
Fridiburga was affianced. Sigibert sent him a donation letter,
the first on record in the life of St. Gall. Gall had at this
time only twelve disciples with him, deeming it improper to
overstep, in the smallest particular, the limits of the rule. The
Irish monks had a peculiar preference for the apostolic number
twelve in all their foundations. When Columbanus died, on
December 21st, 615, the hour of his death was revealed to St.
Gall, and from that time he began again to celebrate Mass.

Gall declined the bishopric of Constance, and had the mitre given
to his disciple John; the monks of Luxeuil wished him to be their
abbot, but this honor he likewise declined. After the man of God
had thrown aside the burden of worldly affairs, he retired to his
cloister, to devote himself more completely to a spiritual life.
His nightly vigils were renewed, and the fastings of his early
days repeated, and the discipline frequently used.

Finally, at an advanced age, he left his cell to visit Arbon, and
after preaching to the people, he was attacked by a fever as he
was about to return. The malady became so violent that he could
no longer take any food. The eternal reward of his great works
and services approached.
{346}
His strength almost gone, almost reduced to skin and bone by
disease, he nevertheless persevered in prayer, held pious
conversations, and remained faithful to the service of Christ to
the end of his life. He rendered his soul to God, after fourteen
days' illness, on the 16th of October, A.D. 640. His body was
brought by Bishop John to the monastery which the saint had
inhabited, and buried between the altar and the wall, with
mournful chanting. Many infirm persons were healed, partially or
entirely, at his sepulchre.

Even during his life Gall was compared to the early fathers;
after his death, the Church honored him as a saint; holy Mass was
offered at his tomb; his intercession was invoked with success;
and his life presented as a model for Christians to imitate.
Eleven years after the death of the saint, his tomb was broken
open by robbers; but shortly after replaced by Bishop Boso, of
Constance. (A.D. 642-676.) When the great monastery church was
consecrated, on October 17th, 839, by Abbot Gotzbert, the bones
of the saint were placed on the high altar. They are partially
preserved there to this very day.

A glance now at the disciples of Gall. The disciples of this
great apostle went forth in all directions from his sepulchre to
evangelize the nations, and establish among them new foundations
and centres of learning and piety. Theodore built the abbey of
Kempten, in ancient Norica; Magnus travelled on foot to the
entrance of the Julian Alps; Sigibert, Gall's former
fellow-student, went to Dissentis, in Croatia, where they founded
monasteries which, after a lapse of more than a thousand years,
still exist as firm supports of the Christian religion, learning,
and civilization. These monasteries must be considered as
daughters of the great metropolis which the holy Irish missionary
built on the side of the lofty Alps. The monastery of Reichenau,
in Untersee, and that of Braganza, were closely united with St.
Gall's foundation. The former was founded, under Charles Martel,
by the Irishman Pirminus; the latter, 130 years earlier, by
Columbanus and Gall, in the beginning of their missionary labors.
The countless churches and chapels built even at an early period
in honor of St. Gall, as well as the numerous acts of donation to
the monastery bearing his name, prove the powerful influence of
the disciples and successors of the saint in spreading
Christianity, education, and civilization to the farthest
regions. The bishoprics in Switzerland, Germany, and in the
Austrian provinces, in the Tyrol and Bohemia, hold a special
festival in honor of St. Gall, and give him a special office,
honoring him now as well as formerly as the Apostle of Alemania.
"The temporal inheritance which St. Gall left to his people was
long enjoyed: the higher inheritance which he has left us with
the eternal possessions of Christianity in our Church is still
with us; and our constant prayer to God and strenuous effort must
be to guard it intact, and render it fruitful in the future."
(_Greith_, p. 401.)

              ----------

{347}

       Translated From The French.

          The Story Of Marcel,
       The Little Mettray Colonist.


              Chapter VI.

  "Dark the evening shadows rolled
     On the eye that gleamed in death,
   And the evening dews fell cold
     On the lip that gasped for breath."

                       James Montgomery.


A year had passed away when one day Pelagie Vautrin went out in
the morning, as usual, with her hand-cart, but did not return as
usual in the evening. Marcel had been on a spree with Polycarpe,
and was glad, when he crept to bed late at night, all muzzy with
tippling, to find his dirty home vacant.

But when, at a late hour the next day, he opened his hot, aching
eyes and looked around him, he was at first astonished and then
frightened to see that he was still alone. He started up and ran
down-stairs to ask the neighbors if they had seen Madame Vautrin
that morning. There was soon a great excitement in the house; for
no one had seen her, and it was well known that Pelagie never
staid out at night; she was generally very regularly drunk in bed
by ten o'clock.

"Go to the prefect of police," cried one to the anxious boy,
"they'll find her for you!"

"Go to the Morgue," cried another. "I shouldn't wonder if she had
fallen into the river."

"Or been run over by an omnibus, the drunken slut!" cried a
third.

"Ay, go to the Morgue, Marcel," said Polycarpe, who had just got
up, and had hurried down to take part, as usual, in what was
going on. "Come, I'll go with you."

Marcel was by this time as pale as death: the idea of Pelagie
being dead was dreadful to him; for though the poor boy could not
love the cruel woman who had worked him so unsparingly for her
own profit, still she seemed something more to him than the rest
of the world; she had sheltered him when he had no shelter; she
had given him a dry crust when he knew not where to find one; and
the child's heart was made of such tender stuff that the
slightest kindness could kindle in it a flame of never forgetful
gratitude.

Pale and trembling, he now followed Polycarpe to the low, black,
sinister-looking building then situated close by St. Michael's
bridge, on the right bank of the Seine. [Footnote 131] Many
persons were going in and out of the horrible place, some seeking
missing friends; others, and the greater number, urged on by a
depraved curiosity and love of excitement.

    [Footnote 131: It has since been pulled down, and rebuilt
    more handsomely behind the cathedral of Notre Dame.]

The two boys entered; Polycarpe noisily, and with an air of busy
importance that would have been ludicrous under any other
circumstances; Marcel sick and faint with anxiety and fear; and
awful indeed was the interior of that house of death. At one end
of the stone-floored room in which they found themselves was an
iron grating, behind which, on marble slabs, were laid out the
perfectly naked forms of the unknown dead, victims of accident or
of violence.
{348}
The bloated body of a drowned man, whose starting eyes first
caught the scared glance of the shuddering child, made him start
with horror and surprise. He had often thought, from all he had
heard, that the sights to be seen in the Morgue must be dreadful,
but the reality surpassed all his imaginings. He closed his eyes,
but opened them an instant after to take a look at the corpse of
a woman, whose blood-clotted hair and battered features showed
but too plainly that the wretched creature had been the victim of
some foul crime.

"'Tis she!" cried Polycarpe. But Marcel could bear no more; the
child's nerves and heart had been tried to the uttermost, and he
fell insensible on the cold, damp floor. Polycarpe and two or
three bystanders dragged him out of the building, and, getting
some water from the river, soon brought him to again, but very
shaky and weak.

Polycarpe Poquet was a regular scamp, an idle beggar, a
street-thief; nevertheless very gently and lovingly did he help
his friend on his legs again, and very softly did he speak to him
as they walked slowly away from that horrible place. "Come in
here, old fellow," said he, when they arrived before the door on
the second landing. "Mother wants to see you," he added, as he
perceived that Marcel hesitated.

Madame Poquet and Loulou were both at home; for the charwoman was
just then at liberty, her last mistress having been mean enough
to lock up the charcoal and bread and butter, and various other
useful items in housekeeping, and as Madame Poquet said to her
neighbors, "After that evident want of confidence, she felt
herself obliged to leave, especially as the wages were so low
that without the perquisites the place was worth nothing!" She
was a good-natured woman, notwithstanding her dishonesty, and
received poor Marcel in a kind, motherly manner that contributed
much to soothe and console him. "Now, you see, Marcel," said she,
"you need not feel so bad; you shall come and live with us;
there's room for four, and so there's room for five. I'm sure I
always wanted to have you, for Madame Vautrin was not good to
you--you know that she wasn't--everybody knows that she wasn't.
Now, come, don't cry so; it shows that you've a good heart, but
it is not reasonable, and I can't bear to hear you. I never could
bear to hear any one cry. Come, courage, courage!" And the old
thieving charwoman kissed the weeping boy tenderly, and then
wiped her own overflowing eyes. He threw his arms around her neck
and sobbed aloud, and the motherly old soul sobbed with him.
"Come now," said she presently, and she placed him as she spoke
on a chair by the table, "here's some good hot coffee and milk,
and a piece of nice fresh bread. I got it ready for you half an
hour ago. There, you and Polycarpe sit down and take your
breakfast; that'll do you good, and comfort you."

And certainly the good meal did much to calm him, though perhaps
the sympathy of Madame Poquet and her children did more.

And so it was settled; the landlord sold the few miserable sticks
of furniture belonging to Pelagie Vautrin for the arrears of
rent, and Marcel became one of the Poquet family.

As for the battered corpse lying on the marble slab in the
Morgue, it was never reclaimed, but was hurriedly buried in the
pauper grave that the state provides for the unknown dead. Yet it
was a long time before the orphan whom Pelagie Vautrin had so
cruelly ill-treated ceased to think of her, or shudder as he
remembered her terrible death.
{349}
It was an end, however, as _we_ know, to be expected for one
cursed with so wicked a temper and of such dissolute habits.
Drunkenness, quarrels, blows, and death! It is a natural
sequence!

Poor Marcel gained by the change; at least, his life was not so
hard a one as it had been. He was no longer obliged to bring home
a certain quantity of rags and old iron every day; he had no
regular task set him. But Monsieur and Madame Poquet nevertheless
fully expected him to pick up his own living and something more,
in the same way as did their son Polycarpe.

The two boys after a time adopted, as their principal source of
income, the business of gathering cigar-ends and converting them
into pipe-tobacco. It was a profession that required early
rising, quick eyes, and light heels, for there were other lads in
the same walk of life, but who could be better fitted for such a
pursuit than Marcel and Polycarpe? At four every morning they
sallied forth to make their round; hunting for the precious bits
on the sidewalks and in the gutters of the most frequented and
fashionable streets, the Boulevards, the Champs Elysées, and the
purlieus of the theatres. Sometimes, when they were flush of
money, they bought from the waiters in the coffee-houses the
permission to pick up the ends that might be under the tables.

The harvest made, they hastened down to the river's side, and
there, seated under or near the dry arches of one of the bridges,
they emptied their bags on the ground beside them and commenced
the sorting of their merchandise. The prime or first quality
consisted of the ends of Havana cigars, regalias, londres, etc.;
the second quality, of those of home growth, or bits picked up in
dirty gutters, and consequently somewhat deteriorated. The
sorting finished, our young tobacconists commenced their work of
metamorphosis. Each one was furnished with a small square of
smooth wood, a sharp, thin-bladed knife, and a whetstone, for the
knife required frequent sharpening during the operation of
cutting up the ends. This was performed on the square of wood,
and as fine as possible, so as to resemble _new_ smoking
tobacco. Paper parcels were then made up of this novel
manufacture; the inferior quality selling at one sou the packet;
the superior fetching as much as fifty sous the pound.

The rest of the day was passed in disposing of their morning
labors, and this was never difficult; they found plenty of
customers, masons, street-sweepers, and rat-catchers, and often
made as much as three francs each in the day. They might have
gained an honest living by this humble means, had they only
possessed an honest home. But Monsieur and Madame Poquet were
thieves, and the more the lads gained the more was exacted from
them. And then in the dreadful drinking-dens they frequented to
sell their merchandise they became each day initiated in some new
vice. There was indeed nothing to stop them on their downward
course; and soon, alas, the orphan boy, intelligent, and
naturally conscientious, became versed in knavery and a common
street-thief! Poor, poor Marcel!

{350}

            Chapter VII.

  "Soon, like captives, shall ye learn
   Ways less wild and laws more stern."
                                 Anon.


Days and weeks and months had passed away in this kind of life,
when one morning, while Marcel and Polycarpe were still yawning
and stretching themselves in their dirty bed, Loulou, who had
gone round the corner to fetch some ready-made hot coffee and
milk, for their breakfast, rushed back again with cheeks as white
as it was possible for her rarely washed face to show.

"Get up quick and run!" cried she as she burst into the room,
"the police are coming this way; I'm sure they're coming here to
look for father, and, if they find you, they'll grab you too."

The two boys needed no further calling; indeed, they were out of
bed before Loulou had ended her cry of danger. Old Poquet had
become a marked man at the Prefecture of Police, and his
reputation was very bad among his neighbors. He had been fearing
a visit of this kind during the last eight days, and had taken
himself off no one knew whither. So the boys, knowing this, would
not have been so much afraid for their own safety, had they not
done the preceding day what they called "good business," and had
in their possession this morning more money and a greater variety
of purses than they could well have accounted for.

So they jumped out of bed at the first word of alarm, and huddled
on their clothes in less time than it takes to write the fact;
and precipitating themselves down the stairs, were out of the
house and out of sight, just as two policemen turned into the
street. It was not until they had threaded many narrow, dirty
streets behind the Pantheon, diving into dark passages, and
passing through houses which were thoroughfares, as there are
many in the great city, and at last found themselves near the
Barrière of St. Jacques, that they felt secure enough to walk
slowly and take time to ask each other where they should go.

"Parbleu!" cried Polycarpe, who was the first to break silence,
"at any rate our pockets are not empty! Liberty for ever! Hurrah
for pleasure and potatoes! Never say die, old fellow!" And he
clapped his friend on the back and laughed as if it were the
pleasantest thing in life to be running away from the police.

Marcel was not so gay: the boy's instincts, perverted as they
were by the depraved influences that surrounded him, became
restive at times; mysterious aspirations, and disgust of he knew
not what, agitated strangely the poor child's aching heart, and
gave him sometimes an appearance of timidity that had acquired
for him among his profligate companions the _sobriquet_ of
"_la demoiselle_" the young lady. He was now more moved than
usual, his cheek was very pale, and his large blue eyes wore a
more thoughtful expression than ever before.

Making a violent effort over himself, he at length replied to his
companion's vivacity by asking what would become of Loulou.

"Loulou!" cried Polycarpe, "why, she's safe enough; she'll get
out of the scrape, and there's nothing against her and mother.
You needn't think of her, but of us, I can tell you. Now, what do
you think I'm thinking of, eh?"

"I suppose of where we must go to-night."

"Exactly so, mademoiselle, and can you guess? No, that you can't,
so you needn't try. Well, we must go hide in the quarries at
Issy; we shall be safe there, and we won't come back to Paris
before two months."

"The quarries!" cried Marcel, "How dreadful!"

"Not so dreadful as Mazas," replied Polycarpe, "as you'll know
one of these days."

{351}

"I hope not," ejaculated Marcel, shuddering.

"You hope not, you idiot!" said Polycarpe angrily, "why, how can
it be otherwise? One can't be always in luck. Don't you know that
every one gets to prison at last? Every one that I know has been
there, and why should I escape, I should like to know? Of course
my time will come, and your time will come, and what we have to
do then is to show game. No cry-baby goings on then, if you
please, Master Marcel, or you and I'll part company when we come
out!"

Marcel did not answer, and they continued silently their way
until they had passed the fortifications.

"Now," said Polycarpe at last, "we must try to kill time as
pleasantly as possible until the night, and then we'll go
straight to the quarries; we can't go there during the day, for
there is always danger from spies."

"I'm very hungry," remarked Marcel.

"And so am I," answered his friend, "my inside has let me know
for a long time that it didn't get any coffee this morning."

It was not long before the two boys found a kind of nondescript
_cabaret_ and restaurant--one of those drinking and eating
houses that do most business with Sunday-breakers and
holiday-makers, if not with worse gentry. They were soon seated
before a smoking omelette, which, with a great loaf of bread and
a bottle of sour claret, they pronounced to be a first-rate
breakfast. The meal finished and paid for, they bought a couple
of bottles of brandy, and then strolled off again to the
fortifications, where, choosing a sunny spot on the grassy side
of the deep, dry moat that surrounds the massive walls, they
snoozed away the rest of the day.

The quarries of Issy had long been the rendezvous of all sorts of
young scamps. Idle, vicious boys who had run away from home;
unfaithful apprentices who had robbed their master's tills;
pickpockets whose successful operations had rendered their
absence from the scene of their labors desirable for a period;
hardened vagabonds waiting an opportunity to rob or murder, as
the case might be--all found there a hiding-place and congenial
society. Carefully concealed from any passers-by or workmen, they
slept the daylight away, but as soon as darkness had rendered the
place secure, the wretched youths commenced their orgies. Gorging
on the provisions provided by two or three of their number in
turn, and bought or stolen in the neighboring villages of Issy,
Clamart, and Meudon; guzzling, singing, and swearing; boasting of
their skill in every cunning and thieving art; teaching and
learning all manner of vice--thus passed they their turbulent
night, while outside the stifling hole that screened their
wickedness the starry sky spread cool and calm over the sleeping
village and peaceful fields and woods.

How the contrast between the within and the without struck Marcel
a few hours after he had entered that ignoble hiding-place! He
and Polycarpe had quitted the moat at nightfall and had found
themselves about ten o'clock at the rendezvous. The place was
well-known to the cobbler's son; many and many a time had he come
hither to see some friend in hiding, and he now advanced without
hesitation. At a certain distance from the entrance, he put his
fingers to his lips and uttered a shrill, peculiar cry, then
seizing his companion's arm hurried in. They were met by Guguste,
and received an enthusiastic welcome, not only from that young
rascal, but also from the rest of the band, which contained a
great many at that moment, and consisted almost entirely of old
acquaintances. The two bottles of brandy were hailed with
acclamations, and the donors invited to take part in the eating
and drinking that was about to commence.

{352}

Used as our young hero was to all kinds of wickedness, he at
first listened with fear to what he heard around him now; but the
brandy and the example of his companions soon acted on his
impressionable nature, the revolting instincts were stifled as
usual, and Marcel quickly became one of the noisiest and most
cynical of those wretched children.

One half of the company was already nearly drunk, and the other
half at the height of its revelry, when a sound of many feet
marching in step and close at hand silenced each and all in an
instant. The lights were suddenly extinguished, pistols
cocked--for most of the young miscreants were armed; then came a
rush from the outside, a struggle, several shots, smothered
groans, oaths, and all was over. Law had conquered, and the whole
band was in the power of a _posse_ of gendarmes under the
command of an officer.

To handcuff the young ruffians and lead them one by one out of
their den was soon accomplished; and it was then that Marcel,
emerging into the tranquil night, was struck by the contrast.
Within, drunkenness and crime, false, feverish merriment ending
in bloody strife; without, the cool, fresh air of early morn, the
first streak of breaking day in the far east, the market-carts
wending their plodding way to the great metropolis--all telling
of peace, all so quiet! Beautiful nature and humble toil!

Poor Marcel! he could not understand his feelings, for his
intelligence was warped and dwarfed with his conscience; but his
young heart ached with vague aspirations and regrets, and he wept
bitterly.


               Chapter VIII.

  "We travel through a desert, and our feet
   Have measured a fair space, have left behind
   A thousand dangers and a thousand snares.
   ...
   ...        The past temptations
   No more shall vex us."
                                  Watts.

  "'Tis beauty all, and grateful song around,
   Joined to the low of kine, and numerous bleat
   Of flocks thick-nibbling through the clovered vale."
                                        Thomson.

A few weeks after this catastrophe, the whole band was tried and
condemned to various degrees of punishment and correction.
Nothing had been proven against Marcel and Polycarpe further than
that they had been found among recognized thieves, and were by
that fact alone suspicious characters in the eyes of the law. The
answers elicited from Marcel on his examination had excited the
compassion of the tribunal, and the president declared his
intention of giving him the opportunity of redeeming the past and
of becoming an honest man. Polycarpe Poquet, also, had been
judged leniently; his frank, generous nature had been discovered
amidst all the vice that overshadowed it.

Very beautiful and touching were the words in which the worthy
president announced to the two boys that he acquitted them
because he believed that they had acted without discernment, but
that, fearing for their future, he should send them to a house of
correction where they would be detained until they had each
reached the age of twenty-one. He reminded them that at least six
years lay before them to reform and elevate themselves.
{353}
He promised them that every means should be given to them to
improve, and that they should be taught a trade or profession,
and thus enabled by their own labor to gain their living and
become respectable citizens. Obedience and industry would be
expected from them, he said; and he entreated them to have pity
on themselves, and to aid by their own exertions the efforts of
those who sincerely desired their welfare, both temporal and
eternal.

Marcel's tears flowed plentifully while the good magistrate thus
addressed them; he had never before heard such things, and he
wept as much from gratitude as from fear.

Imprisonment for six years seemed terrible; but if those six
years were to give him the very thing for which he yearned--a
different life from that he had hitherto led, in which all was
fear and pain!

As for Polycarpe, he was more silent than usual, but he seemed
neither afraid nor sorry. He felt the influence of virtue and
truth, however, and the president's discourse made more
impression on him than he cared to confess even to Marcel; for in
minds rendered obtuse by vicious habits a good feeling or impulse
is generally considered as a weakness, and resisted or concealed.

The boys were conducted back to the depot of the prefecture as
soon as the president had finished speaking to them, there to
await their removal to the House of Correction that should be
appointed by the authorities.

In 1839, a few noble-hearted, philanthropic men conceived the
idea of founding at Mettray, near the beautiful town of Tours, in
almost the heart of France, a colony of young convicts, to whom
should be given a moral and religious training, and the blessings
of a home. These benevolent men had studied with profound
attention the admirable penitentiary system of the United States
of America; compared with it, the system of correction as
practised in the state prisons of France had struck them as
singularly ineffective and quite inadequate to attain the end and
aim of all punishment, the eradication of vice, and the awakening
of a desire to practise industry and honesty. The published
reports of these prisons had even proved that, far from the
morality of the unfortunate children detained there being
improved, these unhappy victims did actually become more
confirmed in their perversity by their sojourn in the house of
correction. Though restrained by the prison discipline, they were
not actually taught; for it is not intimidation that can teach a
fallen nature how to rise, nor inculcate the love of honor and
virtue. The helter-skelter way of these houses was fatal to their
utility. Young offenders, guilty of comparatively slight
offences, were associated with scoundrels versed in every mystery
of crime. The burglar and the highway robber, the coiner and the
assassin, became the companions of the child so apt to learn, so
ready to receive any impression whether of good or evil. Want of
space was pleaded in extenuation of this great, this fundamental
error in the work of reformation; and thus justice and social
good were sacrificed to considerations of economy!

The system of detention, too, as applied to children, did not
render it obligatory on the administration of the prison to
continue its care of the child after he had quitted the walls
where he had passed the last five or six years of his young life.
On the day of his liberation, the rule was to give him a few
clothes and a part of the products of his labor during his
detention, and then all was ended between him and those who were
supposed to have been his teachers and protectors.
{354}
Thus thrown all at once into a world from which he had been
sequestered for years, without any family traditions of industry
and probity to guide and uphold him, the unhappy youth found it
impossible to gain a footing among the honest and respectable,
and was soon irretrievably lost.

All the errors, all the consequences of this system, were then to
be avoided in the new colony of Mettray; and guided by sound
sense and a deep love of their kind, the founders of this
admirable establishment undertook the task of endowing the erring
children confided to them by the state with family affections and
habits, with the love of order, and with health. Their minds and
hearts were to be cultivated, and they were to be given the
desire and the means of gaining their living by honest labor. It
was to the agricultural colony of Mettray that Marcel and
Polycarpe were sent, a few days after their examination before
the tribunal; and they made the journey thither in the company of
thirty or forty other unfortunate boys of their own age. What
language can express the delight that filled the bosom of the
poor orphan when his eyes first rested on the home that a
merciful Providence had at last given him! Most lovely was the
wide landscape that spread before him; for fertile Touraine is
indeed the garden of beautiful France. The bright waters of the
magnificent river Loire were there to be seen winding amidst
green fields, its shores bordered by strange habitations hollowed
in the rocks, or fringed with waving trees. There were the houses
of the Mettray colonists on the side of a rising ground, the
tapering steeple of their chapel showing itself from the middle
of the group like a giant finger pointing the way to heaven. On
the bank of the little stream that passed close to the settlement
on its way to the great river stood a windmill, turning its sails
right merrily. Plantations of mulberry-trees, beautifully kept
gardens and orchards, and wheat-fields nearly ripe for the
harvest, surrounded the colony; oxen grazing or pulling
heavily-laden carts, sheep browsing with tinking bells, young
colonists smiling, bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, directing, helping,
working in every way and with a will; all the sights and sounds
of husbandry, and among the leaves a whispering breeze, and the
warm air perfumed with the scent of newly-mown hay, and over all
the bright blue, sunny sky. Such was the landscape that met the
eyes of the pale-faced, sin-degraded children of Paris. Such was
the home that a few true men with loving hearts and living
sympathies had provided for the victims of poverty and crime!
Here were they to learn, by the all-powerful lessons of religion
and healthful labor, how to become honest, useful citizens; here
were they to acquire self-respect, love of country and of their
fellow-men.

Oh! blessings on the Christian men who founded the colony of
Mettray! Their names are inscribed on the walls of the chapel;
but those walls will crumble away in time, their names will be
forgotten, but the good they have done will never decay or pass
away, and "_Verily they shall have their reward!_"

{355}

                Chapter IX.

  Law, conscience, honor, all obeyed, all give
  The approving voice, and make it bliss to live;
  While faith, when life can nothing more supply,
  Shall strengthen hope and make it bliss to die.

The boys at Mettray are divided into families, each inhabiting a
separate house inscribed with the name of certain towns, or of
the generous giver. There is the "House of Paris," the "House of
Limoges," the "House of the widow Hébert," and one is called the
"House of Mary," in which the youngest children are placed. There
were more than a dozen of these dwellings when our two culprits
entered the colony, each directed by a Father and an Elder
Brother, the inmates of each one emulating the inmates of the
others in their progress to reformation, and every family
considering itself a distinct brotherhood.

It was to the "House of Paris," that Marcel and Polycarpe were
consigned; and what a new life began for these poor children
when, after a short sequestration, so that at least the first
elements of religion, order, and honesty might be instilled into
their minds, they were permitted to associate with the older
colonists, and take full part in their lessons and labors.
Strange but sweet did it seem to Marcel when he first felt
himself a member of a family, one among many brothers, where he
was to find those ties and that affection refused to him
hitherto. How soon he came to love his superiors, the Father and
the Elder Brother, and how easy obedience was to him, can be
readily imagined by those who have followed his fortunes so far.
How fond and proud he grew after a while of his home--his saving
ark--can only be conceived by those who have visited Mettray, and
who have seen and heard with their own eyes and ears that every
child there considers himself honored by the title of colonist,
and bound in his own person to prove the worthiness of the
community.

One of the first tasks of the newcomers was to learn the duties
and discipline of the house.

"The colonists' duties are honorable," said the Father of the
family to them the day after their arrival; "they resemble the
soldiers; obedience to superiors and submission to discipline.
Without discipline no association of men is possible. With it a
nation may become invincible!"

To Marcel the discipline of Mettray was not only easy but even
agreeable, and none could be more scrupulously observant of the
regulations than he. At the first sound of the clarion which
awoke the family each morning, he was out of his hammock and
dressing himself with silent haste. Then, folding his bed and
putting it away, he was ready to march with his companions to the
wash-house. Here the ablutions were plentiful and thorough; for
the boys at Mettray are taught that not only is cleanliness
absolutely necessary to health, but that we are also more worthy
to come in prayer before our Maker when purified and refreshed by
his blessed gift of water.

The washing and combing finished, he returned with his brothers
to the dormitory, to render thanks for the peaceful rest of the
past night and to beg God's blessing on the labors of to-day.
Then the clarion sounded again, and each ran to take his place in
the ranks of workers about to march to their daily labors out of
doors. Scarcely would they have been recognized by those they had
left behind them in their old Paris haunts, as, clothed in their
dark-blue blouses, their feet warm and dry in good sabots, their
cheeks glowing with cleanliness and health, they marched in step,
light and brisk, to their respective tasks. Some proceeded to the
fields, where, superintended by an intelligent superior, they
worked with a willing spirit, encouraged and strengthened by the
sight of their teacher laboring with them. Some entered the
out-houses fitted up as work-shops, where, while one learned
tailoring on his brethren's clothes, another worked at his
family's shoes.
{356}
A little farther on, and the young colonists reached the
blacksmith's shop, where they hammered away manfully at the
chains and rails, the gear of the carts, the locks and hinges,
and all the other iron necessities of the place. And near by
stood the carpenter's shop, where another band prepared all the
wood-work of the colony, even to the doors and windows of the new
houses to be built to receive other poor castaways.

Some again, whose turn it was to attend to the farm-yard, went on
to the cow-house, where the cows lowed with content as they
entered. And then began such a currying and cleansing that it
would be difficult to say which enjoyed it the most, the boys or
the cows. Cows are not accustomed to have so much attention
bestowed on them; but the lads took pleasure in it, and each
house had the privilege of participating in rotation, and the
kine profited wonderfully. After the cows came the turn of the
pigs, the horses, and the donkeys, the latter great favorites
generally. And then the dairy with its pans of yesterday's milk
thick with cream, to be skimmed, and then butter-making and
cheese-making.

And thus worked the once idle, quarrelsome boys until the welcome
hour of breakfast summoned them within. The simple but wholesome
meal finished, after a short pause the thanksgiving was said, and
a quarter of an hour's recreation permitted, and then at the
first blast of the clarion they left their play, formed their
ranks, and gayly marched off to labor again. As they passed the
Director on their way out, they greeted him respectfully and
affectionately, their bright and _now honest_ eyes becoming
still brighter as he returned their salutation with a kind word
and fatherly smile.

Marvellous change, operated by the force of enlightened charity
alone, by a few devoted men and women! For there were at Mettray
no manacles nor blows for the refractory; no prison-walls to keep
in the discontented, lazy, thief, or beggar; only labor and
religious influence, justice and love, ever working together to
repair the ravages that sin and ignorance had wrought in the
consciences of these forlorn ones, and endeavoring to extirpate
even the very germ of evil in their souls.

The day of healthful toil in the woods, fields, and workshops
ended at six o'clock, when the clarion's clear voice again
summoned the young laborers, this time to school, whither they
marched in regimental order preceded by a band of military music.

The school-rooms were large, well-ventilated chambers, their
white walls bearing the inscription, "Dieu vous voit," God sees
you, oft-repeated, and decorated with lists, "tablets of honor,"
containing the names of those boys who had for three months
gained an immunity from all punishment. Many of these names had
become "fixtures," they had been there so long; for the erasure
of a name is considered by the colonists as a great disgrace,
while its continuance on the tablet is an honor.

Here during two hours, aided by kind, intelligent teachers, the
boys learned reading, writing, arithmetic, singing, and linear
drawing. The more advanced helped to teach the beginners, and
with few exceptions proved themselves patient, painstaking
tutors.

To Marcel these hours of instruction were the best and sweetest
recreation. The boy seemed to yearn after knowledge, and the
progress he made was really surprising. He was even after a while
able to undertake to teach a class of new-comers to read, and
proud and happy was he the day this honorable task was assigned
to him!

{357}

But music especially soon became his greatest source of pleasure.
It soothed, cheered, and elevated him; it awakened in him the
tenderest and highest sentiments. It saddened him, too,
sometimes, but that was a solemn sadness that refined rather than
depressed the boy's sensitive nature. The patriotic songs taught
in the school roused his enthusiasm and inspired him with the
most ardent love of his country. The soft strains of the simple
catechism-hymns he and his brothers sang when the good chaplain
prepared them for their first communion entered into his inmost
heart, bringing peace and hope. But deep, very deep was his
emotion when they sang some of those pieces composed expressly
for them, and bearing reference to their past or present state.
How his heart swelled when he joined his voice, high and sweet,
to his fellow castaways, as they chaunted--

  "Droop not, though _shame, sin_, and _anguish_ are round thee;
   Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee;
   Look at yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee;
     Rest not content in thy darkness a clod.
   _Work_ for some good--be it ever so slowly,
   Cherish some flower--be it ever so lowly.
     Let thy good deeds be a prayer to thy God."

How every stirring line re-echoed in his inmost soul, awakening
there gratitude so deep and full to all those who had rescued him
from sin that no language could have expressed it. We are told
that there is "joy in heaven over one sinner that repenteth;" how
many blessings, then, must rest on the heads of those who have
conducted sinning _children_ to repentance--children whom
he loves and wishes to be brought to him.

Two hours of school and the clarion sounded for supper. The
repast over, after five minutes' play the refectory was converted
into a dormitory by suspending the hammocks, and then came the
evening prayer and hymn. The day was ended, and our orphan and
his companions climbed into their clean beds, to sleep peacefully
under the protection of that Heavenly Father who had permitted
them in his inscrutable wisdom to bear the brunt of the battle
while unprepared, but had saved them, scotched and bleeding, it
is true, yet still with vitality enough to recover from their
wounds, and fight again, and win at last--if they would!


               Chapter X.

  "I held it truth, with him who sings
     To one clear harp in divers tones,
     That men may rise on stepping-stones
   Of their dead selves to higher things."

                                  Tennyson.


Polycarpe Poquet found it more difficult to conform himself to
the rules of the establishment, and the law of obedience to the
Elder Brother especially was peculiarly galling to him. The
Father of the Family he could submit to; but this superior, the
Elder Brother, elected every month by themselves from among
themselves, was regarded by him as a kind of hypocritical
upstart, whom he took every opportunity to annoy. Many were the
insulting words he addressed to the poor boys who received this
mark of their companions' esteem, but who by their very position
were forced to report every fault committed by those same
companions, and many a weary hour did he pass in solitary
confinement, making nails, before he had learned that first duty
of a good citizen, obedience to constituted authorities.

{358}

Perhaps the visit of a venerable ecclesiastic who had come to
examine the working-system of the colony might be taken as the
turning-point in Polycarpe's conduct, though not the real date of
his improvement, as we shall see hereafter. The good Abbé had
been questioning the boys of Marcel and Polycarpe's family, when
he suddenly requested them to tell him which were the three best
lads among them. Need we say that our poor orphan was one of
those who were instantly, and without hesitation, pointed out by
their comrades?

"And the worst?" asked the abbé again.

Every eye remained fixed, immovable; every tongue silent. All at
once Polycarpe stepped forward and said in a low but clear voice,

"'Tis I!"

"My boy!" exclaimed the worthy priest, as he clasped the young
convict's hand in both of his, "I cannot believe it! I will not
take even your word for it! This very acknowledgment proves that
you are mistaken."

Polycarpe never from that day forth wore the ignominious mark of
punishment, the ugly black gaiter on the left leg.

His progress in learning was slow, compared with that of Marcel;
but he was an adept in the house-duties, which were performed by
each family of boys in turns of a week at a time. He was skilled
in sweeping and dusting, washing dishes and cleaning knives. He
was the aptest pupil, too, that ever studied the culinary art,
and, after a time, was wont to boast that he could dish up a
savory dinner there where a less gifted individual could find
nothing to eat. Not that Mettray could be considered as one of
the best schools for learners, nor its wholesome dinners as
specimens of the world-famed French cookery; for they consisted
of vegetables entirely, with the exception of twice in the week,
when bacon and beef figured on the tables; but Polycarpe felt
that he had natural abilities, and could do more than was
required of him in the simple kitchen where he practised. He was
quite a favorite with the good Sisters who presided there; they
were always glad when it was his week to assist them, and praised
him constantly for his activity, good temper, and disposition to
oblige.

But if Polycarpe was useful in the kitchen, he was invaluable in
the infirmary. A handier fellow for helping the suffering never
entered a sick-room. He was quick-eyed and _light-fingered_,
(in the good sense of the word;) he saw in a moment how best to
arrange the pillows for the weary, feverish head; he could dress
a blister without drawing a single exclamation from the patient;
he could make palatable gruel and ptisan; he was punctual in
administering the potions, and, though last not least of his good
qualities, he was wakeful and, at the same time, good-tempered
and cheerful. The kind Hospital Sisters, who had charge of the
infirmary, pronounced him the best of nurses, and would have
rejoiced could they always have had him with them.

The very first week that he was on duty there, a poor boy, who
had only been a month in the establishment, died of the disease
whose germs he had brought with him. Polycarpe watched over him
with the tenderest care, and the child became gratefully attached
to him, and talked much to him of his past life--a short but sad
one. His father, he said, was in the galleys for life; his mother
in the hospital at Tours; his two elder sisters in prison for
theft; his young brother, a miserable deformed child, was a
street-beggar; and he knew not what had become of his little
sister of six years old! The poor fellow loved this little sister
with all the concentrated strength of a heart that had had but
few objects to love, and he cried as he spoke of her.

{359}

When the chaplain came to see him, the last evening of his short
life, Polycarpe related the sad story to the good priest.

"Victor Bourdon," said the abbé gently, as he still knelt by the
side of the bed, after having prayed with the dying boy, "Victor
Bourdon, I will go to Tours, and find your little sister, and I
will place her where she will learn to be a good and industrious
girl. I promise you this, my child."

Victor turned his dim eyes toward his consoler, a smile of
ineffable content played over his pain-drawn features; then,
sighing rather than speaking these last words, "Oh! what a pity
to leave the colony so soon!" the young earth-tried spirit passed
away.

This death made a lasting impression on Polycarpe. The
exclamation, "Oh! what a pity to leave the colony so soon!" was
like a revelation to him; all at once he understood all that he
had escaped--all the privileges he now enjoyed.

The Father of the family found the poor fellow in tears one day,
and, after a few sympathizing questions, drew from him a touching
confession of his repentance. He freely acknowledged that his
good conduct had hitherto been prompted by pride only; "and if,"
added he, "I have not run away, "_it is only because there are
no walls at Mettray_."

Singular proof of the innate sentiment of honor that exists in
France! Even this ignorant boy felt it to be an unworthy,
cowardly act to betray the confidence reposed in him; he
considered himself a prisoner on parole, and scorned to take
advantage of the liberty granted him.

All his in-door talents did not, however, prevent his working
well at the harder labors out of doors. He was great at the
plough, and no one groomed a horse better than he. His
strongly-built frame, too, became admirably developed by the
farm-work and the gymnastic exercises in which all took a part,
but in which none excelled as he did. His stout, muscular form,
the splendid glow of his cheeks, and perfectly healthful
appearance, would have made him remarked anywhere.

He had at first chosen to learn the trade of a baker, as his
future means of gaining a living; but his strong physical nature
and necessity of movement soon inspired him with, a decided
inclination for a military life, and the administration permitted
him to revoke his first choice. Marcel had wished to be a
gardener; he loved nature, and was passionately fond of flowers,
and his desire had been granted.

So the two boys worked hopefully and cheerfully on; one day was a
repetition of the other, until Marcel fully understood that
higher life which brings its own recompense, and Polycarpe
acquired the love of truth and of honest labor.

A year after his admittance into the colony, Polycarpe's name was
inscribed on the tablet of honor by the side of Marcel's, which
had already long gained its place there. A few months later, he
succeeded to his friend as Elder Brother, and, after another
interval of exemplary conduct, both lads received as a recompense
a sum of money which was placed in the savings bank of the
establishment for their future use, and were entitled to wear a
corporal's stripe on their sleeve--a high and envied distinction.

"For the good workers there is a future!" is the hopeful
salutation inscribed over the gate at Mettray.

{360}

Yes! there is a future for all true workers! Labor, then,
steadfastly; labor trustfully, poor children of earth; the good
time cometh--the reward is sure!


             To Be Continued.

               ----------

         Catholicity And Pantheism.

               Number Two.

  Pantheism Examined From The Ontological Point Of View--
  The Infinite--
  Idea Of The Infinite According To The Pantheist.


The infinite of the pantheist is _something_ stripped of
subsistence, limits, determinations, definiteness, qualities, or
quantity; it is devoid of all consciousness, intelligence, will,
individuality; it is something hanging between reality and
unreality, bordering on possibility and existence; it is not
altogether actual, nor entirely possible, but that which is _in
fieri_, or becoming; in a word, that which is both being and
nothing. It is pure, unalloyed abstraction, without a mind which
makes the abstraction.

We acknowledge that pantheists do not all express themselves in
the above manner with regard to the infinite; but, if we strip
their systems of their various forms, all agree in presenting the
same idea.

Whether, with the materialistic pantheists of old, we call the
infinite a common principle or seed of liquid nature, from which
everything sprang up, and which is the substratum of everything;
or whether we call it the _primitive number_, with the
Pythagoreans; or we like to exhibit it as the first _unity_
or _monas_, with Plotinus and the Neoplatonists; or we look
upon it as the _infinite substance_ of Spinoza; or finally,
with the Germans, we prefer to call it the _ego_ or the
_absolute identity_, or the _ideal-being_; or the
_impersonal reason_, with Cousin--all converge into this
idea, that the infinite is something indeterminate, unconscious,
impersonal; which, by an interior necessity, is impelled to
unfold and develop itself, assuming all kinds of limitations and
forms; and thus, from being undefined, indeterminate, abstract,
it becomes real, defined, determinate, concrete; from being one,
it becomes multiple. The genesis of creation in all its
components, and the history of mankind, are the successive
unfolding and realization of the infinite in a progressive scale.
For, in its necessary development, it becomes matter, organism,
sense; and in man it acquires intellect with the consciousness of
itself. Here commence all the phases of the development of man
recorded in history: phases of a progressive civilization, which
are but necessary unfoldings and modifications of the infinite;
and which will go on progressing perpetually, to what end, or for
how long, pantheists and progressists are unable to determine.

{361}

By means of this theory of the infinite, they endeavor to
reconcile reality with the ontological ideas of being, the
infinite, substance, and the absolute. For they reason thus: The
idea of being is essentially universal, and as such it must
embrace all reality, and therefore it can be but one. The same
must be said of the idea of the infinite. This comprehends
everything, and therefore absorbs everything.

The reader can easily see, from what we have thus far said, that
the first problem which pantheism raises and which is to be
solved, is the following: What is the nature of the infinite? We
accept the problem, and shall discuss it by making the following
inquiries.

1. Does the idea which pantheism gives of the infinite really
resolve the problem?

2. What is the true solution of the problem?

With regard to the first inquiry we answer that the idea of the
infinite, as given by the pantheists, when well examined, leads
to one of two different conclusions:

1. Either it is the idea of finite being, and consequently
requiring the existence of an infinite being as its origin.

2. Or, it is the idea of a mere abstraction, an absolute
nonentity, and hence leading to absolute nihilism. In both cases
pantheism, instead of resolving the problem, destroys it. We
shall endeavor to prove both these propositions, assuming as
granted that the principles of pantheism are these two:

1. The infinite is that the essence of which lies in becoming.

2. It becomes multiplicity, that is matter, organism, animality,
etc., by a necessary interior movement.

The pantheistic idea of the infinite leads either to the idea of
God given by the Catholic Church, or to absolute nihilism. Proven
by the first principle of the pantheists.

Before entering upon the proof, we must lay down a few truths of
ontology which are metaphysically certain.

First Principle. Being and actuality are one and the same thing.

The proof of this principle lies in the explanation of what
actuality really means. Now, actuality is one of those ideas,
called by logicians simple ideas, and which cannot be defined. We
shall endeavor to explain it as follows.

Actuality is but a relation of our mind. When we think of a
being, not as yet existing, but against the existence of which we
see neither an interior nor an exterior reason, we call it
possible being; and the perception of all this, in our mind, we
call the perception of the _possibility_ of a being.

But when we think of the being, not as possible, but as having,
so to speak, travelled from possibility to real existence, we
call that being _actual_; and the perception of the mind,
the perception of the actuality of a being.

It is evident that actuality adds nothing to being, beyond a mere
relation of our mind, which, comparing the being, as really
existing, with its possibility, calls it _actual_; because
it is existence in act, in contradistinction to possibility,
which is power or potentiality.

Actuality, then, and being or reality are one and the same thing.

Second Principle. Actuality and duration are one and the same
thing.

An act or being which does not last, not even one instant, is
nothing; because our mind cannot conceive a being to exist, and
have no duration whatever. Therefore an act or being necessarily
implies duration, and they are therefore one and the same thing.

{362}

But it will be remarked: Are there no transitory acts? Do not all
philosophers admit the existence of acts which are continually
changing?

We answer, What is meant by a transitory act? Does it mean
something which is continually changing, so much so that none of
its elements has any duration whatever, not even for an instant;
or does it mean that the parts or moments, if we may call them
so, are in a state of continual transition? In both cases such
acts do not and cannot exist.

Before demonstrating this, we observe that it was the ancient
Italian school of Elea which, before every other school, raised
the problem of transient acts, pointed out the great difficulty
which existed in explaining their nature, and demonstrated the
impossibility of their existence. To render the demonstration
clear, we remark that a transient act may mean either one of two
things: an act which is composed of different parts, each in
continual transition; or an act which has a beginning, and, after
a certain duration, also an end. We admit the existence of such
acts in the second sense and not in the first. For if an act
continually changes, none of the states which it successively
assumes have any duration whatever. Otherwise it would no longer
be a transient act in the first sense. But that which has no
duration at all cannot be considered to exist. Therefore an act
really transient cannot exist. What then is a transient act? We
have seen that it supposes something standing or lasting. But
what lasts is immanent, that is, has duration. Therefore a
transient act can only be the beginning or end of an immanent
act, or, in other words, the beginning or end of duration. To
illustrate this doctrine by an example: suppose I wish to draw a
line on this paper. If all the points, of which the line is to be
composed, were to disappear the very instant I am drawing them,
it is evident I should never have a line. Likewise, if all the
states, which a transient act assumes, are supposed to have no
duration whatever, the act also can have no duration, and hence
no existence. A transient act, then, is the beginning or end of
an immanent act.

Having laid down the foregoing propositions, we come to the
discussion of the pantheistic idea of the infinite.

What, according to pantheism, is the idea of the infinite?
Something the essence of which consists in becoming, in being
made, in _fieri_. Now, we reason thus: a being the essence
of which lies in becoming means either an act permanent and
lasting, capable of changes, or it means something the essential
elements of which are continually changing, and have, therefore,
no duration whatever. If the last supposition be accepted as
describing the pantheistic idea of the infinite, then the
infinite is a sheer absurdity, an absolute nonentity. For, in
this case, the infinite would be a transient act, in the sense
that its essential elements are continually changing, and have no
duration whatever. Now such acts are absolutely inconceivable.
The mind may put forth its utmost efforts to form an idea of
them, yet it will ever be utterly at a loss to conceive anything
about them.

{363}

Pantheism, on this supposition, would start from absolute
nihilism, to build up the existence of everything. On the other
hand, if the second supposition be admitted, that the infinite is
a permanent being, capable of changes and developments, then it
is a transient act in the second sense, that is, the beginning or
end of an immanent act; in which case we object to its being
self-existing, and insist that it leads to the admission of the
idea of the infinite as given by the Catholic Church. We
demonstrate this from the ontological idea of immanent and
transient acts.

If there be transient acts, there must also be immanent acts,
because transient acts are the beginning or end of immanent acts.
But no immanent act can be the cause of its end, because no act
could be the cause of its cessation; nor can an immanent act be
the cause of its own beginning, since in that case it would act
before it existed.

It follows, then, that an immanent act cannot be the cause either
of its beginning or of its end. But a transient act, that is, the
beginning or end of an immanent act, must have a cause, by the
principle of causality. If, then, the transient act is not caused
by the immanent act, of which it is either the beginning or the
end, it must be caused by another immanent act.

Now this immanent act, which causes the transient act, has either
itself a beginning, in which case it would be preceded by a
transient act, or it has no beginning at all, and consequently
can have no end.

If it be caused by a transient act, we should be obliged to admit
another immanent act; and, if we do not wish to admit an infinite
series of causes, (which would by no means resolve the
difficulty, but only increase it,) we must finally stop at an
immanent act which has neither beginning nor end.

If it be not caused by a transient act, then we have already what
we seek for; an act without beginning or end.

But, the infinite of the pantheists, if it be not a mere
abstraction, an absolute nonentity, is a transient act.

Therefore, it leads to the admission of a purely immanent act. We
present the same demonstration in another form, to make it more
intelligible.

A transient act is the beginning or cessation of an immmanent
act.

Now, this beginning or cessation must have a cause, by the
principle of causality. What can the cause be? It cannot be the
same immanent act, of which the transient act is either the
beginning or the end. Because, if the immanent act were the cause
of its beginning, it would act before its existence; and if it
were the cause of its end, its action would be simultaneous with
its destruction or extinction, which is a contradiction in terms.
On the other hand, it cannot be a transient act, because this
_itself_ must have a cause. Nor can it be another immanent
act, which has a beginning or end; for in that case it would be a
transient act. Therefore, it must be a purely immanent act,
without beginning or end. In short, a self-existing transient
act, such as the infinite of the pantheists, is an absurdity,
because this denotes an act which gives itself a beginning, or
which gives itself an end. This beginning or end must be given it
by another. Now, this second is either a purely immanent act,
without beginning or end, or it has had a beginning, and may have
an end. In the first supposition we have the Catholic idea of
God. In the second we may multiply these causes _ad
infinitum_, and thus increase _ad infinitum_ the
necessity of the existence of God to explain those existences.

{364}

We pass to the examination of the second leading principle of
pantheism, which is thus expressed. The infinite, by a necessary
interior movement, becomes multiple.

How is this to be understood? If the infinite of the pantheists,
by a necessary interior movement, unfolds itself, and becomes
multiple, it follows that it is the cause of transient acts. Our
mind can attach no other signification to that principle, beyond
that of an immanent act, producing transient acts. Now the
question arises, Is this ontologically possible? We insist that
it is not, and lay down the following proposition: No being,
which moves or unfolds itself, that is, which performs transient
acts, can do so by its own unaided energy; but requires the aid
of another being, different from itself.

An immanent act which produces a transient one does so either by
an eternal act, also immanent, and in that case it cannot be the
subject of the transient act produced; or it produces a transient
act of which it is the subject--so much so that the transient act
is its own act, as, for instance, the act by which a sensitive
being feels a new sensation, or the act by which an intelligent
being begets a thought, are transient acts, the one of the
sensitive principle, the other of the rational being. These
transient acts modify the subject which produces them, and effect
a change in it.

Now, in the first case, if an immanent act which produces
transient acts is eternal in duration, these cannot terminate in
the subject, by the supposition. For, if the transient act were
laid inside the permanent act, it would be its cessation, and in
that case the act would no longer be eternal according to the
supposition.

In the second place, if an immanent act becomes the subject of
transient acts, or, in other words, modifies itself, a sufficient
reason must be given, a cause of such modification, by the
principle of causality. Why does it modify itself? What is the
cause of such a change? The being or subject, or immanent act,
does not contain the sufficient cause of the modification or
change; because if it contained it, the act produced would be
permanent, and not transient, that is, it would have always been
in the immanent act. For it is a principle of ontology of
immediate evidence that, given the _full_ cause, the effect
follows. Now the immanent act in question _was_ before the
transient act existed; therefore, the immanent act is not full
and sufficient cause of the transient act which modifies it. If
it is not the full and sufficient cause of its modification, it
cannot modify itself without the aid of exterior being. Now, this
exterior being cannot be supposed to be of the same nature with
the act in question, otherwise it would itself require aid.
Therefore, it must be a being which does it by an eternal
immanent act; and that Being is the _Infinite_ of Catholic
philosophy.

Apply this demonstration to the second principle of pantheism,
that the infinite, by a necessary interior movement, unfolds and
develops itself, or modifies itself, it is evident that this
second principle, like the first, is ontologically impossible;
that the infinite must either be purely, simply, and eternally
actual, or it cannot develop itself without the aid of another
being of a different nature; consequently that the second
pantheistic principle is nothing else but the idea of finite
being perfecting itself by the aid of the Infinite of Catholic
philosophy.

In order that this conclusion may appear more evident, we subjoin
another argument, more adapted to the comprehension of most
readers.

{365}

According to the pantheistic hypothesis, the infinite, by a
necessary interior action, is forced to expand, to develop
itself. Now, we want to show that this it cannot do by its
unaided energy. We prove it thus: This action of the infinite is
a movement; we make use of the word movement in its widest
signification, as meaning any action whatever. Now, this movement
either existed always in the infinite or it had a beginning. In
the system of the pantheists it has a beginning, because they
hold that the infinite successively assumes different forms.
There was then a time in which it did not move. Then the infinite
had only the power, and not the act of moving; and when it
_did_ move, it passed from the power to the act.

It will not do for the pantheist to endeavor to avoid this
conclusion by saying that the movement of the infinite is
eternal. Conceding that the movement is eternal, we ask, is the
action only one, or is it multiple? In other words, is the full
intensity of its energy concentrated in one movement, or is it
divided? The pantheist cannot, in force of his system, admit that
the whole intensity of its energy is concentrated in a single
movement; otherwise, the successive unfoldings were impossible;
the unfolding would be instantaneous, and not successive.

The infinite, then, in its successive unfoldings, passes from the
power to the act. Now, it is an ontological principle, as evident
as any axiom of Euclid, that no being can pass from the power to
the act, from quiet to movement, but by the aid of another being
already in act. For power is, in relation to action, as rest is
to movement. If the being is in rest, it cannot be in movement;
if, on the contrary, it is in movement, it cannot be in rest.
Likewise, if the being is supposed to act, it cannot, at the same
time, be supposed to be in potentiality. A being in power and
action, with regard to the same effects, is as much a
contradiction as a being in rest and motion at the same time. To
make this more intelligible, let us take an instance. Suppose the
seed of a tree, say of a lemon: this seed is in potentiality to
become a lemon. But it could never of itself become a lemon;
because, if it could, it were already a lemon; it were a lemon,
not in power only, but in act. To become a lemon it must be
buried in the earth, it must go through the whole process of
vegetation, and assimilate to itself whatever it needs from the
earth and the air and the sun; and not until then can it be the
fruit-tree we call lemon.

No being, then, can pass from the power to the act, except by the
aid of another being which is in act. Now, the infinite of the
pantheist is continually passing from the power to the act; from
being indefinite and indeterminate, it becomes limited and
determinate. Therefore it cannot do so but by the agency of
another being, which is all action and no potentiality.

This being is God.

We have examined the first principle of pantheism with regard to
the infinite, and we have seen that a being the essence of which
lies in being made, in becoming, either means something the
essential elements of which are continually changing, so much so
as to have no duration whatever, or it means a being which has a
beginning and may have an end. In the first case, the infinite of
the pantheist would be a mere absurdity, a pure abstraction. In
the second, it expresses nothing else but the idea of a finite
being, and leads to the existence of a purely immanent being or
act.
{366}
Proceeding to discuss the second principle of pantheism, that the
infinite, by a necessary, interior movement, unfolds itself, we
have demonstrated that this is impossible; that, granting the
possibility of the infinite unfolding itself successively, this
it could never do by its own unaided energy, but requires the
help of another being. That, consequently, the second principle
of the pantheists leads also to the idea of God as proposed by
the Catholic Church.

As a corollary following from the whole discussion, we draw the
conclusion that the infinite is utterly inconceivable, unless it
is supposed to be most perfect, most finished reality, if we may
speak thus; that it is altogether absurd, unless it is supposed
to be pure actuality, without the least mixture of potentiality;
in a word, pure, simple action itself; in the language of the
schoolmen, _actus purissimus_.

The discussion of the pantheistic idea of the infinite has led us
to the main idea of the infinite as it is given by Catholic
philosophy. We shall now proceed to fill up this idea and develop
it to its utmost conclusions, so as to give an exact and full
exposition of the doctrine of the infinite, as proposed by
Catholic philosophy. The result of our discussion has been that
the Infinite, or God, is action itself; or, in other words, pure
actuality, an immanent act without beginning or end. Upon this we
shall build the whole construction of the essential attributes
and perfections of God, and admire how consistent, how logical,
how sublime, is the Catholic idea of the Infinite.



                   I.

         God Is Necessary Being.

Necessary being is that the essence of which is one and the same
thing with its existence; and, _vice versa_, the existence
of which is one and the same thing with the essence, so much so
that the idea of the one implies the idea of the other.

But God's essence is to be; for we have seen that he is actuality
or reality itself. Therefore, God is necessary or self-existing
being.

Hence the sublime definition he gave of himself to Moses: "_I
am WHO am_. _He who is_ sent me to you."


                   II.

             God Is Eternal.

Eternity is duration without succession or change; _duratio
tota simul_, as the schoolmen would say. Hence it excludes the
idea either of beginning or end. But duration and actuality are
one and the same thing. Therefore actuality itself is duration
itself; that is to say, duration without succession or change.

Now, God is actuality itself. Therefore he is eternal.


                   III.

            God Is Immutable.

Immutability is life without succession or change; or, in other
words, life without beginning or end, and without being subject
to modifications. Now life is action. Action then, without
succession or change, is immutability.

God is action itself. Therefore God is immutable.

{367}

                   IV.

            God Is Infinite.

Infinity is being itself with the exclusion of limits, that is,
of not being; or, to express ourselves more intelligibly, it is
being or perfection in its utmost and supremest actuality,
excluding the possibility of any successive actualization, for
the reason of its being already all possible actualization. Human
language is so imperfect and so inadequate that, even in our
efforts to avoid in the definition of the infinite all idea of
succession or development, we are forced to make use of words
which seem to suppose it. Those who are trained to think
logically will grasp the idea without much effort; for the words
_being itself_, to the exclusion of not being or limitation,
sufficiently and adequately define the infinite. Now, God, as
action itself, is being itself. Therefore, God is infinite.



                   V.

    Immensity Is The Presence Of The
    Whole Being Of God In His Actions.

This definition of immensity, being somewhat different in words
from that commonly given by metaphysicians, requires explanation.
Let the reader, then, pay particular attention to the following
remarks.

Ubiquity implies residence of _being_ in space, both
spiritual and material. By spiritual space we mean the existence
of different created spirits and nothing more.

By material space we mean the extension of matter.

That God can act on or reside in spiritual beings does not
involve any difficulty.

But how can he reside in material space, space properly so
called?

It is evident that a spiritual being cannot dwell in space by a
contact of extension, since spiritual being is the very opposite
of extension.

Therefore, a spiritual being can only dwell in space by acting on
it.

The presence of the whole being of God in the action by which he
creates, sustains, and acts in spiritual and material space, is
ubiquity.

Immensity is the presence of the whole being of God in his
action. The difference between the two lies in this: that
ubiquity implies a relation to created objects, whereas immensity
implies no such relation. We say, then, the presence of the
_whole being_ of God in his action, because God is pure
actuality, action itself. If, therefore, in his action we did not
suppose the presence of his whole being, we should establish a
division in God; that is, we should suppose his being and his
action to be distinct, which they are not, and this distinction
would imply a development in God, which is contrary to his being
action or actuality itself.

It will easily be remarked that immensity is an attribute which
flows immediately from the idea of God being actuality itself. We
may therefore conclude that he is immense.


                   VI.

        God Is Absolute Simplicity.

Absolute simplicity, in its negative aspect, implies the absence
of all possible composition or distinction in a being; the
distinction, for instance, of essence and existence, of faculties
and attributes.

Now, God is pure actuality, and this excludes all idea of such
distinctions. Therefore, God is simplicity itself.


                    VII.

                God Is One.

God is a necessary being, eternal, immutable, infinite, immense,
all of which are sides of one idea--that of pure actuality.

{368}

Now, such a being can be but one, as is evident to every mind
which understands the terms. God is therefore one.

Before we leave this part of the subject, let us compare both the
pantheistic and the Catholic ideas of _God_, so that, when
brought together face to face, they may appear in a better and
more distinct light.

God, according to the pantheists, is an eternal, self-existing
_something_, devoid of all determination or limit, of all
individuality, of all consciousness, of all personality, of all
shape or form.

When well examined, the principle of the pantheists presents no
other idea to the mind than that of possibility, a kind of
self-existent possibility, if we may bring together two terms
which exclude each other.

Starting from this possibility, the pantheists make it acquire
determination, concreteness, consciousness, personality, by
supposing an interior necessary force of development.

The Catholic idea of God is the very opposite of the pantheistic.

For, whereas they make God a possibility, something that is
becoming, to be made; the Catholic Church exhibits him as
reality, actuality, being itself. It is careful to eliminate from
him the least idea of potentiality or possibility, of becoming
something, or of being subject to development or perfection;
because it insists that God is all reality, perfectly and
absolutely actual. Any idea of further perfection is not only to
be excluded from him, but cannot even be conceived; for the
simple reason that he is all perfection, absolute, eternal
perfection.

That this is the only reasonable idea of God is evident to every
mind which is capable of understanding the terms. For happily it
does not require a long and difficult demonstration to prove the
falsehood and absurdity of the pantheistic, and the truth of the
Catholic, idea of God. The understanding of the terms is quite
sufficient.

Whoever says possibility, excludes, by the very force of the
term, existence and reality. A self-existent possibility is a
contradiction in terms; for possibility excludes existence, and
self-existence implies it necessarily.

An eternal possibility is also a contradiction in terms; for
eternity excludes all succession or mutation, and possibility
implies it. An infinite possibility is yet more absurd; because
infinite means absolute reality and actuality; possibility, on
the contrary, implies only power of being.

But, on the contrary, how logical, how consistent, how grand, and
how conformable to all ontological principles is the idea of God
held by the Catholic Church! God is absolute, pure, unmixed
actuality and reality. Therefore he is self-existing being
itself; therefore he is eternal, because pure actuality is at the
same time pure duration; therefore he is immutable, since pure
actuality excludes all change and development; therefore he is
infinite, because he is being itself, the essential being,
_the_ being; therefore he is simplicity itself, because a
distinction would imply a composition, and all composition is
rejected by actuality most pure, so to speak, unalloyed, unmixed.

The God of the pantheist is a nullity, a negation; the God of the
Catholic Church is really the Infinite. He is in himself whatever
is real and actual in spirit, whatever is real and positive in
matter, whatever is real and positive in the essence of all
creatures. But he has all the reality of spirit without its
limitation; all the reality of matter without its limitation; all
the reality of all creatures without their limitation. All this
reality in him is not such and such reality; but he is all
reality, pure, unmixed reality, without limit and without
distinction.

{369}

What leads the pantheists into the admission of their principle
is a false, wrong idea of the infinite. They suppose, and suppose
rightly, that the infinite must contain all reality; and seeing
around them such a multitude of different beings or creatures,
each one with its particular difference and individualization,
they ask themselves the question, How can all these differences
be concentrated in one being?--the infinite--and in endeavoring
to resolve it they admit a first something undefined,
indeterminate, which assumes gradually all these different forms.

What is this but a very material and vulgar idea of the infinite?
That it was the idea of the first who began to philosophize is
intelligible. But that modern philosophers should have no higher
comprehension of the infinite, that they should not conceive how
the infinite can be all reality, in its being without
distinction, composition, change, or succession, is quite
inconceivable; and is much less than we should expect from men
boasting so loudly of their enlightenment.

Let them hear a Catholic philosopher of the middle ages upon the
subject. After having demonstrated that whatever is real in the
creature is to be found in God as the infinite and most perfect,
he proposes the other question, How can all these perfections be
found in God? and he answers, that they are necessarily to be
found in God, but in a most simple manner, as one and single
perfection. We subjoin his words:

  "From what we have said, it evidently follows that the
  perfections of creatures are essentially unified in God. For we
  have shown that God is simple. Now, where there is simplicity
  there cannot be found diversity in the interior of the being.
  If, then, all the perfections of creatures are to be found in
  the infinite, it is impossible that they could be there with
  their differences. It follows, then, that they must be in him
  as ONE.

  "This becomes evident, if we reflect upon what takes place in
  the faculties of comprehension. For a superior power grasps, by
  one and the same act of comprehension, all those things known,
  under different points of view, by inferior powers. In fact,
  the intelligence judges, by a unique and simple act, all the
  perceptions of sight, of hearing, and of the other senses. The
  same occurs in sciences: although inferior sciences are various
  in virtue of their different objects, there is, however, in
  them all a superior science which embraces all, and which is
  called transcendental philosophy. The same thing happens with
  relation to authority. For in the royal authority, which is
  one, are included all the other subordinate authorities, which
  are divided for the government of the kingdom. It is thus
  necessary that the perfections of inferior creatures, which are
  multiplied according to the difference of beings, be found
  together as one, in the principle of all things--God!"
  [Footnote 132]

    [Footnote 132: St Thomas's
    _Compendium Theologiae_, cap. 22.]

                   ----------

{370}

     The Right Path found through the Great Snow.


The drifting, wide-spread snowstorm of January 17th, 1867, will
live in the memory of the "oldest inhabitant" among the strange
things of that eventful year. It confirmed in its depth and
fulness the weird stories of our grandsires, which our later
years had come to look upon as myths; of benighted travellers
buried in drifts that covered houses; of common roads only made
passable by archways cut through the white heaps; of houses where
the only egress was by the upper windows, or perhaps the
chimneys. Among the multitudes who found themselves snow-bound on
that memorable Thursday aforesaid, I was shut up to the cold
comfort of a country inn, in a bleak, mountainous district, where
I had arrived the previous evening with the intention of spending
only a night and day; less, if the business that brought me could
be transacted in a shorter time. I had engaged the parlor and
bed-room adjoining, that I might occupy myself with necessary
writing uninterrupted by any chance arrival. The dimensions of my
suite of apartments were small, and the furniture of the plainest
kind; a dingy carpet covered the floor, and green and yellow
paper adorned the walls. The brilliancy of the _tout
ensemble_ was heightened by a series of coarse, highly-colored
plates, representing the life of the prodigal son in all its
phases, and an equally radiant "family tree," laden with what was
intended to represent tropical fruits, in red and yellow, the
oranges bearing the names and dates of the female members of the
family, and the lemons those of the males; a very suggestive
picture certainly, and one that told some queer tales of my
landlord's family, _Fox's Book of Martyrs_ and an almanac
for '66 were the only books the room furnished. The chairs were
of the stiffest pattern, arranged in funereal order around the
sides of the apartment, with a notable exception in a large
stuffed arm-chair, of the olden times, which I drew before the
open grate piled with blazing peat.

That fire was a comfort indeed. A sight almost lost in these days
in New England; it helped me to forget, in its beautiful
variations, the dashing appearance of the youth pictured on the
walls, and the cruel plates and malicious lies of the "English
martyrologist."

Little did I dream, as I arranged my plans for the next day, of
the change that would come over the outer world while I slept,
although there were already signs of a coming storm. I looked
from my windows in the morning, through the large elms, heavy
with the accumulating weight, across the road and opposite fields
which the snow had swept into one broad expanse of whiteness,
obscuring landmarks and obliterating fences, and which the
furious wind was now lashing into billows, all dead white, save
where

              "Some dark ravine
  Took shadow, or the sombre green
  Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black
  Against the whiteness at their back."

{371}

To be "snow-bound" may be very nice in a large, well-ordered
household; but in solitude, with neither books nor companions,
and with the remembrance of a family far away, who perchance may
just then need your stout arm to release them from a like
imprisonment, it is not a cheerful position; and I could not
repress a sigh as I gazed over the trackless way, remembering
that I was five miles from a railroad station, in a small upland
village, not famous for the enterprise of the inhabitants. The
sigh was scarcely breathed when, on the confines of the opposite
meadow, I espied two figures struggling against the elements,
evidently intent on working their way to the inn through the
terrible drifts. It was weary work; for they fell and arose again
often, during the short time I watched them before hastening to
the old landlord, who was smoking his pipe where was once the
barroom, and dreaming over the visions of his long-gone youth. As
soon as the purpose of my call was known, he summoned three stout
laborers from the kitchen, where they were rejoicing with the
maids over the prospect of an idle day, and bade them go at once
to the relief of the travellers. I grew impatient with the long
delay of the servants, the more as but one of the two men was to
be seen breasting the storm; the other must have fallen.
Forgetting my delicate lungs and small physique, I donned my
overcoat and hat, and, fortified with a flask of brandy, hastened
to the rescue, reflecting that brains are often as useful as
muscle in an emergency. The more successful traveller, a stout
son of "green Erin," was quite exhausted when we reached him; but
he found breath to articulate, in answer to our inquiries for his
companion: "Indeed, he fell near the big tree. Oh! he be's a real
gintleman." The informer was conveyed to the house by two of the
men, while with what seemed to me supernatural strength, I made
my way with the third toward the aforesaid "big tree," walking on
the drifts where the stouter man went down, and though the
strong, keen northwest wind nearly took away my breath, and the
sleet almost blinded me, I was first on the spot. It seemed to me
two hours, though it was less than half that time, from the
moment when I lifted the head of the fallen man and succeeded in
pouring into his mouth a spoonful of brandy, till we landed with
our burden at the door of the inn.

There was something in my first glance upon that cold, handsome
face that came to me like a dream of early days--something that
claimed kindred with the associations of my youth. By the
motherly solicitude of the landlady I knew that he would be
speedily resuscitated, and, prostrated by my exertions, I was
leaving him in her care, when I stooped to reach the hat of the
gentleman from the floor where it had been thrown, when I saw the
name "Redwood R. Hood," written in the crown. Immediately I knew
why I had been impressed with his face, and turning to that form
over which strangers were bending with curious gaze I said
peremptorily, "Take the gentleman to my room; he is a friend of
mine; and, Mrs. S----," I added to the landlady, who looked
incredulous, "with your help we can very soon restore the
circulation, and he will have more quiet there than here." I will
not enter into the process of resuscitation; let it suffice that
by evening my friend was the occupant of the large arm-chair
before the piles of burning peat, and we had gone over the years
intervening between us, with the circumstances of our meeting
again in a summary manner, and we now sat in the early twilight
quietly looking at one another.

{372}

"The 'wolf' snow came near devouring little 'Red Riding Hood'
this time," I said, bursting into a laugh again at the joyous
memories that name recalled.

"Even so," replied the pale figure opposite, "and I owe my life
to you, William Dewey, the '_billet doux_' of early days.
Happy hours of our youth!" he added, almost regretfully. "Yes,
they were happy," I responded, "even with all their drawbacks;
yet what do you think now of the sermons of two hours in length
filled with the strong meat of total depravity, election,
inability, foreordination, and reprobation, to which we were
under bonds to listen and to give a rehash at home, and the
tedious prayers which we were obliged to take all standing; a
much more respectful attitude, however, than the lounging,
sitting posture of the present generation of the so-called
orthodox?"

"Do you remember," he said, a smile spreading all over his face,
"when we were at Parson Freewill's school in L----, in the old
meeting-house with the square pews, with seats that lifted when
the congregation arose for prayer, and the vigorous slam we gave
the covers when we reseated ourselves? I think that powerful
stroke rather compensated for the length of the prayer; it was
something to look forward to. But my most fearful remembrance is
the hour after supper devoted to the Assembly's Catechism. I can
see my poor aunt now, shaking her grey curls over the old family
Bible, from which she was endeavoring to prove to me the words of
the Catechism which said I had lost all communion with God, was
under his wrath and curse, and so made liable to all the miseries
of this life and the pains of hell for ever, and that through no
fault of mine; but that such was the corruption of my nature that
I was utterly indisposed and made opposite unto all that is
spiritually good, and wholly inclined to evil, and that
continually!" (_Vide_ Catechism of Westminster Assembly.)

"How is it possible you have your catechism at your tongue's end
even at this date?" I replied. "Really I doubt if I could repeat
an answer correctly; but I thank God who has brought me out of
such terrible darkness."

"Then you have escaped?" he inquired, putting out his hand to
grasp mine; "you, a deacon's son, brought up in the very midst of
'Brimstone Corner'! Well, well! I must believe the age of
miracles has not passed, for this cannot be anything less than a
miracle!"

"Yes, a miracle indeed," I replied gravely. "A double miracle,
that I escaped, and am at last anchored."

"Anchored!" he exclaimed incredulously, "do tell me where you can
find bottom after such uprooting."

"Where you will perhaps despise me more than if I had been
content to walk the Calvinistic rut through life," was my reply,
as I gave into his hand my prayer-book. He examined it with
curiosity and surprise. "A Catholic! a Roman Catholic!" he
exclaimed at length, with a shade of what I thought savored of
contempt in the tone of his voice; "you, William Dewey, son of
Deacon Norman Dewey, of the puritanical city of Boston, you a
Papist! Excuse me if I cannot help saying, it seems to me, 'out
of the frying-pan into the fire.'"

"And pray, may I ask where you find yourself religiously?" I
said; "men of our years, after the fifties, ought to be fixed
somewhere."

{373}

"On the other pole from yourself," he replied quickly; "I believe
in no creed, no church, no--"

"No God?" I questioned, a little satirically.

"A great first cause, certainly," he said slowly. "Yes, the God
in everything, 'Jehovah, Jove, or Lord,' the true Shekinah is
man. But let us not mar this pleasant reunion with discussions.
With your fixed faith, you can have no sympathy religiously with
one the pride of whose creed is, that it is changing daily,
wholly unfixed and afloat."

"There you mistake," I replied earnestly. "I can and do most
heartily sympathize with you; for I floated for years on that
same waste of waters--that shoreless sea of doubt."

"Is it possible! and came at last where you are? I know nothing
about the Catholic faith, I must own, from actual study, and from
what I have heard I did not think it would bear examination; but
there must be something in it if it has caught you, and, if you
like, it would give me pleasure to hear the process: but perhaps
you will object?"

"Not at all," I replied, "but it would take me all night to tell
you the course I run in this matter, and fatigue you after your
misadventure to listen."

"I think it would do me good," he said more earnestly than he had
yet spoken; "I am really impressed with a desire to know how such
a transformation could take place, and you come to embrace what
you were brought up to hate. As to my strength and ability to
listen, I am about as well as usual, but miss my tobacco sadly.
My meerschaum probably lies in the drift that had nearly been my
winding-sheet." I went to the hall and despatched a servant, who
soon returned with a box of clay pipes and tobacco in one hand,
and the missing meerschaum in the other.

"We must be in a remarkably primitive region to find this again,
and without reward," he cried, looking tenderly at the old
friend. "Now go on," he added, after the first puff; "begin at
the beginning, where you used to be flogged about every Sunday
for going reluctantly to catechism. Oh! if there is any one thing
more than another that upset that old cross-grained theology of
our childhood, it was those dreaded Sundays; when, after two
sessions of Sunday-school, two long sermons, and an hour's
sitting on the Westminster Divines, we were allowed some
spiritual sugar-plums in the shape of the _Memoir of Nathan
Dickerman, Life of Mrs. Harriet Newell_, or some other
questionable saint. Yours was a large family at home, and did not
feel what it was to be the sole recipient of the full vials of
reprobation. What saved us from being arrant hypocrites or open
infidels?"

Though I questioned in my own mind how far my friend's religion
was from infidelity, I replied, "The fact that we felt that our
teachers' hearts were better than their creed; for surely never
did there exist a man more free from every taint of hypocrisy
than my honored father, who held tenaciously to the five articles
agreed to by the Synod of Dort, which represented most of the
Calvinistic churches of Europe, looked upon Calvin's Institutes
as binding next to the Bible, and I believe worshipped this
terrible God in whom he believed with the most earnest faith."

{374}

"And you a Catholic!" he said, striking his hands together.
"Excuse me if I repeat what I said. I cannot see how you have
bettered the matter, since the Catholic Church holds to total
depravity and foreornination, and moreover excludes all from any
hope of salvation who do not bow their necks to her yoke."

"Excuse me for flatly contradicting you, but the Catholic Church
does not hold the doctrine of the total depravity of the human
race; on the contrary, she ever teaches that man did not lose by
the Fall the image of God, or his own free will, or the powers of
his reason. But you asked me how I became a Catholic. I am more
interested in telling you that than in refuting what her enemies
say of the church, because that you can find in books any day;
but you must allow me to echo your surprise when I see a large,
earnest soul like yours satisfied with a simple negation of
faith."

"Satisfied! if by satisfaction you mean certainty, I say no; for
I do not believe it is to be found. The best, I find, is to
follow the light that comes to me," he added, with, I thought, a
shade of sadness in his tone; "I broke the fetters of Calvinism
with a bound, and when I had started, there was nothing for me to
do but to cut loose from everything traditional, and rest solely
on reason. But tell me of yourself, for any man who is in
earnest, thinking for himself, I respect, be he Mormon or
Mohammedan."

"I thank you for my share of the respect," I replied, "though I
do not consider it very flattering. I never was a Calvinist; my
earliest reason rebelled against the teachings, and many a
snubbing did I get in my youth for daring to
question--'_cavil_,' it was called. I went through all the
phases of the system, trying to believe as I was taught; for I
had large human respect and strong desire to please, with a
devout turn of mind, making many a violent effort to be in a
condition to become, what my friends wished, 'a professor;' but
my conscience was too clamorous to allow me to pretend that I had
'obtained a hope,' or 'experienced religion.' Invariably, after a
few weeks of fervor, I settled back into a state of indifference
or doubt, although, to please my father, I was a constant
attendant on all 'inquiry-meetings' and 'anxious-seats.' When I
think of those meetings and the self-constituted teachers, who
came there to hear the confessions, and to guide anxious souls in
the road to heaven, a flash of indignation passes through my
frame. About five years after, we parted as school-mates; you for
the South and a stirring business life, I to New-England and the
meditative days of a student. I was attracted and fascinated by
the specious talk of transcendentalism; it was my first taste of
liberty. I read, thought, and dreamed; tried to feed my soul on
naturalism, and to renounce everything supernatural; talked very
flippantly about the God in everything as the object of my
worship; but my hungry soul was unsatisfied; there was a cold,
dreary chilliness, and undefined nothingness, a rejoicing in
uncertainty, which brought nothing like food to my spirit. This
_faith_ (if it deserves the name) flattered my proud heart,
giving me the 'genus homo' as an object of worship; but I saw
plainly that it could never reach the needs of humanity, and
though 'brotherhood' was its watchword and cry, it could never be
a religion for the masses. It was only for the refined, the
cultivated, the gentle, and the good. Where were the abandoned,
the dissolute, the coarse, vulgar herd to find a God in such a
snare? I often asked myself this question, and this specious
infidelity gave me no answer.
{375}
Of the Catholic Church, I am ashamed to say, I then knew nothing,
except that I had often heard her called 'the mother of harlots,'
'Babylon,' 'the scarlet woman,' and such like attractive names,
but it did not once occur to me that I ought to examine her
claims; floating as I was, seeking for foothold, she was not
presented to my mind as an object to be looked at or feared, only
to be despised. At that time I was associated with many of the
purest and noblest spirits, longing and feeling after God by the
dim light of nature; trying to think him out for themselves;
finite minds blinded by vain efforts to comprehend the infinite.
The first genuine wave of affliction brought me to a standstill
on the brink of the abyss that says there is no God. I lost my
mother; she was one of those timid, fearful souls, and had not
that 'assurance' of which Calvinists make their boast; the words
spoken of my precious mother after her burial nearly drove me
wild; they snapped the last cord that bound me to the iron system
of opinions which had thrown their shadow over my young life.
Three years of rushing into the world to drive away thought
followed this terrible blow, and then came a blessing--the best
blessing of my life."

"A wife?" questioned my friend, as I paused a moment in my
recital; "a wife, yes, I have it," as a smile twinkled in the
corners of his clear grey eyes and spread over his handsome face;
"I see it, she knocked the transcendentalism out of you with the
Catholic hammer."

"Hardly," I replied, joining in the hearty laugh that followed
his remark; "being a fearfully high-church woman, and looking
upon hers as the only pure branch--the _via media_--the only
barrier against Rome, 'Romanism,' as she sedulously named the
Catholic Church, was the only thing her loving soul was bitter
against."

"Then you came through the gate of ritualism?" he questioned
again; "a very natural sequence."

"You are excellent in jumping at conclusions," I answered; "I
could never embrace the Anglican myth, though I was bound by my
own creed not to trouble myself about that of other people. I was
brought behind the curtain of this household, however, and saw
the cruel intestine warfare between high and low church; the
vital difference in the teaching of the two classes of clergymen,
the 'sacramental' and the 'evangelical;' and I saw within her
fold young, earnest hearts becoming partisans in these divisions
and calling it zeal for God. I often heard more talk of an
evening over the particular shade of an altar-cloth, the size and
pattern of book-marks for the altar, the proper position of
faldstools, credences, sedilia; the way in which a clergyman read
or pronounced, the depth of the genuflection he made in the
creed, and so forth, than I have heard the whole ten years I have
been in the Catholic Church. I saw, too, that she was eminently
the church of the fashionable, 'the most genteel denomination,'
as I heard one of her members declare, with much
self-satisfaction, containing the 'cream of society;' the poor
shut out from her churches, and compensated by mission-chapels
for their exclusive use. Of course my wife was very earnest to
make me a convert to Episcopacy, and by her repeated
solicitations I examined the 'Book of Common Prayer,' as she so
often said (what is a truth everywhere) that one must not judge
of a religious body by individual members or teachers, but by her
standards.
{376}
I was strongly confirmed, by this examination, in my opinion of
the want of conformity to their own rules by many of the clergy,
and the helplessness to reach them by discipline, which is the
first requisite in a well-ordered household. That the body of the
book contradicted the thirty-nine articles was as plain as that
'Protestant' was on the title-page; for while one acknowledged
priest, altar, and sacrifice, the other stoutly denied all
three."

"And did you make known the result of your investigations to Mrs.
Dewey, or did you leave her in ignorance of what you had found?"

"I dreaded to shake her faith, knowing that I had nothing to give
her in its place, and I withheld my conclusions, till she
insisted so earnestly, assuring me that she could not be moved,
that I yielded. I could see that she was moved by what I said;
but she was only carried forward, grasping more firmly the
fragments of Catholic truth she already held, and growing, as I
afterward knew, into a more Catholic spirit. At length I said to
her, as she was mourning over the want of unity among her chosen
people, and the alarming progress of 'Romanism,' which had just
clasped in its embrace one of her dearest friends, 'Suppose, my
dear, you and I were to look into this matter; I have no doubt
you would be more of an Anglican than ever, and I less in favor
of creeds. It is but fair we should give Catholics a hearing; for
my part, I know nothing of them except from their enemies.' She
was inclined to listen to my proposition; but her spiritual
pastor, from whom she hid none of her religious difficulties, put
a veto on the examination, by forbidding her to read or to talk
with any one on the subject. Indignant at what I then thought his
narrow-mindedness, but which I now see was only proper
self-preservation, I determined to pursue my investigations
alone, though it was the first time in our married life that any
subject of interest had not been common with us. I procured such
books as were within my reach, and commenced my inquiries. It was
a most interesting study, and opened a new world of thought to
me; every moment of leisure for six months was given to the
search, into which I entered as I would into a question of law,
consulting and comparing authorities, examining both sides,
questioning and cross-questioning witnesses. But we are touching
on the time of sleep," I said, as the hall-clock struck the hour
of midnight.

"Oh! no, go on," he replied eagerly, "you don't know how
interested I am."

"No," I said firmly, "your experience of to-day requires that you
should rest; and as there is no prospect of getting away from
here, I shall have ample time to finish my tale to-morrow." I
insisted upon his occupying my quarters, being the most
comfortable in the house, and as I went to my rest in another
apartment, and thought of the eagerness with which he had
listened to my recital, I breathed a prayer that God would give
him light.

The sun arose clear and bright the following morning, and the
wind, that had made such havoc with the snowdrifts the previous
day, had died away into a cold calm. I watched from the window
the long line of men and boys, with patient oxen, tugging and
toiling at the great white heaps. I had _Snow Bound_ in my
coat-pocket, and took this opportunity of assuring myself of the
truth of the beautiful word-pictures therein painted.
{377}
It was quite late when my friend appeared from the inner room,
and in answer to my inquiry if he had rested well replied, "I
have not once wakened since I succeeded in driving our
conversation from my mind, which I did after a long process, by
repeating the multiplication table over and over till I fell
asleep. We cannot get away to-day," he added, going to the
window. "I am glad of that, for I am impatient to hear you out."
He was uneasy till breakfast was dispatched, our grate and pipes
replenished, and we seated again for a talk.

"Now tell me the result of your lawyer-like examination of
authorities," he said by way of commencement.

"Yes, it was indeed lawyer-like," I replied; "for prejudice,
feeling, early impressions, all went against the decision. But
the logical conclusion, from what I read, was this: _if_
(mind I got no further than the _if_) the Bible is the word
of God, it certainly teaches that our Lord established a church,
and gave to that one body apostles and teachers, conferring on
them wonderful powers, to be continued for all time in some way;
for he says, 'I am with you all days, even to the consummation of
the world;' with the same breath with which he tells them to
preach the Gospel, he bids them to bind and loose, to work
miracles and to feed his flock. These are the facts on the face
of the Gospel narrative. I tried to explain these things in some
other way; I even went to commentators; but the candid
examination I had promised forbade my trusting any man's opinion.
I went to the early Fathers, (whom, by the way, I had always
ignored, as is the fashion;) I found that they reasoned very much
like other men; they asked questions, and answered them. I saw
that if these powers were given, as the Scripture asserts, to the
chosen twelve, these were the men to whom they were transmitted.
Without exception they confirmed the teaching of the Bible with
regard to the church, and opened still more fully the dogmas of
Scripture. I compared them one with another, and found that,
without any denial or variation, they declared the authority of
the church and the necessity of the sacraments. It was also plain
that this church being one and universal, having the same faith
and discipline wherever established, until some body of men
_protested_ against some received doctrine, no dogma assumed
prominence, the faith was one perfect whole. But while, as I told
you, I had gone no further than 'if,' my wife, by an entirely
different road, was coming to the same gate. Her pastor had given
her two very beautiful devotional works, that charmed her beyond
anything she had ever seen; but during one of the rare calls of
her Catholic friend, (for her guide had advised her to renounce
this friendship, but I, with a higher claim on her obedience, had
forbidden this sacrifice,) during this call, these books were the
subject of discourse, and Miss M---- told her she wished her
nothing better to read, as they were both translations of
Catholic authors, which she proved by bringing the originals in
French at her next visit. My wife saw at once the absurdity of
denying her Catholic books, and giving them to her in disguise.
This honest guide of souls had also told her that 'Romanists'
altered the commandments, leaving out the second entirely, lest
it should condemn their idolatry; while her friend gave her the
Catechism which is taught to all Catholic children, where the
commandments are written as they were spoken on Mount Sinai. I
think these two mistakes (I will call them by a mild name) of her
pastor shook her faith in him very essentially.
{378}
From that day we talked freely; I gave her my conclusions, with
the '_if_,' and she took the Fathers for daily reading. I
had gone no further than the _if_--my pride prevented--when
it pleased Almighty God to take from us our eldest son, and to
bring my wife to the borders of the grave. What could comfort me,
as I looked at my beautiful boy cold and lifeless, and my wife at
that point where earthly help is unavailing? The cheerless creed
that I had held with so much pride gave me not a glimmer of
light. I called reason to my aid, but I called in vain; it was no
pleasure to me to think of those I had loved and lost reabsorbed
into Deity, never more to be anything to me. How could it satisfy
me, yearning for the treasures I was losing, to feel that 'there
is no time, no space; we are we know not what, light sparkles in
the ether of Deity.' The words which I had used in answer to my
wife's questioning, 'if this be true,' followed me continually;
now, I needed to know if it were true; I needed something firm to
rest me in that weary hour. It was many years since I had knelt
in prayer; now I was bowed to the earth, and my whole cry was,
'Lord, give me light.' I am ashamed to tell you of the fearful
struggle with my pride, when at last the light of faith came into
my bewildered and darkened soul, the many worldly ties that held
me back, the loss of position and favor which I feared; I blush
for my cowardice, it was unworthy of the name of man made in the
image of God. My beloved wife knew not of this strife in my soul;
in her extremity she had sent for her pastor, and received all he
could give her of the rites of his church; but she was not
satisfied. What was my surprise to hear her say, as if the sight
of death had given her boldness, 'There is the command of St.
James for the comfort and help of the sick and dying; why may I
not have it? 'Ah! my child,' he replied, 'that was given for the
early ages of the church, and passed away with them.' 'But why do
we not need it as well as they?' she questioned, 'It is too much
for you to argue in your present state,' was his cold reply, 'but
it is sufficient for me, as an obedient son of the church, to
submit to the deprivation, since our holy mother has not seen fit
to retain it.' I saw the speciousness of the reasoning wherewith
he silenced her, and I sat by the patient sufferer after the
departure of the divine so faithful to his church, hesitating as
to my duty in the matter, when she cried out as if in anguish,
'Oh! if I only knew it was right, only knew--'

"'What was right?' I questioned, holding her trembling hand. 'I
want confession, I want absolution, I want the anointing of the
sick,' she said eagerly, her dark eyes bent on me imploringly.
'You shall not be denied,' I replied, and, leaving her with the
nurse, I went for the nearest Catholic priest. I will not enter
into details; let it suffice that, before two hours had passed,
my wife was a member of the Catholic Church, improved in physical
condition and mental quietness, and I was preparing for baptism."

I paused in my recital; I saw that my friend was much moved, even
as I had been, by the memories of the past. After a moment, he
gave me his hand cordially, saying, "Thank you heartily, it has
done me good;" then, after another pause. "But tell me one thing
candidly, have neither of you regretted the step; never wished
yourselves back again?"

{379}

"Regretted!" I cried indignantly, "wished ourselves back to a
region of doubt and uncertainty! Why, I say a _Gloria_ every
morning that I am a Catholic; and my wife sings _Te Deum_
all the time."

"And did you suffer all you expected," he asked, "in the way of
loss of friends?"

I had nothing in my experience worthy of the name of suffering;
but my wife endured much in the way of reproach, withdrawal of
friendship, and the cold shoulder socially."

"But let me ask one thing, and don't feel hurt; how do you, with
your fastidious tastes, worship in churches crammed to the full
with the laboring Irish, before those tawdry altars which I have
sometimes seen?" I felt the color rising to my cheek at this
question, but I replied calmly, crushing the temptation to be
severe, and remembering what this thought was to me before the
light of faith illumined my soul, "You can never know what it is
to forget distinctions till you believe in that Presence which
dwells on Catholic altars. It would ill become sinful man to
object to other company he finds in church when Jesus our God
condescends to be present for our sake. My wife seeks out the
churches frequented by the very poorest; she says she feels
nearer God when she has his poor by her side. As to the tawdry
altars, you must remember that the love and devotion of an
uneducated and unrefined taste is as truly expressed by something
common and showy, as your refined delicacy would be by more
exquisite adornment. God looketh at the heart; and the poor
servant-girl who presents to her favorite altar bouquets of gaudy
artificial flowers, for the sake of her dear Lord whom she really
believes to be present there, is as acceptable as the lady who
sends her lovely blossoms from the hot-house. In the Catholic
Church in this country--and may I not say in every country?--the
poor are in the majority among her members."

As I spoke, the steam-whistle, the first since the storm, sounded
through the air. With a regretful look, Mr. Hood went to the
window. "That reminds us," he said, "that the world is moving
again."

"You will go to my home with me," I replied; "you must."

"Not now," he answered; "but when the business that brought me to
this part of the country is accomplished, I will come and talk
with your wife about this matter before I leave for California."

According to promise, he came; and when he left us for his
Southern home, we were not without hope that our long talks had
had an effect; my wife would not leave him till she had his
promise that he would examine for himself, prayerfully,
earnestly, and thoroughly, and would write me the result, which I
have in a letter by to-day's mail.

  San Francisco, Cal., Oct. 24, 1867.
  S. _Raphael the Archangel_.

  My Dear Dewey: I was received into the Catholic Church to-day.
  _Laus Deo!_ I wonder how any one can remain out of it; it
  is such a joy to have a foothold, to know that one stands on
  something, and that something firmer than the "everlasting
  hills." I must give up my business in this publishing house;
  for I cannot have my name any longer linked with the falsehoods
  that teem from the press, against Christ's Church. It is a
  disgrace that American school-books should contain such lies as
  you find on the pages of the Readers, Geographies, and
  especially the Histories, which are the text-books of our
  institutions of learning. May the good God help me to repair
  the injustice I have done in this matter as a publisher.

{380}

  I am the wonder and pity of the old transcendental clique here,
  who, as one of them said to me yesterday, "can't understand how
  a man can go back to the dark ages for his religion." I told
  him my faith illumined what he called the "dark ages" till they
  transcended the nineteenth century in brilliancy. My younger
  children were baptized with me; I hope in time to see all my
  dear ones safely housed. Tell Mrs. Dewey, with my kindest
  remembrance, to sing _Te Deum_ for me, and don't forget me
  and mine in your prayers, Very sincerely yours in the blessed
  faith,

    Redwood Raphael Hood.

                   ----------

  Translated From The Revue Generale, Of Brussels.

       The Good Old Time And Our Own.


In the daily struggle for truth and right, in our hours of
lassitude and discouragement, how willingly we believe that
formerly the battle of life was less severe than nowadays. We
love to compare ourselves with our predecessors, pigmies to us
giants of the nineteenth century, and sincerely believe them so,
either because of our short-sightedness or because of the great
distance from which we regard them. But when, by the study of
history, we have drawn nearer the distances which separate these
epochs of the different evolutions of humanity, we become at the
same time more modest and more courageous; more modest, because
we know our fathers have had to struggle as much if not more than
ourselves; more courageous, because by their example we learn how
we should battle for triumph in moral struggles; and of these
alone we would here speak.

Many of our contemporaries think they have done their duty if
they have abused their own time, praised the past, and predicted
a sombre future unable to confer upon us any blessings. It is so
sweet to live in abstract contemplation of heroes or epochs of
which inexorable time has deprived us; it is so easy to make an
apology for them without combating the living men and the
concrete ideas which in real history form the shadows to these
brilliant pictures; it is so easy to choose from former ages
models of virtue, of civil courage and faith, without
preoccupying ourselves with obstacles that these just people,
these citizens, these saints have conquered, and that our
indifference, our idleness, our weakness, or our cowardice
hinders us from looking fairly in the face, through the medium in
which we live. We do not perceive often enough that the vulgar
expression of the "good old time," which has been forbidden in
every age, is in the moral history of a people a truly vicious
circle. Indeed, we cannot pretend that every age is worth only so
much, and, interpreting badly the proverb, "Man proposes, but God
disposes," go to sleep in the false historical security called
fatalism. It is legitimate to have our preferences for such and
such an epoch, and it is not always difficult to give good
reasons for them; but between these rational preferences and an
unjustifiable disdain for our own time, there is an abyss.

{381}

To act with our own epoch we must love it; then we work with
ardor and confidence for its reform. Who loves well, chastises
well. I wish to show that our age merits to be loved as well as
any other that has preceded it; and I will demonstrate this
clearly by a moral, religious, and political sketch of the
Christian age the most justly praised--the thirteenth. To
circumscribe this vast subject as much as possible, I will speak
of Italy alone; of that Italy which then, as now, was the object
of the most audacious attacks and the theatre of the most
instructive resistance. I will first tell what was the condition
of the "Christian republic" at the end of the twelfth century.
Then I will show the radiant transformation of society in the
thirteenth century while determining its general causes, and
finish by comparing this heroic age with our own.

                   I.

For most of Belgium, the history of civilization commences only
with the day when General Dumouriez "brought them liberty at the
point of the bayonet." Before the French revolution, it was the
common error that the era of political and religious revolution
only opened with the sixteenth century, and such error is common
to-day. Yet Gnosticism, Manicheism, Arianism, and Greek schism
have produced in Christian Europe commotions much greater and
more fatal than those of which the predictions of Martin Luther
have been the occasion, and of which the Protestant princes have
so abundantly reaped the fruits. From the tenth to the thirteenth
century, the Catholic Church suffered on the part of the
state--of the empire, as they then termed it--assaults in
comparison to which the thirty years' war and the revolutions
fomented by the _statolatres_ of the thirteenth century were
only children's play.

Never was the spirit of sectarianism more active than in the
twelfth century. The disguised partisans of Gnosticism,
Manicheism, or Arianism, these habitual forms of
antichristianism, were spread all over civilized Europe under the
most diverse names: _Cathares, Pauliciens, Petrobrusiens,
Tanchelmites, Henriciens, Bogomiles, Apostoliques, Endistes,
Arnoldistes, Circonsis, Passagieres, Publicains, Vaudois Bons
Hommes_, etc., etc. These names appear strange, but they are
not more so than their actual partisans: socialists,
free-thinkers, solid men, Fourierists, Saint Simoniens, etc.

And do not suppose that these sects, or these schools, as they
are called nowadays, confined themselves to the innocent
publication of their programme, and simply distributed a few
partisans through anonymous societies, among the councils of
administration, or in the senates of empires.

The Ambrosien church was during a certain time directed by the
Nicolite priests of Milan, and supported violently by the emperor
and by the government. Our compatriot, Dankelm, a deist a little
sore, who preached against the corruptions of the monks, their
artifices, the tithes and mortmain, was head of an organized
church at Bruges, and also at Anvers. If the Vaudois had, like
Luther, obtained the support of the corrupted and sensual
bishops, and the ambitious princes so powerful and rapacious,
their church would have taken root in a great part of Europe
during the twelfth century; it has endured longer than will any
Protestant church; for it still existed in the last century, and
I believe there are still some communities in Holland and Suabia.

{382}

All these sects agreed on one point, their hatred of the Church
of Rome. M. Renan, in his last book, _Questions
Contemporains_, writing with a haughty moderation almost
disdainful, feared for the Catholic Church of the nineteenth
century a grand schism resulting in the simultaneous election of
two popes. Such an apprehension denotes in this writer a defect
of memory or a strange want of perspicacity; for in the church,
anti-popes were counted by dozens, and in the twelfth century,
this kind of schism appeared several times. The competitors or
anti-popes of Calixtus II., (1119-1124,) of Innocent II.,
(1130-1143,) and of Alexander III., (1159-1181,) were sustained
by emperors whose material power had but little weight in the
then known world. Under Innocent II., the schism lasted only
eight years. Sixty years later, Innocent III. governed Europe.

Heresies and schisms are always accompanied by social
revolutions. However, the irreligious antagonism of capital and
labor, which is one of the causes of modern socialism, did not
exist in the twelfth century under the learned and redoubtable
form of our day. The reason is a simple one, and we should be
proud of our age: labor, of which Christianity has made a duty,
had not then in political society the great and legitimate
importance it has now. The problem of pauperism had never been
solved politically except in densely populated countries, and in
the twelfth century the population of Europe was relatively less
considerable. Hatred of capital only manifested itself among the
idle, among certain sects, (the Cathares, the Frerots, the
Apostoliques, the Begghards, the Lollards, etc.,) and
particularly in "the wars of the castle and the hut;" violent
wars which were not only carried on by poor devils hardened by
passions, but by the _châtelains_, (governors or keepers,)
thieves only distinguishable from the others by new titles given
them through euphemism. This category of men was then more
numerous than in our time. We respect a mill, but we steal a
province. Then they took the province and the mill also.

Great luxury existed in all the towns of Italy. Money was a
courted power. The bankers' families became the source of
dynasties.

A portion of the secular clergy lived in the relaxation of
discipline, and even morals. Neither the energy of the great
Hildebrand, nor the activity of the admirable Alexander III., the
friend of the Lombard communities, had been powerful enough to
completely reform the regular clergy. Neither in the fifteenth
nor in the eighteenth century were more scandals seen than those
which disheartened the great St. Bernard. "Oh! for the power to
see again, before my death," wrote he to the pope, Eugene III.,
"those happy days of the church when the apostles cast their nets
for souls, and not for gold." This Pope Eugene was not permitted
to die at Rome. The Eternal City was in the hands of the
Garibaldians of the time, the Mazzini of whom was named Arnold, a
clerk of Brescia, of austere manners and quick-witted oratory.
After having studied philosophy in Paris under the cold and
licentious Abelard, Arnold commenced to traverse the Lombard
cities. Imposing upon himself a mission altogether political, he
pretended not to wish to injure the Catholic faith.

{383}

"Detractor of clergymen and bishops, persecutor of monks, he
reserved," said a chronicler of the time, "all his flattery for
the laity. He sustained the theory of no salvation for clergymen
possessing lands, for bishops disposing of regal rights, or monks
owning valuables; that all these things belonged to the state,
and it alone should dispose of them in favor of the laity. It is
said also that he did not reason sanely on the eucharist and the
baptism of infants." His partisans, called _politicians_,
called him to Rome, where he had resolved to establish a new
government. Forced to fly from this city after the second council
of Lateran, he wandered for several years in France, in Germany,
and in Switzerland, promulgating everywhere the doctrines which
he applied to his Italian friends. During an insurrection, the
pope, Lucius II., was killed by a blow from a stone, (to-day they
only kill ministers,) and his successor, Eugene III., took refuge
in Viterbo, and afterward in France. Arnold was in Switzerland
with 2000 soldiers collected there; the multitude having granted
him the dictatorship, he proclaimed the fall of the temporal
power of the popes, and the re-establishment of the Roman
republic; then, carried away by the logic of his ideas rather
than by his situation, he called to Rome the emperor, the monarch
of Italy, in order that he would deign to restore to the empire
the lustre it had under Justinian. Demagogues naturally advocate
Caesarism.

The emperors rushed to Rome. Arnold and his government were
thrown into the Tiber. Then recommenced, under a new form, the
quarrel between the priesthood and the empire, existing still in
Europe. Never had the pride of the depositaries of the civil
power, the absolutism of the god state, and the tyranny of the
supreme authority, representatives more complete, and in certain
respects more sympathetic, than the emperors of the house of
Hohenstaufen. How many laws vaunted by certain schools of our day
of progress have been dressed in the signature of these fierce
Sonabes, then abrogated as despotic and contrary to the liberty
and dignity of citizens.

The Staufen were fanatics in law when it was a question of their
authority. Frederic I. had for his witnesses the four famous
doctors of Bologna, who, with Irnerius, their professor, were
masters of the study of modern law. It was these four doctors
who, by the aid of texts and juridical interpretations, were
ready to impose on the Lombard cities represented at the diet of
Roncaglia the chains which the entire material power of the
German emperors had never been able to forge. It was the
chancellor of Frederic II., Pierre Des Vignes, who is the author
of the _Recueil des Lois de Sidle_, the first code of
despotism of modern times.

In few words, then, we have here the state of Europe, in its most
civilized centre, in the second half of the twelfth century. The
truth was at once attacked in church and state, with the view of
corrupting both; in the church, with an aim at her authority; in
the state, to banish liberty.


                   II.

It is the glory of the epoch which begins with the Lombard League
and the pontificate of the English Mendicant, Adrian IV., to have
re-established a moral equilibrium in Christian society, and to
have saved Europe from a lethargy similar to that in which a
Caesaro-papacy has plunged the East.

{384}

That which distinguished the civilizing genius of this epoch was
a moral vigor, a consequence of the intimate union existing
between the citizen and the Christian, between the scholar and
the theologian; I say union, not confusion. In the _Cid_ of
Guillaume de Castro, from which P. Corneille has borrowed
largely, there is a scene in which the hero seated at table
exhorts his companions to render homage to the patron of Spain,
"a chevalier himself, and with a large rosary suspended to his
sword." A leper enters and asks charity. The warriors take
flight. Alone the Cid remains, and forces him to sit on his cloak
and eat with him from his own plate. The repast finished, the
mendicant blessed the Cid, and betrays himself as Lazarus, who
has come to reveal his future destiny. The sword, which for the
chevalier is the sign of the citizen, serves to sustain the
rosary, the emblem of the Christian.

In the _Traité de l'Office du Podestà_, extract of Book III.
of the _Tresor_ of Brunetto Latini, the master of Dante, we
find in old French the exposition of the public law as understood
by the communicants of that time. The podesta of our time could
learn from it much that is useful and necessary to know. This,
for example, is the beginning of the chapter where the author
treats of things "that gentlemen should know and teach to those
over whom they are placed":

  "_Remember then, thou who governest a city, from whence comes
  the power to possess thy seignory. Remember thou the law and
  the commandments, and never forget God and his saints, but
  often_ approach the altar and pray God for thee and thy
  subjects; for David and the prophets say, 'God guardeth the
  city and every thing that laboreth within it.' Honor the pastor
  of pastors of the holy Church; for God says, 'He who receiveth
  thee receiveth me.' Be religious, and evidence the true faith;
  for nothing is more beautiful to the prince of the earth than
  true faith and right belief: for it is written, 'When the just
  king is on his throne, no harm can befall him.' Guard the
  churches, the houses of God, take care of widowed women and
  orphans; for it is written, 'Be defenders of orphans and
  widows.' Defend the poor against the wickedness of power; for
  thou hast in thy care the great, the small, and the mean.
  _Such things become thee from the beginning, etc._"

Have you observed the character of the figures seen on the tombs
of this period? The dead are lying on their backs, with hands
clasped; they do not bear the impress of death; they seem to
sleep and await the resurrection. Their attitude is simple,
naturally humble, but at the same time naturally proud. They are
armed; it is understood that they have fought the battle of life,
and in passing to the other shore have vanquished the enemy of
the human race with the arms of prayer. The citizen and the
Christian are so blended that it is impossible to distinguish
them; and this harmonious whole presents an appearance at once
humble and martial, tender and manly, which fills one with
respect without imposing fear.

Such is the character of the epoch I would depict while
portraying the causes of its grandeur. Let it be remarked,
however, I do not seek to make an apology for the thirteenth
century or the middle ages. My ideal is in the future, not in the
past. But the past being the mirror of the future, I love to
regard in the thirteenth century the memorable examples of what
could be done by the citizen under the influence of Christian
faith and reason in the midst of a society agitated and upset by
heresy, schism, socialism, the power of demagogues, and
Caesarism.

{385}

I suppose that the son of a rich merchant of Anvers, transported
by that enthusiasm for good which is the fruit of a grace divine,
renounces suddenly the luxury of a paternal home, and a
dissipated and idle life, which is too often the consequence of a
bad education, pampered by fortune. After having trained his soul
by fasting and prayer, and the contemplation of the divine
attributes toward the supernatural regions of life, he robes
himself voluntarily as a poor man and traverses the industrial
centres of the country, communicating to his equals the ardent
faith which escapes from his mouth in luminous characters. At
Gand, at Charleroi, at Liege, some young men become his
followers, and between them form an association for the service
of the humble, the weak, the poor, the miserable. Their mission
is to go about in the dress of workmen, living as they do, and
preaching from the steps of buildings, at the cross-roads, and in
the fields. To the rich, the obligation of working for and
befriending the poor; to the poor, the duties of sufferance and
respect; to all the world, the love of God and the church which
he has made the depositary of his graces. What might not be
accomplished by such missionaries of love, labor, science, and
peace? What would not be their influence and their authority?

Again, let me suppose the son of a rich English lord renouncing
the ostentation, the privileges and errors of his family and
religion, and, seized with an irresistible love for his neighbor
and humanity, seeking his old friends of Eton and Oxford,
communicating to them the flame of his convictions, and then
proposing to them to travel through England, Europe, the world,
and propagate Christianity; arguing everywhere with the
adversaries of the church; in the universities, in the
public-houses, before the door of the palace, or in the
junk-shops and the huts; preaching justice to the English, to the
Irish respect for the laws, to all the world peace, science,
liberty; opening here a school, there a hospital, and drawing
after him his contemporaries, by the authority of faith, the
power of science, the contagion of devotion. If you can imagine
the results obtained by the O'Connells, the Fathers Mathews, and
the Newmans, you will form a feeble idea of a revolution that
could produce a phalanx of men of such vigorous temperament.

This son of the wealthy merchant, and this child of an
illustrious house, existed in the beginning of the thirteenth
century. "The one," said Dante, "was surrounded by all the
_éclat_ of the seraphim, and the other walked in wisdom and
sanctity in the splendor of the cherubim."

The history of the life and works of these two extraordinary men
contains most precious teachings, the deep import of which often
escapes us, because given to us in such a common way, without
explaining their actual life. This seraphim (Saint Francis) and
this cherubim (Saint Dominic) governed the entire thirteenth
century by the extraordinary movement they impressed on souls,
and by the moral conquests, political, scientific, literary, and
artistic, with which their disciples enriched humanity.

The Mendicant friars, as they were later called, were not only
cloistered religious, giving themselves solely to a contemplative
life, and only leaving their convents for the church; they were
citizens in every acceptation of the word, but vowed to no
ambitions, mingling with their contemporaries, living in the
forum, and mounting the tribune of the popular assemblies as well
as the pulpits of the universities. When this tribune or pulpit
was forbidden them, they improvised one of their own, and made
appeals to the people who wished to hear the well-known voices,
simple, disinterested, loving, and therefore eloquent.

{386}

Thus the Franciscans penetrated even into China, "on the horse of
St. Francis"--that is, on foot--and traversing, wonderful as it
may appear, the whole continent of Asia. They founded a Christian
colony at Pekin, where the ships of France and England could only
enter with noise of cannon--a result assuredly more imposing but
not half so certain. During the Renaissance, when the first
Holland vessels arrived at Greenland, they found there a convent
of Dominicans.

In the thirteenth century, there were, even in civilized Europe,
more Chinese and Laplanders than would be supposed. To convert
them, the Franciscans and Dominicans applied themselves
assiduously, vanquishing them by science, and convincing them by
charity.

I understand the word science in its old acceptation; a deep
rational research into the first principles of things and the
origin of our knowledge. At no epoch of history, I dare to say,
has this research been carried on by more passionate lovers, by
more powerful intelligences, by more magnanimous hearts, than the
Mendicant monks of the thirteenth century. To prove this, let me
only mention four names.

The first in date is the Count de Bollstaedt, first Bishop of
Ratisbon, then Dominican; a professor of Cologne, and a perfect
encyclopedia; his gigantic works replete with all the ideas of
his time, and the initiator of German learning.

This scientific knowledge was only surpassed by that of his pupil
and companion, the Count d'Aquin, descendant of Staufen on his
mother's side, and called by his comrades "the ox of Sicily," by
the learned world "the angel of the schools," and by the church
Saint Thomas. His principal theological work (_Summa Totius
Theologiae Tripartita_) remained unfinished with the grand
cathedrals of the middle ages; but what we know of this and the
other works of this prodigious man will suffice to place him in
the rank of the greatest geniuses that have appeared on the
earth.

However he himself emulated in science the genius of his friend,
the _seraphic doctor_, Jean de Fidanza, of Tuscany,
professor in the University of Paris, an admirable man, of whom
his master, the English Franciscan, Alexander Hales, said:
"_Verus Israelita in quo Adam non peccasse videtur_." When
they brought him the cardinal's hat, Saint Bonaventura was
occupied in placing the plates on the table of his convent. He
died at the general council at Lyons, (1274,) just at the moment
when he was endeavoring to reunite the Greek to the Roman Church.

The fourth of these great doctors, who truly indoctrinated
science, is the great English Franciscan, _the admirable
doctor_, Roger Bacon, philologist and naturalist, who
predicted steam navigation and railroads. He is also supposed to
have invented the telescope, and foreseen the discovery of
America. The Protestants of the sixteenth century, who pretended
to shed light on the world, unfortunately burnt the convent that
held the manuscripts of this precursor of natural science.

A French writer, who does himself honor in protecting the church
with his valiant pen as others have done with their swords, M. L.
Veuillot, and of whom it may be said, "brave as his pen," says
somewhere that the thirteenth century has produced such great
things in the moral order that Saint Thomas had been able to
build up the colossus styled _La Somme_; yet during this
epoch people went on foot, and time was not lost running over the
world on railroads.
{387}
I am persuaded the contemporaries of Roger Bacon would not have
approved of this apologetic argument; for if they had known the
great discoveries of our day, of what works would not such
vigorous and universal minds have been capable? If such men,
consumed by activity, by love of science and humanity, ran from
Naples to Oxford, from Bologna to Paris, professing, preaching,
writing, administering the sacraments, directing their
communities, or working with the pope and the bishops in the
government of the church; if such men have produced such great
things on foot, what would they not have undertaken with
railroads at their disposal? To-day there come from Italy but few
philosophers measurable with the Count d'Aquin and Jean de
Fidanza; but, to make amends, how easy to convoke an oecumenical
council and send zouaves to Rome!

The observation I have just made is not a digression, for it
tends to demonstrate the profoundly practical aim of science in
the thirteenth century. These professors of Paris, Cologne, and
Oxford did not content themselves with teaching their doctrines
from the privileged benches of a university to a few cultivated,
delicate, and critical minds. They did not style themselves
philosophers, as the wise men by profession, who in the last
century wished thus to distinguish Christians. They practised
their doctrines, and their teaching was democratic, (pardon the
so much abused expression,) not only on account of their
principles but in regard to the public whom they addressed. They
called all the world to the feet of their pulpits, and after
distributing the bread of faith and science, that of charity was
not wanting. "Thus," said Ozanam, "the poor knew and blessed
their names. And even to-day, after six hundred years, the
inhabitants of Paris bend the knee before the altars of "the
angel of the schools," and the workmen of Lyons are honored in
carrying once a year, on their robust shoulders, the triumphant
remains of the "seraphic doctor." [Footnote 133] Can we believe
that six centuries hence they will do the same for the ashes of
Kant, Fichte, or Hegel?

    [Footnote 133: _Dante et la Philosophie Catholique_,
    p. i. ch. ii. p. 88.]

This enthusiasm of holy people for science was not entirely the
fruit of the doctrines of St. Francis and St. Dominic, or of the
personal tendencies of their disciples. When the zeal for such
subjects weakened, the church tried to revive the flame. Let us
recall the bull of 1254, published by Innocent IV., for the
re-establishment of philosophical studies: "A deplorable rumor,
spread abroad and repeated from mouth to mouth, has reached our
ears, and deeply afflicts us. It is said that the many aspirants
for the priesthood, abandoning, repudiating even, philosophical
studies, and consequently the teachings of theology, have sought
the different schools to explain the civil laws. Sarah then is
the slave, and Hagar has become mistress. We have tried to find a
remedy for this unexpected disorder. We would bring back minds to
the study of theology, which is the science of salvation, or at
least to philosophical studies, in which it is true the tenderest
emotions of piety are not met with, but where the soul discovers
the first lights of eternal truth, and frees itself from the
miserable preoccupations of cupidity--the root of all evil, and a
species of idolatry.
{388}
Therefore we decide by these presents, that in future no
professor of jurisprudence, no lawyer, whatever may be his rank
or the renown he may enjoy in the practice of law, can pretend to
any prebend, honor, or ecclesiastical dignity, nor even to an
inferior benefice, if he has not given proofs of requisite
capacity in the faculty of arts, and if he is not recommended by
the innocence of his life and the purity of his manners."

Such admirable teaching could not remain barren in a Christian
society. In 1256, just as Pope Alexander IV. had declared all the
serfs emancipated who would abandon the cause of _Ezelin le
Féroce_, the authorities of Bologna proceeded to the general
enfranchisement of those of their territory. The city was not
contented to set free only its own serfs; it extended the benefit
to those belonging to private masters, indemnifying the
proprietors, as some modern states have done in the slavery of
the blacks: the middle age was distinguished always for its
respect for acquired rights. The state paid ten livres for every
serf over fourteen, eight livres for those below that age. The
freedmen were bound to pay to the state some moderate tax in
cereals. The suggester of this generous measure was Bonacursio de
Sorresina, _capitano del popolo_, elected podesta the
following year. He placed the names of all the enfranchised on a
register called the _Paradise of Joy_. "An all-powerful
God," said he in the introduction to this register, "created man
free; original sin poisoned him; from immortal he became mortal,
from incorruptible corruptible, from free the slave of hell. He
sent for man's redemption his only Son, begotten by him from all
eternity. It is then just and equitable that man saved and freed
by God should not stagnate in servitude, where human laws have
precipitated him; that he should be set free. By these
considerations, Bologna, which has always fought for public
liberty, which recalls the past and weighs the future, has for
the glory of our Lord Jesus Christ redeemed all the serfs of its
territory, and proclaimed, for the future, slavery will be no
more tolerated. A little leaven leavens the whole lump; the
presence of one degraded being dishonors society."

It is right to observe that this noble language is the
reproduction, often textual, of the well-known words of the holy
Pope Gregory I., the Great, against the slavery of the
Anglo-Saxons.

Ten years afterward Bela, king of Hungary, having rejected a
bishop because he was born a serf, the pope wrote him that "the
will of man could not prescribe against nature, that has given
liberty to the human race."

"It is a frequent error among men," said the Count d'Aquin, "to
believe themselves noble because they are the issue of noble
families. ... It is well not to have failed in examples of noble
ancestors; but it is far better to have adorned an humble birth
with great actions. ... I repeat, then, with Saint Jerome, that
nothing appears to me worth envying in this pretended hereditary
nobility, if the nobles themselves are not restrained in the
paths of virtue by the shame of derogating from it. The true
nobility is that of the soul, according to the words of the poet:

  'Nobilitas sola est animum quae moribus ornat.'" [Footnote 134]

    [Footnote 134: _De Eruditione Principum_.]

A disciple of this great master, the B. Egide Colonna, cardinal
archbishop of Bourges, wrote in his book, _De Regimine
Principum:_ "Society cannot attain to the supreme end assigned
it without a combination of three means--virtue, light, and
exterior well-being. A prince should, then, in his kingdom first
watch with wise solicitude over the culture of letters, in order
to multiply the number of the learned and skilful.

    [Footnote 135 (no reference; probably
    _De Regimine Principum_): Liv. iii. p. 2, c. viii.]

{389}

For where science flourishes, and the sources of study spring up,
sooner or later instruction is disseminated among the crowd. So,
to dissipate the shadows of ignorance which shamefully envelop
the face of royalty, the king should encourage letters by a
favorable attention. Still more, if he refuses the necessary
encouragement, and does not wish his subjects instructed, he
ceases to be a king--he becomes a tyrant."

To finish the picture of the ideas of this time, let us quote
again these words of a sermon of the gentle and seraphic
Bonaventura: "We find today great scandals in governments; for
while an inexperienced pilot would not be placed on a ship to
manage the rudder, we put at the head of nations those who ignore
the art of governing them. When the right of succession places
children on a throne, woe to empires!"

The doctrines of the thirteenth century on the formation of
public power, on the duties of supreme authority, on the rights
of people, on sedition, etc., are so rigorous that they appear
bold, even in our time, when the defect is not precisely an
excess of reserve and respect. Truth alone can free the human
mind from every prejudice, develop character, and inspire a
language at once so proud and so simple. What reflections it
provokes when one has listened to the magnificent platitudes of
so many men of our time, who believe they think freely because
they are not Christians.

When Innocent IV., Celestin IV., St. Thomas, the B. Egide
Colonna, and St. Bonaventura spoke thus, the Caesarism of the
middle ages was decidedly vanquished for several centuries. This
is one of the grandest facts of history since the incarnation of
the Word.

The emperors of the house of Swabia, assuming with greater power
and more science the despotic plans of the Saxon emperors, had
the monstrous pretension to realize to the letter these texts of
_The Digest_: "The will of the prince is law," (Ulp.;) "The
prince is above all laws," (Paul.) By virtue of these texts the
prince commanding would have been the absolute sovereign of the
world, the proprietor of the Christian universe, and not only of
the royalties of the earth, but also of private property.
Interpreters taught without blushing the Caesarian theory of the
_dominium mundi_. _Le Recueil des Lois_ of Sicily,
revised by Pierre de Vigne for Frederic II., and promulgated by
this autocrat in the kingdom of Naples, is a model of this
abominable legislation that progressists of our day sometimes
dream of restoring.

The Roman Church alone resisted these false principles, these
monstrous politics, and, thanks be to God, she triumphed.

The ruler of modern times has become what he was in the age of
pretorian law, corrupted by the Caesarian jurors of the empire,
of the middle ages, and particularly the Renaissance, that is to
say, _the_ people, who by a so-called "royal law" would have
relinquished their rights into the hands of the Roman emperors.
But if the sovereign people could not but be a majority purely
numerical, arrogating in its turn the pretended laws of Caesar,
the struggles of the middle age between the clergy and the empire
would certainly be renewed.

This indissoluble alliance between Christian truth and civil
liberty is one of the most striking facts to those who study
history without prejudice; one of the best apologetic arguments I
know.
{390}
In the east, Caesarism has only been able to succeed through the
corruption of the ecclesiastical hierarchy and through schism;
and we know only too well what has become of the countries where
Homer sang, where Plato wrote, and where Saint Gregory of
Nazianzen and St. Basil preached. Europe has had to suffer
frequently from an excess of power in individuals in the church;
but they must not be confounded with the church itself, which has
introduced into the world the distinction of two powers: this
salutary distinction was not known of old, and is only menaced in
our day by rationalism in the state.

The people have understood this august _rôle_ of the church,
and do not cease to invoke with the poet: "Hail, mighty parent."
In the midst of ruin accumulated by the ambition of princes, the
corruption of governments, human passions, or time that has no
respect for truth, there remains today nothing but the good old
pope, and young nations ask the benediction of the aged man. In
modern democracies there will soon exist but one historical
institution, the papacy. The old religions of paganism have left
us but cold and gigantic pyramids of stone inclosing the ashes of
their priests. Christianity, on the contrary, has transmitted us
the living stone of the church, which will outlive the dust of
ages.

In all these struggles against heresies, schism, materialism,
Caesarism, the Roman Church had from the tenth to the thirteenth
century its allies, the communes, who were the masses of those
days. Civil liberty was, so to say, the fruit of the preachings
of the church. It was from this epoch we date _the Mass against
tyrants_, which can be found in the old missals. It was at the
end of the twelfth and the beginning of the thirteenth centuries,
under the pontificates of Alexander III. and Innocent III., two
of the noblest successors of St. Peter, that this alliance, so
natural, so necessary, between the church that represents the
human conscience, and the communes who represent the liberty and
independence of the citizen, produced the most happy and
considerable results. In 1183 was signed _the peace of
Constance_, which assured definitively the liberty of the
Lombard people. In the final clause of the petition of the
citizens of Plaisance, the preliminary of this celebrated peace,
the deputies of the Lombard League had expressly stipulated "that
it would be permitted to the cities of the society to remain
always in unity with the church." The great charter of the
liberties of England dates from 1215. At the head of the
signatures of this memorable act for the English people is found,
for the church and for liberty, a disciple of the pope, the
learned Cardinal Stephen Langton, whose statue has recently been
introduced into Westminster Palace, where it will be a
significant witness of the past, and of the salutary breath which
is passing to-day over old England. And not only in England, but
in Spain and Hungary, had the church surrounded the cradle of
modern representative rule with its maternal cares, by its
celebrated "Golden Bull" establishing the law of peoples and
communities on the basis which to-day it enjoys in this
_apostolical kingdom_.

But in the Italian cities particularly is best observed the
fecundity of this salutary alliance between the sentiments of the
citizen and those of the Christian.

{391}

I have spoken of the scientific and religious _rôle_ of the
Mendicant friars; it would be better to call them citizen-monks.
At Bologna, it was one of them who fulfilled the function of
_inspector-general_ to the people. _Ezelin le Féroce_,
tyrant of the marshes of Verona, and the terror of the Lombard
cities, was only afraid of the Franciscans, especially Saint
Antony of Padua.

After ten years of penitence, Saint Francis, having prayed and
watched for forty nights, ordered Brother Leonard to take a pen
and write what he should dictate; and this angelic man, entranced
by the ravishments of divine love, improvised the following
beautiful canticle:

  "Most high, most powerful and gracious
   Lord, to thee belong praise, glory, and
   every blessing. All is due to thee; and
   thy creatures are not worthy so much as to
   call thy name.

  "Praised be God my Lord for all creatures,
   and for our brother the sun, who gives
   us the day and the light. Beautiful and
   radiating in all his splendor, he does homage
   to thee, O my God!

  "And praised be thou, my Lord, for our
   sister the moon, and for the stars. Thou
   hast formed them in the heavens, clear and
   beautiful.

  "Praised be thou, my God, for my brother
   the wind, for the air and the clouds, and for
   good and bad weather, whatever it may be!
   for by these thou sustainest thy creatures.

  "Praised be my Lord for our sister the
   water, which is so useful, humble, precious,
   and chaste.

  "Praised be thou, my God, for our brother
   the fire! By him, thou illuminest the night;
   beautiful and pleasant to see, untamable
   and strong.

  "Praised be my God for our mother the
   earth, which sustains us, nourishes us, and
   produces every sort of fruit, of various flowers,
   and herbs!"

A few days after this admirable scene, there occurred between the
Bishop of Assisi and the magistrates of the people one of those
quarrels so frequent in the Italian cities of the thirteenth
century. Saint Francis, distressed at such discord, added to his
canticle the following verse:

  "Praised be thou, my Lord, for those who
   forgive for the love of thee, and who patiently
   bear infirmity and tribulation. Happy
   those who persevere in peace; for it is the
   Most High who will crown them at last."

Then he ordered the minor brothers to hasten to the magistrates
and go with them to the bishop, before whom they were to chant
the new verse of the canticle of the sun. The adversaries present
could not resist the chanting of the _mineurs_, and they
were reconciled.

Since I have mentioned the canticle of the sun, one of the models
of Franciscan poetry of this age, I cannot forego the pleasure of
relating the end of it. After the pacification of Assisi, Saint
Francis, who suffered terribly from his stigmata, had gone, to
recruit his health, to Foligno, where it was revealed to him he
would die in two years. He then composed the last verse:

  "Be praised, my God, for our sister, corporal
   death, from which no man living may
   escape! Woe to him who dies in mortal
   sin! Happy he who at the hour of death
   is found conformable to thy most holy will!
   for death cannot injure him.

  "Praise and bless my God, render him
   thanks, and serve him with great humility."

The spirit of party had become truly a moral malady in the
Italian cities of the thirteenth century. If among my readers
there are those who abuse their own time because the spirit of
party condemns them to the struggle, I will tell them that in
Italy, in the time of Saint Francis and Saint Louis, they saluted
each other "in Ghibelline style" and cut their bread "à la
Guelph," and for a trifle parties attacked each other in the
cross-streets and in the public places. We have certainly
progressed since then.

{392}

In 1233, the nobles and the people of Plaisance were in open
warfare; the Franciscan Leon, selected as arbiter, published a
law, and divided equally all the employments of state between the
two inimical factions; he exacted, besides, a confirmation of the
sentence through the kiss of peace. In the same year the brother
Gerard, of the same order, reconciled the parties at Modena. At
Parma, he reformed the statutes of the people and recalled the
proscriptions. In 1257, the Dominican Eberhard caused to be set
at liberty the Guelphs imprisoned at Brescia. One of his
companions had the same success at Parma. But the most
interesting example of the powerful influence of religion on
civil life was the mission of the brother John of Vicenza, in the
Lombard towns.

Inspired by an apostolic zeal, the aged Pope Gregory IX. charged
the Dominican, John of Vicenza, (_Fra Giovanni Chio_,) to go
preach peace to the inimical factions, and re-establish
everywhere among the people union and concord. Brother John,
endowed with winning eloquence, commenced his mission at Bologna.
He obtained immense and unhoped-for success in the city where
Saint Francis and Saint Anthony had already achieved
extraordinary triumphs; nobles and people, professors and
students, all laid down their enmities at the feet of the brother
preacher; the magistrates handed him the statutes of the people,
in order that he might correct all that could give rise to new
discussions. The Paduans, informed that he was coming to them,
went to meet him, preceded by their magistrates and the
_carroccio_, to Monselice, four or five miles from the city;
Brother John, seated on the patriotic car, made a triumphal entry
among the people; the success in Padua surpassed that of Bologna;
the people assembled at the Place de la Valle, applauded him with
joy, and begged him to reform the statutes. The same triumphs at
Trevise, Feltre, Belluna, and Vicenza. At Verona, Ezelin and the
Montecchi promised him under oath to do everything the pope might
order. The eloquent monk again visited such places as Camino,
Conegliano, Saint Boniface, Mantua, Brescia, preaching everywhere
universal peace, reconciling factions, and setting prisoners at
liberty. At last, he appointed the 28th of August, the feast of
Saint Augustine, for a general assembly to be held on the plain
of Pacquara, on the borders of the Adige, about three miles from
Verona. On the day determined, the entire populations of Verona,
Mantua, Brescia, Padua, Vicenza, with their magistrates and
_carroccio_, arrived at the appointed place; a multitude of
people from Trevise, Feltre, Venice, Ferrara, Modena, Reggio,
Parma, Bologna, and most of them barefooted in sign of penitence;
the bishops of Verona, Brescia, Mantua, Bologna, Modena, Reggio,
Trevise, Vicenza, and Padua; the patriarch of Aquila; the
margrave of Este, Ezelin and Alberic de Romano, the Signers de
Camino, and all of Venetia. Parisio de Cereta, a contemporary
author, in his Veronese chronicle, enumerates his auditory at
four hundred thousand persons. The Dominican took for his text:
"My peace I give to you, my peace I leave to you." Never had
Christians witnessed a more august spectacle. The enthusiasm was
carried even to excess. It was a delirium of peace and union.
Brother John ordained, in the name of God and the church, a
general pacification, and devoted those who infringed upon it to
excommunication and eternal malediction. He proposed the marriage
of Renaud, son of the margrave of Este, with Adelaide, daughter
of Alberic of Romano, and obtained also from the brothers Romano
the promise they would sell to the town of Padua for fifteen
hundred livres the possessions they had in the territory of this
city. The act embraced divers clauses, and contained promises of
pacification.

{393}

Sixty years after the assassination of Pope Lucius II. by the
Arnoldites, the spiritual power of the papacy was, so to say,
omnipotent in Italy, if not in the whole of Europe. And it is
precisely about this epoch that in proportion as the civil power
of the Roman Church determined, limited, and fortified itself, in
Italy the ecclesiastical principalities were extinguished; while
for centuries they have been maintained in other countries, less
submissive to the Holy See. This fact will not astonish us, if we
follow with attention the progression of ideas propagated by
Christianity, and taking such deep root in the thirteenth
century.

Thus the sap of Christianity mounts in all the branches of this
immense tree called humanity, and produces abundant fruit. The
Gothic art is displayed while developing the Roman; the ogive
comes out from the arch by a natural elevation toward the summit
or the roof. Elliptical forms, wiser and more perfect than
circular ones, (the circle is an ellipsis in which the focuses
are blended,) transform the architecture, and give to the
monuments an apparent flight to heaven, just as the study of the
ellipsis in analytical geometry conducts to the infinite. The
austere energy of St. Bernard had no time for art. He needed the
science of Roger Bacon and the poetry of St. Francis. The Roman
basilica gives place to the Gothic cathedral, and throws its
gracious shadows on the mansions of the neighboring town. The
whole of Europe is covered with a vegetation of admirable
monuments, epic poems of stone--as the church of Assisi, the
cathedral of Florence, the cathedral of Cologne--poetry of the
highest order, not for rich idlers, or delicate minds, but for
the people _en masse_. Art agrees with the epoch of which it
is the emanation--it is for the people themselves. "The more I
see of these Gothic monuments," wrote M. David, (d' Angers,) "the
more I experience the happiness of reading these beautiful
religious pages so piously sculptured on the secular walls of the
churches. They were the archives of an ignorant people; it was
therefore necessary the handwriting should be legible. The saints
sculptured in Gothic art have an expression of serenity and
calmness, full of confidence and faith. This evening, as I write,
the setting sun gilds the façade of the cathedral of Amiens: the
calm faces of the saints in stone diffuse a radiant light."

Mysterious power of truth! M. David was attracted to it by art;
M. Pugin was converted, it is said, by studying the cathedral of
York. In truth, there are few languages more perfect than that of
the symbolism, so deep and complete, of the thirteenth century.
"The men of the middle age," said one whose works and
remembrances are very dear to me--"the men of the middle age were
not satisfied to simply raise stone upon stone; these stones were
to speak, and speak a language of painting, equally understood by
rich and poor; heaven itself must be visible, and the angels and
saints remain present by their images, to console and preach to
the people. The vaults of the two basilicas of Assisi were
covered with a field of blue, strewn with stars of gold. On the
walls were displayed the mysteries of the two Testaments, and the
life of St. Francis formed the sequel to the book of divine
revelations.
{394}
But, as if it were impossible to approach with impunity the
miraculous tomb, the painters who ornamented in fresco seemed
inspired with a new spirit; they conceived an ideal more pure,
more animated, than the old Byzantine types which had had their
day, but which for eight hundred years had continued to
degenerate. The basilica of Assisi became the cradle of a
renaissance in art, and evidenced its progress. There Guido of
Sienna and Giunta of Pisa detached themselves more and more from
the Greek masters whose aridity they softened and whose
immobility they shattered. Then came Cimabue. He represented all
the sacred writings in a series of paintings which decorated the
principal part of the church, and which time has mutilated. But
six hundred years have not tarnished the splendor of the heads of
Christ, of the Virgin, and of St. John, painted at the top of the
vaults; nor the images of the four great doctors, where a
Byzantine majesty still carries with it an air of life and
immortal youth. At last Giotto appeared, and one of his works was
the triumph of St. Francis, painted in four compartments under
the vault which crowns the altar of the chapel. Nothing is more
celebrated than these beautiful frescoes; but I know nothing more
touching than one in which is figured the betrothal of the
servant of God to holy poverty. Poverty, under the appearance of
a lady perfectly beautiful, but the face attenuated, the clothing
torn; a dog barks at her, two children throw stones at her, and
put thorns in her way. She, however, calm and joyous, holds out
her hand to St. Francis; Christ himself unites the two spouses;
and in the midst of clouds appears the Eternal Father accompanied
by angels, as if too much of heaven and earth could not be given
to assist at the wedding of these two mendicants. Here, nothing
suggests the painting of the Grecian school; all is new, free,
and inspired. Progress did not cease with the disciples of Giotto
appointed to continue his work: Cavalini, Taddeo Gaddi, Puccio
Capana. In the midst of the variety of their compositions, we
recognize the unity of the faith shed so lustrously through their
works. When one pauses before these chaste representations of the
Virgin, the Annunciation, the Nativity, before the crucified
Christ, with the saddened angels weeping around the cross, or
collecting in cups the divine blood, it would require a very
hardened heart not to feel the tears flow, and not to bend the
humbled knee and strike the breast with the shepherds and poor
women who pray at the feet of such images."

And this is the art of the thirteenth century; it caused to weep
under the same vault, and caused to pray on the same slab with
poor peasants, one of the purest-minded intelligences, one of the
noblest hearts of our time, one that the thirteenth century would
have styled "the seraphic Ozanam."

And let us again remark this attraction, at once logical and
living with facts produced by the germination of Christian
thought in civil society. St. Francis and St. Dominic no longer
preach as the disciples of St. Benedict to the few members of a
military oligarchy, or to a flock of serfs; they address
themselves to a civilized society, living in the midst of the
benefits of Christianity, without having to give an account of
the origin of these benefits; in the midst of a society
aggrandized by the progress of Christian equality, and still
desirous of enlargement. There is no longer a fierce Licambre,
but haughty jurists.
{395}
No more cruel Anglo-Saxons, but emperors, elegant, educated,
poetical, seductive, who hide their despotic projects under
titles the most pompous and the most fallacious. No more pagan
kings martyrizing the Christian; but Catholic kings more or less
sincere, who, in the name of social and state interests, seek to
torture consciences. There are no more lords whose brutality
scandalizes the coarsest minds; but there are rich citizens,
softened and blinded by selfishness, who weary under the
Christian yoke, and who hide their sensualism under the interest
they profess for Caesar or the prince. It is, then, from the time
of St. Francis the chanter of poverty, from the time of St.
Dominic the descendant of the Guzman, of the race of Cid, that is
born in Italy, by the side of the citizens, a new class which
completes the political emancipation of the Christian people.
After having grown up, the people disappeared under the
Renaissance when Protestantism triumphed, not to appear again
until modern times, in our own age, when the sap of Christianity
forces the church to remount into the branches of the tree of
which I spoke. Art has resented this moral revolution of the
thirteenth century, and literature also. The grand writer whom I
have already quoted, I was going to say the poet who has founded
the society of St. Vincent de Paul, makes somewhere a reflection
which has struck me forcibly. Have you remarked, with him, that
the church has put poetry into the choir, while she has banished
reasoning into the pulpit--into the grand nave? I do not say
reason, for true poetry is the chant of reason. Poetry that I
call real and practical, that which elevates the soul toward its
end, which balances the sighs of humanity, and clothes itself in
spoken or written form, rhythmical or not, the sentiment which
attracts us toward the infinite, and which St. Francis designates
love, such poetry is simply prayer. A poet is naturally
sacerdotal. He is really the _vates_ of antiquity. David and
Solomon prayed with lyre in hand, and their prayers became the
hymns of Christianity. Isaiah chanted the coming of the Messiah.

So in the thirteenth century, poetry was everywhere, a
consequence of the Christian sentiment, spread in every direction
through the moral life. To Innocent III., who under the name of
the Count de Signa was considered one of the most learned men of
his time, is attributed the _Dies Ire_. He has composed
other spiritual songs. St. Thomas has left us the _Pange
Lingua_. St. Francis is the chief of the poetic Franciscan
school, in which shone St. Bonaventura, St. Antony, and the
blessed Jacopone de Todi, of whom every one knows the beautiful
stanzas _Stabat Mater Dolorosa_, etc. Then comes Dante, who
governs Christian ages as Homer did the olden time. And lastly in
the same age in Italy, at Vercelli, it is said, lived and died
the great unknown who has left us the most beautiful book from
the hand of man, _The Imitation_, the true poem of humanity
redeemed by the blood of Jesus Christ. The fall, the redemption,
the grand drama of the moral history of the world, the battle of
life, the art of vanquishing passion and matter, the effort of
man to reach his ideal on the wings of simplicity and purity
--where are those things better chanted than in _The
Imitation?_

The thirteenth century, then, merits to be cited among the
grandest epochs of history. However, it would be a false idea to
imagine society elevated to a high degree of perfection.
{396}
Many Christians of our day, charmed by the recital of the life
and works of these great saints, and by the sight of the
magnificent monuments of the first era of ogival style, become
almost melancholy, and have a disposition to blame everything new
in the world, and defy their contemporaries or future generations
even to imitate the virtues of the age of Innocent III. I think
this tendency all wrong, and Christians who permit themselves to
be so carried away, lack firmness and faith; for Christianity
cannot decay, and the more the saints of the past, the greater
the protectors of the church for the future. Besides, it is so
easy to regard only the virtues of the thirteenth century, and
ignore the vices. We must remember St. Anthony was the neighbor
and the contemporary of Ezelin the Ferocious, the type of the
tyrant of the modern world. Frederick II. lived in the same age
as St. Louis. _The Sicilian Code_ was revised fifty years
after the peace of Constance, at the same time as the _Magna
Charta_ of England. St. Thomas d'Aquin and Roger Bacon are
contemporaries of the Albigenses. You cannot point out in our age
an error or a calamity that has not its equal, or rather its
precursor, in the thirteenth century.

Caesarism, vanquished in politics, was protected by the literary
men and the jurists. Dante in his old days wrote the Caesarian
treatise, _De Monarchico_. It was in the beginning of the
fourteenth century, a hundred years after Innocent III., that the
popes, chased from Rome and Italy, set out for the exile of
Avignon, which lasted seventy-five years.


                   III.

A reasonable study of such grandeur and such fall, the review of
which must demonstrate human liberty, should make us better know
our own age, and love it the more.

We possess more elements of material prosperity and material
progress, and we jealously preserve the depository of all the
moral truths. We enjoy greater political security, and the
sentiment of right is more general in our day than in any other.

What we want, what has given an expansive power and grandeur and
beauty to the thirteenth century, is a moral unity in the general
direction of civil society. Our epoch feels its instinct, it
seeks it, it desires it. People submit to the heaviest
sacrifices, and agitate themselves to obtain what they call their
unity. It is a false, factious, exterior unity, I know, but after
all, it is unity.

But a true, living, and moral unity can only be found in efforts
such as I have tried to depict; and moral unity, which should be
the only legitimate aim of a people, is not established by force,
nor even by the splendor of industrial production, nor the
attractions of an economical well-being. It will only grow as the
people liberally accept the direction of the Christian law.
Expelled from political constitutions, I see this unity
reconstitute itself in the masses. The neighboring democracies
should be Christian. Recently we have met a battalion of
crusaders, going to Rome, and coming from North America, which
will soon add to the number of its bishops as many as presided at
the Council of Nice. To manifest with new _éclat_ the fact
of Christianity, and advance so salutary a movement, which will
perhaps produce moral splendors unknown to the thirteenth
century, we must arm ourselves, under the buckler of faith, with
the science and rights of the citizen, as did the great doctors
of the thirteenth century.

{397}

This struggle, I know, is to-day more difficult, but therefore
more meritorious, more glorious. Nowhere have we the support of
governments. I do not complain--I state a fact; and perhaps this
very support is a defect because it has been so much abused. The
purity of the moral struggle of the thirteenth century is
tarnished by the religious persecutions. I know the adversaries
of the church have exaggerated their intensity; but I know also
that never has the church, as a church, persecuted, nor given or
proclaimed the right to persecute. Besides, we must not lose
sight of the fact that the alliance of church and state was such
that a heresy was considered above everything a crime against the
state. For example, we are astonished to see a Saint Louis
condemn severely the blasphemers of God as state criminals; but
we do not consider it extraordinary nowadays to see the
blasphemers of a sovereign or minister condemned to prison,
exile, or transportation. It is necessary to remark that the
greater part of the sects of the middle ages proclaimed
principles the realization of which would have consequences of
great civil and political importance. I defy our contemporary
societies, so proud of their religious tolerance, to support the
worship of the Mormons, those pests of our age. Only Christian
societies are strong enough to resist such currents of
corruption, to preserve their integrity, to endure and develop by
the side of such sects. Christians alone can be tolerant with
impunity, because tolerance for them is not a social necessity,
but a virtue. Only they can repeat with Saint Augustine: "Let us
convert the heretics, but let them not be sacrificed." So when we
think of the universal blame of which St. Ambrose and St. Martin
made themselves interpreters, against the condemnation to death
of the Priscillians, those Mormons of the fourteenth century, we
are justly astonished at the rigors exercised in the thirteenth
century against the Albigenses and other sectarians. To-day,
thanks be to God, a religious persecution could not be possible
in countries where the Catholic religion predominates.
Persecutions are only prevalent among the Mussulmans of Asia
Minor or the schismatics of Poland; and if the Protestants of
Ireland or the liberal anti-Catholics of the Continent have such
tendencies, they devise some form which to them alone appears as
progress.

For the contest, then, we must act as citizens, and use the pen
and the word, and without truce or relaxation. When St. Francis
Xavier made in the Indies his great and admirable spiritual
conquests, destroyed by the Holland Protestants and the English,
he asked for reinforcements from the superior of his order.
"Especially," said he, "send me from Belgium those robust and
broad-shouldered men." With such, this great saint believed
himself able to encounter every difficulty. Their race is not
extinct, thank God; and it seems to me Europeans are easier
conquered than Asiatics.

                   ----------

{398}


        Brittany: Its People and its Poems.


Progress is the order of the day; the very watchword of the
nineteenth century. Our times are possessed by an ever-active,
restless spirit. Here and there only, in this surging sea,
sheltered havens are found, where the quiet waters can reflect
the fair forms and hues of heaven, floating above them in the
deep and far-off blue. Here and there, out of the beaten track of
the world's highways, lie rich and fertile retreats, among whose
hills and fountains, woods and mossy stones, the spirit of the
past, with music on her lips, poetry in her soul, and the cross
clear and bright on her brow, still loves to dwell.

In scarcely another corner of Europe is the influence of this
spirit so tenacious, so pervading, as in Brittany. Nor to those
among us who may be descended from, or linked with, the original
inhabitants of the British island, can Europe furnish many more
interesting studies than this granite promontory--the bulwark of
France against the wild Atlantic--and the Celtic tribes there,
who guard, even to-day, their old Armorica from invasion of the
novelties of Paris in manners and in thought.

Brittany preserves the same characteristic relations with regard
to France as Wales, Ireland, and the Highlands of Scotland
preserve toward England. Its geographical position, its
mountains, and the sea, have continued to protect it in a great
degree from foreign influences. Indeed, this isolation is
observable throughout its history. Almost from the first, the
Breton Celts were the sole occupants of their own corner of the
earth. The Gauls, the original inhabitants of the country, were
outnumbered and absorbed by the influx of British emigrants; who,
of the same original stock with themselves, speedily became the
dominant sept, and possessors of the country.

The first extensive emigration of the insular Britons from what
is now Great Britain into Armorica, took place about the year
383, by order of the tyrant Maximin. It was not, however,
undertaken by compulsion, but was a willing adventure. The second
took place when they fled in great numbers from the Saxon
domination, after A.D. 450, when Ambrose and the great Arthur had
fought so bravely and so long, in vain. This time they were
_driven_ from their land, and as they crossed the sea to
find a home with their brethren in Armorica, they sorrowfully
chanted the psalm which their Christian bards had translated into
their native tongue, "_Thou hast given us, O Lord, as sheep for
the slaughter; and thou hast scattered us among the nations._"
A terrible pestilence with which, about this time, various parts
of Britain were visited, is said to have done more than anything
else toward confirming the sway of the Saxons in England, and
diminishing the old Britons to a mere remnant in the island. They
themselves regarded it as a sign that the kingdom was taken from
them, and given by God to their enemies. The emigrations
thenceforward became so frequent and so numerous that the British
isle was almost depopulated of its ancient inhabitants; and King
Ina, of Wessex, who was also Bretwalda, coming to the throne in
A.D. 689, grieved to lose so many of his subjects, sent to
entreat the emigrants to return.
{399}
At that period, they more than equalled the indigenous population
of Armorica, upon whom they had imposed their own laws and form
of government. Thus, in the fifth century, Armorica was, like
Cambria, divided into small independent states: those of Vannes;
Kerne, or Cornouaille; Leon; and Tréguier--all Celtic in
language, customs, and laws, and each division having its own
bishop and its own chief. Among the chiefs, one often obtained a
predominating power over the rest, with the title of
_konan_, or crowned chief. Hence, all the earlier kings of
Armorica of whom we hear in history, Meriadek, Gradlon, Budik,
Houel, and others, were Britons from the Island. Their bards, who
formed an essential part of every noble family among the
Cambrians, accompanied them into their adopted country. Of this
number was Taliessin, "the prince of the bards, the prophets, and
the Druids of the West." He took up his abode in the land of the
Venetes, (Vannes,) near to his friend and brother bard, Gildas,
who had emigrated thither, and who is said to have converted
Taliessin to the Christian faith. Three other celebrated bards of
the same period were Saint Sulio, Hyvarnion, and Kian Gwench'lan.

Tradition gives the following account of the manner in which St.
Sulio received his vocation. When very young, he was one day
playing with his brothers near the castle of their father, the
lord of Powys, when a procession of monks passed by, led by their
abbot, and chanting, to the sound of his harp, the praise of God.
The sweetness of their hymns so delighted the child, that,
bidding his brothers return to their sports, he followed the
monks, "in order to learn of them how he might compose beautiful
songs." His brothers hastened to tell their father of his flight,
who sent thirty armed men, with a charge to kill the abbot and to
bring back Sulio. He had, however, been sent at once to a
monastery in Armorica, of which in due time he became prior. The
Welsh, who call him Saint Y Sulio, possess a collection of his
poems.

The Christian faith won its way more slowly in Armorica than it
had done in Britain. They who had inherited the harp of the
ancient Druids, with the mysteries of their religion and the
secrets of their knowledge, were often reluctant to submit to the
belief which despoiled them of their priesthood. "If Taliessin,"
says M. de la Villemarqué, "consecrated to Christ the fruits of a
mysterious science, perfected under the shadow of proscribed
altars; if the monks, taking the harp in hand, attracted to the
cloister the children of the chiefs; if the Christian mother
taught her little one in the cradle to sing of him who died upon
the cross, .... there were, at the same time, in the depth of the
woods, dispersed members of the Druidic colleges, wandering from
hut to hut, like the fugitive Druids of the Isle of Britain, who
continued to give to the children of Armorica lessons on the
divinity, as their fathers had been taught; and they did so with
sufficient success to alarm the Christian teachers, and oblige
them to combat them skilfully with their own weapons."

Even after paganism had fallen before the cross, we find curious
traces of the Druidic element scattered here and there in the
early poems of Brittany. Her bishops of that period are spoken of
as "Christian Druids, who grafted the faith of Christ on the
Druid oak;" and of her poets it is said, "They did not
_break_ the harp of the ancient bards; they only changed
some of its chords."

{400}

The most ancient poems preserved in Brittany which bear evidences
of being the scientific compositions of the bards, are: _The
Series, or the Druid and the Child; The Prediction of Gwench'lan;
The Submersion of the City of Ys; The Changeling; The Wine of the
Gauls; The March of Arthur;_ and _Alain the Fox_. These
are the last breathings of the _learned_ poetry of the
Bretons of Armorica.

But, besides the scientific poems of the descendants of the
Druids, there grew up, at the same time, a large amount of
popular poetry, both in Wales and in Armorica. As early as the
sixth century, this divided itself into three distinct kinds:
theological, heroic, and historical poems; domestic poems and
love-songs; and poems on religious subjects, including the
versified histories of saints. This whole class of poetry sprang
from the people; it was the expression of their heart, the echo
of their thoughts, the depository of their history and of their
belief.

Upon this poetry of the people, both in the British island and in
Brittany, the bards made war. And when, among the Bretons, the
popular minstrels overcame the bards, the Welsh triads put the
Armoricans in the number of "the three peoples which have
corrupted the primitive bardism by mixing with it heterogeneous
principles."

"It is only the _kler_, (scholar-poets,) the vagabonds, and
the beggars," says Taliessin, "who give themselves no trouble."

"Bark not against instruction in the art of verse. Silence!
miserable pretenders, who usurp the name of bards! You know not
how to judge between truth and fables! ... As for me, I am
diviner and general-in-chief of the bards of the west!"

Gildas is equally energetic in protesting against all "who take
pleasure in listening to the vociferations" of the popular poets
of his time.

Reality and good faith are the two principal qualities inherent
in popular poetry in its primitive state. The poet's aim is
always to paint faithfully something which actually occurred, or
which he _believed_ did occur.

Chronicler and novelist, legendary and sacred psalmodist, the
poet of Brittany is all this to the mass of the Breton
population--to twelve hundred thousand uneducated persons,
without any other learning than that which they gain from the
oral instruction of their clergy. A thoughtful and imaginative
people, full of poetic instinct, and of the desire of knowledge;
and to whom every event, possessing a moderate share of interest,
furnishes subject-matter for a song.

We will now attempt translations of a portion of the
_bardic_ poems which remain to us. We omit the first,
entitled _Ar Rannoce_, or _The Series:_ a dialogue
between a Druid and a child who is one of his disciples. Its
length would unduly prolong the present article; but, inasmuch as
it conveys an interesting sketch of the cosmogony and theology of
the bardic system, we may find for it a place in some future
page.

To come, then, to the second poem on our list, _The Prophecy of
Gwench'lan_. The bard Kian, surnamed Gwench'lan, or "_Pure
Race_" was born in Armorica at the beginning of the fifth
century, and was never won to the Christian faith. His enmity to
it, indeed, was embittered by the treatment he received at the
hands of a foreign prince, calling himself a Christian; who threw
the bard into a dungeon, and, after depriving him of sight, left
him there to die.
{401}
During his hard captivity he composed the following poem, called
_Diougan Gwench'lan_, or _The Prophecy of Gwench'lan_,
in which he predicts the fate of his captor, who was shortly
afterward slain in battle fighting against the Bretons.

The composition of this poem is exactly after the pattern of the
ancient Welsh bards. Like Taliessin, Gwench'lan believes in the
_three cycles of being_ of the Druidic theology, and in the
doctrine of metempsychosis. "I have been born three times," says
Taliessin. ... "I have been dead; I have been alive; I am that
which I was. ... I have been a wild goat upon the mountains; I
have been a spotted cock; I have been a fallow-deer; now I am
Taliessin."

Like Lywarc'h-Hen, he mourns over his old age and decrepitude. He
is melancholy, and a fatalist.

Like Aneurin, who had been made prisoner after the battle of
Kattracz, and in his captivity composed _The Song of
Gododin_, Gwench'lan sings in his chains and in the darkness
of his dungeon.

It was not unusual among the bards to compare the leader of the
enemy to the wild boar of the woods, and the champion who
withstood him to the war-horse, or the white horse of the sea.

Gwench'lan is said to have composed many songs in praise of the
warriors of his country--those who marched to battle invoking the
Sun-god, and, on returning victorious, danced in his honor to the
"_Sword, King of Battle_." A collection of his poems and
prophecies was preserved until the French revolution, in the
abbey of Landevenec; but the ferocious joy with which, in some
fragments that remain, he contemplates the slaughter of the
Christians in the Menez Bré, and the extermination of their
faith, makes their destruction small matter of regret to any but
the antiquary.

Gwench'lan, however, continues to be famous throughout Brittany,
where the remnants of his compositions still are sung; especially
_The Prophecy_, of which a part has been translated by M. de
Villemarqué from _Barzaz Breiz_, (_Breton Ballads_.)

       Diougan Gwench'lan.

     Prophecy Of Gwench'lan.

             I.

            When the sun is setting,
            When the sea is swelling,
  I sit upon the threshold of my door.
            I sang when I was young,
            And still, grown old, I sing,
  By night, by day, though with sad heart and sore.

            If my head is bent low,
            If my trouble presses;
  It is not causeless care that weighs me down.
            It is not that I fear;
            I fear not to be slain:
  For long enough my life has lingered on.

            When they seek not Gwench'lan,
            Gwench'lan, they will find him:
  But find they shall not, when they seek for me.
            Yet, whatsoe'er betide,
            To me it matters not
  That alone which _ought_ to be, will _be_.
  Thrice all must die, ere rest at last they see.


              II.

            Wild boar, I behold him,
            From the wood forth comes he;
  Much he drinks; he hath a wounded foot:
            His hair is white with age;
            Round him his hungry young
  Are howling. Bloodstained is his gaping throat.

            White horse of the sea, lo!
            Comes to the encounter.
  The shore for terror trembles 'neath his tread.
            Bright and dazzling he,
            Bright as the sparkling snow;
  And silver horns are gleaming on his head.

            Foams the water 'neath him,
            At the thunder-fire
  Of those fierce nostrils. Sea-horses around
            Press, thick and close as grass
            Upon a lakelet's bank.
  Horse of the sea! strike well! Strike--strike him to the ground!

            ......

              III.

  As I was sweetly sleeping, in my cold, cold tomb.
  I heard the eagle calling, at midnight calling, "Come!
  Rise on your wings, O eaglets! and all ye birds of heaven.
  To you, nor flesh of dogs, nor sheep, but _Christians_, shall be given!"

  "Old raven of the sea,
   What hold'st thou?--say to me."

  "The chieftain's head I bear away:
   His two red eyes shall be my prey,
   For taking thy two eyes away."

  "And thou too, what hast thou, O Reynard sly?"

  "His heart, which was as false as mine, have I;
   It sought thy death, and long hath made thee die."

  "What dost thou by the corner of his mouth, O toad?"

  "I wait to seize his soul upon her road,
   Long as I live must I be her abode."

       Thus he meeteth his reward
       For his crime against the bard
  Who dwells no more between Roch-allaz and Porz-Gwen'n.

{402}

The _Submersion of the City of Ys_, or Is, presents to us
one of those legends which has its counterpart in so many other
branches of the Celtic race. Its historical basis is as follows:

  "In the year 440, there reigned in Armorica King Gradlon-veur,
  or the Great. His capital was the city of Is, since destroyed;
  and he occasionally consulted a holy man named Gwenolé, founder
  and abbot of the first monastery erected in Armorica.

  "This is all which contemporary and authentic history tell us
  of this city, this prince, and this monk; but popular
  tradition, always more rich than history, furnishes us with
  additional particulars. According to this, the city of Is was
  protected from the invasions of the sea by an immense basin or
  reservoir, which at high tide received the waters of the ocean,
  as formerly the Lake Moeris those of the Nile. This basin had a
  secret door, of which the king alone had the key, and which he
  opened or closed himself when needed. One night, while he
  slept, the Princess Dahut, wishing to crown the follies of a
  banquet given to a suitor, stole the key; she, or, according to
  another variation of the story, her suitor, who was in truth
  the author of evil under an assumed form, opened the door, and,
  as had been foretold by Saint Gwenolé, submerged the city.

  "This tradition, adds M. de Villemarqué, ascends to the very
  cradle of the Celtic race, and is common to its three great
  branches, the Bretons, Welsh, and Irish.

  "The _Is_ of Armorica is the _Gwaeleod_ of Wales, and
  the _Neaz_ of Ireland; the name in each instance
  signifying _low_ or _hollow_. According to all three,
  the daughter of the king is the cause of the catastrophe, and
  is punished by being changed into a siren, after a death by
  drowning. The Welsh version of this ballad, which is apparently
  of the date of the fifth century, and composed by the bard
  Gwezno, contains two strophes which are almost literally
  repeated in the Armorican. It begins in a way very like the
  conclusion of the latter. Some one comes to awaken the king,
  whom the bard calls Seizenin:

  "'Seizenin! arise, and look! The land of warriors, the country
  of Gwezno, is overwhelmed by the ocean.'

  "The Welsh sailors in Cardigan Bay, which, they assure us, now
  occupies the submerged territory, declare that they can see
  beneath the waters the ruins of ancient edifices. The same is
  said of the Bay of Douarnenez in Basse-Bretagne.

  "Also, the Irish fishermen, at a much earlier epoch, (according
  to Giraldus Cambrensis,) the middle of the second century,
  believed that they could see glimmering under the waters of the
  lake which covers their city of Neaz the round towers of
  ancient days.

  "With regard to the horse of Gradlon, Marie de France assures
  us that, in struggling through the flood, the force of the
  water bore his master off his back; that the life of Gradlon
  was saved by a beneficent fay, but the horse, on reaching the
  land without the king, became wild with grief.

  "The original tradition says that Gradlon, fleeing for his
  life, bore his daughter behind him, when a terrible voice cried
  three times, 'Push off the demon that sits behind thee.' The
  unhappy king obeyed, and forthwith the waters were restrained."


    Submersion Of The City Of Is.

               I.

  Oh! hast thou heard--oh! hast thou heard
      Of Gwenolé the rede,
  Which unto Gradlon, king of Is,
      He spake, but gat small heed?

  "To earthly love, ah! yield thee not,
      With evil cease to toy;
   For after pleasure cometh woe,
      And sorrow follows joy.

  "Who bites the flesh of fishes, soon
      The fishes him shall bite;
   And he who swallows, shall himself
      Be swallowed up some night.

  "And he who drinks both beer and wine,
      Shall water drink amain:
   To him who cannot scan my speech
      It soon shall be made plain."


              II.

   One eve spake Gradlon, king of Is,
       King Gradlon thus spake he
  "My merry friends, by your fair leave,
       A little sleep would we."

{403}

  "To-morrow 'twill be time enough--
       With us this evening stay;
   But if it be thy mind to sleep,
       We would not say thee nay."

   And thereupon her lover spake,
       Full softly whispered he,
   To Gradlon's daughter, "Sweet princess,
       Sweet Dahut--_and the key!_"

  "Hush! I will bear the key away
       That locks the floodgates fast,
   And Is shall be within thy power
       Ere little time be past."


              III.

   Now, whosoe'er had seen the king,
       As on his couch he lay,
   With admiration had been filled
       At sight of his array.

   The aged king, in purple robed,
       With long and snow-white hair,
   Which o'er his shoulders flowed upon
       His golden collar fair.

   And whosoe'er had lain in wait
       Had spied the princess white,
   Unsandalled, steal into that room,
       In silence of the night.

   She to the king her father crept,
       Sank softly on her knee,
   Loosed from his neck the golden chain,
       And bore away the key.


             IV.

   He sleepeth on--he sleepeth on,
       Till, from the plains, a cry--
  "The deep is o'er us! Is overwhelmed
       Beneath the waters high!

  "My lord the king, arise, arise!
       To horse! and swiftly flee.
   The dykes are burst--the land o'erflowed
       By the triumphant sea."

   Accursed be the treacherous maid
       Who opened thus the gate
   After the feast--who drowned the land,
       And made it desolate!


              V.

  "Oh! tell me now, brave forester,
       The wild-horse hast thou seen
   Of Gradlon? Hast thou seen it pass
       Along this valley green?"

  "The horse of Gradlon saw I not
       At any time pass by;
   But in deep night '_trip trap_' I hear,
       With lightning swiftness fly."

  "Say, hast thou seen, O fisherman!
       The daughter of the sea,
   Combing her golden hair at noon,
       Where sparkling breakers be?"

  "Yes, I have seen the mermaid white:
       She sings among the waves.
   Her songs are plaintive as the sound
       Of deeps o'er dead men's graves."

We come now to _The Changeling_; and here again we trace not
so much a resemblance as an all but literal reproduction of an
Irish legend, known to all readers of _The Fairy Legends of the
South of Ireland_ under the title, _The Brewery of
Egg-shells_. It must be confessed, however, that the
non-Catholic medium through which the Irish version reaches us,
has deprived it of the religious turn it may possibly have had in
the original. Our Lady does not appear in it, as here in the
Breton ballad.


           The Changeling.

   Grieved to the heart is la belle Marie.
   Where may her Laoik, her little one, be?
   Carried away by the Korrigan he.

  "Forth to the fount as I went on a day,
   Safe in his cradle my little one lay;
   Home when I came he had vanished away.

  "This wretched monster I found in his place.
   Rough, like a toad, with a horrible face,
   Dumb, greedy, fierce, like the rest of his race.

  "Mary most pure, on your snow-gleaming throne,
   In your maternal arms holding your Son,
   You are in joy, while in sorrow I moan.

  "Your Holy Child evermore you are keeping,
   Mine I have lost, whom I thought safely sleeping;
   Mother of Pity, ah! pity my weeping!"

  "Daughter, my daughter, oh! sorrow no more.
   Lost is he not whom you thus would deplore,
   Laoik, your darling, short time shall restore.

  "Who in an egg-shell shall feign to prepare
   All that ten laborers need for their fare,
   Forces the dwarf into speech, then and there.

  "When he has spoken, then whip--whip again!
   Whip, till he cry out with anger and pain!
   He will be heard: and be borne off amain."

  "Prithee, my mother, what do you?" he cries,
  "What make you, mother?" he asks in surprise.
   Dwarfling can scarcely believe his own eyes.

  "What am I doing, my son, would you ken?
   Dinner I make, in this egg-shell, for ten,
   Ten of the farm-servants, laboring men."

  "Ten! in an eggshell! The egg I have seen
   Fresh, of the oldest white hen that has been:
   Acorn, whose oak is far-spreading and green.

  "Oaks have I seen, widening out from their core,
   Old oaks of Brézal wood, rugged and hoar;
   Nothing like this have I e'er seen before."

  "Too many things hast thou seen," she replies:
   Flip, flap! flip, flap!--thus upon him she flies.
  "Little old man, now I have thee!" she cries.

{404}

  "Whip not, nor strike, but restore him to me;
   Harm hath been none to thy boy, belle Marie;
   King over all in our country is he!"

   When to her home returned Marie that day,
   Safe in his cradle her own baby lay,
   Sweetly asleep, as if wearied with play.

   While she stands gazing, entranced at the sight,
   Bending to kiss the fair cheeks with delight,
   Laoik, her lost one, his eyes opens bright.

   Half rising up, and with wondering eyes,
   Soft arms outstretched in a dreamy surprise,
  "Mother! how long I've been sleeping!" he cries.

We will conclude our present instalment from these interesting
relics of Celtic antiquity by a spirit-stirring fragment; for the
reader will perceive that it is incomplete. This is _Arthur's
March_, (_Bale Arzur,_) written, like the last, in the
_Ies Kerne_, or dialect of Cornouaille--_Cornu
Galliae_--a district of Brittany. There is a complete change
of metre between the parts marked I. and II.; the former being so
arranged, that the poetical foot composing the lines is of three
short syllables following a long one, and produces a spirited and
martial effect, somewhat like the beat of a modern drum.

M. de Villemarqué, from whose _Barzaz Briez_, or _Breton
Ballads_, we have drawn so largely in these pages, speaks thus
of the ballad before us:

  "The popularity which the name of Arthur enjoys in Brittany is
  one of the most curious phenomena in the history of Breton
  fidelity. Neither defeat nor exile could make the Bretons
  forgetful of Arthur. His magic renown, crossing the sea with
  them, received new life in Armorica; he became there, as he was
  in the Isle of Britain, an armed symbol of national liberty;
  and the people, at all periods from the sixth century to our
  own time, repeated, with adaptation to circumstances, the
  traditions and the sayings or prophecies of which he was the
  subject. Thus, whenever war is impending, they see, as a
  warning sign, the army of Arthur defiling at break of day over
  the summit of the Black Mountains; and the poem here given has
  for twelve centuries been in the mouth of Bretons armed to
  defend their hearths and altars. I learnt it from an aged
  mountaineer named Mikel Floc'h, of Leuhan, who told me that he
  had often sung it when marching against the enemy in the last
  wars of the west."

The last strophe, which is of later date than the preceding ones,
may in some measure have contributed to save from oblivion the
_March of Arthur_. It is always sung three times over, and
with the greatest enthusiasm.

Some of the strophes, breathing the savage vengeance of pagan
times, have been omitted in the English translation. They retain
in the original so much of the Cambrian dialect and idiom as to
be scarcely in the least understood by the Bretons who sing them.


        The March Of Arthur.

                 I.

  Haste, haste to the combat! Come kinsman, come brother,
    Come father, come son, to the battle speed forth!
  The brave and the dauntless, come, speed one another!
    Come all! there is work for the warriors of worth.


                 II.

   Said to his father, at day-dawn, the son of the warrior,
  "Horsemen I see, on the far mountain summits, who gather.

  "Horsemen all mounted on war-steeds of gray, like the mist-wreaths;
   Coursers that snort with the cold on the heights of the mountains.

  "Close ranks of six by six: three by three: thousands of lances
   Flash in the beams of the sun, to our vale yet unrisen.

  "Double ranks follow the banners that wave in the death-wind,
   Measuring nine casts of a sling from the van to the rearward."

  "Pendragon's army! I know it! Great Arthur Pendragon
   Leading his warriors, marches 'mid clouds of the mountain.

  "If it be Arthur, then quick to our bows and swift arrows!
   Forward, and follow him. Set the keen death-winged dart flying!"

{405}

   E'en as he spake rang the fierce cry of war through the mountains:
  "Heart for eye: head for arm; death for wound!" through hill and valley.

   If in such manner we die as befits Breton Christians,
   Too soon we cannot sink down on the field of our conflict!

If our readers are not yet wearied with details of the ancient
poetry of this exceptional part of France, we hope to present
them in our next number with further specimens; including the
death of Lord Nann from the spells of a malignant Korrigan, or
Breton fairy, and the argument by which a Breton maiden persisted
in choosing the cloister against all the persuasions of a suitor
to her hand. Both these poems date at least from the sixth
century of Christianity.

            ----------

          Indian Summer.

  Upon the hills the autumn sun
    His radiance pours like golden wine;
  And low, sweet music seems to run
    Among the tassels of the pine;
  Around us rings the wild bird's scream;
    Above, an arch of dark-blue sky;
  While, like a maiden's summer dream,
    The mists upon the meadows lie.

  O peerless Indian Summer hours,
    With bracing morn and slumbrous noon!
  How pale are June's bright, flaunting flowers
    Amid thy wealth of gorgeous bloom.
  The river ripples softly on,
    With purple hills upon its breast;
  And soft cloud-shadows, floating down,
    Have found a scene of perfect rest.

  The evening darkens; from the hills
    The glory fades, so proudly worn;
  And in the west serenely fills
    The fair young moon her silver horn;
  While from the deep'ning blue above
    The stars steal slowly, singly forth;
  And night-winds, like the breath of love,
    Come floating o'er the silent earth.

                                Veronica.

                                Cornwall Landing.

              ----------

{406}


   Creative Genius of Catholicity. [Footnote 136]

    [Footnote 136: We take pleasure in presenting in our pages
    the following able article, from the pen of the late lamented
    Colonel James Monroe. Few writers have left behind a
    testimony more striking of their devotion to our holy faith,
    or of their confidence in its elevating social power. It
    meets living questions of the day with a rare aptitude, and
    presents views and applies principles in a manner worthy of
    attentive and thoughtful consideration.--ED. C. W.]

If the creative genius of Catholicity were to be stated from an
_a priori_ point of view, it would reduce itself to the form
of an axiom; for Catholicity being the body of revealed truth,
confirming and agreeing with truth in every order, truth being
essentially "that which is," (to employ the words of Bossuet,)
Catholicity must be pre-eminently endowed with the germinative
and fruitful spirit of origination. But inasmuch as truth has in
this world a clouded scene for her activity, as effects arise
constantly, and almost invariably, from an intermixture of causes
of a diverse and contending character, and as the divine, the
human, and the material elements are incessantly conjoined in
action, it becomes necessary to trace the chain of events and to
elucidate the influence of principles. This process does not,
with the mind which is gifted with faith, arrive at the dignity
of the highest proof; it rather serves to record examples and to
collect illustrations.

In executing such a process, the difficulty is, not to find
instances, but to decide which of them to choose amidst the
boundless variety. I think it germane to the subject to compare
Catholic genius with that of the most polished nation of the
Gentile world, as the two have been displayed under the sensuous
relation of form. The Greeks, beyond all other people, possessed
a native capability in art, and there remains of the productions
of the Greek mind enough for a just estimate of its rich
capabilities. The models of Greek genius have won the
enthusiastic admiration of mankind, and they dominate with a
strong mastery over all cultivated minds which lack the Catholic
faith. "Even from their urns, they rule them still."

Whatever difficulties language, poetry, philosophy, may labor
under from the lapse of time, that which is tactual and visual
needs but to be present to be appreciated. If art be the
emanation of a creative spirit; if it be not, in its highest
sphere, a copy or an imitation, then must it be admitted that the
evolution of the Greek orders of architecture, combining majestic
strength, radiant grace, and flowery beauty, embodied in pure and
enduring material, is the loftiest expression of impassioned
heathen genius. It is higher than their types of the human form,
because it was wrought without a model and shaped directly from
the mind's ideal. The conception is one so strong and great that
it has never had a rival outside of Catholicity--and indeed
hardly a respectable imitator. The coarser capability of the
Roman mind not only originated nothing and added nothing to Greek
invention, but it marred and misapplied that which it undertook
to adopt. Later copyists have aimed no higher than a restoration
of what their masters had created.

{407}

All that addresses the eye, and through it the mind, under form
alone, may be objectively resolved into lines and surfaces, which
may be again subdivided into yet simpler elements. The
combinations of these elements--their union, tangencies, and
contrasts--may be classified, and may furnish certain deductions
which are incontrovertible general conclusions. Indeed, the
deduction may become so far generalized as to pass beyond the
boundary of the art which suggested it--as "the perfection of
form is said to annihilate form;" it then arrives at abstract
truth, which seeks its illustration in matter, without deriving
its validity therefrom. This is so far true that the science
whose highest deductions fall short of such generalization is yet
in a rudimentary condition. [Footnote 137]

    [Footnote 137: As an example, we may take the principle of
    beauty as shown in the simplest and least beautiful of the
    regular curves, the circular. In the circle variation in
    direction is combined with identity in the distance from a
    fixed point. There is, then, unity in diversity--a general
    principle, of which the circle is but an example. Nature,
    ever affluent in resources, varies the tameness of the circle
    by presenting it to the eye as a right line, an ellipse,
    etc., according to the point of view. Thus again illustrating
    the law of unity in diversity; for the knowledge that the
    figure is still a circle is _one_, while the gradations
    in its appearance are many.]

In adjusting the elements of form under harmonious combinations,
and in expanding them into imposing dimensions, the Greek mind
was so subtle and appreciative that it missed nothing, and
exhausted everything within the reach of its science, "unwinding
all the links of grace, without a blunder or an oversight." If
the Gothic architecture had borrowed from the Greek, or had
simply carried forward into further development the same
formative idea, it might be said that the case was that of the
dwarf upon the giant's shoulders, who sees further than the giant
himself. But the fact is entirely otherwise. The projectors and
moulders of the Gothic church architecture found the field of
invention limited--as must ever be the case--by preceding
invention. The genius, therefore, must have been the greater
which not only discovered new combinations of excellence, but
anticipated and antedated yet surpassed all predecessors.

Among tribes of men whom the Greek styled "barbarous" emanates a
life in art which transcends his highest conception. We encounter
fabrics loftier, broader, deeper; the arch which _he_ did
not employ is lifted from its circular character into a higher
curvature, and its key-stone boldly stricken out. We find pillars
massed, scalloped, and filleted; mouldings of a more graceful
contour, every way flexure of contrast and gradation; a mazy web
of tracery combining lightness, symmetry, permanence, and
equilibrium; in mid air, a shapely dome, poised by the daring
hand of science, where the cloud might visit it and the rainbow
circle it. All this prodigality of invention and unequalled
execution, springing forth as from an exhaustless fountain, is
not confined to some favored peninsula, but is common to Italy,
Germany, France, and England. The common cause of an effect so
uniform and remarkable was the inspiring and elevating influence
of the One Catholic faith.

I will quote here a Protestant writer's view of the difference in
design between the Greek and Gothic building:

  "The essential, germinal principle of difference between the
  temple and the cathedral is, that the former is built for
  exterior effect, the latter for interior. On occasions of
  worship, the multitude surrounded one edifice, but filled the
  other. The temple has, as regards architectural impression,
  really no interior at all; for the small _cella_ or
  _naos_ which hid the _penetralia_ entered not at all
  into the effect of the structure. From this difference in
  character and design, the whole diversity between the
  characters of Greek and Gothic forms and decorations may be
  derived. To the former, viewed from without, an aspect of
  elevated repose must belong; and all the decorations must be
  superficial. The elaboration of an impressive and inspiring
  interior led necessarily to soaring height and a general
  upwardness of all the courses; to long-drawn vistas, side by
  side; to grand portals to give entrance, and a multitude of
  windows to give light; and to a general style of decoration,
  concave, receding, and perspective."

{408}

The same writer says:

  "If England's cathedrals are inferior to those of France, they
  are more beautiful than anything else in the world. Durham and
  Ely, and Winchester and Salisbury, what needs the soul of man
  more impressive, glorious, transcendent, than these?"

Another competent authority--also a Protestant--says:

  "There is infinitely more scientific skill displayed in a
  Gothic cathedral than in all the buildings of Greece and Rome;
  nor could these latter have resisted the shock of time so long,
  had they not been almost solid masses of stone, with no more
  cavity than was indispensably necessary."

Let us examine the principle of delineation in the human
form--that which has ever captivated the efforts of the greatest
artists. In the classic execution of the highest human types
there is an evident straining after the expression of something
above the actual. Sir Charles Bell has shown that this effect is
attained by a refined species of exaggeration. It consists in
exaggerating whatever distinguishes man from the animals in
enlarging, for example, the facial angle. It is a further remove
from the animals than man is, but _in the same direction_.
The Hercules, for instance, is an embodiment of the central form
of strength--it is an exaggeration of muscular development. The
highest expression is the embodiment of human passion. In this
way the Greeks attained the delineation of the _superhuman_.
Under the tutorage of Catholicity the human lineaments achieved
the expression of the supernatural. One was the idealization of
nature; the other the supernaturalization of humanity. Of this
latter classic art had no conception; while therefore it may
equal or surpass Catholic art in execution, it must fall far
below in its ideal. [Footnote 138]

    [Footnote 138: In this connection let us record a few remarks
    from the ablest writers upon the subject.

    Solger has said: "Philosophy can create nothing: it can only
    _understand_. It can create neither the religious
    inspiration nor the artistic genius: but it can detect and
    bring to light all that is contained therein."

    Hegel, in stating the relation of art, religion, and
    philosophy, says:

    "Art fulfils its highest mission when it has established
    itself with religion and philosophy in the one circle common
    to all, and is merely a method of revealing the godlike to
    man, of giving utterance to the deepest interests, the most
    comprehensive truths pertaining to mankind. Nations have
    deposited the most holy, rich, and intense of their ideas in
    works of art, and art is the key to the philosophy and
    religion of a nation."

    Schilling, with his peculiar theory, says: "That artist is to
    be accounted happy to whom the gods have granted the
    _creative spirit_. When the artist _recognizes_ the
    aspect and being of the _indwelling creative idea_, and
    produces it, he makes the individual a _world in
    itself_, a _species_, an _eternal type_."

    Not one of these three statements is beyond the reach of
    cavil or of just exception; but, for the purpose in hand, we
    see that the first says that "philosophy can create nothing;"
    the second, that "art is a method of revealing the godlike to
    man, and of giving utterance to his most holy and intense
    ideas;" and the third, that it involves a gift or endowment
    of the "creative spirit."]

Finally, all art is expression. Given a knowledge and mastery of
the instruments of expression, and the thought will determine its
character; the nature of the thought expressed depends upon the
conceiving mind; the highest conception of the mind is the
offspring of religious affection, the Catholic is the true
religion; therefore the expression of Catholic genius is the
summit of art. It is by no means a necessity that the soul shall
express itself under sensuous forms; but to all outward
manifestation a power over the instrument is a condition--in
which sense the body is itself an instrumentality. What the soul
expresses must be thought--either its own, or another's--it must
either imitate or originate; imitation is merely repetition, and
is in the power of a mirror. So that what in every art cannot be
taught is expression.
{409}
The highest effort of the soul is spontaneous and original.
Herein we find the superiority--visible at a glance--of Catholic
architecture over the Greek orders, of Catholic delineations of
the human countenance over the finest models of antiquity.

We have sufficiently considered the originative character of
Catholicity under the aspect of constructed form. We have
contemplated her moulding and shaping matter in her flexible
fingers, and evolving that wilderness of artistic grace and
loveliness which, in the ruins of a Tintern or Melrose Abbey,
compels the admiration, but defies the rivalry, of the apostate
sons of Catholic sires. We shall now consider her influence in
the building up of states and the organization of societies.

Christianity took its rise under a universal military despotism.
It sustained for three hundred years the superincumbent pressure
of a hostile heathen empire. It exhausted the malice and the
power of a pagan and brutalized temporal order; and when the
Roman empire shook the world with its fall, Christianity survived
the death-throes of that mighty organization.

When she rose from the catacombs, she did not sweep away the
temples of the heathen gods; she drove from those fanes the
unclean spirits which so long had dwelt within them; she rescued
them from their demon desecration, monuments of her triumph,
trophies of her victorious agonies; she made them the basilicas
of her majestic worship.

When the fierce tribes from the north poured over Southern
Europe, the church preserved what was sound in the Roman
civilization, instructed the barbarians in agriculture by the
example of her laborious monks, and taught them all the arts of
life; instituted laws and polity; tempered and restrained
tyranny; planted and nourished the seeds of liberty; developed
civilization and refinement, and built up the whole grand fabric
of Christendom.

In this formation of new states out of new populations, they did
not become perfect exemplars of Christian ethics and morals, nor
exact exponents of the formative power of Catholicity. The church
encountered in those ages, as she does in this, incessant
obstacles, difficulties, and resistance. Whatever was good and
admirable in those constitutions came to them from the Catholic
religion and was derived from the papal see.

The canon law had, under the emperors, tempered and modified the
civil code; and among the new states it operated a beneficial
change in the feudal principles. Both these systems prescribed
for the mass of men an unchristian servitude. Enlightened equity
and justice, and equality before the law, originated in the
jurisprudence of the church, and not in barbarous feudalities,
nor in the capricious and tyrannical decrees of Roman emperors.
There are men in this age and country who profess great love for
the people and great regard for the rights of labor, but who are
stanch partisans of the tyrants of the middle age in the
contentions which arose between them and the papal see. Inherited
ill-will blinds them to the fact that the only power in those
days which could hold tyranny to an accountability or check
kingly license was that of the pope. The exercise of the papal
protectorate not only tended to prevent causeless wars, but it
controlled the corrupting influence of royal vices by stamping
them with reprobation and, where needful, with degradation. It
was the bulwark of the feebler states, the barrier against
princely ambition, and everywhere the advocate, the friend, and
the defender of the toiling multitude.

{410}

The new organization of states was to be marked by a
characteristic which was also new. Human government is ordained
of God. Christianity was to recognize and to exemplify this
truth. She was to legitimate and ennoble human government in its
own separate order. To effect this in the fullest manner, there
must be an exemplification directly from the personality of the
hierarchy; for, sacrifice being the most exalted human action,
the priest, whose office it is to offer sacrifice, is by his
function first among men. The highest recognition must therefore
derive from the priesthood. But there would always be something
lacking of the _highest_, unless the head of the hierarchy
were a temporal ruler. The temporal power of the pope is the
consecration of human government. Unlike others, he receives no
dignity from the office, but confers grace upon it and upon its
order; and Christendom, created by the church, receives the
key-stone of its strength and its crowning symmetry when the
first of Christian priests becomes a ruler among the nations. And
consequently, religion suffers its direst outrage when, reversing
the order, the temporal power lays its unfaltering hand upon the
vessels of the sanctuary.

The church not only created the interior coherency of states by
introducing just principles into their constitution; she not only
bound them in links of fellowship whose _nexus_ was at Rome;
she also organized their exterior defence. In uniting Christendom
during the crusades to repel the Moslem invasion, the popes
caused the reconstruction of systematic and scientific strategy,
which had disappeared with the Roman legion, thus furnishing to
civilization a needful defence and a desirable superiority, while
at the same time the narrow spirit of the feudal method and its
local strifes were rendered obsolete.

For a thousand years the struggle begun by Mohammedan invasion
continued to rage on the confines of Europe. At its early period
it penetrated to Tours in France, where it was checked by Charles
Martel, in 732. But the triumph was not completed on that wing of
Christendom till the capture of Granada, and the annihilation of
the Moorish power in Spain in the year of the discovery of
America. On the other border, the Turks besieged and took
Belgrade, and suffered a final repulse at Vienna from John
Sobieski, King of Poland, in 1683.

But, so far as human causes indicate, the question whether the
faith of Europe should be Christian or Moslem was decided in the
Gulf of Lepanto, in 1571. These were all European battle-fields.
The struggle was against an invasion which struck at the
existence of Christianity. The master-spirit which created,
combined, informed, and directed the resistance dwelt in the
Vatican.

The modern age is distinguished for the intense application of
human intelligence to the laws and conditionalities of time,
space, and matter, in their triple relations; and Providence
seems to be permitting to man the reassertion of his dominion
over the earth. "Knowledge is power," but the right employment of
power is _virtue_; and unless the moral forces keep pace
with the conquests of mind in the realm of matter, there will
ensue antagonisms more destructive than before, as well as a more
profound desolation of the human race. The rectification of the
will is of an importance prior and superior to the activity of
the intelligence; and without a religious faith and sanction the
fruits of the understanding are but dust and ashes.

{411}

When we consider the spirit of invention and examine its results,
three great products assume an acknowledged superiority. These
are, the magnet, with its corollary, the extension of
geographical discovery; the printing-press in its action upon
intelligence; and gunpowder in its relation to physical forces in
war. The magnet can never again point the way to a discovery like
that which was achieved by Columbus; the art of printing cannot
be applied to a higher purpose than that of multiplying copies of
the Holy Scriptures; and gunpowder, which still controls the
practice of the art of war, was never employed upon an occasion
so critical to civilization and so momentous in the world's
affairs, as when the cannon of Don John of Austria won for
Christendom the great fleet-fight of Lepanto. These three
commanding discoveries, and these their greatest applications,
belong to Catholic nations and to Catholic individuals. The
Protestant religions have no part in these discoveries, because
there is an awkward metaphysical axiom which says that the cause
must exist before the effect, and these greatest of inventions
all preceded--some of them by centuries--the birth of
Protestantism.

Some writers have claimed that the inventive spirit began with
the dawn of the Reformation, at which time, according to Robert
Hall, the nations "awoke from the sleep of ages to run a career
of virtuous emulation." If this be so, why is it that later
discoveries have not equalled those which we have just specified?
According to this theory, the dawn eclipses the noon-day; and
Protestantism would seem to belong to that class of things of
which the _less_ you have of them the _better_.

The revival of letters is usually dated in the thirteenth
century, and that honor is universally accorded to Italy. The
first bank and the first newspaper are found at Venice. The Bible
had been published in numerous editions before Luther began to
dogmatize from a printed copy of it in Saxony. The system of
modern commerce took its rise under the papacy, and ran a
brilliant career in the Italian republics, and in the free cities
of Germany, long before the era of the Protestant religions.
Columbus had discovered the New World, and Vasco da Gama had
doubled the Cape of Good Hope and marked the pathway to India,
before the rise of England's commercial greatness. The "progress"
had been installed, and had achieved such works as these, before
the century in which Lord Bacon lived to write his _Inductive
System of Philosophy_.

It would be an incomplete view of the subject if we failed to
remark the _enduring_ character of the work which is of
Catholic creation. Not like the mutable religions which protest
against her; nor struck with incurable sterility, like the Greek
schismatic; nor frozen into lifeless forms, like those of the
Asiatic world; the living faith of the church incessantly and
indefinitely advances the nation and the individual who
faithfully correspond to it. That vitality, once infused into the
pulses of a people, goes forth from them only with its lifeblood.
There is an exemplification of this truth in the persecution
which the Irish people have sustained, and are sustaining, at the
hands of the English government. History presents no parallel to
this antagonism of physical power, on the one hand, and moral
determination on the other.
{412}
To sustain her wars of aggression, and to uphold her detestable
system of classes and privileged orders, England has taxed
everything, even the air and the light of heaven. This legalized
oppression has ground down the English laborer and operative, but
it has fallen with crushing cruelty upon the Irish peasant, whose
country, in addition to the evil of partial and jealous
legislation, has been compelled to pay tithes to a hostile and
hating creed.

This merciless system has depopulated the land, and in the
enforced emigration the Irish peasant has found no powerful
government to aid him in his going; he has paid, to the last
farthing, the exactions and robberies of English domination, and
then has made his own unassisted way, dogged by an inflicted
poverty but with his gallant spirit still unbroken. What has
England gained by this conflict of centuries with Ireland? She
has sapped her own strength and merited the condemnation of
mankind. Moral causes control the universe, and the moral heroism
of Ireland has vanquished every odds and every disaster. A
temporal power far greater than that of Rome when her eagles were
invincible has pursued for ages the determined purpose of forcing
the people of the sister-island to join in protest and hostility
against the Apostolic See. But the imperial monarchy, the riches,
the splendor, the craft of England have found their master in the
stern, unyielding, unconquerable fidelity with which the Irish
people have clung to the Catholic faith.

The existence of this hemisphere was made known by agencies
altogether Catholic. The first act of Columbus on his landing in
the New World, that of planting a cross upon its soil, the
meaning even of his baptismal name, was significant. In South
America, in those self-same years that nations were torn from her
communion by the abuse of learning and liberty derived from
herself, Catholicity was engaged in widening the domain of
Christendom and adding a continent to the faith.

I will briefly quote a New England Protestant writer in this
connection. In the second volume of his _Conquest of Peru_,
Prescott says:

  "The effort to christianize the heathen is an honorable
  characteristic of the Spanish conquests. The Puritan, with
  equal religious zeal, did comparatively little for the
  conversion of the Indian. But the Spanish missionary, from
  first to last, has shown a keen interest in the spiritual
  welfare of the natives. Under his auspices churches, on a
  magnificent scale, have been erected, schools for elementary
  instruction founded, and every rational means taken to spread
  the knowledge of religious truth, while he has carried his
  solitary mission into remote and almost inaccessible regions,
  or gathered his Indian disciples into communities, like the
  good Las Casas in Cumaná, or the Jesuits in California and
  Paraguay. At all times the courageous ecclesiastic has been
  ready to lift his voice against the cruelty of the conqueror,
  and when his remonstrances have proved unavailing, he has still
  followed to bind up the broken-hearted, to teach the poor
  Indian resignation under his lot, and light up his dark
  intellect with the revelation of a holier and happier
  existence. The same nation which sent forth the hard-hearted
  conqueror from its bosom sent forth the missionary to do the
  work of beneficence, and spread the light of Christian
  civilization over the farthest regions of the new world."

Elsewhere the same historian speaks thus of the Spanish conqueror
of Mexico:

  "The conversion of the heathen was a predominant motive with
  Cortes in his expedition. It was not a vain boast. He would
  have sacrificed his life for it at any time; and more than
  once, by his indiscreet zeal, he actually did place his life
  and the success of his enterprise in jeopardy. It was his great
  purpose to purify the land from the brutish abominations of the
  Aztecs by substituting the religion of Jesus. This gave to his
  expedition the character of a crusade. It furnished the best
  apology for the conquest, and does more than all other
  considerations toward enlisting our sympathies on the side of
  the conquerors."

{413}

For the benefit of those who have a tender sympathy for the Incas
and Montezumas, and naught but execrations for the Spanish
invaders, it may be remarked that the religions of Mexico and
Peru were stained with human sacrifices, followed in the former
by cannibalism. The same unerring and irresponsible Being--ever
adjusting the retribution to the crime--who hurls the avalanche
from its mountain, gives its mission to the tempest, and scourges
the city with pestilence, likewise directs the fearful visitation
of the sword, whether in the hand of a Joshua, a Cyrus, an
Attila, or a Pizarro. On the southern continent Catholic
colonization preserved, christianized, and elevated the
aboriginal races; while in the north, Protestant colonization
swept away even their graves.

It is time to consider, and in a more special manner, the agency
of the Catholic religion in the formation of this majestic
Republic of the United States.

The fundamental principle upon which our ancestors based their
resistance to England was, that they were Englishmen, and had
lost none of the rights of British subjects by being transplanted
to these shores. They claimed the system of the common law as an
inheritance, and also all those guarantees which had grown up
into that frame-work called the English Constitution. Upon this
issue they went into the Revolution, and upon the same issue
Chatham, and Burke, and others defended the cause of the
colonists in the British parliament. The definite question, then,
is, What were those principles, and whence were they derived?

The first declaration of public rights in England is the document
called Magna Charta, delivered by King John, at Runnymede, in
1215. This instrument begins as follows:

  "John, by the grace of God King of England, Lord of Ireland,
  Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and Earl of Anjou: To the
  archbishops, bishops, abbots, earls, barons, justiciaries of
  the forests, sheriffs, governors, officers, and to all
  bailiffs, and other his faithful subjects, Greeting: Know ye
  that we, in the presence of God, and for the health of our
  soul, and the souls of all our ancestors and heirs, and the
  exaltation of his holy church, and amendment of our kingdom, by
  advice of our venerable fathers, Stephen, Archbishop of
  Canterbury, Primate of all England, and Cardinal of the Holy
  Roman Church; Henry, Archbishop of Dublin; William, Bishop of
  London, ... have, in the first place, granted to God, and by
  this our present charter, confirmed for us and our heirs for
  ever.

  "ART. I. That the Church of England shall be free, and enjoy
  her whole rights and privileges inviolable," etc.

Many of the articles are occupied with matters relating to feudal
tenures, which, of course, are without application to this
country. The twentieth article is as follows:

  "ART. XX. A freeman [that is, a free-holder] shall not be
  amerced for a small fault, only according to the degree of his
  fault; and for a great crime, in proportion to the heinousness
  of it, saving to him his contenement, [means of livelihood;]
  and after the same manner a merchant, saving to him his
  merchandise; and a villein shall be amerced after the same
  manner, saving to him his wainage, [carts, etc.,] if he falls
  under our mercy; and none of the aforesaid amerciaments shall
  be assessed but by the oaths of honest men of the neighborhood.

  "ART. XXX. No sheriff or bailiff of ours, or any other, shall
  take horses or carts of any freeman for carriage, without the
  consent of the said freeman.

  "ART. XXXI. Neither shall we or our bailiffs take any man's
  timber for our castles or other uses, unless by the consent of
  the owner of the timber.

  "ART. XXXIX. No freeman shall be taken or imprisoned, or
  disseised, or outlawed, or banished, or any way destroyed; nor
  will we condemn him, or commit him to prison, unless by the
  legal judgment of his peers, or by the law of the land.

{414}

  "ART. XL. To none we will sell, to none will we deny, nor
  delay, right or justice.

  "ART. LI. And, as soon as peace is restored, we will send out
  of the kingdom all foreign soldiers, cross-bowmen, and
  stipendiaries, who are come with horses and arms, to the injury
  of the kingdom.

  "ART. LV. All unjust and illegal fines, and all amerciaments
  imposed unjustly, and contrary to the law of the land, shall be
  entirely forgiven," etc.

The sixty-third and last article is:

  "ART. LXIII. Wherefore we will, and firmly enjoin, that the
  Church of England be free, and that all men in our kingdom have
  and hold all the aforesaid liberties, rights, and concessions
  peaceably," etc.

Copies of this charter were found to have been deposited in the
cathedrals of Lincoln, Salisbury, and Gloucester. When, in the
next reign, that of Henry III., circumstances required that the
charter should be confirmed, the ceremony was performed by the
Archbishop of Canterbury and the other bishops. Coming before the
king, in Westminster Hall, with tapers in their hands, they
denounced excommunication against the breakers of the charter;
and, casting down their tapers, exclaimed, "So may all that incur
this sentence be extinguished." To which the king responded, "So
help me God, I will keep all these things inviolate."

Hallam says, of this great charter:

  "It is still the key-stone of English liberty," "and all that
  has since been obtained is little more than as confirmation or
  commentary."

Sir James Mackintosh and Sir William Blackstone agree essentially
with Hallam. In respect to the merit of obtaining the charter,
Mr. Hallam says:

  "As far as we are guided by historical testimony, two great
  men, the pillars of our church and state, may be considered as
  entitled beyond the rest to the glory of this monument--Stephen
  Langton, Archbishop of Canterbury, and William, Earl of
  Pembroke."

Of the charter, Sir William Blackstone says:

  "It protected every individual of the nation in the free
  enjoyment of his life, his liberty, and his property, unless
  declared to be forfeited by the judgment of his peers."

The Petition of Right, passed in 1628, was based confessedly upon
Magna Charta. Its principal provisions are:

  1. That no loan or tax might be levied, save by consent of
  parliament.

  2. That no man might be imprisoned but by legal process.

  3. That soldiers might not be quartered on people against their
  will.

  4. That no commissions be granted for executing martial law.

This Petition of Right, in its third article, quotes entire the
thirty-ninth of the charter, which is there styled "the great
charter of the liberties of England." Coke, who drew up the
petition, in his speech against the king's prerogative, says: "In
my opinion, it weakens Magna Charta and all our statutes."

The Bill of Rights, passed at the Revolution of 1688, assumes it
as the clear duty of the subjects "to vindicate and assert their
ancient rights and liberties." The Act of Settlement declares
that "the laws of England are the birthright of the people
thereof."

{415}

The correspondence and analogy between the principles of the
great charter, together with its successive commentaries and
confirmations, and those upon which the American Revolution
rests, are obvious and striking. We may particularly instance the
royal infringements upon the rights of the colonists, in refusing
assent to laws the most wholesome and necessary to the public
good; keeping up standing armies in time of peace without the
consent of the legislature; affecting to render the military
independent of and superior to the civil power; quartering armed
troops upon the inhabitants; imposing taxes upon them without
their consent; depriving them, in many cases, of the benefit of
trial by jury; and altering fundamentally the form of their
government.

Without a basis of right principle, the American Revolution would
have been a rebellion against legitimate authority, and the
people would have been deprived of that rectitude of conscience
which bore them through the war; they would have been demoralized
by the overthrow of their inbred loyalty, without which no free
government is secure. If there was not a violation of conscience
in withdrawing their allegiance to the British crown, it was
because they had sovereign rights which were above that
allegiance. It was because there was a Magna Charta which, in the
words of Coke, "would brook no sovran." The contest was for those
transmitted liberties which the American people claimed as a
birthright under the British Constitution. Nearly six centuries
divide 1776 from 1215; but the gulf is spanned by that arch of
immortal principles which was projected by Cardinal Stephen
Langton and his Catholic compeers in the meadow of Runnymede.

In violating the unity of Christendom in the sixteenth century,
England thus outraged the national conscience, and her disloyalty
to the truth that she had inherited for a thousand years was
followed by the oppression of her colonies, which finally led to
their separation from her. There was this great principle
involved in that contest, and this great difference in favor of
the colonists: England oppressed them, from her want of Catholic
guidance and restraint and the observance of her own organic
principle; _they_ resisted _her_ on that basis of
public right, and loyalty, and reason, which had been embedded in
the English Constitution by their common Catholic ancestry. Not
for the defence only of those rights, but for the knowledge of
them--for their very existence--were our ancestors indebted to
the Roman Catholic religion.

Upon the traditional laws and free principles of the English
Constitution, we have erected an unrivalled system of order and
right, while in English hands they have degenerated into a scheme
of legalized oppression which is without a parallel among nations
claiming to be free. Providence, acting on events, has so
disposed them that England's persecution of the faith has
transferred the Catholic population from that country to this,
where with the language are found also the true tradition and the
just development of the English Catholic constitution.

What is wanted to the perfection of American nationality is a
firm moral, that is, religious foundation. It is easily
susceptible of proof that no strong nationality has ever
subsisted without such a basis. I do not, of course, limit the
proposition to the Christian religion. But the foundation must be
the more stable as the religion which underlies and props it is
nearer to a conformity with unmixed truth. The first step in our
career of greatness was to turn from England and to advance
toward that unity which she had abandoned--when we seized upon
the traditional Catholic principles and defended them against her
attempted despotism.
{416}
The true course of our national welfare and security lies still
in the same direction--toward unity, and toward the Catholic
Church. For what is to supply the spiritual needs of this young,
and energetic, and glorious people? Surely not these transmitted
and transplanted heresies which have passed into their decline
and are tottering in their dotage. The creed which might answer
for some bounded island, a petty electorate, or a mountain canon,
is too narrow for this continental power, which needs a religion
confederate as its own union and wide as the expansion of its own
domain.

We have here many difficult and dividing moral questions already
pressing for a solution. The fusion of the Caucasian
tribes--already harmonized by the Catholic traditions, and never
very remotely divided by characteristics--will probably serve but
as the origination of a superior race: at least physiological
laws give no ground to fear a deterioration. But we have here a
numerous distinct race which must ever remain distinct, and which
increases more rapidly than the white population.

I am not aware that history furnishes an instance of the just
_reconciliation_ of two distinctly different races of men
upon the same soil, except by the aid of the Catholic religion.
In Mexico and in South America the Catholic religion is
establishing such a reconciliation, and it is the only
harmonizing element in those societies.

It is impossible to say what peaceful solution of the problem
will be reached here; but the ultimate destiny of the African
blood planted and rooted on this soil will be either adjudicated
upon Catholic principles, or else philanthropic theories, veil
them as we may, will apply to the evil the remedy still worse of
civil war. Questions like this demand a guide to conscience and a
clear and uniform exposition of moral obligations.

The United States government has never denied the due spiritual
authority of the Head of the Church--has never done aught to
infringe his just prerogatives. There has never been enacted here
an original or formal protest against the rights of the Apostolic
See.

This people have never thrown off the claims of the Catholic
religion, and they have not rejected it. The nation is not under
the ban of a misguided defiance of the right spiritual authority.

In no sense, therefore, has this nation as a nation compromised
itself as against those fundamental principles of unity and
liberty of which the Catholic Church is, in the spiritual order,
the true and only representative. As from her and her alone it
can receive the perpetual impulse of a free, progressive,
national development, so in yielding to her influence is it
guilty of no inconstancy to its organtic law, of no infidelity to
its historic past. The destiny which it is destined to accomplish
in the political depends upon the position which it voluntarily
assumes in the moral order, and this in turn upon the source from
which it drinks in the springs of its religious life.

It needs but to be true to its origin, its constitution, its
equity, and its ancestral virtues to become and to remain the
foremost of the nations of the earth. But truth to these
necessitates fidelity to her from whom visibly and directly not
only they, but all that is noble and elevating in art or arms or
civilization has originated, and in whom they have found an
impregnable defender--the Catholic Church, the Communion of the
Apostolic See.

                 ----------

{417}

  Translated From The Historisch-politische Blaetter.

          Schaff's Church History.


In the year 1854 appeared a work of great merit, entitled _A
History of the Apostolic Church_, together with a _General
Introduction to Church History,_ from the pen of Philip
Schaff, a professor in the Lutheran Seminary at Mercersburg, and
a literary colleague of Dr. Nevin, called "the American
proto-martyr of the suffering church." At that time, Professor
Schaff, who is a native of Graubündten, in Switzerland, was
making a long stay in Europe. In the same year he published two
other works--_St. Augustine_, Berlin, 1854, pp. 129, a
brochure or precursor of the present large work, and
_America--the Political, Social, and Ecclesiastico-Religious
Condition of the United States_, which is a continuous eulogy
of his adopted country. That Dr. Schaff has for thirteen years
zealously prosecuted the study of ecclesiastical history, the
unusual size of the work before us sufficiently evinces. It is
dated from the Bible House in New York, January, 1867, and
dedicated to the teachers and friends of the author, August
Tholuck, Julius Müller of Halle, J. A. Dorner of Berlin, and J.
P. Lange of Bonn.

From the preface and dedication we learn that Schaff studied
exegesis in Tübingen under Dr. Schmid, history under Dr. Bauer,
and attended the lectures on systematic theology of Dr. Dorner.
At this time he resided in Halle, "under the hospitable roof" of
Tholuck, and by him and Julius Müller he was encouraged to choose
an academical career. Since his residence in North America he has
twice visited Europe, in 1854 and in 1865. His friends frequently
wished him to obtain a professor's chair in Germany, but he could
not determine to separate himself from a land in which since his
twenty-fifth year he had found a second home, and desired his
days to close in the "noble mediatorship between the Evangelical
Christianity of the German and English languages." His book shows
that he has defended in America, not altogether unworthily, the
German theology--"the true, liberal, catholic, and evangelical
theology."

An English translation of the present history of the ancient
church, entitled _History of the Christian Church; or, History
of Ancient Christianity,_ appeared at the same time. Editions
of this work were simultaneously published in New York and
Edinburgh, in the years 1859 and 1862. It is indeed a
continuation of _The Apostolic Church_, but, like it, a
separate work "it contains the fruits of twenty years' active
labor as professor of church history in Mercersburg,
Pennsylvania."

Dr. Schaff remained in New York two years, for the purpose of
availing himself of the use of its larger libraries. Here the
Astor Library was at his command.
{418}
This library, founded in the year 1850, by the German, John Jacob
Astor, with a capital of four hundred thousand dollars, has been
extensively increased by his son. It contains in a magnificent
building one hundred and fifty thousand carefully selected
volumes, among which are many costly and classic works on all
branches of literature. He had also access to the library of the
Union Theological Seminary, "which has purchased the Van Ess
Library, (that of the well-known Catholic Bible translator,) with
a collection of the fathers of the Church and the great learned
compilations; it has since been increased by the addition of the
library of E. Robinson, and the productions of recent Protestant
theology. It is worthy of remark that the libraries of our
celebrated German church historians find their way to America.
Thus, the Neander library has been for a length of time in the
Baptist Seminary at Rochester; the Thilo Library in Yale College,
New Haven; and the Niedner Library in the Congregationalist
Seminary at Andover. Neander's library, together with the
manuscript of his church history, are shelved in a separate room
at Rochester." This is unfortunately the customary way in which
the important libraries of German theologians find their way
either to England or North America, or, at least, are sold under
the hammer.

The author honors the truth when he acknowledges and prefers the
older and mostly Catholic investigators to the labors of
Protestant inquirers. He mentions the Benedictines in the
editions of the fathers of the church, the Bollandists in
hagiography, Mansi and Hardouin in the collection of the
councils, Gallandi, Dupin, Ceillier, Oudin, Cave, and J. A.
Fabricius in patrology and the history of church literature; in
particular branches he mentions Tillemont, Peteau, (Petavius,)
Bull, Bingham, and Walch as his favorite guides. Whether he will
prepare for the press his numerous manuscripts on the church
history of the middle ages and modern times, the author refers to
a distant and indefinite time. It will be done if "God grants him
time and strength." For the present, his leisure time will be
employed with the enlarged English edition of Lange's biblical
works.

The peculiarity of our author consists in working up and turning
to advantage the studies of others. In Schaff we find little or
no independent research, for which he needs both time and
inclination, but he excels in an exact and erudite employment of
that which has been prepared by others. We are not finding fault
with this, but rather approve of and commend it. In more personal
and independent investigation, the present lacks the results of
his previous intellectual labors. Dr. Schaff may make these once
more respected; indeed, he avails himself more extensively of the
labors of Catholic authors than any other modern Protestant
historian.

In a book so rich in its contents, we are obliged to confine
ourselves to a notice of special points only; we prefer this
limitation to an estimate of the general contents, which of
course embrace the ordinary well-known topics. The author treats
of the inner life of the church, monasticism, ecclesiastical
customs, worship, and Christian art more minutely than any of his
predecessors.

The author discusses more briefly than we expected the two
important chapters on the church's care of the poor, and of
prisoners and slaves.
{419}
The question of slavery is considered in paragraphs 89 and 152,
in _The History of the Apostolic Church_, paragraph 113, and
in a separate treatise published in 1861, _Slavery and the
Bible_. More than thirty-four years ago, as Möhler for the
first time treated of this subject, he could say that he had
searched with ardor both large and small works on church history
for the purpose of instructing himself on the mode of the
abolition of slavery, but all to no purpose; so that here he was
compelled to open the way himself. Frequently since that time
this question has been historically treated, but by no means
exhausted. With a few words Dr. Schaff dismisses the important
decrees of the Emperor Constantine in the years 316 and 321. He
only remarks: "Constantine facilitated their liberation, granted
Sunday to them, and gave ecclesiastics the privilege of
emancipating their slaves of their own will and without the
witnesses and ceremonies which were otherwise necessary." Here he
cites _Corpus Juris_, 1. i. art. 13, 1. 1 and 2. The fact
is, that the Emperor Constantine issued a command, April 18th,
321, to Bishop Hosius, of Cordova, according to which the
liberation of slaves in the Christian churches should have the
same effect as manumission under the Roman law. The principal law
of this decree reads thus: "Those who liberate their slaves in
the bosom of the church are declared to have done this with the
same authority as if it were done by the Roman state, with her
accustomed solemnities." This statute may be found in the
_Theodosian Code,_ lib. iv. tit. 7, _De Manumiss. in
Ecclesia_; Lex 2, _Codex Justin. De his, qui in Ecclesia
manumittuntur_. It is mentioned by Sozomen in the _Historia
Tripartita_, and by Nicephorus Callisti, vii. 18. It does not
appear to us that Dr. Schaff has seen the text of the decree; for
this does not refer only to the slaves of ecclesiastics, but to
slaves in general. Whoever declared in the church that his slaves
had received their liberty, they were from that fact free. Schaff
is of the opinion that Möhler, (who was also ignorant of this
decree,) in his able treatise on the abolition of slavery, has
overestimated the influence of the sermons of St. Chrysostom on
the subject, and we cannot say that he is entirely incorrect. On
the other hand, the latter raised the question of the so-called
_inner_ liberation of the slaves, that is, their Christian
treatment, the solicitude and care of Christian masters for their
servants. The emancipation of slaves who were not prepared for
liberty was always injurious to the slaves themselves, and not at
all promotive of the general welfare.

Dr. Schaff treats the life and teaching of St. Augustine with
becoming respect. He does him, however, a great injustice when he
makes him teach, after the example of Tertullian and St. Cyprian,
[Footnote 139] a symbolical doctrine of the Last Supper, which at
the same time includes a real spiritual repast through faith, and
thus in this respect he makes him approach the Calvinistic or
orthodox reformed doctrine. St. Augustine a Calvinist in the
doctrine of the Eucharist! But the few passages which Dr. Schaff
advances for this purpose prove directly the faith of St.
Augustine in the real, not in the symbolical, presence of Christ
in the sacrament of the altar. In his twenty-sixth tract on John
we read: "Who abides not in Christ, neither eats his flesh, nor
drinks his blood, even though he should press with his teeth the
sacrament of the body and blood of Christ."

    [Footnote 139: It is Dr. Schaff, and not the author of the
    article, who attributes this doctrine to the two writers
    mentioned.--ED. C. W.]

{420}

Our Lord says: "He who eateth my body, and drinketh my blood,
abideth in me, and I in him." (John vi. 57.) Jesus refers to
those who receive it with living faith and devotion, since the
mere corporal partaking of the Eucharist is no abiding in Christ;
therefore St. Augustine could say, and so can every Catholic
teacher at the present time, "Who abides not in Christ, neither
eats (truly) his flesh, nor drinks his blood, even though he
should press with his teeth the sacrament of the body and blood
of Christ." The same doctrine is contained in the familiar hymn,
"_Sumunt boni, sumunt mali, sorte tamen inoequali, vitae vel
interitus_" [Footnote 140]

    [Footnote 140: "The good and the bad receive, yet
    with the different lot of life or of destruction."]

The wicked, then, who receive the body, receive it not to life,
but to judgment, for Christ lives not in them. With no better
reason can Schaff adduce the words of St. Augustine in the
preceding tract: "Why prepare your teeth and your stomach?
Believe and eat." Every Catholic teacher must declare the same;
it is not the corporal participation, but the spiritual
disposition, which is faith and love, which must be impressed
upon the mind of the faithful in receiving the Holy Eucharist.

Dr. Schaff is quite unfortunate in adducing the passage, (_De
peccator, meritis et rem_. ii. 25,) "Although it is not the
body of Christ, yet it is holy, since it is a sacrament." The
impression is created in the mind of the reader that St.
Augustine here denies in plain words the real presence of Christ.
When we examine more closely, it is found that the question is
not of the Eucharist at all, but of the blessed bread called
Eulogia, and of which catechumens were allowed to partake. The
entire passage runs thus: "Sanctification is not of one mode; for
I think that even catechumens are sanctified in a certain way
through the sign of Christ and the prayer of the imposition of
hands; and that which they receive, although it is not the body
of Christ, yet it is holy, more holy than the food by which we
are nourished, since it is a sacrament." Here the saint
distinguishes three kinds of food. First, that which is used for
sustenance; second, the Eulogia, or the blessed bread, which
catechumens received after they were set apart for the laying on
of hands and blessings--this is called a sacrament; and third,
the Eucharistic bread, which he calls the "body of the Lord."
This blessed bread (which twenty years ago the author saw handed
around in French churches) is indeed holier than common bread, a
very sacrament, or, as we would say, a _sacramental_, but
still it is not the body of the Lord. The real presence is, then,
taught in this passage, and Schaff would have been guilty of a
falsification if he had read it in its proper connection. For his
credit let us suppose that he has not done so. We find this
quotation in Professor Schmid's _Compendium of the History of
Dogma_, the first edition of which was often before Dr.
Schaff. Schmid at least permits the truth to appear (second
edition, p. 109) when he quotes St. Augustine saying, "That which
they receive, although it is not the body of Christ, yet it is
holy," etc. Since we find so many passages in St. Augustine,
which prove his belief in the real presence of our Lord in the
Blessed Sacrament, we are bound to explain the other passages, in
which he speaks of a figurative partaking, in conformity with
them.

{421}

These defects, however, do not prevent us from heartily
acknowledging the excellence of Professor Schaff's work, and
expressing the hope that the author may employ his undoubted
talents in the service of Christian truth.

              ----------

              Penitence.

               A Sonnet.


  A sorrow that for shame had hid her face,
  Soared to Heaven's gate, and knelt in penance there
  Beneath the dusk cloud of her own wet hair,
  Weeping, as who would fain some deed erase
  That blots in dread eclipse baptismal grace:
  Like a felled tree with all its branches fair
  She lay--her forehead on the ivory stair--
  Low murmuring, "Just art Thou, but I am base."
  Then saw I in my spirit's unsealed ken
  How Heaven's bright hosts thrilled like the gems of morn
  When May winds on the incense-bosomed thorn
  The diamonds change to ruby. Magdalen
  Arose, and kissed the Saviour's feet once more,
  And to that suffering soul his peace and pardon bore.

                                     Aubrey De Vere.

              ----------

{422}

           New Publications.

  Cradle Lands.
  By Lady Herbert.
  With Illustrations.
  New-York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1869.

We welcome the appearance of this handsome volume with especial
heartiness and interest for at least two reasons. It is the first
attempt ever made by a Catholic publisher in this country to
produce an illustrated work, of other than a strictly religious
character, suitable as a holiday gift and valuable at the same
time from its intrinsic merit; and it is one of the few good
narratives in the English language of travel in the Holy Land
written by a devout Catholic, and filled consequently with a
genuine religious spirit. We have had Christmas books, annuals,
etc., some of them excellent in their way; but their way was
rather a narrow one, and we have never until now attempted to
rival the Protestant publishing-houses on their own ground.
_Cradle Lands_, however, is just the book which hundreds of
our friends will be glad to buy for presents, and hundreds more
will be glad to have for their own use. It is very handsomely
made, is clearly printed on excellent paper, and well bound; and
the illustrations, faithfully reproduced from the London edition,
are everything that could be desired.

The book is well worth the pains that have been spent on it. Lady
Herbert is an experienced traveller; with a quick eye for
whatever is interesting, and a style sufficiently lively to make
her chapters easy reading. She has not the graceful pen of a
Kinglake or a Curtis; but she is rarely or never dull, and her
power of description is by no means contemptible. But, as we said
before, a peculiar interest belongs to her narrative on account
of the spirit of Catholic piety which permeates it--not breaking
out inopportunely in religious commonplaces, but coloring the
scenes she paints with a graceful light of faith, and enticing us
to look upon the land of our Lord not with the eyes of modern
scepticism, but in the devout spirit in which a good Christian
ought to look at it. She travelled with a party of friends from
Egypt through Palestine, visiting the holy places, and afterward
passing into Asia Minor. She describes not only the venerable
relics of the past scattered through those sacred spots, and the
condition of the modern native population, but the state of
Christianity, the convents, schools, asylums, and other religious
foundations, in which she appears to have found frequent
hospitality. We need not follow her closely over ground which, in
its principal features, is already familiar to most of our
readers; but, as specimens of her style, we shall reproduce a few
episodical passages. Here is a picture of harem life, a subject
trite enough, yet always fresh:

  "Before leaving Cairo, the English ladies were invited to spend
  an evening in the royal harem, and accordingly, at eight
  o'clock, found themselves in a beautiful garden, with
  fountains, lit by a multitude of variegated lamps, and were
  conducted by black eunuchs through trellis-covered walks to a
  large marble-paved hall, where about forty Circassian slaves
  met them, and escorted them to a saloon fitted up with divans,
  at the end of which reclined the pacha's wives. One of them was
  singularly beautiful, and exquisitely dressed in pink velvet
  and ermine, and priceless jewels. Another very fine figure was
  that of the mother, a venerable old princess, looking exactly
  like a Rembrandt just come out of its frame. Great respect was
  paid to her, and when she came in every one rose. The guests
  being seated, or rather squatted, on the divan, each was
  supplied with long pipes, coffee in exquisitely jewelled cups,
  and sweetmeats, the one succeeding the other without
  intermission the whole night. The Circassian slaves, with
  folded hands and downcast eyes, stood before their mistresses
  to supply their wants. Some of them were very pretty, and
  dressed with great richness and taste. Then began a concert of
  Turkish instruments, which sounded unpleasing to English ears,
  followed by a dance, which was graceful and pretty; but this
  again followed by a play, in which half the female slaves were
  dressed up as men, and the coarseness of which it is impossible
  to describe. The wife of the foreign minister kindly acted as
  interpreter for the English ladies, and through her means some
  kind of conversation was kept up. But the ignorance of the
  ladies in the harem is unbelievable. They can neither read nor
  write; their whole day is employed in dressing, bathing,
  eating, drinking, and smoking.

{423}

  "Before the close of the evening, Princess A----, addressing
  herself to the mother of the party, through her interpreter,
  spoke very earnestly and seriously about her daughters, (then
  twelve and fourteen years of age,) remonstrating with her on
  their being still unmarried, and adding: 'Next Friday is the
  most auspicious of all days in the year for betrothal. I will
  have six of the handsomest and straightest-eyebrowed pachas
  here for you to choose from.' In vain the English lady refused
  the intended honor, pleading that in her country marriages were
  not contracted at so early an age, to say nothing of certain
  differences of race and of faith! The princess was not to be
  diverted from her purpose, and persisted in arranging the whole
  of the Friday's ceremonial. Let us hope that the young
  'straight-eyebrowed pachas' found some other fair ladies, to
  console them for the non-appearance of their wished-for English
  brides on the appointed day. The _soirée_ lasted till two
  o'clock in the morning, when the royalty withdrew; and the
  English ladies returned home, feeling the whole time as if they
  had been seeing a play acted from a scene in the _Arabian
  Nights_, so difficult was it to realize that such a kind of
  existence was possible in the present century."

The original plan of our travellers was to proceed from Cairo
across the desert, but they were afterward obliged to choose an
easier route on account of the sickness of one of the party.
Preparations for the desert journey, however, had been made, and
there is a pleasant description of their outfit:

  "At last, thanks to the kindness of an English gentleman long
  resident in Cairo, Mr. A----, five tents were got together and
  pitched, on approval, in the square opposite the hotel. One was
  a gorgeous affair, sky-blue, with red-and-white devices all
  over it, looking very like the tent of a travelling wild-beast
  show. But as it was the only large and roomy one, and was
  capable of containing the four ladies and their beds and
  bedding, it was finally decided to keep it, and to make it the
  drawing-room by day, reserving the more modest ones for the
  gentlemen of the party, as well as for the servants and the
  cooking apparatus. Their numbers were so great, with the
  'tent-pitchers' and the other necessary camp-followers, that
  our travellers decided to dispense with chairs and
  tables--rather to the despair of a rheumatic member of the
  company!--and to content themselves with squatting on their
  carpets for their meals in true oriental fashion, and making
  use of the two wicker-baskets (which were to sling on each side
  of the mules, and contained the one dress for Sunday allowed to
  each lady) for dressing and wash-hand stands. A cord fastened
  across the tents at night served as a hanging wardrobe, to
  prevent their getting wet on the (sometimes) damp ground; some
  tin jugs and basins, with a smarter set in brass of a beautiful
  shape, (called in Cairo a '_tisht_' and '_ibreek_,')
  together with a few '_nargeeleh_' pipes for the use of
  their guests on state occasions, completed their furnishing
  arrangements. They had brought from their boats a 'Union Jack,'
  so as to place themselves under the protection of their
  country's flag, and also an elaborate 'Wyvern,' the fabrication
  of which, in gorgeous green, with a curly tail, had afforded
  them great amusement in their start four months before.

  "This life in tents is a free and charming way of existence,
  and, except in wet weather, was one of unmixed enjoyment to the
  whole party. The time spent by the leaders of the expedition in
  providing these necessary articles was occupied by the younger
  ones in buying presents in the bazaars: now struggling through
  the goldsmiths' quarter, (the narrowest in all Cairo,) where
  you buy your gold by the carat, and then have it manufactured
  before your eyes into whatever form you please; now trying on
  bright '_kaffirs_' made of the pure Mecca silk, and
  generally of brown and yellow shades, with the '_akgal_,'
  a kind of cord of camel's-hair which binds them round the head;
  or else the graceful burnous, with their beautifully blended
  colors and soft camel's-hair texture; or the many
  bright-colored slippers; or, leaving the silk and stuff bazaar,
  threading their way through the stalls containing what we
  should call in England 'curiosities,' and selecting the
  beautiful little silver filagree or enamel cups called
  '_zarfs_,' which hold the delicate, tiny Dresden ones
  within--meant to contain that most delicious of all drinks,
  the genuine Eastern coffee, made without sugar or milk, but as
  unlike the horrible beverage known by that name in England as
  can well be imagined!
{424}
   In the same stalls were to be found beautiful Turkish
   rosaries, of jasper and agate, or sweet-scented woods, with
   long-shaped bottles of attar of roses, enamelled
   '_nargeelehs_' and amber-mouthed pipes, and octagonal
   little tables made of tortoise-shell inlaid with
   mother-of-pearl."

Here is a good story of Egyptian law-courts:

  "A certain French gentleman entrusted an Englishman with £90 to
  buy a horse for him. The Englishman, accordingly, gave the
  money to a native, whom he considered thoroughly trustworthy,
  with orders to go into Arabia and there purchase the animal.
  The Arab, however, spent most of the money in his own devices,
  and returned to Cairo, after a few months, with a wretched
  horse, such as would appear at a Spanish bull-fight. The
  Englishman, immensely disgusted, returned the £90, to his
  French friend, simply saying that he had failed in executing
  his commission; but he determined to try and recover it from
  the Arab. So he went and told the whole matter to the governor
  of Cairo, who appointed his deputy as judge. While the case was
  being tried, dinner-time came; and the judge, the prosecutor,
  and the prisoner, all sat down together, and dined in a
  friendly way. No embarrassment was caused thereby; but after
  dinner, the judge, turning to the prisoner, quietly said: 'Can
  you pay the Frank gentleman the money you owe him?' On
  receiving a simple reply in the negative, the judge added,
  'Then you had better go off at once to prison, and delay this
  gentleman no longer.' The Arab went without a word, and
  remained in this miserable place (for the prisons are infamous)
  for two months, after which his brother took his place for him.
  Finally the money was paid by instalments."

With the following beautiful description of a "Good-Friday
service at Jerusalem," we commend Lady Herbert's book to the
favor of our readers:

  "It is a beautiful and solemn service, in which even
  Protestants are seen to join with unwonted fervor; and on this
  special day it was crowded to excess. When it was over, the two
  friends returned to the altar of St. Mary Magdalen, the words
  and tones of the hymn still lingering in their hearts:

     'Jesu! dulce refugium,
      Spes una te quaerentium.
      Per Magdalenae meritum
      Peccati solve debitum.'

To those who are sorrowful and desponding at the sense of their
own unworthiness and continual shortcomings, there is a peculiar
attraction and help in the thoughts of this saint, apart from all
the rest. The perfections of the Blessed Virgin dazzle us by
their very brightness, and make us, as it were, despair of
following her example. But in the Magdalen we have the picture of
one who, like us, was tempted and sinned and fell, and yet, by
the mercy of God and the force of the mighty love he put into her
heart, was forgiven and accepted for the sake of that very love
he had infused.

  "Presently the English stranger rose, and, approaching one of
  the Franciscan monks, begged for the benediction of her
  crucifix and other sacred objects, according to the short form
  in use at the shrine of the Holy Sepulchre; a privilege kindly
  and courteously granted to her. And now the shades of evening
  are darkening the aisles of the sacred building, and the
  pilgrims are gathered in a close and serried mass in the Chapel
  of Calvary, waiting for the ceremony which is to close the
  solemn offices of that awful day. By the kindness of the duke,
  who had been their companion in the Via Crucis, the two ladies
  were saved from the crowd, and conducted by a private staircase
  from the Greek chapel to the right of the altar of Calvary. The
  whole is soon wrapped in profound darkness, save where the
  light is thrown on a crucifix the size of life, erected close
  to the fatal spot. You might have fancied yourself alone but
  for the low murmur and swaying to and fro of the dense crowd
  kneeling on the floor of the chapel. Presently a Franciscan
  monk stepped forward, and, leaving his brethren prostrate at
  the foot of the altar, mounted on a kind of estrade at the
  back, and proceeded to detach the figure of our Blessed Lord
  from the cross. As each nail was painfully and slowly drawn
  out, he held it up, exclaiming, 'Ecce, dulces clavos!' exposing
  it at the same time to the view of the multitude, who,
  breathless and expectant, seemed riveted to the spot, with
  their upturned faces fixed on the symbol represented to them.
  The supernatural and majestic stillness and silence of that
  great mass of human beings was one of the most striking
  features of the whole scene. Presently a ladder was brought,
  and the sacred figure lifted down, as in Rubens's famous
  picture of the 'Deposition,' into the arms of the monks at the
  foot of the cross.
{425}
   As the last nail was detached, and the head fell forward as of
   a dead body, a low deep sob burst from the very souls of the
   kneeling crowd. Tenderly and reverently the Franciscan fathers
   wrapped it in fine linen, and placed it in the arms of the
   patriarch, who, kneeling, received it, and carried it down to
   the Holy Sepulchre, the procession chanting the antiphon,
   'Acceperunt Joseph et Nicodemus corpus Jesu; et ligaverunt
   illud linteis cum aromatibus, sicut mos est Judaeis sepelire.'
   The crowd followed eagerly, yet reverently, the body to its
   last resting-place. It is a representation which might
   certainly be painful if not conducted throughout with
   exceeding care. But done as it is at Jerusalem, it can but
   deepen in the minds of all beholders the feelings of intense
   reverence, adoration, and awe with which they draw near to the
   scene of Christ's sufferings, and enable them more perfectly
   to realize the mystery of that terrible Passion which he bore
   for our sakes in his own body on the tree.

  "And with this touching ceremony the day is over; the crowd of
  pilgrims disperses, to meet on the morrow in the same spot for
  the more consoling offices of Easter-eve.

  "But in many a heart the memory of this day will never be
  effaced; and will, it is humbly hoped, bear its life-long fruit
  in increased devotion to the sacred humanity of their Lord, and
  in greater detestation of those sins which could only be
  cancelled by so tremendous an atonement."

              ------

  The Bird.
  By Jules Michelet.
  With 210 illustrations by Giacomelli.
  New York: T. Nelson & Sons. 1868.

It is not often that nature finds so charming an interpreter as
Michelet. He throws around us the very perfume of the flowers;
and his birds not only sing, but sing to us, speak to us, and
become our dearest friends. Reading, we forget the close walls of
the city, the weary noise, the heavy air of overcrowded human
life; we follow the birds in their flight, drink in their spirit
of liberty, joy, tenderness, and love, till, with Michelet, we
almost give them a personality, a soul. It is difficult to cull
from a bed of choice flowers a single specimen, for one will
appeal to us through its beauty of form, another of color,
another by its delicacy and fragrance; so here, where every page
is charming, we know not how to choose between the grandeur and
magnificence of the tropical forests, or the stern and silent
melancholy of the polar regions, or the more home-like charm of
scenes that we know. The last, perhaps, cannot fail to please.
Here is his description of an autumnal migration:

  "Bright was the morning sky, but the wind blew from La Vendée.
  My pines bewailed their fate, and from my afflicted cedar
  issued a low, deep voice of mourning. The ground was strewn
  with fruit, which we all set to work to gather. Gradually the
  weather grew cloudy, the sky assumed a dull leaden gray, the
  wind sank, all was death-like. It was then, at about four
  o'clock, that simultaneously arrived, from all points, from the
  wood, from the Erdre, from the city, from the Loire, from the
  Sèvre, infinite legions, darkening the day, which settled on
  the church roof, with a myriad voices, a myriad cries, debates,
  discussions. Though, ignorant of their language, it was not
  difficult for us to perceive that they differed among
  themselves. It may be that the youngest, beguiled by the warm
  breath of autumn, would fain have lingered longer. But the
  wiser and more experienced travellers insisted upon departure.
  They prevailed; the black masses, moving all at once like a
  huge cloud, winged their flight toward the south-east, probably
  toward Italy. They had scarcely accomplished three hundred
  leagues (four or five hours' flight) before all the cataracts
  of heaven were let loose to deluge the earth; for a moment we
  thought it was a flood. Sheltered in our house, which shook
  with the furious blast, we admired the wisdom of the winged
  soothsayers, which had so prudently anticipated the annual
  epoch of migration."

This book was to the author a sort of oasis; it was undertaken or
rather grew up in the interval of a rest from historical labors;
it was for him a refreshment, a rest; and such it could not fail
to prove to any one of us in the midst of the weary cares of
every-day life. Unfortunately, Michelet has not interpreted
history so successfully as he has nature, and the results of his
labor are far less praiseworthy than the results of his
recreation.

{426}

_The Bird_ is most beautifully
illustrated by Giacomelli, Doré's
collaborateur on his celebrated Bible.

              ------

  Tablets.
  By A. Bronson Alcott.
  Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1868.

No one who has ever enjoyed the pleasure of an interview with the
"Orphic Alcott," and felt the charm which his rare conversational
powers throw around every subject to which they are directed, can
fail to find a renewal of that pleasure while perusing the genial
volume which has just emanated from his too infrequent pen.
Elegant in its external garniture, it brings upon its pages the
faint odor of the roses that bloom on the broad Concord lawns,
the rustle of the leaves that shelter the secluded nook in which
the writer finds "the leisure and the peace of age," the cool air
that floats across clear Walden-water, filling both library and
studio with its bracing breath; so giving to the reader, familiar
with the scenes amid which these _Tablets_ were inscribed, a
double satisfaction in the thoughts which they suggest and in the
memories which they revive.

The book itself consists of two series of essays: the first,
"Practical;" the second, "Speculative." The former will most
interest the ordinary reader. The latter will be appreciated by
few who are not otherwise instructed in the peculiar views of
their author. The "Practical" essays are entitled "The Garden,"
"Recreation," "Fellowship," "Friendship," "Culture," "Books,"
"Counsels," and each is subdivided into different heads.
Hackneyed as several of these subjects appear to be, the reader
will experience no sense of weariness while following Mr. Alcott
over them. Were not his ideas original, "the method of the man"
would be alone sufficient to give an interest of no common order
to his well-weighed words. Many of his aphorisms are like "apples
of gold in pictures of silver;" and some deserve to become
household truths with all thoughtful men. Such is his verdict
upon political partisanship on page 148; his strong, courageous
plea for individuality on page 145; and his high view of
education on pages 103 _et seq_. From these and various
other passages, which space alone forbids us to distinguish, we
may say that, if "a man's speech is the measure of his culture,"
there are few men into whose sphere one can be brought whose
kindliness and courtesy, whose flowing spirits and sprightly wit,
can more captivate and charm than the gray-haired student who
sits in the arbors, groves, and gardens, and day by day treasures
up on the tablets of his diary the choice things of mankind, and
illustrates them with choice memories of his own.

At this period of Mr. Alcott's life, we anticipated, in reading
his _Tablets_, which speak so charmingly of this world,
finding some light shed on the world to come. It makes us sad to
think we found nothing.

              ------


  A New Practical Hebrew Grammar,
  With Hebrew-English And English-Hebrew Exercises,
  And Hebrew Chrestomathy.
  By Solomon Deutsch, A.M., Ph.D.
  New York: Leypoldt & Holt. 1868.

Text-books should be valued according to the perfection of the
method adopted, and the precision and arrangement of details,
rather than on account of abundance of matter or exhaustive
explanations. Books which contain copious treatises are useful,
and even necessary, for the master, but injurious to the
advancement of the pupil. The author of the school-book should
aim at arranging the elements in the department in which he
writes so that the scholar may, with the least trouble, acquire a
knowledge of the rules, principles, and leading features of the
subject. Students should not be expected to learn everything in
school. The professor who aims at imparting a complete knowledge,
or all he may know on a subject, will confuse his students, be
found too exacting, and will be finally punished by
disappointment. School exercise was very appropriately called
_disciplina_ by the Romans, a term which implied rather a
training in the manner in which the various branches should be
studied, than the attainment of their mastery.

{427}

Mr. Deutsch's Hebrew course, according to the principles just
enunciated, is beyond doubt the best schoolbook of its kind that
has appeared from the American press. Rödiger's revision of
Gesenius's Grammar, translated from the German by Conant, is much
too extensive for beginners, and was never intended by its
eminent author to fall into the hands of the uninitiated. Yet it
is commonly used in the colleges and seminaries of this country
as an introductory treatise. The same objection should be urged,
in union with others, against Green's Grammar; while his
chrestomathy is more of an exegetical than a grammatical
treatise. The student is frequently terrified from the study by
the vast array of particulars, and he who has courage to
persevere must learn to shut his eyes to the greater portion of
these works, in order to clearly discern that which is truly
valuable in them.

Mr. Deutsch has succeeded, to a considerable extent, in giving a
concise and lucid exposition of the elements of the Hebrew
language, but has greatly diminished, if not destroyed, the
usefulness of his grammar as a class-book by introducing his
elaborate system of "Hebrew-English and English-Hebrew
exercises." These exercises, which compose the greater portion of
his work, will be found to be merely cumbersome material, which
will prevent its adoption in the schools.

Living languages, or such as are partially so, might be, perhaps
should be, learned by acquiring a facility of rendering the
phrases of one's mother tongue into those of the language he is
endeavoring to acquire; but it is not easy to understand how such
a readiness can be, or need be, acquired in Hebrew, which is
nowhere spoken, and living in no form if not in its degenerate
offspring, the rabbinic of the Portuguese, German, or Polish
Jews.

Those who are looking for a concise and lucid exposition of the
elements of Hebrew will not be pleased with Mr. Deutsch's
repetition of the nine declensions of nouns, as given by
Gesenius. This constitutes an additional encumbrance to the work,
not unlike that which would arise in a Latin grammar from an
attempt to form a new declension from each of the various
inflections embraced in the third.

A Hebrew course for Catholic schools has been supplied, as to the
more important part, and the portion requiring the greater amount
of labor, by Paul L. B. Drach, in his _Catholicum Lexicon
Hebraicum et Chaldaicum_. Mr. Drach had been a Jewish rabbi in
Paris before his conversion to the Church, and as he was an
eminent oriental scholar, the last Pontiff, Gregory XVI.,
requested him to publish a Hebrew lexicon for the use of Catholic
schools. His work resulted in a corrected and enlarged edition of
Gesenius' Lexicon, from which all Jewish and rationalistic errors
were excluded. It received the special approbation of Pius IX. in
1847, and was published by the greatest promoter of
ecclesiastical literature in this century, Abbé Migné. This is
undoubtedly the best work of its kind, and its complement,
consisting of a grammar and chrestomathy, is all that is wanting
to constitute a course of Hebrew for the Catholic schools of this
country.

              ------

  The New Adam; or, Ten Dialogues on our
  Redemption and the Necessity of Self-Denial.
  Edited by the Very Rev. Z. Druon, V.G., and approved
  by the Right Rev. Bishop of Burlington.
  Claremont, N. H. 1868.

This little book was first published in Paris, A.D. 1662. From a
second and more complete edition, the present translation was
prepared and edited. The subjects of the "Ten Dialogues" are as
follows:

  I. The State of Original Righteousness.

  II. Adam's Fall.

  III. The Penance of Adam and Eve after their Fall.

  IV. The State of Penance we are in is preferable, in some
  respects, to the earthly Paradise.

  V. The Infinite Perfection with which Jesus Christ, the new
  Adam, performed the penance imposed on the old Adam.

  VI. Self-Denial.

  VII. Obligation of Self-Denial.

  VIII. Imitation of the Self-Denial of Christ.

  IX. Scriptural texts concerning Self-Denial.

  X. The Self-Denial of Jesus Christ.

From this view of its contents, and the cursory glance we have
been able to bestow upon its pages, we believe it to be, as its
editor claims, "well grounded on the Holy Scriptures, sound in
doctrine, remarkable for its clearness and depth of thought, full
of pious and practical reflections, instructive, and, at the same
time, interesting and pleasing."

               ------
{428}

  The Life Of St. Thomas À Becket, of Canterbury.
  By Mrs. Hope, author of _The Early Martyrs_, etc.
  With a Preface, by the Rev. Father Dalgairns,
  of the London Oratory of St. Philip Neri.
  16mo, pp. xxiv., 398.
  London: Burns, Gates & Co.
  New York: The Catholic Publication Society.

Veneration for the memory of St. Thomas, of Canterbury, has
undergone recently a remarkable revival in England, and this
meritorious compilation by Mrs. Hope is one of the fruits of it.
She has drawn most of her materials from the more elaborate
biographies by the Rev. Dr. Giles and the Rev. John Morris, and
from the _Remains_ of the Rev. R. H. Froude, and, of course
makes no pretension to the rank of an original investigator; but
she has done a very serviceable work nevertheless, and, upon the
whole, has done it well. Her narrative is interesting and rapid.
The style possesses the merit--rare with female writers on
religious subjects--of directness and simplicity; the story
being unencumbered by either ambitious rhetoric or commonplace
reflections. From this reason, as well as from the care with
which she seems to have studied the subject, the book not only
gives us an insight into the saint's personal character, but
leaves on the reader's mind a very clear comprehension of the
nature of that long struggle for the rights of the Church and for
the independence of the spiritual order which resulted in his
martyrdom, and which modern historians have done so much to
obscure. Mrs. Hope is rather too fond of telling dreams, which
she apparently half-believes and half does not believe to have
been prophetic inspirations, although most of them were like the
answers of the pagan oracles--susceptible of almost any
interpretation, and only to be understood in the light of
after-events; but that is a habit which she borrowed of the
mediaeval chroniclers, and she shares it with a very large class
of modern biographers. Of course, God may speak to man in a dream
as well as in other ways; but when the dreams are clearly
referable to distinct physical causes, as some of those recorded
in this book are, when, in fact, they are just like ordinary
nightmares, the attempt to elevate them to the dignity of
supernatural visions is more pious than prudent.

The preface, by Father Dalgairns, comprises a very effective
answer to some of the misrepresentations in Dean Stanley's life
of the saint, contained in the _Memorials of Canterbury_.

              ------

  Vermont Historical Gazetteer:
  A Magazine embracing a digest of the History of each town,
  civil, educational, religious, geological, and literary.
  Edited by Abby Maria Hemenway,
  compiler of _The Poets and Poetry of Vermont_.
  Burlington, Vt. 1860-1868.

We have received the first eleven numbers of this magazine. The
authoress has evidently endeavored to produce a first-class work
of its kind, and has, to a great extent, succeeded. It is to be
regretted, however, that some of the numbers are printed on
inferior paper, a serious fault in a work of so much local
interest and so permanent a character.

Miss Hemenway does not content herself with the historical and
topographical, as is usual with the authors who produce most of
our local annals. Biography and literature form a large portion
of her work. Art also lends its charm, and adorns her pages with
portraits of distinguished men and representations of memorable
scenes. To us the work seems almost exhaustive. The Green
Mountain State has reason to congratulate itself on so laborious
and persevering a historian, and its sons should certainly reward
her toil with the most prompt and liberal pecuniary recognition.

               ------

{429}

  Gropings After Truth.
  A Life Journey from New England Congregationalism
  to the One Catholic and Apostolic Church.
  By Joshua Huntington.
  New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1868.

This little work, which has been some weeks before the public in
pamphlet form and already promises to shed "light in many dark
places" in the hearts of candid seekers after truth, has at last
been issued in a permanent and elegant edition. It is with great
pleasure that we commend it to our readers, not only for their
own perusal, but for distribution among their non-Catholic
acquaintances and friends. As the Reverend Father Hewit says in
his preface, the impulse toward a new and more vigorous life
"will be quickened and directed in many souls" by the present
volume; and we believe that few whose earlier religious life was
similar to that of Mr. Huntington can read the book without
misgivings for themselves, and a longing to discover, by some
means, that peace and light which the author deems himself to
have attained. That God will make known this truth and bestow
this peace to them and to all others is, as it should be, the
chief object of our labors and our prayers.

              ------

  An Outline Of Geography For High
  Schools And Families. With an Atlas.
  By Theodore S. Fay.
  New York: G. P. Putnam & Son. 1867.

We are inclined to regard this work as a very valuable aid to the
study of its subject, which is treated more scientifically in it
than in any other equally elementary book which we have seen. The
plan is decidedly original, and evidently is the result of
careful thought, aided apparently by experience.

Prominence is given in it to the astronomical and physical
aspects of the earth. The political division, which from its
artificial and mutable character is an obstacle to a clear view
of geography in its unity, is kept in the background, but is by
no means neglected. A map showing the changes produced by the war
of 1866 may be specially mentioned in this connection.

The astronomical part is very full, and in the main correct;
there are, however, a few inaccuracies, as in the time occupied
by light in coming from Neptune, and in the statement that the
sun could hardly be distinguished in brightness from a fixed star
by an observer on that planet. But these are small matters. The
explanations in this part are clear and interesting, and the
reticence of the author on points beyond the scope he has
proposed to himself is specially commendable. To satisfy the
student without misleading or puzzling him is an admirable
talent.

We doubt the propriety of the items of historical information
occasionally introduced; they seem unnecessary, and spoil the
unity of the work.

Considering the strength of memory generally possessed in youth,
the advantage claimed by the author that his method makes no
direct demand upon this faculty seems doubtful; but, as he states
in the preface, the work must be used to be judged; and the
lessons can be memorized if desired.

We must protest against the use of small initial letters in the
national adjectives; as british, french, etc.

The maps deserve the highest praise for their conception and
execution.

              ------

  Asmodeus In New York.
  New York: Longchamp & Co. 1868.

This work appeared last year in Paris, and is now translated and
published in this country by the author. It pretends to give an
inside view of American society, and to do this the author picks
out all that is bad, vicious, and immoral in this country, North
and South, and calls this conglomeration "American Society." He,
however, should have told his readers that the first specimen of
"American Society" he presented them was that of _one of his
own countrywomen!_ We need hardly say that most of the other
characters in the book are as good samples of American society as
those given in the first chapter.

              ------

{430}

  The Holy Communion: Its Philosophy, Theology, and Practice.
  By John Bernard Dalgairns,
  Priest of the Oratory of St. Philip Neri.
  1 vol. 12mo, pp. 440.
  New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1868.

The Catholic Publication Society has just issued an American
edition of this work, which has been for a long time much sought
after in this country. We take occasion to recommend it as one of
the very best works on its august theme in the English language.
The most remarkable and original portion of the work is that
which treats of the philosophy of transubstantiation. The author
has handled this difficult and abstruse matter with masterly
ability, explaining the doctrine of various philosophical schools
respecting substance and accidents with clearness and precision,
and has furnished most satisfactory answers to rational
objections against the Catholic dogma. Both Catholics and those
who are investigating Catholic doctrine will find this volume one
of great interest and utility.

              ------

  The Roman Martyrology.
  Translated into English, with an introduction
  by the Archbishop of Baltimore.
  Baltimore: Kelly, Piet & Co. 1868.

One of the most beautifully executed books which has been issued
by the Catholic press in this country, printed in the ritualistic
style, with red marginal lines and red edges. The publication of
books of devotion which are standard and have the sanction of the
Roman Church cannot be too much encouraged, and we cordially
congratulate the enterprising publishers who have added this gem
to our collection.

              ------

  Sydnie Adriance; or, Trying the World.
  By Amanda M. Douglas, author of
  _In Trust, Stephen Dane, Claudia_, etc.
  Boston: Lee & Shepard. Pp. 355. 1869.

Those who read novels, and their name is Legion, will find
this--the latest production of Miss Douglas's pen--nowise
inferior to its predecessors. While avoiding the sensational
characters and incidents, her language is always pleasing and
unaffected.

              ------

  The Life And Times Of Robert Emmet.
  By R. R. Madden, M.D., M.R.I. A.
  With numerous Notes and
  Additions, and a Portrait on Steel.

  Also, A Memoir Of Thomas Addis Emmet,
  with a Portrait on Steel.
  New York; P. M. Haverty. Pp. 328. 1868.

Few, if any, of the Irish patriots of modern days have a stronger
hold on the affection of the people than Robert Emmet. Perhaps,
with the exception of Lord Edward Fitzgerald, we might have
written none other. His deep love of country, his abiding trust
in her future, his daring but futile attempt to accomplish her
liberation, his death upon the scaffold, these were his, in
common with many others, who are remembered but with gratitude,
not, like him, treasured in the popular heart. Like our own
immortal Washington--the man is loved, the patriot revered.

This history of his life and times should find readers wherever a
friend to liberty dwells; but for us, this volume has a special
interest, containing, as it does, a _Memoir of Thomas Addis
Emmet,_ the last twenty-three years of whose life were spent
in this city, and whose monument may be said to form one of the
sights of the metropolis. The volume is very neatly got up; the
steel portraits excellent, both as likenesses and works of art.

              ------

{431}

  Memoirs Of The Life Of The Right
  Hon. Richard Brinsley Sheridan.
  By Thomas Moore.
  New York: W. J. Widdleton. 2 vols. pp. 307, 335.

Moore's _Life of Sheridan_ has long since passed beyond the
province of the critic. We will, therefore, merely call attention
to the present edition as being very handsomely got up;
containing, also, a very fine portrait of Sheridan, after the
original painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds. We ought, perhaps, in
this connection, to award a meed of praise to the enterprising
publisher for placing within reach of all, books such as this,
which, as of standard excellence, should be, but were not, of
easy access.

              ------

  The Poetical Works Of Thomas Moore.
  Brooklyn and New York: William M. Swayne. Pp. 496.

Moore's complete works for fifty cents! Truly, a marvel of
cheapness. The typography--something unusual in cheap books--is
very good.

              ------

  Marks's First Lessons In Geometry,
  objectively presented and designed for the Use of
  Primary Classes in Grammar Schools, Academies, etc.
  By Bernhard Marks, Principal of Lincoln
  School, San Francisco.
  New York: Ivison, Phinney, Blakeman & Co. Pp. 157. 1869.

We can unhesitatingly recommend this little work. We have often
felt the need of just such a text-book as this, and have no doubt
its appearance will be hailed with equal pleasure by both
teachers and pupils. The style in which it is got up reflects the
highest credit on the publishers.

              ------

  A Thousand Miles' Walk Across South America.
  By Nathaniel H. Bishop.
  Boston: Lee & Shepard. Pp. 310. 1869.

A journey on foot of more than a thousand miles across the South
American continent, from Montevideo to Valparaiso, could not but
furnish to an inquiring mind and an adventurous spirit abundant
material for interesting detail and startling incidents, and of
these there is certainly no scarcity in the present volume. There
are some portions, however, open to objection, where allusion is
made to the religion of the people, less, indeed, it must be
confessed, than we almost, as a matter of course, expect from
Protestant tourists in Catholic countries; and some attempted
caricaturing of the Irish residents, which might be deemed
insulting if they were not so very puerile. These excepted, it is
a book both useful and entertaining.

              ------

  The Trotting Horse Of America--
  How To Train And Drive Him.
  With Reminiscences Of The Trotting Turf.
  By Hiram Woodruff.
  Edited by Charles J. Foster, of _Wilkes's Spirit of the Times_.
  Including an Introductory Notice by George Wilkes, and
  a Biographical Sketch by the Editor.
  New York: J. B. Ford & Co. Pp. 412. 1868.

The papers comprising this work were originally published in
_Wilkes's Spirit of the Times_, and are a record of the
author's forty years' experience in training and driving. While
especially intended for those who are interested in the breeding,
training, etc., of horses, there is abundance of matter likely to
prove attractive to the general reader; biographies, so to speak,
of famous trotters, whose names are familiar as household words;
and graphic descriptions of the various matches in which they
were engaged. In fact, it is one of those rare books which, while
got up for a special purpose, and seemingly suited to the few,
overleaps the narrow limits apparently prescribed, and attracts
to itself the favorable notice of the entire community.

It makes a very handsome volume, is neatly bound, well printed,
and illustrated with a fine steel portrait of the author.

              ------

{432}

  Synodus Dioecesana Baltimorensis Septima, etc.
  Joannes Murphy, Baltimore. 1868.

The constitutions adopted at the above
Synod of September 3d, 1868, were:

  1. Of the Publication of the Decrees of the Plenary Council of
  Baltimore.

  2. Of the Officers of the Archbishopric and the Government of
  Dioceses.

  3. Of the Pastoral Care of Souls.

  4. Of the Sacraments.

  5. Of Divine Worship.

  6. Of Discipline.

------

  The Two Women.
  A Ballad, written expressly for the ladies of Wisconsin.
  By Delta.
  Milwaukee. 1868.

A poem in five parts, celebrating the creation of Eve and the
motherhood of Mary.

              ------

     M. Duruy's History Of France.

Several esteemed correspondents have written to the editor of
this magazine expressing regret at the commendatory notice of the
above work, which appeared in our columns. Our judgment and
sympathy are entirely with Mgr. Dupanloup in his contest against
M. Duruy respecting religious education. This does not, however,
affect the question of the value of his book as a secular classic
and a manual of political and civil history. In respect to the
ecclesiastical portion of the history, it is very true that the
work is deficient; nevertheless, it is far superior to the
English historical works which our readers, whether Protestant or
Catholic, are likely to be familiar with; and we think that, in
spite of the author's liberalistic bias, the general tone and
effect of the work justifies our recommendation. If any of our
correspondents will send us a history of France equal to this in
other respects, and at the same time perfectly Catholic in its
spirit, we will gladly recommend it in preference. We will add,
however, that it is not for sale at the Catholic Publication
House.

              ------

The Catholic Publication Society will publish _The Illustrated
Catholic Family Almanac_ on November 25th. It will be sold for
25 cents a copy. The same Society will issue, on December 1st,
_The New Illustrated History of Ireland_.

              ------

Mr. Donahoe, Boston, has just published

  _Verses on Various Occasions_,
  by John Henry Newman, D.D.

              ------

          Books Received.

From D. APPLETON & Co., New York:

  Mental Science; a Compendium of Psychology, and the History of
  Philosophy. Designed as a text-book for High-Schools and
  Colleges.
  By Alexander Bain, M.A., Professor of Logic and Mental
  Philosophy in the University of Aberdeen, author of "The Senses
  and the Intellect," "The Emotions of the Will," etc. etc.
  Pp. 428; Appendix, 99. 1868.

              ------
From CHARLES SCRIBNER & Co., New York:

  Guyot's Elementary Geography for Primary Classes.

  Felter's First Lessons in Numbers. An illustrated
  Table Book designed for elementary instruction.

              ------

  Footprints Of Life; Or, Faith And Nature Reconciled.
  By Philip Harvey, M.D.
  New York: Samuel R. Wells. 1868.

              ------
D. & J. SADLIER & Co., New York:

  Outlines of the History of Ireland.
  Being the substance of a lecture
  recently delivered at Honesdale.
  By Rev. J. J. Doherty.
  In behalf of the Sunday-schools.
  Pp. 35.

  A new edition of Carleton's Valentine
  McClutchy.

                   ----------

{433}

              The Catholic World.

        Vol. VIII., No. 46 January, 1869.

                     ------

          Galileo-Galilei, [Footnote 141]
          The Florentine Astronomer.
                  1564-1642.

     [Footnote 141: _Galileo--The Roman Inquisition_.
     Cincinnati. 1844.

     _Galileo e l'Inquisizione._ Marino-Marini. Roma. 1850.

     _Histoire des Sciences Mathématiques en Italie_. Par
     Libri. Paris. 1838.

     _Notes on the Ante-Galilean Copernicans_. Prof. De
     Morgan. London. 1855.

     _Opere di Galileo-Galilei_. Alberi. Firenze. 1842-1856.
     16 vols. imp. 8vo.

     _Galileo-Galilei, sa Vie, son Procès et ses
     Contemporains_. Par Philarète Chasles. Paris. 1862.

     _Galileo and the Inquisition_. By R. Madden. London.
     1863.

     _Galilée, sa Vie, ses Découvertes et ses Travaux_. Par
     le Dr. Max Parchappe. Paris. 1866.

     _Galilée_. Tragédie de M. Ponsard. Paris. 1866.

     _La Condamnation de Galilée_. Par M. l'Abbé Bouix.
     Arras. 1866.

     _Articles on Galileo, in Dublin Review_. 1838-1865.

     _Articles on Galileo, in Revue des Deux Mondes_.
     1841-1864.

     _Mélanges Scientifiques et Littéraires_. Par J. B.
     Biot. 3 vols. Paris. 1858.

     _Galilée, les Droits de la Science et la Méthode des
     Sciences Physiques_. Par Thomas Henri Martin. Paris.
     1868.]

  "Even so great a man as Bacon rejected the theory of Galileo
  with scorn. ... Bacon had not all the means of arriving at a
  sound conclusion which are within our reach; and which secure
  people who would not have been worthy to mend his pens from
  falling into his mistakes."
                                              --Macaulay.


              An Unwritten Chapter.

Galileo's "connection with a political party, unfriendly to
religion as well as to the papal government," is correctly
referred to by the _Edinburgh Review_ as one of the causes
of his difficulties concerning a question upon which Copernicus
met with none whatever.

Our space will not permit us to treat this interesting chapter of
the Galileo story, or we might show that not only such a
connection, but Galileo's associations with the partisans and
friends of such men (and in some cases with the men themselves)
as Sarpi, (Fra Paolo,) Antonio de Dominis, etc. etc., contributed
powerfully to encourage in him an insulting aggressiveness that
even the indulgent admonition of 1616 could not restrain.

In various ways, these men stirred up strife that might otherwise
have slumbered, and instigated Galileo to fresh infractions of a
rule by which he had solemnly promised to abide. They are
referred to by the _North British Review_ (Nov., 1860) in
energetic language as "the band of sceptics who hounded him on to
his ruin."

{434}

In like manner, since we have spoken of the treatment of Urban at
Galileo's hands, we cannot, for want of space, dwell upon the
personal bearing of Urban toward him after the trial was resolved
upon. The law that compelled the trial was as binding upon the
pope as upon any layman. It had to be fulfilled; but so far as
Urban's personal demeanor and acts are evidence, there was
nothing in them, and nothing in his heart, but kindness,
forbearance, and generosity toward the offender; and it will be
remembered that he carried these so far as to allow the decree of
the Inquisition to go forth unsigned and unconfirmed by him.

If revenge for any conceived personal affront had actuated him,
he could, by his signature and approval, have given that decree a
vigor and a value it could never otherwise possess.

We resume the thread of our relation, and proceed to recount the
main facts of


               The Trial.

Galileo was now summoned to Rome to answer for his infraction of
the injunction of 1616.

The summons was issued September 23d, 1632. There was, however,
neither hurry nor precipitation; and after a delay of some
months, caused partly by Galileo's endeavors to have the trial
deferred, partly by his illness, and partly by the prevalence of
an epidemic in Florence, he reached Rome on the 13th of February,
1633, and became the guest of the Tuscan ambassador.

Still there appears to have been no haste with the proceedings,
and Galileo passed his time in perfect freedom, surrounded by his
friends and the attentions of his noble host, who could not help
remarking that this was the first instance he had ever heard of
in which a person cited before the Inquisition--even though they
were nobles or bishops or prelates--was not held in strict
confinement.

When, at last, Galileo's presence at the holy office was
absolutely indispensable, the best and most commodious rooms were
placed at his disposition, and his formal interrogatory commenced
April 12th.

On the termination of this preliminary examination, he was
assigned the more spacious and pleasant apartments of the Fiscal
of the Inquisition.

"Galileo," says Mr. Drinkwater, "was treated with unusual
consideration;" and Sir David Brewster states that "during the
whole trial, which had now commenced, Galileo was treated with
the most marked indulgence."

On the 22d of April, the commissary charged with the conduct of
the trial was ready to proceed, but postponed it on Galileo's
statement that he was suffering from severe pain in his thigh.

So matters rested, until, on the 30th, Galileo asked for a
resumption of the examination, and presented a complete and utter
disavowal of his book and its principles. He declared that,
having again read over his _Dialogues_, in order to examine
whether, contrary to his express intention, he had inadvertently
disobeyed the decree of 1616, he found that two arguments were
too strongly presented; that they were not conclusive, and could
be easily refuted. "If I had to present them now," he said, "I
should assuredly do it in terms that would deprive them of the
weight they apparently have, but which in reality they do not
possess."

His error, he admitted, arose from a vain ambition, pure
ignorance and inadvertence: "_E stato dunque l'error mio, e lo
confesso, di una vana ambitione, e di una pura ignoranza e
inavertenza._"

{435}

       Galileo's Voluntary Retraction.

Here the examination closed for the day; but Galileo voluntarily
returned, and reopened it with the declaration ("_et post
paululum rediens dixit_") that he had not held the condemned
opinion of the earth's motion, and that he was ready, if time
were granted him, to prove it clearly.

"I will take up," said he, "the argument in my _Dialogues_,
and will refute with all possible energy the arguments presented
in favor of that opinion."

He closes by reiterating his request to be allowed the
opportunity of putting these resolutions in execution: "_Prego
dunque questo S. Tribunals che voglia concorrer meco in questa
buona risolutione col concedermi facoltà di poterle metter in
effetto_."

It is painful to see a man's convictions so lightly held. Why,
all this voluntary proffer is more than was imposed on Galileo by
the decree of 1616, and no more than assumed by the decree of
1633, not yet pronounced!

Alas, poor Galileo! Of such stuff martyrs never yet were made.

It seems strange that this phase and these incidents of the trial
should never have been commented upon, as showing the scientific
question to be entirely secondary in the estimation of the
Congregation.

Had that question been the only point or the important point,
this voluntary retraction, confession of judgment, plea of
guilty, offer of reparation, and self-imposed sentence on the
part of Galileo should have been more than sufficient to end the
case, and leave naught for the tribunal to do but to put the
self-imposed sentence in legal form.

But not so. As Galileo well knew, he might have gone on to the
end of his life teaching, in peace and honor, the astronomy
taught by Copernicus and others for the previous century.
Copernicanism was not his crime, and therefore his retraction, as
made, could not reach his criminal infraction of the decree of
1616, and of his own solemn pledges, nor could it modify the
accusation of deception in the matter of the license to print his
_Dialogues_, and the improper means taken to obtain that
license.


         The Trial Goes On.

On the same day Galileo made his voluntary retraction, he was
permitted to return to the palace of the Tuscan ambassador.

On the 10th of May, he was notified that a further delay of eight
days would be allowed him for the preparation of a defence, when
he immediately presented it already prepared, in a written
statement of two pages, accompanied by the Bellarmine certificate
of 1616.

Meanwhile, the Congregation deliberated; and such was the
friendly feeling in Rome toward Galileo that, as late as the 21st
of May, Cardinal Capponi thought he would be acquitted.

Giuducci asserted it positively, and Archbishop Piccolomini made
preparations to take Galileo with him to Sienna as his guest.

A large mass of documentary evidence, letters, reports, etc., had
accumulated in the case, and on the 16th of June a preliminary
decree was entered, by which Galileo was enjoined from writing
either _for_ or _against_ the theory of the earth's
motion, ("_injuncto ei ne de cetero scripto vel verbo tractet
amplius quovis modo de mobilitate terrae nec de stabilitate soils
et e contra_" etc.)

{436}

On the 21st of June, Galileo was interrogated, and stated in his
replies that, before the decree of 1616, he had held both
opinions as to the sun or the earth being the centre of the
world; but that since that time, convinced of the prudence of his
superiors, all doubt had ceased in his mind, and he had adopted
as true and undoubted the opinion of Ptolemy; that in his
_Dialogues_ he had explained the proofs that might be urged
against one or the other system, but without deciding for either.

To this he was answered that he asserts positively the immobility
of the sun and the movement of the earth, and that he must make
up his mind to acknowledge the truth, or that he should be
proceeded against according to the law and the facts of the case,
"_devenietur contra ipsum ad remedia juris et facti
opportuna._"

Again Galileo replies that he neither holds nor has held that
opinion of Copernicus since he received the order to abandon it.

Being admonished that, if he does not tell the truth, he refuses
under penalty of torture, "_et ei dicto quod dicat veritaiem
alias devenietur ad torturam,_" he replies, "_Io son qua per
far l'obedienza e non ho tennta questa opinione dopo la
determinatione fatta come ho detto_," "I am here to make my
submission. I do not hold and have not held this opinion since
the determination taken as I have already stated."

"_Et cum nihil aliud_" proceeds the record, "_posset
haberi in executionem decreti, habita ejus subscriptione,
remissus fuit ad locum suum_." [Footnote 142]

  (Signed) _Io_, Galileo-Galilei,
  "_ho deposto come di sopra._."

    [Footnote 142: "And as nothing else remained to be done, he
    signed the record, and was sent back to his place of abode."]

On the following day, (Wednesday, June 22d, 1633,) Galileo
appeared again before the Congregation to hear the decree in his
case, and pronounce his abjuration.


          The Decree  [Footnote 143]

    [Footnote 143: So far as it relates to the scientific
    question, this decree was suspended by Benedict XIV., and
    repealed in full consistory by Pius VII. Meantime, his
    _Dialogues_ were repeatedly published in Italy with all
    the usual ecclesiastical approbations. The edition in the
    Astor Library is that of Padua, 1744, and shows what we here
    state.]

was based upon and mainly taken up with the recital of the
proceedings of 1615, the injunction of 1616, the violation of
that injunction, the effect of the Bellarmine certificate, the
violation of Galileo's pledges, the improper means taken to
obtain the license to print his _Dialogues_, and his
confessions and excuses. There was no discussion of the
scientific question.

  "Wherefore," recites the decree, "as here," namely, in the
  Bellarmine certificate, "there is no mention made of two
  particular articles of the said precepts--that is to say, that
  you should not teach--_doceri_--and in any
  manner--_quovis modo_--write of the same doctrine, you
  argued that it was to be believed that in the course of
  fourteen or sixteen years those things passed out of your
  memory, and that, on account of the same forgetfulness, you
  were silent about that precept when you solicited a license for
  publishing the said work of yours. And this was not said by you
  to excuse error, but, as it is ascribed, rather to a
  vainglorious ambition than to malice. But this very certificate
  produced by you in your defence rather aggravates the charge
  against you, since in it, it is declared that the said opinion
  was contrary to Scripture, and nevertheless you dared to treat
  of it, to defend it, and even to argue in favor of its
  probability. Neither did that certificate give you the faculty,
  as you interpret it, so artfully and subtly extorted by you,
  since you did not make known the prohibition that had been
  imposed on you.
{437}
  But as it appeared to us that you did not speak the entire
  truth with respect to your intention, we indicated that it was
  necessary to proceed to a rigorous examination of you, in
  which, without prejudice to the other things which were
  confessed by you, and which are deduced against you with
  respect to your intention, you answered Catholically.

  "Which things, therefore, having duly considered, and examined
  into the merits of this cause, together with the
  above-mentioned confessions and excuses of yours, and whatever
  other matters should be rightly seen and considered, we come to
  the following definitive sentence against you:

  "We say, judge, and declare that you, the above-named Galileo,
  on account of those things set forth in the documents of this
  trial, and which have been confessed by you as above stated,
  _have rendered yourself to this holy office vehemently
  suspected of heresy;_ that is, that you believed and hold
  that doctrine which is false and contrary to the sacred
  Scriptures, namely, that the sun is the centre of the orbit of
  the world, and that it moves not from east to west, and that
  the earth moves, and is not the centre of the world; and that
  an opinion can be held and defended as probable, after it had
  been declared and defined as contrary to the sacred Scriptures.
  And consequently, that you have incurred all the censures and
  penalties by the sacred canons and other general constitutions
  and particular statutes promulgated against delinquencies of
  this kind, from which it is our pleasure that you should be
  absolved; provided, first, that with a sincere heart and faith,
  not feigned, before us you abjure, curse, and detest the
  above-mentioned errors and heresies, and every other heresy and
  error contrary to the Catholic and Apostolic Roman Church, by
  that formula which is presented to you. But lest this grave
  fault of yours, and pernicious error and transgression, should
  remain unpunished altogether, and for the time to come that by
  more caution you should avoid them and be an example to others,
  that they should abstain from this sort of crime, we decree and
  by public edict prohibit the book of the _Dialogues_ of
  Galileo-Galilei; we condemn you to the prison of the holy
  office during our pleasure; and as a solitary penance, we
  prescribe that for three years you shall once a week recite the
  seven penitential psalms; reserving to ourselves the power of
  moderating, commuting, or taking away in whole or in part the
  above-mentioned penalties and penances.

  "And thus we say, pronounce, and by sentence declare," etc.

Then followed Galileo's abjuration of his errors and heresies;
that is to say, abjuration of his error as to the earth's
movement, and of his heresy as to the decisions of the
Congregation.

We thus give, in all their crudity, and without comment, the only
portion of the trial and the decree at all available to the
advocates of the old version of the Galileo story. Let them make
the most of it.


    The Record Of The Trial Of Galileo,

or the Procès Verbal, still exists in all its original integrity.
The history of these documents is singular. The archives of the
Inquisition at Rome were carried off to Paris at some time during
the reign of Napoleon. Lord Brougham says in 1809. M. Biot (who
cites _M. Delaborde, Directeur des Archives Françaises_)
says in 1811.
{438}
A French translation of the Galileo trial, begun by order of
Napoleon, was completed down to April 30th, 1633. Just before the
Hundred Days, Louis XVIII. desired to see the documents, and all
the papers connected with the trial were brought to his
apartments. His hasty flight from Paris soon followed, and the
MSS. were forgotten and lost sight of. When the plundered
archives were returned to Rome, it was found that the Galileo
trial was not among them. Reclamation was made, and it was not
until 1846 that Louis Philippe had the documents returned by M.
Rossi. They are now in the Vatican.

In this connection, it is an interesting fact to note that
seventy folio volumes of the archives of the Inquisition are now
in the library of the University of Dublin. The archives at Rome
were plundered a second time in 1849, whether by Garibaldians or
French is not known. The plunder was brought to Paris by a French
officer, and there, in 1850, sold to the late Duke of Manchester,
who sold them to the Rev. Mr. Gibbings, a Protestant clergyman of
the Irish Establishment. Mr. Gibbings again sold them to the late
Dr. Wall, vice-provost of the university, aided by Dr. Singer,
Bishop of Meath, who presented them to the library of Trinity
College, Dublin.

We return to the Galileo record. In 1850, Signor Marino-Marini,
Prefect of the Vatican Archives, published _Galileo e
l'Inquizitione_. This Signor Marini is the same who is so
highly spoken of by William von Humboldt. (See Schlesier's
_Lives of the Humboldts_.) His work originally appeared in
the form of a discourse addressed to the Archaeological Academy
of Rome.

Looked for with anxiety, the book was received with some
disappointment. Instead of the text, and the _entire_ text
of the trial, Signor Marini gave extracts and fragments, stating
at the same time that the French, who had these documents in
their possession so many years, had not dared to publish them,
because they were disappointed at not finding in them what they
sought for.

To this it was objected--and the point was well taken--"Why,
then, did not you publish the whole?" The truth is, the choice of
Signor Marini for the task was unfortunate. An excellent scholar
and accomplished man, he was yet too timid or too narrow-minded
for it, and undertook the function of an advocate rather than the
far more important one of a historian.

He shrank from the publicity of such passages as, "_Devenietur
contra ipsum ad remedia juris et facti opportuna,_" "_Alias
devenietur ad torturam,_" as though we were not aware of the
universality of the use of torture in all the criminal procedure
of all Europe, and that the Inquisition took it not from
ecclesiastical, but from the secular tribunals of the day; as
though we did not only deplore, but openly reprobate, the fact,
and as though we did not hold the Inquisition responsible for the
odium it has entailed on the Catholic Church, very much, we
presume, as any right-minded Protestant holds star-chambers and
Elizabethan tortures responsible for burdens they find hard to
bear.

A distinguished French writer, M. Henri de l'Epinois, expressed
his regret to the present prefect of the Vatican Archives as to
the unsatisfactory manner in which Sig. Marini had presented the
Galileo record, whereupon the Rev. Father Theiner immediately
offered to place all the documents at his disposition for any
examination or publication he might wish to make.
{439}
The result is M. L'Epinois's work, _Galilée, son Procès, sa
Condamnation, d'après des Documens Inédits_, in which are
given all the original passages omitted by Marini.

The record of the trial covers two hundred and twenty pages, and
includes, besides the interrogatories and replies of Galileo and
of several witnesses, sixty-three letters, orders, opinions,
depositions, etc., besides the various decrees and Galileo's
defence and abjuration.

The interrogatories are all in Latin, the answers in Italian.

Thus, for example, where Galileo is examined as to the
publication of his _Dialogues_, the record runs:

  "_Interrogate_. An si ostenderet sibi dictus liber paratus
  sit illum recognoscere tanquam suum?

  "_Respondit_. Spero di si che mi sara monstrato il libro
  lo riconoscero.

  "Et sibi ostenso uno ex libris Florentiae impressis, anno 1632,
  cujus titulus est _Dialogo di Galileo-Galilei_ linceo, in
  quo agitur de duobus sistematibus mundi, et per ipsum bene viso
  et inspecto, dixit: lo conosco questo libro benissimo, et e uno
  di quelli stampati in Fiorenza, et lo conosco come mio e da me
  composto.

  "_Interrogatus_. An pariter recognoscat omnia et singula
  in dicto libro contenta tanquam sua?

  "_Respondit_. Io conosco questo libro mostratomi, ch'è uno
  di quelli stampati in Fiorenza e tutto quello che in esso si
  contiene lo riconosco come composto da me."


         "E Pur Si Muove!"

The temptation of the dramatic effect of this phrase has been too
strong for writers who should have known better than to give it
currency. In the declamation of a school exhibition, we are not
surprised to find it; but from a serious historian it comes with
a bad grace. M. Ponsard has, of course, preserved it in his
drama.

It is simply fable, and like the "Up, Guards, and at them!" of
Lord Wellington, "un de ces mots de circonstance inventés après
coup." [Footnote 144]

    [Footnote 144: "One of those impromptus composed at
    leisure."]

"Unstable, timorous, equivocating, and supple," says Philarète
Chasles, "he never had the heart to exclaim, 'E pur si muove!'"
He never exhibited that heroical resistance which has been
attributed to him.

The penitential shirt or sack is also fabulous, notwithstanding
even so distinguished a man as Cousin speaks of Galileo as "forcé
d'abjurer á genoux, en chemise, son plus beau titre de gloire."
[Footnote 145]

    [Footnote 145: "Forced to abjure on his knees, and clad in a
    shirt, his noblest title to greatness."]


        Value Of The Decree.

A few words--and but few are needed--as to the common assertion
that the Catholic Church, claiming infallibility in matters of
faith, decided the doctrine of the earth's immobility to be a
truth affirmed in the Scriptures. Granting the decree of the
Inquisition in the case of Galileo to have been all that is
claimed against it, it was, after all, nothing but a decree of
the Inquisition; no more, no less.

And first, what was the Inquisition?

The Inquisition forms no permanent or essential part of the
organization of the Catholic Church. It was always a purely local
tribunal, and the original appointment of its officers as
_quaesitores fidei_, or inquisitors, seems to have been
designed to prevent civil wars on the score of religion. The
prevailing sentiment as well as the positive jurisprudence of the
middle ages approved the punishment of heresy by temporal
penalties.
{440}
Indeed, such principles, abhorrent to us, seem to have come down
out of the so-called dark ages far toward our own time. For full
confirmation of this statement, you may read John Calvin's
treatise in defence of persecuting measures, in which he
maintains the lawfulness of putting heretics to death; and for
illustration, you may peruse the account of his treatment of
Castellio and Servetus, who found Calvin's reasoning of such
peculiar strength that they did not survive its application; or
his letter to Somerset, (1548:) "You have two kinds of mutineers:
the one are a fanatical people, who, under color of the gospel,
would set all to confusion; the others are stubborn people in the
superstition of the Antichrist of Rome. _These altogether do
deserve to be well punished by the sword_." (See Froude's
_History of England_, vol. v.) Charming impartiality!

More than a hundred years afterward, Calvin's followers embodied
his doctrine in their solemn confession of faith, wherein they
say (_Westminster Confession_, ch. xxiii.) that "the civil
magistrate hath authority, and it is his duty, to take order,
that all blasphemies and heresies be suppressed."

Although inquisitors existed in Italy from the time of Innocent
IV., their authority was so rarely exercised that it was scarcely
known until Paul III., in the year 1545, organized the
Congregation of the Inquisition, consisting of six cardinals. To
these were added two more by Pius V. They formed a strictly
ecclesiastical tribunal, charged with matters regarding the
integrity of faith throughout the world; their duty being to
examine and censure erroneous propositions, condemn and proscribe
bad books, inflict ecclesiastical censures on clergymen convicted
of error, and exercise a superintendence over the local tribunals
of faith.

It still exists, acts, and exercises its ecclesiastical
attributes.

But however powerful to suppress opinion or to exact obedience
the Inquisition might be within the limits of its own special
jurisdiction, we have never yet heard that any decree of any
inquisition ever determined a question of faith, or, in other
words, ever attempted to usurp the functions of a general
council.

Even Riccioli, the original source, up to within a few years, of
all accounts of the trial and sentence of Galileo, and himself
one of the strongest theological opponents of the theory of the
earth's motion, expressly protests against the assertion that any
declaration whatever had been made on the subject by the church
itself. He says: "The Sacred Congregation of Cardinals, taken
apart from the Supreme Pontiff, does not make propositions to be
of faith, _even though it should actually define them to be of
faith, or the contrary ones heretical_. Wherefore, since no
definition upon this matter has as yet issued from the Supreme
Pontiff, nor from any council directed and approved by him, it is
not yet of faith that the sun moves and the earth stands still by
force of the decree of the Congregation; but at most and alone,
by the force of the sacred Scriptures to those to whom it is
morally evident that God has revealed it. Nevertheless, Catholics
are bound, in prudence and obedience, at least so far as not to
teach the contrary."

And yet, plain as is this distinction, men of professedly
theological acquirements, for the sake of inflicting a wound on
the church, systematically ignore it whenever they have "a point"
to make with the Galileo story.

{441}

And the distinction is not only plain at the present day, but was
expressly made at the time of Galileo's trial. "It was not in the
power of the holy office to declare it (Galileo's scientific
theory) or any other doctrine heresy; it would take an
OEcumenical Council for that." (Letter of September 4th, 1632:
Cardinal Magalotti to Galileo.) Even Descartes, six months after
the trial, remarks that the decision of the Inquisition had
received the ratification of neither pope nor council.


             The Torture.

The relators of the torture fable ask us to believe that an old
man bending under the weight of seventy years, after undergoing
imprisonment and mental anguish, suffered the _peine forte et
dure_ of torture on the 21st of June, and on the next day was
capable of remaining more than an hour on his knees to receive
his sentence, and then, unaided, arose, stamped his foot, and
thundered out, "E pur si muove!" Truly a vigorous performance,
but not more hardy than the story which relates it.

No; these fables can no longer have place in history; and we know
positively that Galileo, who, on the evening of June 24th, after
his three days' detention at the holy office, (the sentence of
imprisonment being immediately commuted by the pope,) was
conducted by Niccolini to the Villa Medici, and who, on the 6th
of July, old as he was, was able to walk four miles without
inconvenience, could not have been tortured on the 21st of June.

"Those who undertake," says the German Protestant Von Reumont,
"to accuse the Inquisition on this point, are forced to have
recourse to fiction."

Lord Brougham, after an examination of the case, says, in his
Analytical View of the Principia, that "the supposition of
Galileo having been tortured is entirely disproved by Galileo's
own account of the lenity with which he was treated."

Biot dismisses the matter thus: "II y a là une réunion
d'invraisemblances qui ne permet pas de concevoir raisonnablement
un soupçon pareil." [Footnote 146]

    [Footnote 146: "There is here such a conjunction of
    improbabilities as to exclude all reasonable possibility of
    such a suspicion."]

Galileo survived his sentence eight years. Is it credible that,
during that long period spent in intimate personal intercourse
and literary correspondence with his friend, no word or hint of
complaint of such an outrage as torture should have escaped his
lips?

Castelli was constantly with him to the hour of his death, and
heard no whisper of it.

In August, 1638, writing to Bernegger, Galileo could boast that
neither the freedom nor the vigor of his spirit was repressed.

Three months before his death, with the certainty of its
approach, he sent for Torricelli, and spent long hours in
unreserved discourse with him. Not a word of torture!

Finally, in his last letter, just three weeks before his death,
to Beccherini, he bewails his endurances and his troubles in a
spirit that could not and did not fail to unseal his lips for
everything he had to say in the spirit of complaint; but here,
too, not a word of torture!

The majority of the French feuilletonists on the Ponsard drama
manifest disappointment at not finding any torture, and
straightway seek solace in such reflections as, "Ainsi, Galilée
ne fut point mis à la torture; on en a aujourd'hui la pleine
certitude."! [Footnote 147]

    [Footnote 147: "Thus, then, Galileo was not put to the
    torture. Of that we now have the fullest certainty."]

{442}

But the feuilletonist wants to know if the persecutions,
bitterness, and vexation of every kind to which Galileo was
subjected were not the equivalent of physical torture?

And what, then, does he take to be the equivalent of the irony,
sarcasm, ingratitude, and insult gratuitously heaped upon Urban,
the kind friend and liberal benefactor of Galileo?

No reasonable doubt can now exist as to the fact that it was not
Galileo's assertion of the hypothesis of the earth's rotation
that brought him into trouble. It was his intemperance of
language, impatience of wise counsel, disregard of sacred
obligations, violation of solemn promises, and above all, his
insane perversity in dragging the scriptural element into the
controversy. Of the scores of distinguished adherents, disciples,
advocates, and professors of the heliocentric doctrine, Galileo
alone gave annoyance and created difficulty.

To the extent of examining and discussing the question
scientifically, the freedom at Rome was perfect. But when the
point was reached when it was gratuitously thrust into collision
with Scripture, a degree of demonstration was needed that could
not be produced.


               After The Trial.

To complete the chronological statement of events, it is only
necessary to add that on the 6th of July Galileo left Rome for
Sienna, where he remained with Archbishop Piccolomini, one of his
most intimate friends, until the month of December. He then
returned to his own home at Arcetri, near Florence.

It was here he received the oft-described and well-known visit of
Milton, then in the prime of youth. In 1638, he transferred his
residence to Florence, where he occupied himself with scientific
pursuits, his negotiation with Holland for the use of his
discovery concerning the longitude, the publication of his book
_Dialoghi delle Nuove Scienze_ at Leyden, (1638,)
correspondence with scientific men, and visits from his friends.

He died on the 8th of January, 1642, in the seventy-eighth year
of his age.

"The noblest eye," wrote his friend Father Castelli, announcing
his death, "which nature ever made, is darkened; an eye so
privileged and gifted with such rare powers that it may truly be
said to have seen more than the eyes of all that are gone, and to
have opened the eyes of all that are to come."

We now pass to the consideration of the exact condition of


        The Scientific Question

as it existed in 1633, leaving, of course, aside all discussion
of its theological or scriptural connection.

Without going back so far as Pythagoras, the new system in 1633
was not original with Galileo, nor even with Copernicus, who is
said to have received the germ of his new doctrine at Bologna
from the hypothesis of Dominicus Maria on the variability of the
axis of the earth; and it would be most interesting, did space
allow, to review the intellectual struggles of the predecessors
(_ad astra_) of the Polish priest with a theory they felt to
be true, but were powerless to demonstrate even to themselves.

{443}

Among these men were:

1. The great mystical theologian, Richard of St. Victor, who
described the true method of physical inquiry in terms which
Francis Bacon might have adopted. "It would not be easy at the
present day," says Dr. Whewell, (_Philosophy of Discovery_,
pp. 52-53,) "to give a better account of the object of physical
science."

2. Celius Calcagnini, (born 1479,) who published (Tiraboschi says
_divolgò_, which may or may not mean simply printing) a work
in which he endeavored to prove "_quod coelum stet, terra autem
moveatur_."

3. Cardinal Cusa, sometimes called Nicholas the Cusan, an
intellectual giant of his time, the highest expression, probably,
of the active mental movement that marked the 15th century. He
was equally distinguished in science, in letters, and in
philosophy, and in 1436, at the Council of Basle, proposed the
reform of the calendar afterward carried out by the pope. His
knowledge of astronomy was, for his time, profound, and he
asserted and published that "the sun is at rest, the earth
moves," ("_istam terram in veritate moveatur._") [Footnote
148]

    [Footnote 148: "That heaven is motionless,
    but that the earth moves."]

4. Novara, the preceptor of Copernicus; for it is certain that
Copernicus found his new doctrine in Italy.

5. Jerome of Tallavia, whose papers are said to have fallen into
the hands of Copernicus.

6. Leonardo da Vinci, who, in 1510, connected his theory of
bodies with the earth's motion, "showing," as Whewell says, "that
the heliocentric doctrines were fermenting in the minds of
intelligent men, and gradually assuming clearness and strength."

Although Da Vinci constructed no system of explanation, he
nevertheless held the motion of the earth, as appears from one of
his manuscripts of the year 1500.

Some light may be thrown upon the actual condition of
astronomical science during the Galileo period by a short
statement of the arguments most in vogue between

       Ptolemaists And Copernicans,

and of what the latter had to present in the way of proof.

The Copernicans contended generally for the greater simplicity of
their system, and the incredibility of the enormous velocity
which the sphere of the fixed stars must have if the ancient
system be true. To this it was answered that God doeth wonders
without number.

But the earth would corrupt and putrefy without motion, whereas
the heavens are incorruptible. To which the answer was ready that
wind would give sufficient motion.

But the most movable part of man is underneath, since he walks
with his feet; whence the most unworthy part of the universe, the
earth, should be movable.

Objected that, if the earth moves, the head of a man moves faster
than his feet.

But again, "Rest is nobler than motion, and therefore ought to
belong to the sun, the noble body."

Replied to, "For the same reason, the moon and all the planets
ought to rest."

Again, "The lamp of the world ought to be in the centre."
Answered by, "A lamp is frequently hung up from a roof to
enlighten the floor."

"Can we fancy," asked the Copernicans, "that God has not acted on
a scheme so impressive and so beautiful as ours?"

"Can we fancy," replied their opponents, "that this earth is
constantly in motion, which we feel to be the stablest of all
things? that our senses are given to deceive us? that during the
greater part of our lives we cling to the earth with our head
downward?"

{444}

Finally, the Copernicans were utterly silenced by the
unanswerable argument of throwing up a stone.

"Would they please explain," was asked of them, "why, if the
earth moved, the stone, being thrown directly upward, should fall
on the spot from which it was thrown?"

The Copernicans were silent, for they could assign no reason. "In
the sixteenth century," says Professor De Morgan, "the wit of man
could not imagine how, if the earth moved, a stone thrown
directly upward would tumble down upon the spot it was thrown
from." It was reserved for a man who was born on the same day
Galileo died to furnish the reason.


          Astronomy In 1633.

To one seeking for a demonstrated system, astronomy was then a
hopeless chaos of irreconcilable facts--an impenetrable jungle of
conflicting theories. That such was the actual condition of the
science in Galileo's day, we find fully recognized and aptly
described by a distinguished English Protestant, a great name in
English literature, who, himself "an exact mathematician" and
astronomer, was most active in research and observation precisely
during the period of Galileo's greatest fame. We refer to Burton,
author of the celebrated _Anatomy of Melancholy_.

This remarkable book was written by Burton during the years
extending from 1614 to 1621, when the first edition was
published. The subsequent editions of 1624, 1628, 1632, and 1638
were all issued during the life of the author, who died in 1639,
a succession of years precisely covering the period of Galileo's
controversies and trials; and yet its author, vicar of St. Thomas
and rector of Segrave, (Church of England as by law established,)
who never misses an opportunity ever so slight of giving
Catholicity a thrust or a stab, makes 'mere mention' of Galileo's
condemnation thus: "These paradoxes of the earth's motion which
the Church of Rome hath lately condemned as heretical."

The truth is, that in that day the course pursued by the
Congregation at Rome was generally approved even by Protestants.
In their eyes, nothing but a paradox was condemned. Having
exhausted all his proof, where does Galileo leave our exact
English mathematician, who evidently read and knew of everything
published on the subject in his day?

Why, Burton speaks of "that main paradox of the earth's motion
now so much in question," and devotes five full pages to a
presentation of all the theories then current, giving Galileo's
as of no more value than the others! He thus sums them up:

  "One offends against natural philosophy, another against optic
  principles, a third against mathematical, as not answering to
  astronomical observations. One puts a great space between
  Saturn's orb and the eighth sphere, another too narrow. In his
  own hypothesis, he makes the earth as before the universal
  centre, the sun to the five upper planets; to the eighth sphere
  he ascribes diurnal motion; eccentrics and epicycles to the
  seven planets, which hath been formerly exploded; and so,
  _dum vitant stulti vitia, in contraria currant_, [Footnote
  149] as a tinker stops one hole and makes two, he corrects
  them, and doth worse himself: reforms some and mars all. In the
  mean time, the world is tossed in a blanket amongst them, they
  hoist the earth up and down like a ball, make it stand and go
  at their pleasures: one saith the sun stands; another, he
  moves; a third comes in, taking them all at rebound, and lest
  there should any paradox be wanting, he finds certain spots and
  clouds in the sun. ...

    [Footnote 149: "While they avoid one mistake, they run into
    the contrary."]


{445}

  And thus they disagree amongst themselves, old and new,
  irreconcilable in their opinions; thus Aristarchus, thus
  Hipparchus, thus Ptolemaeus, thus Albateginus, thus Alfraganus,
  thus Tycho, thus Ramerus, thus Raeslinus, thus Fracastorius,
  thus Copernicus and his adherents," etc.

Not a word here of Galileo.

The whole chapter is very curious, and will well repay the
trouble of reading. See pages 323 to 329, London edition.

Notwithstanding his condition of paradox as seen by disinterested
men of science, Galileo claimed three propositions as settled:

  _First_. The system was demonstrated.

  _Second_. He demonstrated it.

  _Third_. His was the honor of furnishing the demonstration
  from the flux and reflux of the tides.

To these three propositions it is replied that the system was not
at that day demonstrated by Galileo or by any one else, and that
his tidal argument was worthless.

Indeed, a sufficient answer is found in the simple statement, in
which all astronomers must certainly accord, that before the time
of Sir Isaac Newton there was nothing to make the Copernican
system more plausible and reasonable than the Ptolemaic theory,
because the English astronomer first explained the one law on
which planetary revolutions depended.

The theory of the earth's rotation was, in 1633, barely a matter
of induction--strong, it is true, yet nothing more than
induction. Strong, if the two arguments taken from the phases of
Venus and the satellites of Jupiter are duly weighed; but weak
without them.

The discovery of the satellites of Jupiter was called by Herschel
"the holding turn of the Copernican system," but Galileo had no
conception of its value; he passed it by as insignificant, and
settled down complacently upon the flux and reflux of the tides
as the crowning proof. To this proof, and to no other, he clung
during the citation of 1616.

Astronomers express great surprise that Galileo makes no mention
of the belts of Jupiter, although they are visible with the aid
of the smallest glass.

Zucchi, a Jesuit, was the first to note them in Rome, (1630.) In
like manner, the discovery of the spots on the sun do not appear
to have benefited him in ascertaining the sun's rotation.
"Galilée," says Arago, "n'a pas non plus la moindre apparence de
droit à la découverte du mouvement de rotation du soleil. On a vu
les taches; aucune conséquence de cette observation n'est
indiquée." [Footnote 150]

    [Footnote 150: "Neither has Galileo the slightest apparent
    claim to the discovery of the sun's rotation. The spots are
    observed, but no deduction is drawn from the observation."]

The oversights concerning Jupiter are the more remarkable as
Galileo's labors in investigation of the satellites were long and
exhausting. It is only within a few years that this fact has been
ascertained through the discovery by Professor Alberi of a long
series of observations of the satellites of Jupiter, with tables
and ephemerides drawn up for the purpose of comparing the
longitude.

These manuscripts, described as a "mighty monument of his
labors"--and doubtless they must be, for all his calculations
were necessarily made without the aid of logarithms--were found
in the Pitti Palace library, and are published by Alberi in the
fifth volume of his magnificent edition of Galileo's work.

{446}

Herschel says that the science of astronomy was yet in its
infancy at the period of Newton's death, and after all that
Newton had done for it. What, then, must we think of its
condition in the hands of Galileo, with his toy telescope, his
fallacious tidal theory, and his necessary ignorance of the great
discoveries that followed him?

In 1618, he published his _Theory of the Tides_. In 1623, he
again puts it forward in a letter to Ingulfi; and finally devotes
the fourth and last day of the _Dialogue_ to the development
of the same argument.

Nay, more, in this dialogue he scoffs at the simplicity of
Kepler, who has had the temerity, after his (Galileo's)
satisfactory explanation of the phenomena, to listen to such
stuff as the occult properties of the moon's influence on the
tides, and other like puerilities! We find by reference to a
marginal note in the Padua edition of the _Dialogues_ at the
Astor Library, that a prelate, Girolamo Borro, wrote a pamphlet
setting forth the theory of the moon's influence on the tides,
and Simplicio is made to quote him: "E ultimamente certo prelato
ha publicato un tratello dove dice che la luna vagando per il
cielo attrae e solleva verso di se un cumulo d'acqua, il quale va
continualmente seguitanclo," etc. [Footnote 151]

    [Footnote 151: "And lately a certain prelate has published a
    pamphlet, in which he says that the moon, traversing the
    heavens, attracts and draws after her a mass of water which
    continually follows," etc.]

Here Sagredo stops him abruptly, saying, "For heaven's sake,
Signor Simplicio, let us have no more of that; for it is a mere
loss of time to listen to it, as well as to confute it, and you
simply do injustice to your judgment by regarding such or similar
puerilities."

No wonder, as Bailli says, "la foule d'astronomes etaient
centre!" [Footnote 152]

    [Footnote 152: "The mass of astronomers were of the contrary
    opinion."]

Galileo died in profound ignorance of the true tidal theory, and
the credit of pointing it out is ascribed by Mr. Drinkwater to
the College of Jesuits at Coimbra.

But more than all this, Galileo had already made great mistakes,
and committed errors that were publicly rectified by his
contemporaries.

Thus, one of the most remarkable astronomical phenomena of the
age, the three comets of 1618, was totally misunderstood by
Galileo, who pronounced them atmospheric meteors.

The Jesuit Grassi, in his treatise _De Tribus Cometis_,
(1618,) had the merit of explaining what had baffled Galileo, who
at first held them to be planets moving in vast ellipses around
the sun.


          Charity For All.

In referring to these errors of Galileo, Laplace says that it
would be unjust to judge him with the same rigor as one who
should refuse at present to believe the motion of the earth,
confirmed by the numerous discoveries made in astronomy since
that period.

And John Quincy Adams, in a memorable discourse delivered at
Cincinnati in 1843, says of Tycho Brahe, (who maintained that the
earth is immovable in the centre of the universe,) "The religion
of Tycho in the encounter with his philosophy obtained a triumph
honorable to him, but erroneous in fact."

All which maybe very true; and if Laplace and Mr. Adams err at
all, they err certainly on the side of charity and kindness.

{447}

But are we to have one standard of justice for one class of men,
and a far different one for another class? Is that which is
excusable in an Italian and honorable in a Danish astronomer,
ignorant, bigoted, and vile in a cardinal? Or is there any good
reason why that which in Denmark is a "triumph of religion"
should in Rome become a "victory of ignorance"?

Tycho Brahe, in his day a profound astronomer, noble and wealthy,
devoting his whole life to science in unremitting observation of
the heavens, with the aid of the most complete and costly
apparatus in existence at the time, might surely be supposed to
have reached a safer conclusion than an ignorant churchman.

And how, moreover, could such a churchman be expected to pin his
faith to the sleeve of an astronomer like Galileo, whose errors
and blunders were frequent and serious, and who, when in his
conjectures he stumbled upon the truth, could hardly distinguish
it from error, and was therefore as likely to give a bad as a
good reason for his doctrine? Or, as M. Biot admirably expresses
it, "si l'état imparfait de cette science l'exposait ainsi à
donner parfois de mauvaises raisons comme bonnes, il faut
pardonner à ses adversaires de n'avoir pas pu toujours distinguer
les bonnes des mauvaises." [Footnote 153]

    [Footnote 153: "If the imperfection of this science thus made
    him liable to give bad reasons for good, his adversaries
    should surely be pardoned for not always being able to
    distinguish the good from the bad."]

Anti-Catholic controversialists will persist in endowing the
Galileo period with an amount of astronomical and physical
science that then had no existence. Intelligent, industrious, and
learned the cardinals of Galileo's day certainly were; but it is
absurd to attribute to them or to their times a knowledge of the
Copernican system, as afterward explained by Kepler, Newton, and
two centuries of men of science. Kepler's _Laws of the
Universe_ were not published until 1619, and even then, and
long years afterward, who could possibly apply them until
Newton's discoveries gave them force and authority?

If our modern sciolists, who prattle so much about "the ignorant
and bigoted court of Rome," knew enough to be a little modest,
they might take to heart the reflection of the great English
essayist, and remember it is no merit of theirs that prevents
them from falling into the mistakes of a cardinal "whose pens
they are not worthy to mend." It certainly was asking a great
deal of men that they should abandon settled tradition, the
teachings of authority, the evidence of their senses, and the
warrant of Scripture, as they understood it, to embrace a
strange, startling, and incomprehensible doctrine, in no degree
better off in demonstration than the old one. Even the weight of
scientific authority was in their favor, as is readily seen when
we look at the relative strength of


       Copernican and Anti-Copernican.

Tycho Brahe was far from being alone in his dissent from
Copernicus and Galileo. Saving only the bright spot made by
Kepler and a few of his disciples, all Germany, France, and
England were still in comparative darkness, and it is difficult
to believe that at the period of Galileo's trial there were as
many avowed Copernicans in all Europe together as in the single
city of Rome.

In Germany, the new system was almost universally rejected, and
Wolfgang Menzel, in his _History of Germany_, speaks of it
as "die unter den Protestanten in Deutschland noch iminer
bezweifelte Wahrheit des Copernikanischen Welt-systems."
[Footnote 154:]

    [Footnote 154: "The even yet (by German Protestants)
    contested truth of the Copernican system."]

{448}

The frontispiece to Riccioli's _Almagestum Novum_, Astor
Library copy, published in 1651, presents a curious illustration
of the prevalent estimate of the new doctrines. A figure with a
pair of balances is seen weighing the Tychonian against the
Copernican system, and the truth of the former is shown by its
overwhelming preponderance. Riccioli cites fourteen authors who
up to that day had written in favor of the Copernican theory, and
thirty-seven who had written against it. He adduces seventy
arguments in favor of the Tychonian, and can find but forty-nine
in support of the Copernican; consequently, the mere force of
numbers proves the improbability of the latter.

In France, Ramus, the Huguenot Royal Professor at Paris, utterly
refused the doctrine ten years after the death of Galileo.

Thomas Lydiat, a distinguished English astronomer of his day, and
so good a scholar as to come victorious out of a controversy on
chronology with Scaliger, openly opposed the Copernican system in
his _Praelectio Astronomica_, (1605.) In fact, no man of
astronomical acquirements of that day, and for more than fifty
years afterward, dared risk the success of a book by putting in
it anything favoring the Copernican theory.

Even as late as 1570, we find John Dee, an English Copernican,
who, despairing of the ignorant prejudice around him, would not
so much as hint at the existence of the system in his preface to
_Billingsley's Euclid_.

In Great Britain, the system was discredited by the illustrious
Gilbert. Milton, too, seems to have doubted it. Its most active
opponent was Alexander Rosse, a voluminous Scotch writer, alluded
to in _Hudibras_.

Hume tells us Lord Bacon "rejected the system of Copernicus with
the most positive disdain." [Footnote 155] It is but fair to say,
though, that this statement, like too many of Hume's, should be
qualified. It is true that in his _De Augmentis_ Bacon says
that the absurdity and complexity of the Ptolemaic system has
driven men to the doctrine of the earth's motion, which is
clearly false, "_quod nobis constat falsissimum esse;_" but,
on the other hand, in the _Novum Organum_, he distinctly
speaks of the question of the earth's motion as one to be
examined. Now, the latter work, although published before, was
written after the _De Augmentis_, which is less serious and
argumentative than the _Novum Organum_.

    [Footnote 155: Macaulay should have said, "theory of
    Copernicus," instead of "theory of Galileo." Bacon never
    credited Galileo with a system, and did not hold his
    scientific merits in much esteem.]

Even in 1705, the Hon. E. Howard published in London a work
entitled _Copernicans of all Sorts Convicted_.

In 1806, Mercier, a Frenchman, wrote to prove "l'impossibilité
des systèmes de Copernic et de Newton;" and even so recently as
1829 an individual was found so retrograde as to publish a work
entitled The _Universe as it is; wherein the Hypothesis of the
Earth's Motion is Refuted,_ etc., by W. Woodley.


       The Undemonstrated Problem.

And now, having spied out the nakedness of the astronomic land
throughout Europe, let us return for a moment to the scientific
position of the tribunal that tried Galileo.

{449}

What solid proof was presented to it? None whatever. And those
familiar with the history of astronomy will readily recognize the
fact that, so far from seeing in the new opinion a scientific
novelty, they recognized in it substantially the old hypothesis
of Pythagoras, which, after obtaining credit for more than five
hundred years, was triumphantly displaced by the Ptolemaic
theory; which was that the earth is a solid globe at rest in the
centre of the universe, with the various planetary bodies
revolving in larger and larger circles, according to the order of
their distances.

The new doctrine had not even the form of a system:

  "'Twas neither shape nor feature."

Indeed, as has been truly said, it was nothing more than a
paradox for the support of which its authors had to draw upon
their own resources.

High astronomical authority, Délambre, thus sums up the utter
absence of proof, in Galileo's time, of the theory of the earth's
rotation:

  "What solid reason could induce the ancients to disbelieve the
  evidence of their senses? Yes, and even despite the immense
  progress which astronomy has subsequently made, have the
  moderns themselves been able to allege any one direct proof of
  the diurnal motion of the earth, previous to the voyage of
  Richer to Cayenne, where he was obliged to shorten his
  pendulum? Have they been able to discover one positive
  demonstration to the point, to prove the annual revolution of
  the earth, before Roemer measured the velocity of light, and
  Bradley had observed and calculated the phenomena of the
  aberration?

  "Previous to these discoveries, and that of universal
  gravitation, were not the most decided Copernicans reduced to
  mere probabilities? Were they not obliged to confine themselves
  to preaching up the simplicity of the Copernican system, as
  compared with the absurd complexity of that of Ptolemy?"

What "solid reason," indeed, could be given? But Galileo in his
presumption did not consider himself reduced to "mere
probabilities," and, relying on his tidal fallacies and
unexplained phenomena, sought to pass hypothesis for dogma, and
his _ipse dixit_ for demonstration.

Of the great discoveries enumerated by Délambre, Galileo was
necessarily ignorant, and we must insist upon the fact that the
cardinals and the Inquisition were equally ignorant of them.

There was, in reality, no astronomical science in Galileo's time
worth speaking of, except as we compare it with the astronomy
that preceded it, which is the only fair test of its value.
Compared with what Ptolemy knew, it was twilight.

Compared with what we know, it was darkness.

It is moderate to say that in 1633 astronomy was in its infancy.
To all that was then known, add Kepler's magnificent labors,
Torricelli's discovery, Newton's principle of gravitation, and
all the English astronomer did for science--come down to the year
1727, in which he died, and what was the condition of
astronomical science even then?

Herschel has told us: "The legacy of research which was left us
by Newton was indeed immense. To pursue through all its
intricacies the consequences of the law of gravitation; to
account for all the inequalities of the planetary movements, and
the infinitely more complicated and to us more important ones of
the moon; and to give, what _Newton himself certainly never
entertained a conception of,_ a demonstration of the stability
and permanence of the system under all the accumulated influence
of its internal perturbations; this labor and this triumph were
reserved for the succeeding age, and have been shared in
succession by Clairault, D'Alembert, Euler, Lagrange, and
Laplace. Yet so extensive is this subject, and so difficult and
intricate the purely mathematical inquiries to which it leads,
that _another century may yet be required to go through the
task_."

{450}

        The Legacy Of Research

left by Newton may truly be called "immense." And Herschel does
well to modify his statement as to the "triumph," and postpone it
yet another century.

For it must be borne in mind that no astronomical system is a
strictly verifiable fact. The circulation of the blood is a
verifiable fact, and it has been verified. No announcement of the
discovery of a new demonstration of its truth could now attract
any attention on account of its merits as proof.

Not so as to the earth's motion. The proofs of that have always
been merely referential and cumulative. The final, the crowning
point of demonstration has never been made, and probably never
can be reached. Who can say that he ever saw the earth move?
Hence it is that every successive item of cumulative evidence is
hailed with pleasure and excitement. Thus was it with
Torricelli's, Newton's, Richer's, Roemer's, and Bradley's
discoveries; thus with all the brilliant inventions in mechanics
by means of which the illustration and explanations of these
discoveries became possible--explanations which, after all, not
one man in a thousand can understand.



        Post-Galilean Astronomy.

A few words in addition to what we have already said concerning
the great discoveries made since Galileo's time, and we close.

Three of these discoveries, without which the Copernican theory
as to demonstration would be but little better off than the
Ptolemaic, merit special mention. They are:

  _First_. The Newtonian theory of gravitation.

  _Second_. The discovery of the shortened pendulum, showing
  the diurnal motion of the earth.

  _Third_. The velocity and aberration of light, showing the
  annual motion.

It is scarcely necessary to enter into any detail concerning the
so generally known, great, and universal principle of
gravitation.


       The Shortened Pendulum.

Up to the year 1672, no doubt had been entertained of the
spherical figure of the earth, and, as a consequence, of the
equality of all the degrees of the meridian; so that one being
known, the whole circumference was determined.

In that year, the French Academy of Sciences, then occupied in
the measurement of an arc in the meridian, sent the astronomer
Richer to Cayenne, on the coast of South America, to make
observations of the sun's altitude.

In the course of these observations he was surprised to find that
a superior clock, furnished with a pendulum which vibrated
seconds, was found to lose nearly two minutes and a half a day.

The astonishment created by the report of this fact in France was
very great, particularly after the accuracy of the clock had been
fully tested.

{451}

Other scientific men then visited different points on the coasts
of Africa and South America, and were convinced of the absolute
necessity of shortening the pendulum to make it vibrate seconds
in those latitudes.

The phenomenon was explained by Newton in the Third Book of his
_Principia_ (1687)--see p. 409 _et seq._, American
edition--where he shows it to be a necessary consequence of the
earth's rotation on its axis, and of the centrifugal force
created by it. That force, in modifying the gravity, gives to the
earth an oblate spheroidal figure, more elevated at the equator
than on the poles, and makes bodies fall and pendulums vibrate
more slowly in low than in high latitudes.

There is, unfortunately, such a thing as national jealousy even
in science, and to such a motive only can we ascribe the fact
that Newton's explanation was not accepted in France until
presented by Huyghens, several years afterward, in a different
and less accurate form.


      The Velocity And Aberration Of Light.

In the entire range of scientific literature, there are few
chapters of greater interest than those which recount the rise
and gradual development of all the principles involved in the
triumphant demonstration of these two beautiful discoveries.

They admirably illustrate the total ignorance of Galileo
concerning a problem upon which he experimented with utter
failure, as also the slow pace of scientific progress, and the
necessity of the co-operative efforts of many men and many
sciences to perfect it.

It required the genius and research of Roemer, Bradley, Molyneux,
Arago, Fizeau, Foucault, and Struve, joined to the patient
experiment and mechanical skill of Bréguet, Bessel, and
Graham--the labor of all these men extending through a period of
one hundred and ninety years (1672 to 1862)--to complete its
demonstration.

And first, as to the velocity of light. In 1672, Roemer, a Danish
astronomer residing in France, began observations on the
satellites of Jupiter and their eclipses, which resulted in the
discovery of progressive transmission of light and the
determination of the value of its velocity. Up to his day, it had
almost become a fixed principle that the passage of light through
space was absolutely instantaneous.

From the time of Galileo, an immense mass of exact calculations
of the eclipses of the first satellite of Jupiter had been
accumulating, and Roemer found that at certain times the
satellite came out of the shadow later, and at other times
sooner, than it should have done, and this variation could not be
accounted for on any known principles. Remarking that it always
came too late from the shadow when the earth in its annual
movement was at more than its mean distance from Jupiter, and too
soon when it was at less, he formed the conjecture that light
requires an appreciable time to traverse space.

Becoming satisfied of the truth of his theory, he, in September,
1676, announced to the French Academy of Sciences that an
emersion of the first satellite, to take place, on the 16th of
November following, would occur ten minutes later than it should
according to ordinary calculation.

The event verified his prediction. Nevertheless, doubters and
cavillers abounded, and Roemer's theory was not accepted without
dispute. It was claimed that the delays and accelerations in the
immersions and emersions, instead of being attributed to change
of position of the observer, and to the progressive transmission
of light, might be regarded as indicating a real perturbation in
the movement of the satellite, due to a cause not yet discovered.

{452}

These doubts were removed fifty years later by the English
astronomer Bradley, who discovered the phenomenon of
_aberration_, which consists in an apparent displacement
which all the stars and planets experience on account of the
combination of the velocity of the earth with the velocity of
light.

Bradley's discovery was accidental. A superior instrument,
constructed by Graham, and destined to observe with the greatest
precision the passage of the stars near the zenith, had been
placed at the observatory of Kew for the purpose by Molyneux.

Bradley used this instrument to arrive at some precise data of
the annual parallax of the stars. His first observations led him
to the discovery of _aberration_, the details of which, of
the highest possible interest, may be found in the
_Philosophical Transactions_, Royal Society, No. 406,
December, 1728.

Thus confirmed by Bradley, Roemer's progressive transmission of
light became an incontestable fact.

Then followed the experiments projected by Arago to determine the
velocity of light, (1838,) which for eleven years remained a
merely ingenious suggestion, until realized by MM. Foucault and
Fizeau.

From 1840 to 1842, Struve, in Russia, made numerous observations
to obtain the exact value of aberration.

In 1856, the Institute of France awarded to M. Fizeau, for his
successful demonstration of Arago's suggestion, the triennial
prize of thirty thousand francs founded by the emperor, "for the
work, or the discovery, which, in the opinion of the five
academies of the institute, has done most honor and service to
the country."

Finally, in 1862, M. Foucault, perfecting his apparatus, measured
the velocity of light by an admirable experiment in physics,
which renders not only sensible, but even measurable, the time
employed by light to run over a path of twenty metres, (65 feet
7.4 inches,) although this time barely equals 1/15000000 of a
second!

And yet, after all this, there still remains a doubt as to
positive certainty of accuracy in the calculations.

The sun's parallax, calculated from observations of the last
transit of Venus over the disk of the sun in 1769, is fixed at
8.58 seconds, and on this basis is ascertained the distance from
the earth to the sun.

For reasons too long to detail here, many distinguished
astronomers are not entirely satisfied with the determination of
8.58 seconds, and prefer to wait for the next transit of Venus,
in 1874, for a full and satisfactory solution of all doubts on
the subject!


      Conclusion And A Proposition.

Thus, after a lapse of two hundred and thirty-five years, filled
with unremitting labor and triumphant results in the field of
astronomical discovery, it appears from the showing of those most
competent to judge that something yet remains to be produced in
the way of demonstration of the astronomical system as now
accepted.

We will not ask those who differ with us concerning the Galileo
question to wait another century--the period assigned by Sir John
Herschel as "requisite"! Herschel gave that opinion in 1828,
which would send us to A.D. 1928 "to go through the task."

{453}

As it might not probably be convenient either for us or for those
who differ with us to resume the controversy in that year,
namely, 1928, we will--in the spirit of compromise, and taking
all the rest for granted--content ourselves with and abide by the
"satisfactory solution" promised for 1874, to which period it
would seem proper, on scientific grounds, to adjourn any attempt
to show that a system not yet proved in 1868 was, nevertheless,
fully demonstrated in 1633.

                 ----------

    "Out Of The Depths Have I Cried Unto Thee O Lord!"


        A Christmas Sketch.


  "Our blood splashes upward, O our tyrants!
     And your purple shows your path,
   But the child's sob curseth deeper in the silence
     Than the strong man in his wrath."


"If wishes were horses, beggars might ride," says the proverb.

What a pity it is that wishes are not horses!--that at seasons
when almost every tongue drops the words, "A merry Christmas!" "A
happy New-Year!" the will should not rise and breathe the breath
of life into those words; make them move, make them work; put bit
and bridle on them, and direct them to go where they are most
needed. Wishes might then be made into very excellent horses, and
beggars might ride at least once a year; might be lifted for a
day out of the mire of care and suffering that dulls the light of
heaven to their eyes, and stops out the voices of heaven from
their ears; lifted into a belief in the humanity of man and the
mercy of God; might be given a little restful journey into that
easy land where the rich dwell every day.

There is more truth than poetry in the line,

  "Leave us leisure to be good."

One who has no time for thought will almost certainly go astray;
and men and women whose lives are spent in fighting the wolf from
their doors, will fight him with whatever comes to hand, and will
sometimes catch up strange weapons.

So it might chance that these living wishes may have wings also,
and the beggar's soul may rise as well as his body.

I should like to set a regiment of such wishes galloping down
Grind street this coming Christmas, and stopping at every door.

That was a sorrowful street a few years ago, and I don't know
that it has grown merry since. A tall block of tenement-houses
walled the northern side from end to end, leaving off so abruptly
that, had they been written words instead of brick houses, there
would have been a ---- after them. Indeed, if the reader has a
fancy for a miserable pun, he might say that there _was_ a
dash after them, houses being scarce.

A very sensitive person, on looking at that block, would be
likely to straighten himself up, draw his elbows close to his
sides, and feel as though his nose was unnecessarily large. It is
not impossible that he might "toe in" a little in walking, unless
he reached the next street.
{454}
Not a curve was visible in the whole block, horizontal and
perpendicular reigning supreme. The mean brick front came to the
very edge of the sidewalk, and the windows and doors were as flat
as though they had been slapped in the face when in a soft state.
Every house was precisely like every other house, and the only
way of finding any particular one was by counting doors.

"These houses toe the mark," the builder had said when he looked
on his completed work, standing complacently with his hands in
his pockets, and his head a little on one side.

"Toe the mark" was the right phrase. The two meagre steps that
led to each front door suggested the thought, and the whole had
an air of soul obedience.

The tenants in this block were of that pitiable class called
"decent," which generally means poor; too independent to beg,
straining every nerve to live respectably, and making an extra
strain to hide the first one; people whose eyes get a little wild
at the prospect of sickness, who shudder at the thought of a
doctor's bill and workless days, who sometimes stop their toil
for a moment, and wonder what may be the meaning of such words as
"ease," "contentment," "pleasure." There were clerks and
book-keepers whose families burst out through their incomes in
every direction; starving artists of all sorts; and the rest,
people who toiled down in the dark, at the foundations over which
soared the marble palaces of the rich, darkening heaven.

These people had got in a way of dressing alike; they had the
same kind of curtains, and the same plants stretching beseeching
shoots toward the tantalizing line of sunshine that let itself
down, slow and golden, to the middle of the second floor windows,
then drew back over the roofs of the houses opposite, while
little flowers of all colors looked lovingly and reproachfully
after it, cheated so day after day, but never quite losing faith
that some day the bright-winged comforter would come quite down
to their hearts.

Eyes of angels, to whom these roofs and walls were transparent,
saw, doubtless, variety enough under the surface: aspirations
that reached to the house-top and looked over; aspirations that
soared even to the clouds and the stars, catching a heavenly
likeness; aspirations that stopped not at the stars, but climbed
so high that their flowers and fruitage hung in the unfailing
sunlight of heaven beyond reach of earthly hands, but seen and
touched by ineffable hopes ascending and descending. What dark
desires crawling upon the earth and covering their own deeds
those poor eyes looked upon, I say not; what hate, deep and
bitter; what cankering envy and disappointment; what despair,
that with two tears blotted the universe; what determination;
what strongly rooted purpose; what careless philosophy eating its
crust with a laugh. Let the angels see as they may, with human
eyes we will look into one room, and find our story there.

This room is on the second floor, and consequently gets its
windows half full of sunshine every pleasant afternoon. The
furnishing of it shows that the occupants had seen better days;
but those days are long past, as you can see by the shabbiness of
everything. There are evidences of taste, too, in a hanging vase
of ivy, a voluble canary, a few books and pictures; and
everything is clean.

{455}

It was a bright gloaming in December of 186-, when a woman sat
alone in this room. She was evidently an invalid, looking more
like a porcelain image than a flesh-and-blood woman, so white and
transparent was she, so frail the whole make of her. Soft
light-brown hair faintly sprinkled with gray was dropped beside
each thin cheek, dovelike eyes of an uncertain blue looked sadly
out from beneath anxious brows, and the mouth, which once must
have expressed resolution, now, in its comparison, showed only
endurance. This was a woman who had taken up life full of hope
and spirit, but whom life had turned upon with blow after blow,
till finally both hope and spirit were broken. Her days of
enterprise were over.

She sat there with her hands listlessly folded, her work fallen
unnoticed to the floor, and her eyes flushed with weeping. She
had been sitting so an hour, ever since a visitor had left her;
but, hearing a step on the stair and a child's voice singing, she
started up, wiped her eyes, and mended the fire, her back turned
toward the door as it opened.

A little girl of eight years old came in and gave her
school-books a toss upon the table, crying out, in a boisterous,
healthy voice, "O mother! I am starved! Give me something to
eat."

"Supper will soon be ready, Nell," the mother said gently,
drawing out the table.

"I can't wait!" cried the child. "My stomach is so empty that it
feels as if there was a mouse there gnawing. You know we had
nothing but bread and butter for dinner, and I do think that's a
mean dinner. Why don't you have roast beef? I know lots of girls
who have it every day."

"We can't afford it," the mother said falteringly. "Beef is very
high."

"Well, what have you got for supper?" demanded the child. "You
promised us something good."

"I have nothing but bread and butter, dear. I couldn't get
anything else."

"Well, Mother Lane, I declare if that isn't too bad!" And the
child flung herself angrily into a chair. "We don't have anything
fit to eat, and I wish I could go and live with somebody that
wouldn't starve me. I won't eat bread and butter, there now! I'm
so sick of it that it chokes me."

The mother's face took a deeper shade, and her lip trembled, but
she made no reply; and Nell sat angrily kicking her heels against
the chair, and pouting her red lips.

Mrs. Lane knew well how vain is the attempt to teach a child
gratitude for the necessaries of life. Children are grateful only
for that which is superfluous, taking the rest as a matter of
course, and they are not to be blamed either. For gratitude is a
fruit, and not a flower, and those budding natures know not yet
what it means. After a little while, another and a louder step
sounded on the stairs, this time accompanied by a whistle; and
the door opened noisily to give admittance to a boy of ten years
old, who also flung his books down, and opened his cry:

"Mother, give me some money, quick! The oysterman is just at the
end of the street, and I can get oysters enough for our supper
for thirty cents. Hurry up, mother, or he'll go away!" And the
boy performed a double-shuffle to relieve his impatience.

"I can't spare the money," his mother said faintly.

"Well, what have you got for supper, then?" he asked fretfully.

The mother made no answer, and the boy turned to his sister for
an explanation.

{456}

"Bread and butter!" said Nell, with an air of ferocious sarcasm.

"Well, if I ever!" pronounced her brother, standing still with
his hands driven emphatically into the uttermost depths of his
pockets, and looking at his mother with an air at once astonished
and accusing. "If we live like this, I'll run away; see if I
don't!"

She turned upon them with a look that was either desperate or
angry.

"Children, wait till your sister comes home. Don't ask me for
anything."

Frank gave the door a bang, pulled his cap still closer on to his
head, since he ought to have pulled it off, and taking a seat by
the window, sat kicking his chair in concert with his sister. The
mother continued her preparations with the air of a culprit
watched by her judges.

Unheard in this duet of heels, a softer step ascended the stairs,
and a young lady opened the door and entered, a smile on her
pretty face, her breath quickened and her color heightened by the
run up-stairs, and waves of yellow hair drawn back from her white
forehead. She tossed her hat aside, and sank into a chair.

"There, mother, I do feel tired and hungry," she said; then,
catching a glimpse of her mother's face, started up, exclaiming,
"What is the matter?"

"Mr. Sanborn has been here," Mrs. Lane answered unsteadily,
without looking up.

The daughter's countenance showed her anticipation of evil news.

"And what of that?" she asked.

"He has raised the rent," was the faint answer.

"How much?"

"Eight dollars a month?"

"Impossible!" cried the daughter, flushing with excitement. "We
pay now all that the three rooms are worth. He knows what my
salary is, and that I cannot give any more."

"He says he can get that for the rooms," her mother said.

"Then we will go elsewhere!"

"We cannot!" whispered the mother despairingly, for the first
time raising her woeful eyes. "Every place is full. They are
going to tear down houses to widen two or three streets, and Mr.
Sanborn says that people will have to go out of town to live."

"What are we to do!" exclaimed the girl, pacing excitedly to and
fro. "We only just managed to get along before. Did you tell him,
mother?"

"I told him everything, Anne; and he said that he was very sorry,
but that his family _was_ an expensive one, and it cost him
a good deal to live; and, in short, that he must have the eight
dollars more."

"He is a villain!" cried Anne Lane. "And I will tell him so. I
should think his family was an expensive one. Look at their
velvets, and laces, and silks! Look at their pictures and their
curtains! One of my scholars told me to-day that Minnie Sanborn
said they were going to have a Christmas-tree that will cost five
hundred dollars. Think of that! And this is the way they pay for
it!"

"Don't say anything to him, Anne," pleaded her mother, in a
frightened tone. "Remember, he is one of the committee, and can
take your school away from you."

The young teacher's countenance fell. It was true; her employment
did, in some measure, depend on the good-will of this man.

She choked with the thought, then broke out again.

"The hypocrite! I have seen him at prayer-meetings, and heard him
make long prayers and pious speeches."

{457}

The mother sighed, and remained silent. She had been wont to
check her daughter's somewhat free animadversions, and to make an
effort, at least, to defend them of whom Anne said, "Their life
laughs through and spits at their creed;" but now the bitter
truth came too near.

There was a moment of silence, the children sitting still and
awed, the mother waiting despondently, while the fatherless girl,
who was the sole dependence of the household, did some rapid
brain-work.

"You think he really means it, mother?" she asked, without
pausing in her walk.

"Yes, there is no hope. I almost went on my knees to him."

There the widow's self-control broke down suddenly, and, putting
her hands over her face, she burst into a passion of tears.

It is a terrible thing to see one's mother cry in that way; to
see her, who soothed our childish sorrows, who seemed to us the
fountain of all comfort, herself sorrowing, while we have no
comfort to give.

Anne Lane's face grew pale with pain, and it seemed for a moment
that she, too, would lose courage. But she was a brave girl, and
love strengthened her.

"There, there, mother!" she said. "Don't cry! I guess we can make
out some way. Couldn't we do with two rooms? I could sleep with
you and Nell, and Frank could have a pillow out here on the
sofa."

"I thought of that," the mother sobbed drearily. "But he said
that the rooms go together."

The girl's breath came like that of some wild creature at bay.

"Then we must draw in our expenses somewhere. We must give up our
seats in church, and I will do the washing."

"I meant to do the washing, dear," her mother said eagerly. "And
perhaps I might get some work out of the shops. You know I have a
good deal of time to spare."

Even as she spoke, a sharp cough broke through her words, and her
face flushed painfully.

"No, mother, no!" the daughter said, resolutely holding back her
tears. "You are not able to work. Just leave that to me. Washing
makes round arms, and I find my elbows getting a little sharp. I
can save money and bring the dimples back at the same time."

There was a knock at the door, and their laundress came in, a
sober, sensible-looking Irishwoman.

"Good-evening, ma'am! Good-evening, miss! No, I won't sit down. I
must go home and take my young ones off the street, and give 'em
a bit of supper. I just stepped in to see if you want your
washing done to-morrow."

Mrs. Lane looked appealingly to her daughter to answer.

"We are sorry, Mrs. Conners," Anne said, "but we shall have to do
our own washing, this winter."

"O Lord!" cried the woman, leaning against the wall.

"There is no help for it," the girl continued, almost sharply,
feeling that their own distresses were enough for them to bear.
"Our rent has been raised, and we must save all we can."

"Oh! what'll I do, at all?" exclaimed the woman, lifting both
hands.

"Why, the best you can; just as we do," was the impatient reply.

Mrs. Conners looked at them attentively, and for the first time
perceived signs of trouble in their faces.

{458}

"The Lord pity us!" she said. "I don't blame you. But my rent is
raised, too. I've got to pay five dollars a month for the rooms I
have, and I don't know where I'll get it. It's little I thought
to come to this when Patrick was alive--the Lord have mercy on
him! The last thing he said to me when he went away to California
was, 'Margaret, keep up courage, and don't let the children on
the street; and I'll send you money enough to live on; and I'll
soon come back and buy us a little farm.' And all I ever heard of
him, since the day he left me, is the news of his death. Now I'll
have to take the children and go to the poor-house. All I could
do last winter only kept their mouths full, let alone rent. I
couldn't put a stitch on them nor me; and you wouldn't believe
how cold I am with no stockings to my feet, and little enough
under my rag of a dress. I couldn't buy coal nor wood. The
children picked up sticks in the street, and after my work was
over I had to go down to the dump, and pick coal till my back was
broke."

"Who is your landlord?" Mrs. Lane asked.

"Mr. Mahan--Andrew Mahan, that lives in a big house in the
square. And he asks five dollars for two rooms in that shanty,
that's squeezed into a bit of a place where nothing else would
go. Besides, the house is so old that the rats have ate it half
up, and what's left I could carry off on my back in a day. When
Mr. Mahan came to-day, his dog crawled through the door before it
was opened. I said to him, says I, 'Sir, when the wind and the
rain take possession of a house, it belongs to God, and no man
has a right to ask rent for it.' You see, I was mad. And so was
he, by that same token."

"But he is an Irishman, and a member of your own church," said
Anne.

"And why not?" demanded the woman. "Do you think that Yankees are
the only ones that grind the poor? Yes, Mr. Mahan is rich, and he
lives in style, and sends his daughters to a convent school in
Montreal. And often I've seen him in church, dressed in his
broad-cloths, and beating his breast, with his face the length of
my arm, and calling himself a sinner; and troth, I thought to
myself, 'that's true for ye!'"


Anne Lane went into her school-room
the next morning with a burning
heart, and it did not soothe her feelings
to see Mr. Sanborn, her landlord,
appear at the door, a few minutes
after, smilingly escorting a clerical-looking
stranger, who had come to visit the school.

Mr. Sanborn, though not an educated
man, chose to consider himself
a patron of education; made himself
exceedingly consequential in school
affairs, and had now brought a distinguished
visitor to see his pet school,
the "Excelsior." Anne Lane had one
of the show-classes, and he began the
exhibition with her.

"Commence, and go on with your
exercises just as if there were no one
here," he said, with a patronizing
smile, after they had taken their
seats. "This gentleman wishes to
see the ordinary daily working of
our system."

The first exercise was a reading
from the Bible, and a prayer by the
teacher, and Anne's fingers were
unsteady as she turned over the leaves
for a chapter. Her eyes sparkled
as she caught sight of one, and her
pulses tingled as she read, her fine,
deliberate enunciation and strong emphasis
arresting fully the attention of
her hearers:

  "Times are not hid from the Almighty:
   but they that know him, know not his days.

  "Some have removed landmarks,
   have taken away flocks by force, and fed them.

{459}

  "They have violently robbed the fatherless, and stripped the
  poor common people.

  "They have taken their rest at noon among the stores of them,
  who after having trodden the wine-presses suffer thirst.

  "Out of the cities they have made men to groan; and God will
  not suffer it to pass unrevenged.

  "Cursed be his portion upon the earth: let him not walk by the
  way of the vineyards.

  "Let him pass from snow-water to excessive heat, and his sin
  even to hell.

  "Let mercy forget him: may worms be his sweetness; let him be
  remembered no more, but be broken in pieces like an unfruitful
  tree."

Closing the book then, Anne Lane dropped her face into her
shaking hands, and repeated, almost inaudibly, the Lord's prayer.

Mr. Sanborn was not dull, but he was incredulous. It was almost
impossible that this little school-mistress would dare to mean
_him_. Yet that new sternness in the young face, ordinarily
so smiling, the passion in her voice, with the remembrance of his
last interview with Mrs. Lane, altogether made up a pretty strong
case against her.

"She makes a strange selection from the Scriptures to read to
children," whispered the stranger to him, as Anne hurriedly went
through with the first recitations.

"Very strange, sir! very strange!" answered the other, stammering
with anger. "And what is worse, it is intended as an insult to
me. I have found it necessary to raise the rent of my houses. She
is a tenant of mine, and this is her revenge. I hope, sir, that
if you have anything to say on the subject, you will not hesitate
to speak freely."

The Rev. Mr. Markham sat and considered the case, laying down
certain points in his mind. Firstly, women should be sweet,
humble, and modest. Secondly, sweetness, modesty, and humility,
with firmness and patience, should especially characterize a
teacher of youth. Thirdly, persons in authority, clergymen,
school-committee men, etc., should be treated with scrupulous
respect by all their subordinates.

The reverend gentleman put on his spectacles, the better to see
this young woman who had so boldly vetoed his fundamental
doctrines. She held herself very erect, no modest droop whatever;
there was a little flicker of heat-lightning in her eyes, and a
steady, dark-red spot on each cheek; moreover, she had red hair.
Verdict for the plaintiff. She must have a reprimand, a warning,
and, on repetition of the offence, must be informed that she is
no longer considered a suitable person to mould the minds of
youth.

Poor little Anne Lane! This great, stupid, conceited man did not
dream that her aching heart was laden with sweetness as a hive
with honey, and that what he called a sweet woman was a
sugar-coated woman. He did not allow that there might be some
exceptions to his third rule. The reprimand was delivered
pitilessly, the warning made sufficiently plain then, the two
gentlemen withdrew, leaving the teacher pale and stunned. The
visitor had taken the coldest possible leave, and Mr. Sanborn had
not noticed her at all.

"Oh! why did I yield to anger?" she thought, in terror and
distress. "What right have the poor to feelings, to thoughts? How
dare they denounce wrong, even when they die by it? What was I
thinking of?"

A thrill of pain ran through her every nerve at this last
question.

{460}

She had been thinking all the time of her mother's sobbing words,
"I almost went on my knees to him!"

The month crept on toward Christmas. Unknown to her daughter,
Mrs. Lane had spent day after day going about the shops and
vainly soliciting work. She had not sufficient clothing to
protect her from the weather; she was weakened by sorrow and
anxiety, and the disease, which had long been threatening and
reaching out for her, made a final grasp. With a terror, all the
more terrible in that she could not speak of it, she felt her
lungs give way and her breath grow shorter. What would her young
children do without her? If she should be long ill, how were the
doctor's bills to be paid? How were the funeral expenses to be
met? What crushing burden, beside the sorrow, was she going to
lay upon the already burdened shoulders of her poor little girl?
She only prayed that the blow might fall swiftly. Poor people
can't afford to die leisurely.

One day, about a week before Christmas, Anne came home and found
her mother lying senseless upon the floor. Mrs. Lane had held up
as long as she could, and now her powers of endurance were gone.
But she had her prayer, for the blow fell swiftly. On Christmas
morning all her troubles passed away.

Christmas evening came, and all was still in the house. The
neighbors had kindly done what they could, and two of them sat
with the lifeless form of what had once been the mother of these
children. Frank and Nell had cried themselves to sleep, and Anne
was left with the night upon her hands. She could not sleep, and
she could not pray. The faith that comforts in sorrow she knew
not. She had wept till her head reeled, and the air of the house
stifled her.

"I must get out and take the air, or I shall go crazy," she
thought. And, dressing hastily, she went out into the bright and
frosty night. She wandered aimlessly about the streets, scarcely
knowing where she went; not caring, indeed, so long as she walked
and felt the wind in her face.

"Christ on earth?" she thought. "I don't believe it! It's all a
fable."

On her way she met Mrs. Conners, weeping bitterly. She was going
to the watch-house after her little girl. Biddy had stolen a
turkey from a shop-window, and a policeman had caught her.

"It is the first thing the child ever stole," the poor woman
said; "and what made her do it was hunger. We haven't had a taste
of meat in the house this month, and poor Biddy heard the other
girls tell what they had for dinner, and it made her mad."

Anne listened as one in a dream, and went on without a word.
Presently she came into a sharp glare of light that fell across
the sidewalk from a brilliantly illuminated window. She paused to
look in, not because she cared what it was, but because she
longed for distraction. There was a long suite of parlors,
showily if not tastefully furnished, and filled with a gay
company, many of them children. In the farthest end of the rooms
stood a magnificent Christmas-tree, decked with colored candles,
flowers, and fruits, and hanging full of presents. The company
were all assembled about the tree, and, as she looked, a smiling
gentleman stepped up, with the air of a host, and began to
distribute the Christmas gifts.

Anne Lane's heart stood still when she recognized Mr. Sanborn.

{461}

"O you murderer!" she moaned, as she sank exhausted on the icy
steps. "Your candles and your flowers are red with my mother's
blood!"

When the Christmas angels looked down upon the earth that night
to see how fared the millions, to whom in the morning they had
sung their song of joy, their eyes beheld alike the rich man in
his parlor and the stricken girl who lay outside his door.

Did they record of him that he had "kept the feast," and worthily
remembered one who came that day "to fill the hungry with good
things"?

Or did they write against him the fearful judgment which had once
already sounded in his ears,

  "Let mercy forget him:
   Let him be remembered no more"?

                  ----------

  The General Convention Of The Protestant Episcopal Church.


The General Convention of the Protestant Episcopal Church, which
has just closed its labors, was looked forward to with much
interest by all Episcopalians. Each of the two important sections
of which their communion is composed was anxious for a better
explanation of some disputed points, or, at least, for a
vindication of its own interpretation of doctrine. It was
supposed that something would be settled in regard to the many
vexed questions of dogma and ritual which perplex the public no
less than the members of the church itself. For even the public
are interested to know what a church believes and professes, and
especially if that church makes any pretensions to authority. On
a careful review, however, of the journal, we believe that, while
a few are gratified, many are disappointed. Some are gratified
that no direct attack was allowed against their own favorite
opinions; while both High-Churchmen and Low-Churchmen stand
precisely where they stood before, no nearer each other, and no
better satisfied with the condition of things. Moderation, we are
told, is the characteristic of the Episcopal Church, by which we
are led to understand the sweet blending of contrarieties and
contradictions, and the permission to every one to believe what
approves itself to his private judgment. Catholics can hardly
comprehend such a harmony in discord, or discord in harmony. Even
candid minds, with no religious bias, are unable to appreciate
how contrary doctrines can be held in one and the same church,
and by equal authority. Our own opinion of this convention is,
that it has accomplished nothing for doctrine, nothing to heal
the disputes of its members, very little for discipline, and not
very much for the extension of the Episcopal communion, although
some of the plans proposed are good in themselves. We strongly
incline to think that very many Episcopalians will coincide with
our judgment. Under these three heads--of doctrine, discipline,
and church extension--let us briefly review the labors of the
convention.

{462}

I. It seems that the Nicene Creed was under consideration, and
that there was a strong intention to restore it to its "original
form;" but the _Church Record_ says that it was left
untouched _for the present_. If this important and ancient
symbol had been altered, there would have been quite an advance
in doctrine. A committee has been appointed to prepare an
accurate translation from the original Greek for the use of the
next convention. It therefore bides its time, when the same body
which expunged the Athanasian Creed may leave out the proper
doctrine of the Trinity, or the procession of the Holy Ghost from
the Son, or the communion of saints, or any other point of
Christian dogma. Nevertheless, by this convention nothing was
done on this subject.

The project of bracketing those portions of the Prayer-Book which
embody the doctrine of baptismal regeneration was not favored by
the committee on canons; and a motion to refer a proposition for
striking out the words, "Whosesoever sins thou dost remit, they
are remitted," was very summarily disposed of. It was decided not
to alter anything, to leave regeneration in the baptismal service
for the gratification of High-Churchmen, and also the denial of
it in the Articles for the consolation of Low-Churchmen.

This was the wisest course, and on this point we record with
satisfaction, "Nothing done."

As to the ordinal, the bishops are not obliged to say, "Whose
sins thou dost remit," etc., when they do not believe it, as it
is only to be used at option, and can therefore put the whole
offensive doctrine in their pockets. Why, then, should the wisdom
of an ecclesiastical body be disturbed on a mere matter of
opinion? Here, again, nothing was done.

So by the convention in both orders, nothing has been done in the
way of doctrine, save to leave all matters precisely as they
were, in full freedom for both sides. And here an anecdote comes
forcibly to our memory which illustrates the moderation and
liberty of the Episcopal communion. A young candidate was under
examination for deacon's orders before one of the oldest and
wisest of the High-Church bishops. "How," said that prelate, "do
you receive the Thirty-nine Articles?" "I receive them," said the
candidate, "in such a way as not to contradict the rest of the
Prayer-Book." "Perfectly right," replied the bishop; "and
moreover, it is the General Convention which imposes the articles
upon you, and this body is composed of all degrees of churchmen,
from those who hang on the walls of Rome to those who breathe the
atmosphere of Geneva. Between these two extremes, my son, you
have perfect liberty." And the young man was made a deacon, and
went away rejoicing that he had freedom of conscience and a wide
range of opinion, which he certainly had. But if the Lower House,
consisting of ministers and laymen, has been so prudent, the
Upper House has terribly committed itself. In the Catholic Church
the bishops alone are allowed to give judicial opinions in
doctrine; while among the Episcopalians, we believe that both
houses of the convention are equally authoritative, and, that one
has a negative upon the other. What the bishops have done,
therefore, does not propose to bind the conscience of any one, we
presume; yet certainly their solemn pastoral ought to be received
with great respect, and be considered at least as an indication
of the doctrinal position of their church. In this pastoral, we
find some remarkably interesting points, in regard to which,
though we may say nothing was _done_, we cannot say nothing
was spoken.

{463}

This address to the whole Episcopalian body asserts first that
"the incarnate God hath committed the great commission wherewith
he came into the world to _fallible_ men." What, then, is to
prevent the utter failure of this great commission, and the
complete ruin of all Christ's work? "To his ministers," saith the
pastoral, "thus weak and subject to error, he hath given his
infallible word, that, without peril of misleading their flock,
they may instruct them with all authority by speaking always
according to the Scriptures." Who is to know, then, that these
ministers speak according to the Scriptures, especially when they
differ one from another? Bishop Lee spoke very plainly at the
opening of the convention, and his interpretation of the
Scriptures gave some offence. Common sense pauses for a reply.
Each one must decide for himself whether his minister speaks
according to the Bible; and this being granted (which is the
fundamental position of all Protestant bodies) we do not see the
use of ministers, much less of bishops, much less of a council of
bishops. Christ's great commission, according to the Episcopalian
prelates, hinges on the chance that the Bible will be circulated
and rightly interpreted. The history of religion since the
Reformation does not cause us to think much of this chance.

The next point asserted in the pastoral is the necessity of
communion with the visible church. It is indeed asserted somewhat
equivocally, and with a _caveat_, that "the proper
individuality of every soul must not be merged in its corporate
relations to the body of Christ," an expression which we do not
at all understand. How the merging is to be accomplished we do
not see, unless by some physical process, and we are very glad
the bishops do not recommend it. Yet they say that "the necessity
of membership in the communion of which Christ is the head, is a
truth of vital importance." We presume they mean here a union
with the _visible_ body of Christ, for otherwise they would
really assert nothing, since what Christian denies the necessity
of union with Christ? And again, where would be the danger of
merging an individual in an invisible body?

But then comes the great question, Where is the body of Christ,
with which membership is necessary? Do the bishops mean to say it
is the Episcopal Church, and that it is necessary to belong to
their communion in order to be saved? We do not really know what
they mean, but are quite persuaded that they do not intend to
unchurch all the rest of mankind, and hence come to the
conclusion that these words are to be taken in a figurative
sense, that having spoken _much_ they have said nothing.

Now comes the great trouble which oppresses the prelates. "The
unscriptural and _uncatholic_ pretensions of the Bishop of
Rome, as in times past, so now, are a fruitful source of error
and evil." The pope has done all the mischief, he did it in the
early times, he did it in the middle ages, and he will keep doing
it now. What is it that he does "which is the bar to the
restoration of the unity of Christendom?" Why, he fulfils the
promise of our Lord: "Thou art Peter, and on this rock I will
build my church."
{464}
There is no visible body without a head, and he is that head by
the appointment of Christ. We think the blame ought to be laid
upon him who founded the church and made the Papacy. He made his
church to be _one_, with one head, when it seems that he
ought to have made it capable of division.

The bishops then urge upon their brethren to teach that "Jesus
Christ is the living centre of unity;" that "his true vicar is
the Holy Ghost;" that "the visible expression of catholic unity
is the apostles' doctrine and fellowship, the breaking of bread
and prayers."

Is it the English language which here we read, and is it our
mother-tongue which thus is made to confuse our minds? If any one
understands these phrases, we compliment him upon his sagacity.
We do not honestly believe that the venerable prelate who wrote
them knows what he means, or intends others to know.

"Jesus Christ is the living centre of unity." Certainly; but we
have been speaking of a _visible_ unity, and Jesus Christ is
not visible to us. The vicar of Christ is the Holy Ghost, a
singular office for the third person-of the undivided Trinity,
and he is not visible either. The invisible Christ has an
invisible vicar on earth, and this is the coequal and coeternal
Spirit! The visible expression of Catholic unity is the
"apostles' doctrine and fellowship, the breaking of bread and
prayers."

Oh! for the good and honest heart among the Episcopalians to see
that these words are empty sounds which mean nothing at all.
"Where is the apostles' doctrine and fellowship?" Is it in the
Episcopal Church alone, and if not, where is it? The bishops
ought to have said that _their_ doctrine was the apostles',
that _their_ fellow ship was the apostles', or if they had
doubts on the point, they should have told us unequivocally where
to find these important and absolutely necessary "expressions of
catholic unity." We are here reminded of an old negro who in our
young days used to speak Latin fluently; but as his phrases were
made up of plural genitives, we could only hear the sonorous
"_Bonorum, filiorum, malorum, optimorum_," without
comprehending one single word. In like manner, with at least the
common intelligence which God has given us, we do not comprehend
this pastoral, unless it really means, in circumlocution, to say
nothing.

The bishops then go on to defend the Anglican reformation, and
hold up to condemnation the attempts made by some High-Churchmen
to disparage it. And in this connection they "especially condemn
any doctrine of the Holy Eucharist which implies that after
consecration the proper nature of bread and wine does not remain,
which _localizes_ in them the bodily presence of our Lord,
which allows any adoration other than that of Christ himself."
Here we do think the prelates have said something, and we can
understand what they mean. We would have preferred that they
should have used language more direct, and without any
insinuations. But we understand them to say that the bread and
wine are unchanged by their consecration, and that there is no
presence of Christ at all in the Eucharist. For as he is very
man, his presence must necessarily be a _bodily_ one, and
must be localized. We Catholics adore the blessed sacrament only
because it is Christ himself; because the bread and wine are
changed into his body.
{465}
The bishops here deny any such presence of Christ, and go on to
assert that the humanity of our Lord is only to be found at the
right hand of God in heaven.

For this reason, very appropriately, the ceremonies of the
ritualists are denounced, because they are built upon a doctrine
which supposes Christ to be present on the altar. Will it now be
believed that the organ of the ritualists, in New York, expresses
itself pleased with this part of the pastoral? We blush for the
insincerity and dishonesty of men who love to call themselves
"_Catholic priests_." They are satisfied with this open
denial of any real presence of Christ in the Eucharist, and "they
will work on with new vigor, cheered and _sustained_ by the
admonitions of their fathers in God." If such admonitions cheer
them, what kind of admonition would dishearten them?

No, my friends, you are not cheered, nor sustained; but being
determined to make the best of your cause, you strive to look
pleasant. God is the judge. You may deceive yourselves and
mislead others, but you are responsible to him for calling white
black, and black white.

On questions of doctrine we find, then, that the convention has
done nothing, save that the bishops have asserted, on their own
authority, that Christ's commission has been committed to a
_fallible_ instrumentality; that communion with the body of
Christ is necessary, while no instructions are given as to what
and where that body is to be found; that the pope is the great
obstacle to catholic unity; that the vicar of our Lord on earth
is the Holy Ghost; that the Anglican reformation is good and to
be imitated; that there is no presence whatever of Christ in the
Holy Eucharist; and that the extravagances of the ritualists are
entirely to be condemned.

We do not remember any ecclesiastical body which has said more
striking things than these; but as no canons have been made, we
must only take them as the opinions of the bishops of the
Protestant Episcopal Church in 1868.

II. In regard to discipline, we find that there were discussions
on many subjects, but that very few laws were passed.

In the early part of the session, an attempt was made to change
the name of their body from "General Convention" to "National
Council," or something similar. The disputes were quite racy, one
member insisting that "convention" was a _dirty_ word. But
the delegates were unwilling to rebaptize themselves, and after
three or four days the whole thing was dropped.

The singing by the boys in surplices, which we believe is usual
in Trinity chapel, was so much objected to by some of the
members, that they withdrew from the church during the service,
until the point was conceded and the boys were put away. No
canon, however, was introduced on this subject. Shortly after,
the sessions of the deputies were removed to the church of the
Transfiguration, where the _Church Record_ tells us that
"the music was led by some of the deputies, and a beautiful
marble altar, with a _large_ brass cross, and a pair of
candlesticks _with candles_, added to the solemnity of the
scene." We are glad that our ritualistic friends had such great
consolations.

{466}

The question of adopting the provincial system of the Catholic
Church, which would have practically made Dr. Potter an
archbishop and Bishop Smith a kind of patriarch, was under
consideration, but finally gave way to the "federation of
dioceses," which means, we believe, the small convention of a few
dioceses, instead of the large one of them all. The small one is,
however, to be subject to the large one.

A canon was passed that no clergyman shall unite in marriage any
divorced persons having a husband or wife living, except the
innocent party in a suit for divorce on the ground of adultery.
This is a great advance toward the law promulgated by our Lord,
St. Matthew v. 32 and xix. 9. The next time they will probably
take the whole verse, and adopt the latter clause, as well as the
former. We congratulate the Episcopal Church upon this really
serious improvement in a practice pregnant with great evil.

Some canons were also adopted concerning clerical support and the
trials of ministers, which have no general interest and need not
here be enumerated.

The Rev. Mr. Tyng and his friends were quite anxious to get the
canon, in pursuance of which he was admonished, altered or
interpreted; but after several discussions they failed to
accomplish anything favorable to their cause, the temper of the
majority of the convention being adverse to any changes. A slight
amendment to what the _Church Record_ calls the "canon on
_intrusion_" was passed, and the officiating of
_dissenting_ ministers is positively forbidden. The most
unpleasant part of this matter is that, in the opinion of the
Low-Churchmen, the canon is not yet quite clear. They do not
understand it as some of their brethren do; and we are told that,
even during the session of the convention, the Rev. Mr. Tyng
permitted a Presbyterian minister to preach in his church.

A very important improvement was made, however, by which Catholic
priests who leave the church, and desire to become Episcopalian
ministers, shall be put upon a longer probation. Heretofore only
six months were necessary; now a full year is required. We think
this change important for the Episcopal Church, because, as far
as our experience goes, priests, who put themselves in such a
position, require quite a long period to fit themselves for so
honorable a profession. We hope, for the well-being of the
Protestant Episcopal ministry, they will at the next convention
extend this probation to six years. They may rest assured they
will have no cause to regret it.

The subject of ritual attracted considerable attention. Various
memorials were presented against the innovations of late days, by
which the practices of the Catholic Church have been fitted into
the Prayer-Book. It was proposed to prohibit by canon the wearing
of other vestments than the surplice, black stole, bands, and
gown; surpliced choirs, candlesticks, crucifixes, super-altars,
bowing at the name of Jesus, the use of the sign of the cross,
elevation of the _elements_ or _of the alms_, and the
use of incense. After some excitement, the whole matter was
referred to the committee on canons, who, being divided in
opinion, gave two contradictory reports. The majority report
recommends moderation and forbearance, that every one be careful
to do right, and that then there can be no just cause of offence.
In any doubt as to what is right, reference should be made to the
Ordinary, whose godly counsel in each diocese should be the rule
of opinion.
{467}
The minority of the committee were in favor of passing a law
forbidding the objectionable practices which we have enumerated.
After a very protracted discussion, neither of the reports was
accepted; but a resolution was adopted which asks "the House of
Bishops to set forth at the next convention such additional
rubrics in the Book of Common Prayer as, in their judgment, may
be decided necessary;" and that in the meanwhile reference should
be made in each case to the diocesan. The House of Bishops
replied that, while they would not think of altering the
Prayer-Book, they would consider the whole subject, with a view
to action, if it should be thought expedient at the next
convention.

Thus the whole matter is postponed for three years, and, in the
interim, ritualists must seek such dioceses as are favorable to
their views. While Dr. Potter has no objection to the use of
Catholic vestments, we see no reason why Dr. Dix and his friends
should not come out at once with the chasuble and the incense. We
earnestly hope, for the cause of honesty and truth, that they
will do so. The case is different under the _régimes_ of
Bishops Coxe and McIlvaine who are seriously opposed to any
alterations of the existing ritual. Ritualists must migrate to
the bishops whose godly counsels will allow them freedom of
action. It is true, as we have seen, that the pastoral of the
whole House of Bishops condemns their practices; but in spite of
this each one of the prelates may have his own counsel, "not
having merged his individuality in his corporate relations to the
body of Christ."

III. It remains to consider what the convention has done in
regard to the extension of their own church, as was its first
interest. Under this head we can briefly review what was said
upon the relations of the Episcopal Church to other Christian
bodies, and the views expressed by the deputies upon the
condition and growth of their own communion.

In regard to other Christian denominations, the Episcopal Church
is singularly unfortunate. It has communion with no other body of
Christians in the entire world. It objects to the other
Protestant sects, on the ground that they are irregular, and
refuses to allow any of their ministers to officiate in its
churches, as we have seen by "the canon on intrusion." It calls
itself a _branch_ of the catholic church, that is to say,
those who speak for it call it by this title. The other branches
are the Eastern churches and the Roman Catholic Church; at least,
we are told so by those who say anything on this branch theory.
With these other branches the Episcopal Church has no communion,
however, and is not likely to have any. Nothing need be said of
the Roman Church, for its action and language have always been
decided and clear. But the Eastern branches have condemned the
Anglican doctrine and orders much more plainly than the
Episcopalians have condemned their Protestant brethren. Not one
single instance has been found where a Greek bishop has been
willing to give communion to a member of the Anglican branch,
without the abjuration of his errors; and the rejection of the
orders of the English ministers is as unequivocal in the East as
it is in the West. Moreover, the doctrines specially condemned by
the Thirty-nine Articles are held as firmly in the Eastern branch
as in the Western. With all due respect, therefore, we agree with
Bishop Lee, and say that, if the Episcopal Church is not a
Protestant church, it has no right to be a church at all. Why
then do our High-Church friends hanker after the patronage of the
Greek Church?
{468}
It will not help them any as far as the Catholics are concerned,
and it will certainly fail to make the disinterested public think
any better of their claims. They may go upon their faces before
the Archbishop of Moscow, and "compromise themselves;" but though
like a gentleman he will treat them with courtesy, he will have a
meaner opinion of them, and in his heart will say, "Gentlemen, if
you have no feet of your own to stand upon, it seems to me you
had better sit down."

The High-Churchmen, who seemed to have had the upper hand in the
convention, have established a committee on church unity. This
able body is to labor on this important subject, with probably
the same results as hitherto. No care seems to be given to the
thousand Protestant bodies who came into the world either before
or after the Episcopal Church. They are out of the question, and,
if they want religious unity, must look for it by themselves. But
all attention is devoted to the East, where, if they could get
even a passing smile, as if of recognition, it would do their
hearts good. Perhaps now they will get it, because they have gone
so far as to recognize the jurisdiction of the Greek Church in
Alaska. The _Church Record_ calls this a great advance, and
we suppose it means that they will send no ministers to Alaska,
because, if they did, it would conflict with the authority of the
Greek bishop. This makes it bad for any Episcopalian who may go
up there, since they will have no church to go to. The Greek
Church will not admit them to its communion, and they cannot have
any, of their own. The upholders of the branch-theory must,
however, put up with this small inconvenience.

Three years are now to be spent in making an accurate translation
of the Nicene Creed in "the original Greek." Then we expect to
see "the procession of the Holy Ghost from the Son" omitted in
the Prayer-Book. The question is not whether it is true, or
whether the Scriptures teach it. The only question is, Does the
Eastern branch receive it? If it does not, then it must go. But
we venture to inquire if the learned committee has made itself
sure that the authorities at Moscow will be satisfied with this
simple concession. We know that there is no evidence like that of
sight, and hence respectfully recommend the authorities of the
convention to go to the East, and there ask for a recognition.
Then, when three years come around, we shall hear some positive
answer. It would be a pity to alter the Creed, without any
recompense whatever.

Sympathy is also expressed with the Italians who are trying to
subvert the temporal power of the pope, and especially with those
priests who would like to reform the Catholic Church after the
model of the Anglican communion. One gentleman of much
information asked, in the convention, if there really was any
movement of the kind in Italy. He said he had read many travels,
and had travelled himself extensively, and had never seen or
heard of any _good_ priests who were disposed to turn
Protestants, and as for the bad ones, he had not much faith in
them. The committee replied that, in their opportunities for
correspondence, they had seen much, and the results would one day
appear. We wait in patience, then, to see how many good and moral
priests will appear in what will probably be called the
Protestant Episcopal Church in Italy.
{469}
As the East, however, is nearer to them than the United States,
and as England is somewhat passive, we would suggest that this
new church be placed, for a time at least, under the jurisdiction
of some Greek bishop. This will be more convenient, and less
likely to offend, because the Greek bishops cannot marry as the
Anglican bishops have power to do. But then a perplexing question
will arise. If the Eastern branch has jurisdiction in Alaska, has
not the Roman branch some jurisdiction in Italy? This is among
the perplexities of the branch theory. To plain common sense, a
church with branches is not _one_ church, and to Catholics
the ultra-Protestant theory is far more tenable. We believe,
therefore, that the efforts toward church union will only prove
more plainly the isolation of the Episcopal Church from all other
Christian bodies. We are for the largest liberty possible with
truth, but we are not for falsehood; and we have a right to
demand that a man shall call himself what he _is_, and not
persist in calling himself what he _is not_.

The view of the state of the church given by the committee is
quite a favorable one, though we do not see that Episcopalians
are largely increasing by conversion. Several new dioceses were
formed, which will, no doubt, divide labor if they do not
multiply population. The most important subject which engrossed
the convention was that of education; and the principle, so long
acted upon by the Catholic Church, was virtually adopted.

It was resolved to establish parochial schools wherever possible,
in order to save the young from perversion by the many popular
errors of our day. We earnestly hope that this resolution will
generally be acted upon. It is quite evident that any
denomination which has positive doctrines to teach must take care
early to teach its children the principles of faith, and that a
system of education without Christianity is effectually an
infidel system. When the Episcopalians shall have built their
parochial schools, they will be able to appreciate the labors of
Catholics, who, far poorer, and far more numerous, have never
been willing to trust their children to the public schools. Then
perhaps they will unite with us in asking the state legislatures
for a just proportion of the funds raised by taxation and devoted
to the education of the young. We could never see anything but
simple justice in this demand. The action of the Episcopal
Convention, if carried out, will be an advance in favor of our
practice, and an argument for the propriety of our claims.

The bishops express themselves in their pastoral as anxious to
promote the works of mercy and education, by the establishment of
communities of men and women. We understand that such
organizations are to be devoted to the service of the poor, sick,
and ignorant, and that they are to be modelled after the plan of
our Christian Brothers or our Sisters of Charity and Mercy. They
are to be, however, "free from ensnaring vows or enforced
confessions." The members are to come and go when they please,
and devote themselves to the labors of the community as long as
they are disposed, free to leave, without scruple, at any time.
We fear that on such principles communities would not hold
together long, nor always act together but we are very desirous
that the Episcopalians should thoroughly try them. Confession is
to be permitted, it seems, when it is not forced; hence it would
appear that the House of Bishops is in favor of _voluntary_
confession for the members of these proposed associations.
{470}
Any step of this kind is a great advance, for it leads the
earnest mind toward the true Bride of the Lamb, "whose clothing
is of wrought gold." It is hard to see why voluntary confession
should be permitted to these communities and not to the
Episcopalians in general. But perhaps the bishops did not mean to
favor sacramental confession, although they would seem to do so
by the language of the pastoral.

In this brief summary we have given what seems to us a candid
review of the work of the last Episcopal Convention, as it
interests Catholics and the public generally. If at any time
there has been anything savoring of the ridiculous or comical in
our language, we beg our reader to refer it to the
subject-matter, and not to any intention of ours. He that makes
assumptions of prerogatives to which he has no title will
certainly excite the laughter of his neighbors. The historian who
simply records facts is in no way to blame. When Episcopalian
ministers call themselves Catholic priests, people will
innocently laugh: and perhaps we ourselves, with all our
courtesy, could not refrain from a smile. In like manner, when a
church isolates itself from all the world by claims which
everybody else on earth denies to it, there is something of the
ridiculous in its position, and, while we may be pained, we are
at the same time amused. If the committee on church union will
only labor a little harder, and once in a while travel abroad,
they may perhaps open the eyes of not a few.

The Episcopal Church must work either for us or for
Protestantism. It has no harvest of its own to reap, and there is
no middle ground for the honest mind. It has already sent many a
gifted and pure soul to the home of truth and purity, and we
Catholics are daily gathering in those whom it has led to our
gates. We wish it God-speed in this work of conversion--in this,
perhaps unintentional, labor of love. Let the so-called "Catholic
priests" go on, and unprotestantize and catholicize their flocks.
They will never be able to feed the hunger they have excited, nor
satisfy the cravings of the heart in which God the Redeemer is
showing the marks of his love. We stand ready for them and their
children, to show them a truth and beauty which are real--a
church which is not the work of imagination, but a living
reality, formed and sustained by the incarnate Word. God grant
that they sport not too long with shadows--that they delay not
too long before the portals of Sion! "The night cometh in which
no man can work." "He that hath ears to hear, let him hear."

        ----------

{47l}

        Christmas.


  God an Infant--born to-day!
      Born to live, to die, for me!
  Bow, my soul; adoring say:
      "Lord, I live, I die, for Thee."
  Humble then, but fearless, rise:
  Seek the manger where He lies.

  Tread with awe the solemn ground:
      Though a stable mean and rude,
  Wondering angels all around
      Throng the seeming solitude:
  Swelling anthems, as on high,
  Hymn a second Trinity. [Footnote 156]

     [Footnote 156: Jesus, Mary, and Joseph are called
     by theologians "The Earthly Trinity."]

  Lo, in bands of swathing wrapt,
      Meekly sleeps a tender Form:
  God on bed of straw is lapt!
      Breaths of cattle keep Him warm!
  King of glory, can it be
  Thou art thus for love of me?

  Hail, my Jesus, Lord of might!
      Who in tiny, helpless hand
  Thy creations infinite
      Holdest as a grain of sand!
  Hail, _my_ Jesus--all my own!
  Mine, as if but mine alone!

  God made Man, and Man made God--
      Natures Two in Person One,
  I adore Thy Precious Blood,
      Pulsing, burning to atone:
  I adore Thy Sacred Heart,
  Surest proof of what Thou art.

{472}

  Hail, my Lady--full of grace!
      Maiden Mother, hail to thee!
  Poring on the radiant Face,
      Thine a voiceless ecstasy;
  Yet, sweet Mother, let me dare
  Join the worship of thy prayer.

  Mother of God--O wondrous name!
      Bending seraphs hail thee Queen.
  Mother of God--yet still the same
      Mary thou hast ever been:
  Still so lowly, though so great:
      Mortal, yet immaculate!

  O'er our exile's troubled sea,
      Thou the star, no sky shall dim:
  Christ our Light we owe to thee--
      Him to thee, and thee to Him.
  Take my heart, then: let it be
  Thine in Him, and His in thee.

  Joseph, hail--of gentlest power!
      Shadow of the Father thou:
  Thine to shield in danger's hour
      Whom thy presence comforts now.
  Mary trusts to thee her Child;
  He, His Mother undefiled.

  Teach me thou, then, how to live
      All for them--my only all;
  Looking to thy arm to give
      Help in trial or in fall;
  Till 'tis mine with thee to prove
  What it is to die of love.

          ----------

{473}

    From The French Of Erckmann And Chatrian.

        The Invasion; Or, Yegof The Fool.


               Chapter XIV.


At seven o'clock everything was still quiet.

From time to time Dr. Lorquin opened a window of the great hall
and looked abroad. Nothing was stirring; even the fires had gone
out.

Louise, seated near her father, gazed sadly and tenderly upon
him. She seemed to fear that she would never again see him, and
her reddened eyes showed that she had been weeping.

Hullin, though firm, showed signs of emotion.

The doctor and the Anabaptist, both grave and solemn in their
manner, were conversing, and Lagarmitte, behind the stove,
listened thoughtfully to their words.

"We have not only the right, but it is our duty to defend
ourselves," the doctor was saying. "Our fathers cleared these
woods and cultivated the land. They are now rightfully ours."

"Doubtless," answered the Anabaptist; "but it is written, Thou
shalt not kill! Thou shalt not spill thy brother's blood!"

Catherine Lefevre, whom this view of matters annoyed, turned
suddenly from her work, saying:

"Then if we believed as you do, we would let the Germans and
Russians drive us from house and home. Your religion is a famous
one for thieves! The Allies ask nothing better, I am sure. I do
not wish to insult you, Pelsly; you have been brought up in these
notions; but we will defend you despite yourself. I love to hear
of peace, but not when the enemy is at our doors."

Pelsly remained mute from astonishment, and Doctor Lorquin could
not repress a smile.

At the same moment the door opened, and a sentry entered, crying:

"Master Jean-Claude, come! I believe they are advancing."

"I am coming, Simon," answered Hullin, rising. "Embrace me,
Louise. Courage, my child; fear not, all will go well."

He clasped her to his bosom and his eyes filled with tears. She
seemed more dead than living.

"Be sure," said he to Catherine, "to let no one go out or
approach the windows."

He rushed from the house to the edge of the plateau, and cast his
eyes toward Grandfontaine and Framont, thousands of feet below
him.

The Germans had arrived the evening before, a few hours after the
Cossacks. They had passed the night, to the number of five or six
thousand, in barns, stables, or under sheds, and were now
clustering like ants, pouring from every door in tens and
twenties, and hurrying to buckle on knapsacks, fasten sabres, or
fix bayonets.

Others--cavalry--Uhlans, Cossacks, hussars, in green, gray, and
blue uniforms, faced with red or yellow, with caps of waxed cloth
or lamb-skin, were hastily saddling their horses or rolling their
blankets.

{474}

Trumpets were sounding at every street-corner, and drummers were
tightening their drum-cords. Every phase of military life seemed
there.

A few peasants, stretching their heads out of their windows,
gazed at all this; women crowded at the garret-windows, and
innkeepers filled flasks.

Nothing escaped Hullin, and such scenes were not new to him, but
Lagarmitte was petrified with wonder.

"How many they are!" he cried.

"Bah!" returned Hullin; "what does that matter? In my time, we
annihilated three armies of fifty thousand each of that same race
in six months, and we were not one to four. Rest easy, however;
we shall not have to kill all these; they will fly like hares.
You will see."

These judicious reflections uttered, he turned back to the
_abatis_, and the two followed a path which had been made in
the snow a couple of days before. The snow, hardened by the
frost, had become ice, and the trees formed an impassable
barrier. Below lay the ruined road.

As he appeared, Jean-Claude saw the mountaineers from Dagsberg in
groups, twenty paces distant from each other, in round holes like
nests which they had dug for themselves. These brave fellows were
seated on their haversacks, their fox-skin caps pulled down over
their heads and their muskets between their knees. They had only
to rise to view the road fifty yards beneath them at the foot of
a very slippery slope.

"Ha, Master Jean-Claude! When is the work to begin?"

"Easy, my boys; do not be impatient; in an hour you will have
enough to do."

"So much the better."

"Aim well at the height of the breast, and don't expose
yourselves more than you can help."

"Never fear for us, Master Jean-Claude."

"Do not forget to cease firing when Lagarmitte winds his horn; we
cannot afford to lose powder."

He found Materne at his post, lighting his pipe; the old man's
beard was frozen almost solid.

"They seem to be in no hurry to attack," said Jean-Claude. "Can
it be that they will take another route through the mountains?"

"Never fear it," answered the old man. "They need the road for
their artillery and baggage. Listen! The bugles are sounding,
'Boots and saddles.' But do you know, Hullin," asked the hunter
with a low chuckle, "what I saw a while ago in Grandfontaine? I
saw four Austrians knock old Dubreuil, the friend of the Allies,
down and thrash him well with sticks, the old wretch! It did my
heart good. I suppose he refused some of his wine to his good
friends."

Hullin listened to no more; for, happening to cast his eyes to
the valley, he saw a regiment of infantry debouching on the road.
Beyond, in the street, cavalry were advancing, five or six
officers galloping in front.

"At last!" cried the old soldier, his face lighting up with a
look of fierce determination--"at last!"

And dashing along the line, he cried:

"Attention, men of the Vosges!"

Lagarmitte followed with his bugle. Ten minutes after, when the
two, all breathless, had reached the pinnacle of the rock, they
saw the enemy's column fifteen hundred feet beneath them, about
three thousand strong, with their long white coats,
canvas-gaiters, bear-skin shakos, and red mustaches, their young
officers, sword in hand, curveting in the intervals between the
companies, and from time to time turning round and shouting
hoarsely, "Forvertz! forvertz!" while above the line the bayonets
flashed and glittered in the sun.

{475}

They were pressing on to the _abatis_ at the _pas de
charge_.

Old Materne, too, saw the Germans advancing, and his keen eyes
could even note the individuals of the mass. In a moment he had
chosen his quarry.

In the middle of the column, on a tall bay horse, rode an old
officer, wearing a white peruke, a three-cornered hat heavily
laced with gold, and a yellow sash. His breast was covered with
ribbons, and his thick black plumes danced merrily as he cantered
on.

"There is my man!" muttered the hunter, as he slowly brought his
piece to his shoulder.

A report, a wreath of white smoke, and the old officer had
disappeared. In a moment the whole line of intrenchments rattled
with musketry; but the Austrians, without replying, pressed
steadily upward, their ranks as regular and well aligned as if
they were on parade; and to speak truth, many a brave
mountaineer, mayhap the father of a family, as he saw that forest
of bayonets come on, thought that perhaps he might better have
remained at home in his village than have shouldered his rifle
for its defence. But as the proverb says, the wine was drawn,
naught but to drink remained!

When two hundred paces from the abatis, the enemy halted, and
began a rolling fire, such as the mountain echoes had never
before replied to. Bullets hailed on every side, cutting the
branches, scattering the icicles, and flattening themselves on
the rocks; their continued hiss was like the humming of a swarm
of bees. All this did not arrest the fire of the mountaineers,
and soon both sides were buried in thick gray smoke; but at the
end of ten minutes more, the drums beat out the charge, and again
the mass of bayonets dashed toward the _abatis_; and again
the cry of "Forvertz! forvertz!" rang out, but now nearer and
nearer, until the firm earth trembled beneath the tramp of
thousands of feet.

Materne, rising to his full height, with quivering cheeks and
flashing eyes, shouted, "Up! up!"

It was time. Many of the Austrians, almost all of them students
of philosophy, or law, or medicine, gathered from the breweries
of Munich, Jena, and other towns--men who fought against us
because they believed that Napoleon's fall would alone give them
freedom--many of these intrepid fellows had clambered on
all-fours over the frozen snow and hurled themselves upon the
works. But each who climbed the _abatis_ was met by a blow
from a clubbed musket, and flung back among his comrades.

Then did the strength and bravery of old Rochart the wood-cutter
show themselves. Man after man of these children of the Vaterland
did he stretch upon the whitened earth. Old Materne's bayonet ran
with blood. The little tailor, Riffi, loaded and fired into the
mass with the cool courage of a veteran, and Joseph Larnette,
Hans Baumgarten, whose shoulder was pierced by a ball, Daniel
Spitz, who lost two fingers by a sabre stroke, and a host of
others, will be for ever honored by their countrymen for their
deeds that day. For more than a quarter of an hour the fight was
hand to hand. Nearly all the students had fallen, and the others,
veterans accustomed to retiring honorably, turned to retrace
their steps.
{476}
At first they retreated slowly; then faster and faster. Their
officers urged them to the attack once more, and seconded their
words with blows from the flat of their swords, but in vain;
bullets poured among them from the _abatis_, and soon all
order was lost; the retreat was a wild rout.

Materne laughed grimly as he gazed after the flying foe, lately
advancing in such proud array, and shook his rifle above his head
in joy.

At the bottom of the slope lay hundreds of wounded. The snow was
red with blood, and in the midst of heaps of slain were two young
officers yet living, but crushed beneath the weight of their dead
horses.

It was horrible! But men are oftentimes savage as the beasts of
the forests. Not a man among the flushed mountaineers seemed to
have a thought for all the misery he saw before him; it even
seemed to rejoice many.

Little Riffi, carried away by a sublime ardor for plunder, glided
down the steep. He had caught a glimpse of a splendid horse, that
of the colonel whom Materne had shot, which, protected by a
corner of the rock, stood safe and sound.

"You are mine!" cried the tailor, as he seized the bridle. "How
astonished my wife Sapience will be!"

All the others envied him as he mounted his prize; but their envy
was soon checked when they saw the noble animal dash at full
speed toward the Austrians. The little tailor tugged at the
bridle, and shouted, and cursed, and prayed, but all to no
purpose. Materne would have fired, but he feared that in that
wild gallop he might kill the man, and soon Riffi disappeared
among the enemy's bayonets.

All thought he would be massacred at once, but an hour later they
saw him pass through the street of Grandfontaine, his hands bound
behind his back, and a corporal following with uplifted cane.

Poor Riffi! He did not long enjoy his triumph, and his comrades
at length laughed at his sad fate as merrily as if he had been a
Kaiserlik. Such is the nature of man; as long as he feels no ill
himself, the troubles of others affect him little.


             Chapter XV.

The mountaineers were wild with exultation; their triumph knew no
bounds, and they looked upon each other as so many heroes.

Catherine, Louise, Doctor Larquin, all who had remained at the
farm, rushed out to greet the victors. They scanned the marks of
bullets, gazed at the blood-stained slope; then the Doctor
ordered Baumgarten and Spitz to the hospital, although the latter
insisted on still remaining at his post.

Louise distributed brandy among the men, and Catherine Lefevre,
standing on the edge of the slope, gazed at the dead and wounded.
There lay old and young, their faces white as wax, their eyes
wide and staring, their arms outstretched. Some had fallen in
attempting to rise, and the faces of some wore a look of fear as
if they yet dreaded these terrible blows which the clubbed rifles
had dealt. Others had dragged themselves out of the range of
fire, and their route was marked by tracks of blood.

Many of the wounded seemed resigned to their lot, and only
seeking a place to die; others gazed wistfully after their
regiment, which they could discern on its way to Framont--that
regiment with which they had quitted their native village, with
which they had till then safely braved the toils and dangers of a
long campaign, but which now abandoned them to die, far from
friends and home, surrounded by an infuriated foe.
{477}
And they thought how a trembling mother or sister would ask their
captain or their sergeant, "Did you know Hans, or Kasper, or
Nickel, of the first or second company?" And how coldly would
come the reply: "Let me see; it is very likely. Had he not brown
hair and blue eyes? Yes, I knew him; we left him in France near a
little village, the name of which I forget. He was killed by the
mountaineers the same day as the stout major, Yeri-Peter. A brave
fellow! Good evening."

Perhaps, too, some among them thought of a pretty Gretchen or
Lotchen, who had given them a ribbon, and wept hot tears at their
departure, and sobbed, "I will wait for you, Kasper. I will marry
no one but you!" Thou wilt wait long, poor girl!

All this was not very pleasant, and Mother Lefevre's thoughts, as
she gazed, wandered to Gaspard. Hullin, however, soon came with
Lagarmitte to where she stood, and cried exultantly:

"Hurrah, boys! you have seen fire, and those Germans yonder will
not boast much of this day's work."

He ran to embrace Louise, and then ran back to Catherine.

"Are you satisfied, Mother Lefevre? Fortune smiles; but what is
the matter?"

"Yes, Jean-Claude, I am satisfied; all goes well; but look yonder
upon the road; what a massacre!"

"War is war," replied Hullin gravely.

"Is there no way of helping that poor fellow there--the one
looking up at us with his large blue eyes? O heaven! they pierce
my very heart! Or that tall, brown-haired one binding his arm
with his handkerchief?"

"Impossible, Catherine! I am sorry; but we should have to cut
steps in the ice to descend; and the Austrians, who will be back
in an hour or two, would make use of them in their next attack.
But we must go and announce our victory through the villages, and
to Labarbe, and Jerome, and Piarette. Holla! Simon, Niklo,
Marchal! carry the news to our comrades. Materne, see that you
look sharp, and report the least movement."

They went together to the farmhouse, and Jean-Claude met the
reserve as he passed, and Marc-Dives on horseback in the midst of
his men. The smuggler complained bitterly of having had no part
in the fight; he felt disgraced, dishonored.

"Bah!" said Hullin, "so much the better. Watch on our right; if
we are attacked there, you will have enough to do."

Dives said nothing; his good humor could not so easily be
restored; nor that of his men--smugglers like himself--who,
wrapped in their mantles, and with their long rapiers dangling
from their sides, seemed meditating vengeance for what they
deemed a slight.

Hullin, unable to pacify them, entered the farm-house. Doctor
Lorquin was extracting the ball from the wound of Baumgarten, who
uttered terrible shrieks.

Pelsly, standing at the threshold, trembled in every limb.
Jean-Claude demanded paper and ink to send his orders to the
posts, and the poor Anabaptist had scarcely strength to go for
them. The messengers departed, proud enough to be the bearers of
the tidings of the first battle and victory.

{478}

A few mountaineers in the great hall were warming themselves at
the stove, and discussing the details of the fight in animated
tones. Daniel Spitz had his two fingers amputated, and sat behind
the stove, his hand wrapped in lint.

The men who had been posted behind the _abatis_ before
daybreak, not having yet breakfasted, were--each with a huge
piece of bread and a glass of wine--making up for lost time, all
the time shouting, gesticulating, and boasting as much as their
full mouths would allow them to, and every now and then, when
some one would speak of poor Riffi and his misfortunes, they were
ready to burst their sides laughing.

It was eleven o'clock, when Marc-Dives rushed into the hall,
crying:

"Hullin! Hullin! Where is Hullin?"

"Here!"

"Follow me--quick!"

The smuggler spoke in a strange tone. A few moments before, he
was furious at not having taken part in the battle; now he seemed
triumphant. Jean-Claude followed, sorely disquieted, and the hall
was cleared in a minute, all feeling that Marc's hurry was of
grave portent.

To the right of Donon stretches the ravine of Minières, through
which roars a torrent which rushes from the mountain-side to the
depths of the valley.

Opposite the plateau defended by the partisans, and on the other
side of the ravine, five or six hundred feet distant, rose a sort
of terrace with very steep sides, which Hullin had not deemed it
necessary to occupy, as he was unwilling to divide his forces,
and saw also that the position could be easily turned under cover
of the fir forest, if the enemy should occupy it.

Imagine the brave old man's dismay when, from the farm-house
door, he saw two companies' of Austrians climbing up the side
with two field-pieces, which, dragged up by strong ropes, seemed
to hang over the precipice. They were pushing at the wheels, too,
and in a few moments the guns would be on the flat top. He stood
for an instant as if struck by lightning, and then turned
fiercely on Dives.

"Could you not tell me of this before?" he cried. "Was it for
this I ordered you to watch the ravine? Our position is turned!
Our retreat is cut off! You have lost all!"

All present, even old Materne, shrank from the flashing eyes bent
upon the smuggler, and he, notwithstanding his usual cool
audacity, could not for some moments reply.

"Be calm, Jean-Claude," said he at last; "it is not so bad as you
think. My fellows have yet done nothing, and as we want cannon,
those shall be ours."

"Fool! Has your vanity brought us to this? You must needs fight,
boast--and for this you sacrifice us all! Look! they are coming
from Framont, too!"

Even as he spoke, the head of a new column, much stronger than
the first, appeared, advancing from Framont toward the
_abatis_ at the double-quick. Dives said not a word. Hullin,
conquering his rage in the face of danger, shouted:

"To your posts, all! Attention, Materne!"

The old hunter bent his head, listening.

Marc-Dives had recovered all his coolness.

"Instead of scolding like a woman," said he, "you had better give
me the order to attack those yonder from the cover of the woods."

{479}

"Do so, in heaven's name," cried Hullin. "Listen, Marc! We were
victorious, and your fault has risked all the fruits of our
victory. Your life shall answer for our success."

"I accept the terms."

The smuggler, springing upon his horse, threw his cloak proudly
over his shoulder, and drew his long, straight blade. His men
followed the example. Then, turning to the fifty mountaineers who
composed his troop, Dives pointed with his sword to the enemy,
and cried:

"We must have yon height, boys. The men of Dagsberg shall never
be called braver than those of the Sarre. Forward!"

The troops dashed on, and Hullin, still pale from the effects of
his anger, shouted after:

"Give them the steel!"

The tall smuggler, on his huge and strong steed, turned his head,
and a laugh broke from his lips. He shook his sword expressively,
and the troops disappeared in the wood.

At the same moment the Austrians, with their two
guns--eight-pounders--reached the level top, while the Framont
column still pressed up the slope. Everything was as before the
battle, save that now the mountaineers were between two fires.

They saw the two guns with their rammers and caissons distinctly.
A tall, lean officer, with broad shoulders and long, flaxen
mustaches, commanded. In the clear mountain air they seemed
almost within reach, but Hullin and Materne knew better; they
were a good six hundred yards away, further than any rifle could
carry.

Nevertheless, the old hunter wished to return to the
_abatis_ with a clear conscience. He advanced as near as
possible to the ravine, followed by his son Kasper and a few
partisans, and, steadying his piece against a tree, slowly
covered the tall officer with the light mustaches.

All held their breath lest the aim might be disturbed.

The report rang out, but when Materne placed the butt of his
rifle again on the ground, to see the effect of his shot, all was
as before.

"It is strange how age affects the sight," said he.

"Affects your sight!" cried Kasper. "Not a man from the Vosges to
Switzerland can place a ball at two hundred yards as true as
you."

The old forester knew it well, but he did not wish to discourage
the others.

"Well, well," he replied, "we have no time to dispute about it.
The enemy is coming. Let every man do his duty."

Despite these words, so calm and simple, Materne too was sorely
troubled. As he entered the trench, the air seemed full of sounds
of dire foreboding, the rattling of arms, the steady tramp of a
trained multitude. He looked down the steep and saw the Austrians
pressing on, but this time with long ladders, to the ends of
which great iron hooks were fastened.

"Kasper," he whispered, "things look ill--ill indeed. Give me
your hand. I would like to have you and Frantz near me! Remember
to do your part like a man."

As he spoke, a heavy shock shook the defences to their
foundations, and a hoarse voice cried, "O my God!"

Then a fir-tree, a hundred paces off, bent slowly and thundered
into the abyss. It was the first cannon-shot, and it had carried
off both old Rochart's legs. Another and another followed, and
soon the air was thick with crushed and flying ice, while the
shrieking of the balls struck terror to the stoutest hearts. Even
old Materne trembled for a moment; but his brave heart was soon
itself again, and he cried:

{480}

"Vengeance! vengeance! Victory or death!"

Happily, the terror of the mountaineers was of short duration.
All knew that they must conquer or die. Two ladders were already
fixed, despite the hail of bullets, and the combat was once more
foot to foot and hand to hand, fiercer and bloodier than before.

Hullin had seen the ladders before Materne, and once more his
wrath against Dives arose; but he knew that anger then availed
naught, and he sent Lagarmitte to order Frantz, who was posted on
the other side of Donon, to hasten to the farm with half his men.
The brave boy, warned of his father's danger, lost not a moment,
and already the black slouched hats were seen climbing the
mountain-side. Jean-Claude, breathless, the sweat pouring from
his brow, ran to meet them, crying:

"Quick, quick! or all is lost!" He trembled once more with rage,
attributing all their misfortunes to the smuggler.

But where was Marc-Dives? In half an hour he had made his way
around the ravine, and from his steed saw the two companies of
Austrians drawn up at ordered arms, two hundred paces behind the
guns, which still kept up their fire upon the intrenchments. He
turned to the mountaineers, and in a low voice, while the thunder
of the cannon echoed peal upon peal from the valley, and the
shouts and shrieks and clatter of the assault rose beyond it,
said:

"Comrades, you will fall upon the infantry with the bayonet. I
and my men will do the rest. Forward!"

The whole troop advanced in good order to the edge of the wood,
tall Piercy of Soldatenthal at their head.

They heard the _Werda_ [Footnote 157] of a sentinel. Two
shots replied; then the shout of "_Vive la France_!" rang to
heaven, and the brave mountaineers rushed upon the foe like
famished wolves upon their prey.

    [Footnote 157: "Who goes there?"]

Dives, erect in his stirrups, looked on and laughed.

"Well done!" he said. "Charge!" The earth shook beneath the
shock. Neither Austrians nor partisans fired; for a while nothing
was heard but the clash of bayonets or the dull thud of the
clubbed muskets as they fell; then shrieks and groans and cries
of rage arose, and from time to time a shot rang out. Friend and
foe were mixed and mingled in the savage fray.

The band of smugglers, sabre in hand, sat all this while gazing
at the fight, awaiting their leader's signal to engage.

It came at last.

"Now is our time," cried Marc. "One brave blow, and the guns are
ours."

And forth from the cover of the wood, their long mantles floating
behind in the wind, every man, in his fiery impatience, bending
over his saddle-bow, and pointing his long, straight rapier
straight forward, broke the bold riders.

"The point, my lads! the point! never mind the edge!" shouted
Dives.

In a moment they were on the pieces. Among Marc's troop were four
old dragoons who had seen the Spanish wars through, and two
veteran cuirassiers of the guard, whom love of danger had
attached to the smuggler. The rammers and short sabres of the
artillerymen could avail but little against their well-aimed
thrusts, each one of which brought a man to the earth.

{481}

Marc's cheek was blackened with the powder of a pistol fired
within six inches of his head; a bullet passed through his hat;
but his course was not staid until his sword pierced the old
officer with the light mustache through and through, at one of
the cannons. Then, rising slowly in his saddle until his tall
form sat erect, he gazed around, and said sententiously:

"The guns are ours!"

But the scene was terrible; the _mêlée_ on the high plateau;
the shrieks, the neighing of horses, or their cries of agony; the
shouts of rage; men casting away their arms in a wild flight for
life, an inexorable foe pursuing; beyond the ravine, ladders
crowded with white uniforms and bristling with bayonets;
mountaineers defending themselves with the fierce courage of
despair; the sides of the slope, the road, and the foot of the
_abatis_ heaped with dead, or wounded writhing in anguish;
still further away, the masses of the enemy advancing, with
musket on shoulder, and officers in the midst urging them on; old
Materne, on the crest of the steep, swinging his clubbed rifle
with deadly effect, and shouting for his son Frantz, who was
rushing at full speed with his command to the fight; Jean-Claude
directing the defence; the deafening musketry, now in volleys,
now rattling like some terrible hailstorm; and, rolling above
all, the vague, weird echoes of mountain and valley. All this was
pressed into that one moment.

Marc-Dives was not of a contemplative or poetic turn of mind,
however, and wasted no time in useless reflections upon the
horrors of war. A glance showed him the position of affairs, and,
springing from his horse, he seized one of the levers of the
guns, and in a moment had aimed the yet loaded piece at the foot
of the ladders. Then he seized a match and fired.

Strange cries arose from afar off, and the smuggler, gazing
through the smoke, saw a bloody lane in the enemy's ranks. He
shook both his hands above his head exultingly, and a shout of
triumph arose from the breastworks.

"Dismount!" he cried to his men. "Now is our time for action!
Bring cartridges and balls from your caissons. Load! We will
sweep the road! Ready! Fire!"

The smugglers applied themselves to the work, and shot after shot
tore through the white masses. The fire enfiladed the ranks, and
the tenth discharge was at a flying foe.

"Fire! fire!" shouted Marc. And the partisans, re-enforced by
Frantz, regained the position they had for a moment lost.

And now the mountain-side was covered only with dead, wounded,
and flying. It was four o'clock in the evening, and night was
falling fast. The last cannon-shot fell in the street of
Grandfontaine, and, rebounding, overturned the chimney of the
"Red Ox."

Six hundred men had perished. Many of the mountaineers had
fallen, but many more of the Kaiserliks. Dives's cannonade had
saved all; for the partisans were not even one against ten, and
the enemy had almost made himself master of their works.


               Chapter XVI.

The Austrians, crowded in Grandfontaine, fled toward Framont, on
foot and on horseback, flinging their knapsacks away, and looking
behind as if they feared the mountaineers were in hot pursuit.

{482}

In Grandfontaine, in a sort of spirit of revenge, they broke
whatever they could lay hands on, tore out windows, crushed in
doors, demanded food and drink, and insulted the people by way of
payment. Their imprecations and cries, the commands of their
officers, the complaints of the inhabitants, the heavy tramp of
feet across the bridge of Framont, and the agonized neigh of
wounded horses, all rose in a confused murmur to the
_abatis_.

On the side of the mountain, arms, shakos, knapsacks, dead--all
the signs of a rout--were alone seen. Opposite appeared
Marc-Dives's guns, ready to open fire anew in case of a new
attack.

The partisans had gained the day; but no shout of triumph rose
from their intrenchments. Their losses had been too cruel.
Silence had succeeded the tumult of battle--silence, deep and
solemn--and those who had escaped the carnage gazed earnestly at
their fellows, as if wondering to see them yet alive. A few
called aloud for friends, some for brothers, who replied not.
Then search began throughout the length of the works for Jacob,
or Philippe, or Antoine.

And the gray shades of night were falling fast over mountain and
valley, and lending a strange mystery to the horrid picture; and
men came and went without knowing one another.

Materne wiped his bloody bayonet, and called his boys in hoarse
tones:

"Kasper! Frantz!"

And seeing them approach in the half-darkness, he asked:

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

The voice of the old hunter, harsh as it was, trembled.

"We are all three again together; God's mercy be thanked!" he
murmured.

And he, who was never known to weep, embraced his boys, while the
tears rained down his cheeks, and they, no less moved, sobbed
like little children.

But the old man soon recovered himself and cried with a forced
gayety:

"We have had a rough day, lads; let us take a cup of wine--I am
thirsty."

Throwing a last glance at the bloody slope, and seeing that the
sentries whom Hullin had stationed at intervals of thirty paces
were all at their posts, the old man led the way to the
farm-house.

They were passing carefully through the corpse-piled trench, when
a feeble voice exclaimed:

"Is that you, Materne?"

"Ah poor Rochart! Pardon! forgive me if I hurt you," said the old
hunter, bending over the wounded man; "how comes it that you are
still here?"

"Because I cannot move hence; inasmuch as I have no legs,"
answered the other with a mournful sort of merriment.

The three hunters stood silent for a moment, when the old
wood-cutter continued:

"Tell my wife, Materne, that behind the cupboard, in a stocking,
she will find six crowns. I saved them in case either of us
should fall sick; but I have no further need--"

"Perhaps--perhaps--you may live yet, old friend," interrupted
Materne. "We will carry you from here, at all events."

"It is not worth while," returned the wounded man. "An hour more,
and you can carry me to my grave."

Materne, without replying, signed to Frantz to help him, and
together they raised the old wood-cutter from the ground, despite
his wish to be left alone. Thus they arrived at the farm-house.

{483}

All the wounded who had strength enough to drag themselves to the
hospital were there. Doctor Lorquin and a fellow-surgeon, named
Despois, who had come during the day to his assistance, had work
enough on hand; and as Materne and his sons with their piteous
load traversed the dimly-lighted hall, they heard cries which
froze the blood in their veins, and the dying wood-cutter almost
shrieked:

"Why do you bring me here! Let me die in peace. They shall not
touch me!"

"Open the door Frantz," said Materne, his forehead covered with a
cold sweat, "open quick!"

And as Frantz pushed open the door, they saw, on a large
kitchen-table in the middle of the low room, with its heavy brown
rafters, Colard, the younger, stretched at full length, six
candles around him, a man holding each arm, and a bucket beneath.
Doctor Lorquin, his shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a
short wide saw in his hand, was about cutting off the poor
fellow's leg, while Desbois stood by with a sponge. Blood dripped
into the bucket, and Colard was pale as death. Catherine Lefevre
was near, with a roll of lint, and seemed firm; but the furrows
in her cheeks were deeper than usual, and her teeth were tightly
set. She gazed on the ground so as not to see the misery around.

"It is over!" said the doctor at length, turning round.

And casting a glance at the new-comers he added:

"Ah! you here, Father Rochart?"

"Yes; but you must not touch me. I am done for; let me die in
peace."

The doctor took up a candle, looked for a moment at the old man's
wounds, and said with a grimace:

"It was time, my poor Rochart; you have lost a great deal of
blood, and if we wait any longer, it will be too late."

"Do not touch me!" shrieked the old man. "I have suffered
enough!"

"As you wish. We will pass to another."

He looked at the long line of mattresses. The two last were
empty, although deluged with blood. Materne and Kasper placed
their charge upon the last, while Despois went to another of the
wounded men, saying:

"It is your turn, Nicholas."

Then they saw tall Nicholas Cerf lift a pale face and eyes
glittering with fear.

"Give him a glass of brandy," said the doctor.

"No, I would rather smoke my pipe."

"Where is your pipe?"

"In my vest."

"Good; and your tobacco?"

"In my pantaloons pocket."

"Fill his pipe, Despois. This man is a brave fellow--I like to
see such. We will take off your arm in two times and three
motions."

"Is there no way of preserving it, Monsieur Lorquin--for my poor
children's sake? It is their only support."

"No, the bone is fractured and will not reunite. Light his pipe,
Despois. Now, Nicholas, my man, smoke, smoke."

The poor fellow seemed after all to have little wish to do so.

"Are you ready?" asked the doctor.

"Yes," answered the sufferer in a choking voice.

"Good! Attention, Despois; sponge!"

Then with a long knife he cut rapidly around the arm. Nicholas
ground his teeth. The blood spirted; Despois tied something. The
saw ground for two seconds, and the arm fell heavily on the
floor.

{484}

"That is what I call a well-performed operation," observed
Lorquin.

Nicholas was no longer smoking; the pipe had fallen from his
lips. They bound round what remained of his arm with lint, and
replaced him on his mattress.

"Another finished! Sponge the table well, Despois, and then for
the next," said the doctor, washing his hands in a large basin.

Each time he said, "Now for the next," the wounded men groaned
with fear. The shrieks they heard and the glittering knives they
saw were enough to strike a chill to their hearts; but what could
be done? All the rooms of the farm-house and of the barn were
crowded. Only the large hall remained clear, and so the Doctor
could not help operating under the eyes of those who must a
little later take their turn.

Materne could see no more. Even the dog, Pluto, who stood behind
the doctor, seemed to tremble at the horrible sight. The old
hunter hastened to breathe the cold air without, and cried:

"And to think, my boys, that this might have happened to us!"

"God is good," said Frantz, "and why should we let sights even
like these affright us from our duty? We are in his hands."

A murmur of voices arose to their right.

"It is Marc-Dives and Hullin," said Kasper, listening.

"Yes, they have just come from the breastwork they made behind
the fir-wood for the cannon," added Frantz.

They listened again. Footsteps approached.

"You are embarrassed with your three prisoners," said Hullin, in
short tones. "You return to Falkenstein to-night; why can you not
take them with you?"

"But where shall I put them?"

"_Parbleu!_ In the prison of Abreschwiller; we cannot keep
them here."

"I understand, Jean-Claude. And if they attempt to escape on the
way, I will plant my rapier between their shoulders."

"You must!"

They reached the door, and Hullin, seeing Materne, cried
joyously:

"You here, old friend? I have been seeking you for an hour. Where
were you?"

"We were carrying old Rochart to the hospital."

Jean-Claude dropped his head sadly; but his joy at the result of
the day's battle soon gained the upper hand, and he said:

"Yes, it is mournful, indeed. But such is the fortune of war. Are
you or your sons hurt?"

"Not a scratch."

"Thank Heaven! Materne, those who passed through this day's work
may well rejoice."

"Yes," cried Marc-Dives, laughing, "I saw old Materne ready to
beat a retreat; without those little cannon-shots, things would
have had a different ending."

Materne reddened and glanced angrily at the smuggler.

"It is very possible," he answered; "but without the cannon-shots
at the beginning, we should not have needed those at the end, and
old Rochart and fifty brave fellows would yet have legs and
arms--a thing which would not have hurt our victory."

"Bah!" interrupted Hullin, who saw a dispute likely to arise.
"Quit this discussion. Every man has done his duty."

Then addressing Materne, he added:

{485}

"I have sent a flag of truce to Framont, to tell the enemy to
remove their wounded. They will arrive in about an hour,
doubtless, and you must order our outposts to let them advance;
but without arms, and with torches. If they come otherwise, fire
on them."

"I will go at once," replied the old hunter.

"Return with your sons, and have supper with us at the
farm-house, when you have carried out your orders."

"Very well, Jean-Claude."

Hullin ordered Frantz and Kasper to have large bivouac-fires
lighted for the night, and Marc to have his horses fed and to go
at once for more ammunition, and, seeing them depart on their
way, he entered the farm-house.

                   ----------

        Translated From The French.

  The Unity Of Scientific And Revealed Truth. [Footnote 158]

     [Footnote 158: A discourse pronounced by the Archbishop of
     Malines on his first pastoral visit to the city and
     university of Louvain.]

I have not been able to come among you as soon as I desired. The
duties of my office, and especially the difficulties which always
surround one's initiation to a new sphere of duties, are the
causes of this delay. Had I the leisure, my first visit after my
entrance into this vast diocese would have been to Louvain--to
Louvain, so celebrated for its glorious traditions--to Louvain,
which has ever remained true to them. To the attraction of great
historical remembrances are joined in my case ties of a more
intimate nature. This pulpit recalls to my mind the days of a
ministry which must always be dear to my heart, and which was far
less onerous than that which has replaced it; for if in those
days I spoke of the cross, it was surely without carrying the one
which now weighs upon my shoulders. Yet it is with joy that I
address for the first time, as pastor of their souls, the
children of this city, twice blessed by the Church for the signal
services she has rendered to the Christian world, both by her
ancient university, and by the one which lives again in our time
with so much lustre.

Louvain bears a great title, because she symbolizes a great
thing--_the unity of science and faith_. How, then, my
brethren, can I avoid speaking of her, and of that unity which
men now strive to banish from the schools of learning? Everywhere
it seems as if some invincible power had given the command to
expel Christianity from our schools in the name of science. I
gladly seize, therefore, the first opportunity which has been
offered me to consider this question, because it deeply interests
the living minds of the age, because it is one of the great cares
of our social life, and because here the two interests are united
in one place: the interests of science, because I speak of
Louvain; the interests, of religion, because I speak from this
sacred pulpit.

{486}

Not always in their efforts against the unity of science and
religion do we find our opponents frankly declaring war upon
Christianity. No; its enemies prefer to extinguish it by
stratagem. They wisely fear the love of parents for their
offspring; and while they are eager to destroy the faith of the
one, they hope to accomplish their task without the knowledge of
the other. It is on this account that they have sought and found
the proper word to conceal their design, and this word is
_neutrality in teaching_. I wish, then, to show you two
things:

_First_. That neutrality in teaching, as far as it regards
the Christian religion, is evidently impossible; that a teacher
must unavoidably declare himself for or against the Christian
faith, even as Christ himself said, "He that is not for me is
against me."

_Second_. Science cannot declare itself against the
Christian faith without denying itself, without being unfaithful
to its own principle, which is reason, and without renouncing the
very conditions of a free, perfect, and progressive science.

May the Mother of Science and Faith, _Mater Agnitionis_,
obtain for us from the incarnated Wisdom the light which we need!


              I.

When I speak of instruction, I do not intend to designate certain
branches of study in particular, but I refer to the whole course
of teaching in each of its three degrees. I affirm, then, that
neutrality in teaching is an evident impossibility, so far as it
regards Christianity in each of these three degrees, and more
especially in the highest grade of instruction. This could be
demonstrated by running over a great number of the various
branches of study; but in order to be more concise, though not
less conclusive, I will speak of only two among them, history and
morals, upon which no school can be silent. They will suffice to
convince you that the school which is not Christian is
necessarily antichristian, and that it will ever be impossible to
be neutral.

Let us begin with history. If the Christian religion were a
mythology, certainly we could separate it from the teaching of
history, and banish it to the domain of fable; but Christianity
before as well as after the Incarnation is a great historical
fact; nay, it is the greatest fact of history. This fact is a
living one in that religious society which embraces every nation.
This living fact speaks and affirms itself divine; not divine in
man who accepts it, but divine in that which constitutes its
essence, in its doctrine, in its worship, and in its doctrinal
and sanctifying power.

Christian teaching affirms that Christianity is a _divine_
fact. Anti-Christian instruction denies it. What, then, can
neutral instruction be? If it neither affirm nor deny,
necessarily it doubts, and consequently it must teach doubt. But
is not the teaching of doubt formally antichristian? The divine
Author of Christianity teaches us that, in the presence of the
proofs of his mission, doubt is inexcusable: "_If I had not
come and spoken to them, they would not have sin: but now they
have no excuse for their sin_." (John xv. 22.)

We will see, in a few moments, why this doubt is inexcusable; but
we only affirm a self-evident truth when we declare neutrality to
be impossible, because he who is not for the faith is necessarily
against it, and to teach doubt is only another way to deny truth.
But perhaps it will be said that neutral instruction will say
nothing concerning this matter; that it will pass by the fact of
the Christian religion in silence; and that, without relegating
it to the domain of mythology, it will quietly ignore its
existence.
{487}
Now, the absurdity of this position is still more manifest, for
Christianity is linked to everything in this world. We cannot
take a step in history without meeting with it; if you search the
annals of antiquity, of the first centuries of the Christian era,
of the middle ages, or of modern times, at every age alike you
will see Christianity before you, and everywhere it governs all
other things from its lofty height.

The pretence of silence in this matter is therefore one of two
things: it is either nonsense or it is hypocrisy. It is nonsense
when it is said, as I have recently been informed it is in a
certain classic work adopted by our schools, that it will contain
no question about sacred history, nor about the history of the
church, whether of the old or the new alliance, because these
questions are all beyond the scope of history. The chain of facts
which a Bossuet has unrolled in his discourse upon universal
history--that marvellous chain of facts beyond the scope of
history! The expectation of redemption among all the people of
the globe, which is proved by the universality of expiatory
sacrifices, and by foreshadowings which redemption can alone make
intelligible; the establishment of Christianity in its last and
definite form, its civilizing influence, its trials, its
long-continued struggles, its triumphant existence--these are
all beyond the scope of history! This pretended silence, then, is
not nonsense, it is hypocrisy; it is only, like the neutrality
which it defends, the hollow mask of infidelity.

Again, neutrality is not less impossible in the sphere of morals
than in history. What is morality? It is the science of duty. By
itself, it is the science of means furnished by reason to
overcome our passions. Therefore to morals belong these absorbing
questions: Why have the passions revolted against reason? Why
does not the same beautiful harmony reign in the moral as in the
physical order? Why are there, as it were, two men within us, and
why do we know what we ought to do, and why do we follow the
opposite? What is the cause of this deep-seated evil, which is
only too well known to us all? What is the remedy for it? Where
shall we find the strength to conquer this interior revolt? Where
are the arms with which we can triumph?

He who knows not this knows nothing. But faith has positive
answers for these fundamental questions. It teaches us that the
revolt of passions in human nature is the first result of the
revolt of the human mind against God; that the soul, which did
not wish to submit to its Creator and its Master, has rightly
suffered the uprising of its own slaves, the senses and the
appetites; that, if it would vanquish them, it must humiliate its
pride, lament its evil deeds, implore the grace of God, pray to
obtain again its lost strength. It teaches us that by prayer we
seize familiarly the divine armor, "_armaturam Dei orantes_"
and that only by its aid can we hope to combat and to triumph.
This is Christian teaching. And will not that teaching be
antichristian which denies what Christianity, in this respect,
declares to be true? Certainly it must, because in the teaching
of morals, to be silent concerning the necessity of grace and of
prayer, by which man freely obtains grace, is to make an avowed
profession of antichristianity. To say nothing of the grace which
strengthens our nature; to say nothing of grace, which not only
strengthens, but elevates nature above itself; to say nothing of
the life of grace, as if, when compared with the physical and
intellectual life, there was not a far more noble life, which all
men have experienced, since no one is completely abandoned by its
merciful inspirations--this is not a neutral course; it is
antichristian, formally antichristian.

{488}

I might prove to you here that instruction upon morals is not
only antichristian when it is silent concerning the means given
us by faith to conquer these passions, but also when it refuses
to recognize the great motives for fulfilling our duties, for
these motives are so many Christian truths. I might show, or
rather recall the fact, that these truths have transformed
private and public morality, that they have begotten modern
civilization; and those are indeed blind and ungrateful who enjoy
the fruit of this civilization, while they would miserably tear
the fair tree from the hearts of their Christian countrymen.

But I must be satisfied with placing these arguments before you;
and I am the more readily contented with this sketch, because I
know that it is not requisite to say everything, in order to be
understood. I am convinced that I have said enough to make it
clear, both to your reason and to your conscience, that
instruction must be Christian, or it will become antichristian;
that science is necessarily either for or against the holy faith;
and that its pretended neutrality is only an unmeaning word.
Hence it follows that the organization of public instruction on
the basis of a deceitful neutrality is in reality the affirmation
of antichristianity in the state. [Footnote 159]

    [Footnote 159: In Belgium, there is a society which bears the
    title of _The League of Instruction_. This society is
    free to organize antichristianity in its schools, but always
    defraying its own expenses, and at its own risk and peril.
    This society has become dissatisfied, because its members
    know that they cannot gain the confidence of the people;
    hence they have sought to remove the obstacles by imploring
    the protection of the state.]


              II.

It remains for us to see that, when science declares against the
Christian faith, it really denies its own principle, that is to
say, reason. And why? Because it is reason which invokes the
light of faith, and it is reason which recognizes it. It is
reason which invokes the light of faith. For what is reason?
Reason is that one of our powers which reaches after truth; it is
that faculty which is ever forcing us to search out the
"_why_" of things. It has even the same name as its object,
for the reason and the "_why_" of anything are one. Again,
we only act reasonably when we know _why_ we are acting.
Even in our most insignificant actions, we always propose to
ourselves an intention, an end which determines them. In order,
therefore, to live reasonably, we must know _why_. It is
necessary to know the _why_, or the _end_, of life, so
that the first words of our catechism answer the first question
of reason. Why are you in the world? Is it only to go to the
cemetery? Has man been placed upon the earth only that he may be
thrown into a grave? Humanity will never accept this doctrine.
The generations of the human race kneel at the tombs of their
ancestors and protest against this monstrosity--the miserable and
absurd system of those who clamorously desire a liberty of the
human mind, which can only terminate in corruption and worms. The
human conscience and human reason unite in declaring that life is
only a journey, that its end is beyond the tomb, and that to die
is to attain it. But what do we attain? Where do we arrive?
{489}
Here reason searches, and trembles while she seeks. She looks,
and feels that she is powerless to penetrate single-handed into
the abyss of the future life. The learned and the ignorant are
equally baffled, and can only say, "It is necessary to return to
the other world, in order to know what really is done there." The
gospel tells us the same; no one has penetrated the heavens
except he who came from them: "No one has ascended into heaven,
except he who descended from heaven, the Son of Man who is in
heaven."

Let us try then, brethren, to discover what reason asks, and
justly asks. It asks the "_why_" of life; it does not care
to exist without knowing "_why_" and knowing it with
certainty. It can obtain certitude in many other spheres of
thought; but it wishes to be assured upon this far more than upon
any other question. Let us, then, state how reason has certitude
in some other matters, and how it wishes and can attain it in
this.

We know the things of the exterior world with certainty, and
reason tells as to admit that which is well attested by the
senses. We know the things of the interior world, of that world
which is within our own breasts, because reason tells us to admit
what is revealed by our self-consciousness. We know the great
mass of truths of the intellectual world with certainty, for our
reason tells us that we must acknowledge the truths proclaimed by
evidence. We know that which is passing upon the earth in the
present day. We know events which occur in distant quarters of
the world, and we know the facts which are separated from us by
long intervals of time, because our reason tells us that history
and the testimony of mankind are reliable grounds of certitude.

But that which we wish to know more than all these things is the
end of our own existence; and we wish to know this precisely,
because we are reasonable beings. Our reason longs to know more
of the meaning of our creation; it desires to know what is true
in regard to our end, because this truth must be divine and
eternal. But to be certain of divine truth, must not reason be
willing to obey the voice of God? To be certain of eternal truth,
must we not accept the testimony of eternity? The testimony of
God was implored in every age, and from this it comes that faith,
which is the acceptance by human reason of God's revelation, is a
constant, perpetual, universal fact, even as the fact of reason
itself. It is ridiculous to urge against the truth of revelation
the various religions which claim to be revealed; for the
counterfeits of revelation do not prove more against it than the
perversion of reason proves against reason. The wanderings of
reason do not compel us to deny the truth of human reason, so
neither do the misrepresentations and counterfeits of revelation
force us to deny its truth. We have seen, therefore, what reason
requires; let us see how it recognizes revelation when it meets
with it.

There is a certain manner of speaking indifferently of all
religions which is used as a cloak to hide the desire to confound
them. This is common in the world of letters among men of scanty
science. But serious science, like a sincere conscience,
discovers divine revelation, in spite of its human alterations,
by certain signs and characteristic marks which are unmistakable.
These signs have been multiplied by Providence with love; but I
wish to insist here upon that token which has not only followed
past ages in their course, but has, if I may so speak, grown with
their growth: that grand characteristic which reveals the author
of nature, and which assures us of the giver of revelation, is
unity.
{490}
The unity of nature reveals God as the creator, the harmony of
the heavens and of the earth recount the glory of their author:
"The heavens explain the glory of God." It is the chant of the
unity of space. But the unity of time is not less splendid than
the unity of worlds; it is the harmony of centuries in Jesus
Christ, who has revealed God as the author of revelation. Nature
and revelation are, then, the two great works in which God is
revealed by the same sign--queenly and all-powerful unity! The
unity of time in Jesus Christ, and in him alone, is a fact
without a parallel; more easy for us to rejoice in than to
depict. Yet here is the master-stroke of a great pencil: "These
are great facts, clearer than the light of the sun itself, which
make us know that our religion is as old as the world, and
demonstrate that he only could be its author who, holding all
things in his hand, has been able to begin and continue that
which holds all centuries in its embrace. To be expected, to
come, to be adored by a posterity which will last through every
age, is the character of him whom we adore, Jesus Christ,
yesterday, to-day, and to endless ages, the same." This, then, is
the manifest sign of divine revelation, the unity of time in
Jesus Christ.

St. Augustine spoke of this sign, considering it, however, under
only one of its aspects, when he answered those persons who
envied the good fortune of those who conversed with the risen
Christ: "The apostles saw one thing, but they believed another;
and because they saw, they believed that which they did not see.
They saw Jesus Christ risen, the head of the Church, but they did
not yet see this body, this Universal Church, which Jesus Christ
announced to them," this marvellous and almost incredible
Catholicity, extending over every country, with its unbloody
sacrifice of the great invisible Victim, with the manifestation
of conscience and remission of sins, with its perpetuity to the
end of time, with its centre of unity established by these words:
"Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church, and
the gates of hell shall not prevail against it." The apostles saw
none of these things, and how could they believe in such
apparently incredible promises? But they were in the presence of
the risen Christ; they had seen him dead and crucified, they saw
him living and glorious, and it is from his mouth that they
received the promise of that which they did not see. "They have
seen the head," says St. Augustine, "and they have believed in
the body; we see the body, and we believe in the head. We are
like them, because we see, and therefore we believe that which we
do not see."

It is necessary for us to recall here what St. Thomas Aquinas
says upon this point: "No one believes, unless he sees what is
necessary to be believed." It is because we are reasonable that
we are believers. It is also because we are believers, we are
Christians; and it is as Christians and children of Catholicity
that we love with the same affection faith and science, the
plenitude of science, the liberty and progress of science. The
plenitude of science, for, without its harmony with the sphere of
faith and the truths which surround our faith, science must
always be incomplete.

{491}

There is a science to-day which calls itself "_positive_"
meaning that it is founded on well-attested facts. It is indeed
good to rely upon facts. Facts should undoubtedly be the basis of
natural science. Still the natural sciences are not the only ones
which should be sustained by facts. The moral order, as well as
the physical, appears to be a magnificent assemblage of facts.
Humanity with its reason, its conscience, its sublime
inclinations, its immortal yearnings--is not humanity a grand
fact? Then this great fact must be considered as it really
exists, in its entirety, and not as mutilated by the false spirit
of a system. If the order of facts to which positivism would
limit us were the only order, do you know what humanity would be?
An ant which disputes with the grains of sand. But humanity will
never allow itself to be thus dishonored.

To the moral fact of humanity corresponds that which we have seen
triumph over centuries--the fact of revelation. I say it
corresponds to them, because Christian revelation offers the only
satisfactory reply to questions which philosophers have always
asked and never answered. I say it corresponds, because Christian
revelation has alone thrown a flood of light upon the mysteries
of the _positive_ state of humanity, and it alone affirms
that it bears a sovereign remedy for the moral disorder of our
nature: "Come to me, and I will refresh you." Do we really
possess science, then, if, in the presence of these two great
facts and of this divine appeal to experience, we obstinately
close our eyes and shut our ears? Have we science when, without
investigation, we assert as the first condition the gratuitous
denial of the possibility of the things that were to be examined?
What is really this pretended scientific position? It is the
attitude of fear. If science would be perfect, it must
investigate every order of facts, investigate their character,
declare their harmony. It is when it states the harmony of the
facts of the natural order with the facts (I say _facts_) of
the supernatural order, the harmony of the actual condition of
the human race with the revelation which enlightens its depths,
then it is that science becomes perfect, or at least always tends
more and more toward perfection. The very names which represent
this harmony are, as you are well aware, the greatest names of
science.

But will science be free, some one asks, if it is bound by
revelation? Does it cease to be free because it is bound by
nature? That which troubles certain minds on this point is due to
a false and pitiable notion of liberty. In what respect is
liberty everywhere distinguished from license? In this, that
liberty always moves within the sphere of law, and license always
beyond it. In the order of science, the law is the truth
established. The liberty of science is not, then, absolute in its
independence, as has been recently declared by an academician.
No; liberty is not the independence of science, for it consists
precisely in the fact of its dependence upon truth. The servitude
of science, on the contrary, consists in its dependence upon
opinion. Indeed, it is not the freedom of the human mind, but
license, mother of servitude, which pretends to-day to reduce
everything to opinion. This pretence is the negation of science.
To possess science is to know with certainty; to have only
opinions is to doubt; and to submit to doubt is slavery. The true
man of learning never asserts when he is ignorant; but science
does not require less certainty, and only becomes science when
she can attain it. Science is therefore _science_ only
because the truth controls it, and by controlling it, preserves
it from the servitude of opinion, so that this shining sentence
of our Lord concerns also the learned: "The truth shall make you
free."

{492}

"But does not experience show that in bearing the yoke of truth
we are sure to yield to illusions?" I answer, is it not proven
that those who resist the evidence of a divine order, whether in
the work of revelation or in the work of nature, bend beneath
every breath that passes, turning to every wind of doctrine,
yield to every caprice of intellect, and frame their convictions
according to the phrases which are daily set forth by the press
of both hemispheres? Have you never met with one of these slaves?
They are ready to believe anything that is affirmed without
evidence, provided it is contrary to the faith, and they are
willing to accept any theory as a demonstrated fact, so long as
it can be used against Christianity. What is this but the
credulity of incredulity?

The notion of progress is not less false among them than that of
liberty. Do they not say every day that faith is incompatible
with progress, because revelation is immutable? Is not nature
also immutable? Is the immutability of nature an obstacle to the
progress of natural science? Why, then, is the immutability of
revelation, which we have seen clothed with the same divine sign
as nature--why, then, is this immutability an obstacle to the
progress of the moral sciences? Is it not concerning the progress
of these sacred sciences that Pius IX. has recently adopted the
words of Vincent of Lerins, and made them his own? "Progress
exists, and it is very great; but it is the true progress of
faith, which is not constant change. It must be that the
intelligence, the science, the wisdom of all ages, as well as of
each one in particular, of all ages and centuries of the whole
church, should, like individuals, increase and make great, very
great progress; so that posterity may have the good fortune to
understand that which antiquity venerated without comprehending;
so that the precious stones of divine dogma may be cut, exactly
adapted, wisely ornamented, that they may enrich us with their
grace, their splendor, and their beauty, but always of the same
kind, that is to say, the same doctrine, in the same sense and
with the same substance, so that, when we use new terms, we do
not say new things." You understand then, my brethren, that the
immutability of revelation does not offer a greater obstacle to
the progress of sacred science than the immutability of nature
places in the way of the natural sciences.

The popes were not only the friends of the progress of the sacred
sciences; they were the most ardent supporters of all science, as
well as of the progress of letters and arts. The facts which
prove this are so numerous that I shall content myself with
recalling those which concern you more directly. Who founded the
universities of Oxford and Cambridge in England? The popes. Who
founded the universities of Paris, Bologna, Ferrara, Salamanca,
Coimbra, Alcala, Heidelberg, Prague, Cologne, Vienna, Louvain,
and Copenhagen? Again the popes. Who instituted the
professorships of the Greek, Hebrew, Arabic, and Chaldaic
Languages at Paris, Oxford, Bologna, and Salamanca? A
pope--Clement V. By whom, during two centuries, were sustained,
encouraged, recompensed, the works of savants which finally led
to the knowledge of the system of the world? By the popes and the
cardinals of the holy Roman Church. This is what those ignore who
do not blush to perpetuate the fabulous condemnation of Galileo
by the Church.
{493}
Neither the Church nor the sovereign pontiffs have ever condemned
Galileo. Galileo was condemned by a tribunal of theologians, who
soon withdrew this condemnation to give astronomy the same
liberty which was granted to Galileo himself, whose sombre prison
is only a romance. Where was this system of the movement of the
earth adopted by Copernicus, and then first taught by Galileo? At
Rome, in 1495, by Nicholas de Cusa, professor in the Roman
University, forty-eight years before the birth of Copernicus, and
one hundred and thirty-nine before that of Galileo. Nicholas de
Cusa defended at that time this system in a work, dedicated to
his professor, Cardinal Julian Cesarini. Pope Nicholas V. raised
Nicholas de Cusa to the cardinalate, and named him Bishop of
Brixen, in Tyrol. Again, it was at Rome, toward the year 1500,
that Copernicus explained and defended this system before an
audience of two thousand scholars. Copernicus was made Canon of
Königsberg. Celius Calcagnini, who taught the system of Cusa and
Copernicus, in Italy, about 1518, was appointed apostolic
prothonotary by Clement VIII., and confirmed in this position of
honor by Paul III.; it was to Paul III. that Copernicus dedicated
his work _De Revolutionibus Orbium Caelestium._ At last,
when the renowned Kepler, who developed and completed the system
of Copernicus, was on this account persecuted by the Protestant
theologians of Tübingen, the Holy See used its utmost endeavors
to place in the University of Bologna this savant, so Christian
in his ideas, and who had not merely embraced the system of
Galileo, but had given it an immense weight by the authority of
his immortal discoveries. If I insist on this episode, it is
because bad faith is stubborn in its efforts to find an argument
against the conduct of the popes in the great history of the
moral progress of science. The Church never fears the light. She
knows and teaches that the light of reason and the light of faith
come from the same source. She knows that one of these truths
will never contradict the other, and that among the proofs of
revelation we must not forget its harmony with the sciences. The
sects cannot withstand the presence of science; never has pagan
or mussulman become a savant without losing his poor, bewildering
faith. It is not so of the true religion. From Clement of
Alexandria and Origen to Descartes, Leibnitz, Pascal, Kepler, and
De Maistre, to say nothing of our contemporaries, science and
faith have dwelt together in the greatest minds of Christendom.

Continue this glorious tradition, young men of the Catholic
university, and remain always worthy of your _Alma Mater!_
Become truly men, and you will be men the more powerful and
useful the more faithful Christians you are.

And you, city of Louvain, be justly proud of remaining, through
your university, the object of noble envy to the nations which
surround you. Ireland has taken you for her model; France and
Catholic Germany look upon you, and endeavor that they too may
possess something which resembles you. Never cease to be
yourself, the city of science and of religion, that your
children, ever faithful to these two lights, may be consoled,
during their life and at the hour of death, by the thought that
their love has never divided these two great things which have
been united by the infinite wisdom of God.

              ----------

{494}


   The Story Of Marcel, The Little Mettray Colonist.


             Chapter XI.

  "Wide o'er the brim, with many a torrent swelled,
   And the mixed ruin of its banks o'erspread,
   At last the roused-up river pours along,
   Resistless, roaring, dreadful."
                                        Thomson.

The first inundations of the Loire with which we are acquainted
have been made known to us by the celebrated historian and bishop
St. Gregory of Tours, who has left detailed accounts of eight
dreadful disasters that occurred in the space of eleven years;
that is, from 580 to 591. In the archives of France there is
preserved an edict of Louis le Debonnaire, son and successor of
Charlemagne, who, touched by the piteous complaints made to him
by the inhabitants of Touraine and Anjou, whose harvests were in
constant danger from the sudden risings of the river, ordered the
building of dams and embankments, which, modified by some of his
successors and strengthened by others, became at last the
magnificent structures we behold them at the present day, between
Blois and Tours.

Nevertheless, the capricious river has never yet during all these
long centuries been kept for any time within its bed. Its
devastations were fearful in 1414, and again in 1615, when the
sudden melting of the enormous masses of snow which had fallen on
the surrounding country during the winter caused so frightful a
catastrophe that it has since been known in French history as the
"Deluge of Saumur." The beginning of the seventeenth century saw
ten risings of the Loire in ten years; and the Duke of
Saint-Simon has left us, in his celebrated memoirs, a notice of
one in 1708, which was the cause of much misery. In more modern
times, France has had, every eight or ten years, to deplore some
dreadful misfortune arising from the same source, and the more
favored portions of that beautiful land have been compelled
repeatedly to come to the aid of the ruined population of the
basin of the Loire, whose farm-houses had been swept away by the
flood, their harvest-fields devastated, their cattle drowned, and
who, too often, alas! had also had to weep over irreparable
losses far more bitter than these--the life of dear ones lost in
the surging waters.

About five years after Marcel's admission into the Mettray
Colony, one of the most terrible of these visitations overtook
the inhabitants of the banks of the picturesque stream. A long
continuation of rainy weather had swollen the Cher and the
Allier, both tributaries of the Loire, and the river, rising
suddenly, broke through its strong embankments and spread itself
over the country. The local authorities, of every degree and
station--prefect, subprefect, and mayors--with the soldiers,
engineers, and townspeople of Tours, all hastened to the relief
of the drowning villages and farms, and all did their duty; but
even among these courageous men the young Colonists distinguished
themselves by their energy and self devotion.

{495}

The inundation had commenced in the night, and when daylight
revealed the extent of the disaster, the director assembled the
youths.

"Boys," cried he, "the Loire has risen, the country is under
water, and hundreds of families are in danger of their lives.
Boys, the oldest and strongest of you must go and help to save
them!"

The lads looked at one another an instant in silence, then broke
forth in a cry that rang far and near, "Long live Demetz! Long
live our director!" a cry that was a perfect explosion of
gratitude and of pride; for the poor fellows fully comprehended
all that their wise and good director meant them to
understand--his confidence in their honor, their honesty, and
their courage.

And well they justified his trust in them! More than a hundred
were soon actively at work raising dikes and clams, propping
houses, and carrying succor to the distressed.

Marcel, Polycarpe, and one of their companions, a young baker,
named Priat, to whom both of them were much attached, were among
the foremost in these labors. They had gone with some others to
carry help to a village containing about twenty families; it was
situated only two hundred yards from the river, and completely
surrounded by water. An immense quantity of wood--wrecks from
other villages swept away by the flood--drifted about in the
streets, and was dashed incessantly against the water-soaked
walls of the houses, shaking them terribly; two, indeed, had
fallen in the night and been washed away. On the roofs, or
leaning from the upper windows of the tottering dwellings, were
to be seen the frightened inhabitants imploring aid; the mothers
holding out their little ones and praying for pity. It was a
heart-breaking sight, and the noise of the ever-rising and
surging river, of the wind and pouring rain, of the shocks of the
drift-wood, increased the terrors of the scene. Nor was it
possible to approach near enough to the houses to save any of the
unfortunates shrieking for help; for every boat belonging to the
place had either been swamped or had been torn from its moorings
by the overwhelming current and carried away.

"Let us run to Saint-Pierre," cried Polycarpe, after he and his
companions had contemplated the fearful spectacle for a few
moments with consternation. "We may find a boat there!"

He started off as he spoke, followed by half a dozen of the
Colonists. Marcel did not accompany them, for he had heard cries
of distress from the windmill, a short distance off, and had
hastened thither with three or four more. The water at this point
was quite seven feet deep, and the building evidently giving way.
There seemed to be no possibility of saving the miller and his
wife and child, for the flood rushed so fiercely around the mill
that the most experienced swimmer would not have ventured into
it. Marcel was gazing in hopeless pity at the fated building,
when a man on horseback trotted into the midst of the group of
despairing spectators. A sudden thought struck the boy.

"Give me that horse!" cried he; "quick, give me that horse!"

"What do you mean, youngster?" asked the man, somewhat surprised
by the imperative tone and unexpected demand of the stranger.

"For God's sake, lend me your horse; every moment that we lose
may cost a life!"

{496}

As he spoke he turned toward the mill, where the unfortunate
family could be seen at the window, stretching forth their
imploring hands and crying for help. The traveller got off his
horse without another word, and, quick as lightning, Marcel was
in the saddle and spurring the animal forward into the water.
Before his surprised companions well comprehended what he
intended to do, they saw him breasting the furious current and
struggling to reach the windmill.

They saw him reach it at last, and then the miller letting down
his wife to him by a rope passed under her arms. The poor woman
held her child clasped closely to her bosom, and though she clung
to her deliverer with a grasp that almost strangled him, she
seemed to think only of her babe, whispering to it as Marcel
urged the panting horse back again to the land, "Thou art saved,
my little one, thou art saved!"

The brave boy placed the mother and child in safety in the hands
of the admiring spectators of his courage and self-devotion;
then, without staying for a moment's breathing or rest, forced
his unwilling horse again into the flood.

This time the owner of the good beast made some indignant
remonstrances. "Both boy and horse will be lost," cried he; "they
are both, tired now; they can never fight against the current!"

"Why don't the miller throw himself into the water and swim? He's
fresh and the others aren't."

"Suppose he don't know how," answered one of the bystanders; "and
if he did, do you think he could stem that torrent?"

"Why, he'd be carried down the Loire to the sea, just like a
piece of straw," said another.

"The horse, the horse, look how he strains! he's giving way! he's
lost his footing!" cried half a dozen at this instant.

For a moment the strong, high-spirited animal was hurried along
by the foaming, eddying stream, then with a mighty effort
recovering himself he reached the mill, and the miller had just
time to drop down and cling with a death-grip to the pale,
intrepid rider, when the building toppled over and was carried
away!

Cries and tears of joy hailed them as they approached the dry
land; the young Colonists surrounded their heroic companion, and
presently bore him off to Mettray for a change of clothing and
some refreshment; his trembling frame told how much he needed
them. But the family he had saved so gallantly did not let him
depart before they had thanked him with tears of gratitude, while
the owner of the noble horse pressed his hand in both of his and
swore to be his friend through life.

"You're a brave fellow, and I honor you," cried he. "I'll be your
friend, and a true one, or my name's not Charles Rodez!"

The poor miller with his wife and child were taken to a house
prepared to receive and succor the unfortunate victims of the
inundation. Food and warm clothing and beds were here ready for
the half-starved and half-drowned families that were arriving
continually--poor, despairing people who had most of them lost
their little all, and some of them a father, or husband, or
child.

Scarcely had Marcel, cold and wet, but very happy, been borne off
in triumph by his comrades, when there appeared on the road,
coming toward the village, a great truck drawn by two horses, and
loaded with a large boat and its oars.

Polycarpe and his friend Priat had been successful in their
search, and were now returning at the head of the little band of
Colonists who had followed them to Saint-Pierre.

{497}

The people in the water-logged houses of the village fairly
screamed with hope and joy when they saw the procession, and then
the boat taken off and launched. A dozen Colonists were eager to
jump in, but Polycarpe and Priat were given the precedence, and
they, with another well-grown youth, presently pushed off into
the fast and furious stream. It was hard work to keep clear of
the drifting beams that were hurled along, rather than carried,
by the current through the narrow streets of the village; harder
still to get the boat near enough to each tottering house to take
off the frightened family from the roof or out of the windows.

Once, indeed, it came near being swamped, with eight persons on
board, by the sudden falling of a wall of the house from which
they had just been saved. Polycarpe's quick eye saw the coming
danger in time to give such a vigorous pull with his oar that the
boat sprang forward just out of reach of the stones and beams,
but she was so violently rocked by the concussion of the falling
materials with the water that it seemed a miracle that she did
not capsize.

And once, too, the brave boy missed his footing as he climbed on
a roof to take off a lame old man, and fell headlong into the
water. An admirable swimmer and diver, he did not lose his
presence of mind, but passed under the boat and came up on the
other side; he was soon hauled in by poor Priat, who was more
frightened and affected by this accident than by any other event
of that terrible day.

All day long the work of rescue went on. When the three rowers
were exhausted with fatigue, three others took their places.
There was not one among the young Colonists who hung back or
shirked the danger; not one who did not give proof of courage and
Christian charity. The boat went and came, until, at last, one
after another, all the poor peasants were in safety. When night
fell, not a house of the village was left standing, but not a
life had been lost.


              Chapter XII.

  "Not always full of leaf, nor ever spring,
     Not always endless night, nor yet eternal day;
   The saddest birds a season find to sing,
     The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.
   Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,
     That man may hope to rise, and fear to fall."

                                       Southwell.

The services rendered by the young Colonists during the
inundation attracted unusual attention to the Colony, and
visitors from Tours, and even from Paris, flocked in numbers to
Mettray every Thursday and Sunday. The afternoons of these two
days were set apart for the public, who were permitted to be
present at the boys' gymnastic exercises, and for whose pleasure
the band of the military establishment performed its best pieces.

On one of these occasions, about a couple of months after the
events we have endeavored to describe in the preceding chapter,
Marcel remarked a gentleman whose countenance he seemed to
remember, who appeared to be looking at him, almost examining
him, with much attention. Toward the close of the exercises, he
perceived the same gentleman in conversation with one of the
head-officers of the place. Presently they came to him.

"Marcel," said the officer, "this gentleman wishes to ask you a
few questions."

"I want to ask you, my boy, if you recollect ever to have seen me
before!" said the gentleman, with an encouraging smile.

{498}

"Yes, sir," replied Marcel; "I believe that I have. I think that
you are the Commissary of Police in the Rue des Noyers."

"I was; I see that I am not mistaken either. I never did forget a
face that struck me. You are the boy who, some years since, found
a bag of Napoleons in the street and brought it to me. Am I not
right?"

"Yes, sir," said Marcel, looking down.

"Well, my good fellow, your honesty saved a poor man from a
broken heart; but he was very ill for a long time from the
dreadful emotions of that night, and circumstances prevented my
seeking you out immediately, and so it happened that, when I did
go to the address you gave me, I only learnt that the woman with
whom you lived was dead, and no one could tell me anything about
you. I suspect that no one would. Perhaps I was recognized to be
the Commissary of Police, and inspired no great confidence. But I
am glad to see you again, my boy. I have just learned something
of your history, and I rejoice to find that I was not mistaken in
the opinion I formed of you that night that you brought me the
bag. I often regretted that you received no reward. I don't know
how it happened either. You're a brave fellow, too, as well as an
honest one, they tell me. Shake hands, will you?"

He took Marcel's hand as he spoke; the boy burst into tears; the
past returned so vividly to his recollection at that moment; the
commissary's long speech brought back so much that had almost
been forgotten, so much misery and shame and sin, that the
different present overpowered him. The good-natured visitor
patted him on the shoulder in a kind, fatherly manner, his eyes
glistening with sympathy.

"Come," said he presently, "tell me what you intend to do when
you leave the Colony. I hear that your time will soon be out now.
What trade have you learned?"

"I am a gardener," replied Marcel. "I always loved flowers, and I
should like to cultivate them."

"Quite right," said his new-found friend. "Well, I shall look out
for a place for you. And now, my boy, remember that I am your
friend, a sincere one, and be sure to write to me in any
emergency. This is my address, _M. de Morel, Rue du Luxembourg,
Paris;_ take care of this card, and do not forget to let me
know two or three months before you leave the Colony."

He gave Marcel his card, with another cordial shake of the hand,
and, returning to his party, shortly after left the
establishment.

Marcel had a long talk with the father of the family and
Polycarpe that evening. They both agreed that the promised
influence of M. de Morel was a bright prospect for Marcel's
future career.

"This friendship, however, is not absolutely necessary for your
prosperity hereafter, Marcel," said the father. "You know well
that Mettray never abandons her children. Our good director would
find you a suitable situation, and continue to watch over your
interests. But still I think you must do as this kind gentleman
wishes. It is a pleasant and useful thing to have friends; one
cannot have too many good ones!"

"You will get acquainted with the poor clerk, very likely,"
remarked Polycarpe. "Wouldn't you be glad to know him? I should,
I think."

"Yes, I think I should too," answered Marcel thoughtfully.

{499}

The friends went to bed that night very happy; Marcel to dream of
that future garden, the aim of all his ambition, in which he
wandered, hand in hand with the poor clerk, until the clarion
sounded; Polycarpe to fancy himself marching, drums beating,
colors flying, at the head of a regiment of Zouaves!



There is not a pleasanter place in Paris than the Garden of
Plants--the people's delight and the people's own!

Who that has seen it in spring can forget its magnificent avenues
of linden-trees, fragrant with the delicious perfume of the
tassel-like blossoms; its grand old chestnut-trees, covered with
spikes of creamy-white or rose-colored flowers; its lilac-bushes,
its pear-trees, white with blossoms, as if they had been snowed
on! And then the twitter of birds, mingled with the bleating of
sheep and goats, and the soft lowing of cows! Delightful sights
and sounds in the very heart of poor old Paris, close by the door
of the hospital! 'Tis there that the pale Parisian workman spends
his holiday with his wife and children; 'tis there the little
ones learn to love and be gentle to God's creatures.

How pleasant it is in the warm summer-time, when the shady
avenues are crowded with bands of happy children, jumping the
rope or playing at hide-and-seek behind the thick trunks of the
old trees planted by Buffon, while their smiling mothers sit near
with their sewing. How beautiful then are the gay parterres of
bright-colored flowers so skilfully grouped, so harmoniously
contrasted! How interesting the rich botanic garden, where so
many strange exotic plants, each with its common as well as
scientific name legibly inscribed near it, can be freely and
conveniently studied by all!

Who that has climbed the little hill, on whose summit stands the
Cedar of Lebanon, and rested beneath the glorious spreading
branches, has not felt it a heart-warming sight to watch the
crowds of hard-working people rambling with their children amidst
the trees and flowers of this magnificent garden; here stopping
to feed the patient elephant, who seems to pass his life begging
for bits of bread; here contemplating, with some aversion
perhaps, the clumsy hippopotamus bathing its unwieldy form in its
tank; then making a long pause before the monkeys' palace, where
some twenty of those natural gymnasts excite roars of laughter by
their tricks; and then again before the great cage of the
many-colored parrots, that look to the delighted children like
giant flying-flowers? And as they stroll along, the goats and
sheep, and soft-eyed gazelles and fawns, that beg by the way, get
each a few crumbs of black bread and many caresses; and the boys
jest _en passant_ with the bear at the bottom of his
pit--"Old Martin" they call him--and they bribe him to climb the
great pole placed expressly for him, with a bit of crust; and the
little girls pity the eagle as they pass by his narrow grated
prison. Sitting there under the cedar, the eye falls almost
involuntarily on a group of pretty houses, nestled together in a
corner not far from the Museums of Natural History. They are the
residences of many of the professors attached to the Garden of
Plants--professors of botany, of comparative anatomy, of
mineralogy and geology, of natural history, etc.--men of
world-wide reputations, whom the privileged inhabitants of Paris
may hear lecture on these various sciences, in well-ventilated,
well-warmed halls, twice every week, for nothing.

{500}

In an out of the way nook, but quite near to the homes of these
celebrated men, there was one quaint, old-fashioned little house
which, in the spring of the year 1859, had been appropriated as
the dwelling of one of the head-gardeners, a young man of great
intelligence in his profession, and who had lately been appointed
to the situation.

It was a very little house, it is true, but large enough for the
tenant and his young, newly-made wife, who thought it, for her
part, the sweetest nest ever built. It was covered with climbing
roses; they could scarcely be shut out by the windows and doors,
so that it had received the name of "The House of the Roses."
Outside, it needed no other ornament to be beautiful; inside, its
charms were neatness, cheerfulness, cleanliness, and quiet.

But the afternoon that we present it to our readers the little
house was in a bustle, for wife Gabrielle and her maid Marie were
preparing a dinner far more elaborate than was usual in that
simple household, and very anxious were the two little women that
every dish should be worthy of the occasion, for the banquet was
to feast the return of an old friend from the war in Italy.

The master of the house had but just got home from his daily
occupations when there came a vigorous ring at the door, and he
ran to open it.

"Marcel!"

"Polycarpe!"

The two friends threw themselves into each other's arms, unable
to utter another word.

"How well and happy you look!" exclaimed Polycarpe at last,
laying his hand caressingly on his friend's shoulder and gazing
affectionately at him.

"And you, Polycarpe, what a tremendous fellow _you are_ with
your turban and your great beard!" returned Marcel, looking with
admiration at the supple, sinewy form of the handsome Zouave, on
whose broad chest shone the Cross of the Legion of Honor.

The blushing young wife received her husband's old friend with a
cordiality that soon put the soldier quite at his ease, and by
the time the dinner was ended they were chatting together as if
they were acquaintances of ten years' standing.

"Now, Marcel," said Polycarpe, when the happy trio were quietly
seated in the little salon through whose open windows the fresh
roses peeped in, perfuming the soft evening air--"now, Marcel,
you must tell me something more about yourself than the few
letters I have received from you have contained."

"First, let _me_ tell you something, Monsieur Polycarpe,"
cried Gabrielle. "Let me tell you that I shall be grateful to
you, and love you as a brother to my dying day, for having saved
Marcel from being a soldier."

"Madam," replied the Zouave, laughing, "you must love me as your
brother, but you owe me no gratitude. Why, I had always wished to
be a soldier, and it was the most natural thing in the world that
I should exchange my good number for Marcel's bad one. But that
drawing for the conscription is really a dreadful ordeal!"

"Thank God that you have come back to us!" ejaculated Marcel
softly.

"Oh! that horrible battle of Solferino!" cried Gabrielle with a
shudder. "When Marcel knew that you had been engaged in it, I
thought that he would go distracted, until he was assured of your
safety."

"He ought to have seen us Zouaves, how ready we were for the
fight; not a man among us who would have backed out!"

{501}

"It was because I knew your impetuosity, Polycarpe," said Marcel,
"that I despaired of ever seeing you again."

"Well, my friend!" said the soldier, pressing his friend's hand,
"here I am, safe and sound, with two legs and two arms; there is
many a brave man who came back from Solferino who cannot say
that!"

"I have always been lucky," continued he after a short pause; "I
entered the army a simple soldier, without a single friend, and
yet here I am with the Cross of the Legion of Honor, and next
month I shall get my epaulettes!"

"I am not surprised, not in the least surprised. You acted like a
hero in Italy, I know, or you would not have been decorated! We
shall see you a captain soon!" And Gabrielle clapped her little
hands with delight at the thought.

"Come, Marcel," cried Polycarpe, laughing, "I shall become too
vain if I listen to your wife any longer. Come, tell me; when we
parted, you for Paris, and I for the army, how did you get on?"

"It will be a twice-told tale to you, Polycarpe, for you must
have received my letters!"

"Never mind! There are gaps in what I know of your doings, and
they must be filled up."

"Well, then, after that painful parting with our friends at
Mettray, I proceeded to Paris, and went immediately to see M. de
Morel; he was just as cordial as he had given me reason to
believe he would be, and one of the very first things he did was
to take me to see Gabrielle's father."

"Do you know who he was, Monsieur Polycarpe, or is that one of
the gaps you mentioned?" interrupted Gabrielle, smiling.

"Oh! no, that is not a gap," replied the soldier. "I know that it
was your father who lost the bag of gold Marcel was so fortunate
as to find."

"What a dreadful remembrance that night is to us all even now! I
was very young then, but I can perfectly recollect my poor
father's despair, and my mother's bitter weeping. I have never
since heard of a sum of money being found, without picturing to
myself the loser's agony, and some such scene of wretchedness as
I witnessed in my own home!"

"Monsieur Tixier received me as if I were his son," continued
Marcel.

"Well, you were to be!" said Gabrielle archly.

"But I certainly never should have dared to have thought of such
a thing then," replied her husband, smiling. "I saw Mademoiselle
Gabrielle sitting at work by her mother's side; but I little
dreamt that that fair young girl would ever be my wife!"

"How glad we were to see him, you can imagine, Monsieur
Polycarpe! We had wanted for years to prove our gratitude to him!
But you know we had never been able to find him. In the street
where he used to live they told father that Pelagie Vautrin was
dead, and the family with whom Marcel lived had moved."

"You can understand how that happened, Polycarpe," continued
Marcel, "for you know that your unfortunate father was never seen
again after that day when we so hastily fled the house. And then
your mother and Loulou left the neighborhood."

"Poor father, poor mother, both gone!" sighed the soldier. "How
often have I hoped to possess a decent home of my own that I
might save them from a miserable old age! They are both gone, for
I cannot help believing that my father is dead."

{502}

"Loulou will be a comfort to you; the good sisters in Rue St.
Jacques have brought her up well. She is a good, industrious
girl, and an excellent needlewoman. Gabrielle has had her to
spend the day with us twice, and we are very fond of her."

"Madame Gabrielle, how can I thank you! What kind, good friends
you are to me!" The brave Zouave hid his face for a moment in his
hands; when he raised it, his cheeks glistened as if they had
just been washed with tears.

"Go on, Marcel, what happened after you had made the acquaintance
of M. Tixier?"

"Very shortly after, M. de Morel succeeded in getting me a place
in the staff of gardeners attached to the Garden of Plants, and
here I have worked steadily on while you have been fighting my
battles, Polycarpe."

"You have fought your own, Marcel, and manfully too!"

"Happy years they have been--my profession pleased me, and I made
many friends, and as time went on I was promoted, until, at last,
six months ago, I was appointed one of the head-gardeners, with a
good salary and this little house rent free."

"And then, Monsieur Polycarpe, my good father, who had known for
a long time that Marcel and I loved one another dearly, made him
understand that my mother would be happy to call him her son!"

"Yes, when my way was clear before me, my good friend bestowed on
me the best little wife that ever man was blessed with; and where
do you think we went for our wedding trip?"

"Where? Why, to Mettray, of course," cried Polycarpe excitedly.

"Yes, to Mettray. We staid with Rodez at Tours; he was very kind
to us, and took us to see all our friends. First of all, Priat;
he is foreman to the richest baker in the town, and is very
highly esteemed by his master. He was very glad to see me again,
and we talked a great deal of you and of the Zouaves."

"Good fellow! I shall go to see him, one of these days!"
exclaimed Polycarpe.

"Yes, do. Then we went to Mettray. How my heart beat when I
caught sight again of the chapel steeple! I saw many new faces,
but our kind director, and the good abbe, and the father of our
family were there just the same, all well, and so glad to see me,
and so glad to know that I was prosperous and happy; and they
admired my little wife so much!"

"Enough, enough, Marcel!" interrupted Gabrielle, brightly
blushing and smiling.

"Marcel," said Polycarpe after a short silence, "I have been on
the battle-field, my comrades falling by hundreds around me,
while I was spared; I have seen death in its most fearful shapes,
and human suffering inconceivable to the imagination of those who
have not witnessed it, and I have escaped, unhurt, untouched; but
I declare to you that when the battle was over and the danger
past, I never felt that overpowering gratitude that fills my
heart when I remember Mettray. For, after all, what is physical
pain, what is the loss of this life compared to that corruption
of the heart and conscience that was ours when we first entered
the Colony? I do not believe that I have ever closed my eyes in
sleep since I quitted that saving home before praying, 'God bless
the founders of Mettray!'"

              ----------

{503}

       Protestantism A Failure. [Footnote 160]

    [Footnote 160:
    1. _Failure of Protestantism, and Catholicism
    the Remedy_: Four Discourses delivered by the Rev.
    F. C. Ewer, D.D., in Christ Church, Fifth avenue,
    New York. Reported in the New York _Times_, 1868.
    2. _Dr. Ewer's Reply to Dr. Adams and Others_,
    in Defence of his Discourses on the _Failure of
    Protestantism, and Catholicism the Remedy_. Reported
    in the New York _World_, November 16th, 1868.]


Dr. Ewer is a Protestant Episcopal minister of Christ Church in
this city, and is, we are assured, no ordinary man. Afflicted in
early life with doubts of the truth of revealed religion, but
subsequently getting the better of them, he joined the Protestant
Episcopal Church, became an Episcopalian minister in California,
whence he was called to the pastorate of Christ Church in this
city. He is, we are told, a man of great ability, of genuine
eloquence, and a true pulpit orator. He appears to be an honest
and earnest-minded man, who took seriously the church pretensions
of Episcopalians, treated the Episcopal Church as a real
Christian church, in which he might hold, develop, and defend
what he regarded as real church principles.

But he found that he had counted without his host, that is,
without his vestry, with whom the principal power in Episcopalian
churches is lodged. His vestry or wardens complained of his
preaching, and censured his doctrine as tending Romeward, or as
not sufficiently Protestant. Like a brave man, he answered their
complainings by these four discourses, in which he distinctly
asserts the _failure of Protestantism as a religious system,
and "Catholicism" as the remedy._ Nothing could be more
startling to a Protestant congregation, and it seems to have
startled to a considerable extent the whole American Protestant
public. But we are bound to say, if any one imagines that in
these discourses Dr. Ewer rejects Protestantism for the church in
communion with the Roman Apostolic See, he is very much in error.
Dr. Ewer, in the train of the Oxford Tracts, the Puseyites, and
the Ritualists, disclaims Protestantism, proves unanswerably that
it was a blunder, and is as a religion a disastrous failure; but
the Catholicity he looks to for a remedy is of a very different
stamp from ours, and whether it be a genuine Catholicity or not,
he claims to be as far from being a _Romanist_ as he thinks
he is from being a Protestant. Rome, he says, failed in the
fifteenth century, as Protestantism has failed in the nineteenth.

That Protestantism was a sad blunder, and has proved a disastrous
failure, Catholics have proved over and over again; and on this
point Dr. Ewer has said no more nor better than they had said
before him. He has said no more than was said by the Oxford men,
or than is said every day by the Ritualists, who are so strong in
the English Church that its authorities do not dare condemn, and
are obliged to tolerate them. The Convention of the Protestant
Episcopal Church of the United States, lately in session in this
city, could not by any means be induced to take any action
against them, or to do anything to favor the party in the church
opposed to them. The Anglican Church, or a considerable portion
of it, would, if it could, like to get rid of the name of
_Protestant_, and assume that of _Catholic_. It is
growing ashamed of its origin and principles, and it has many
noble members who are doing their best to bring its doctrine and
form of worship up to the level of Catholicity.
{504}
Dr. Ewer indeed says nothing of Protestantism that all thinking
men do not see and know as well as he. Protestantism was always
more political and national than religious. It originated chiefly
with the princes of the sixteenth century, who were opposed, for
secular reasons, to the pope, or wished to frighten him in order
to bring him to their terms; and it relied wholly on the civil
power to diffuse, protect, and defend it. Now, when the civil
powers are abandoning it as no longer necessary to their
purposes, and giving partial or complete liberty to Catholics, it
is able to make a show of sustaining itself only by forming an
intimate alliance with the unbelief and naturalism of the age. It
is not an insignificant circumstance that, when recently the
attempt, for political purposes, was made in England to revive
the "No Popery" cry, once so effective, it wholly failed. The
Protestant mind in the Protestant world is evidently drifting
away from the Reformation, even if not drifting toward the
church.

But though the part of Dr. Ewer's discourses which so effectually
prove the failure of Protestantism as a religious system is the
part most satisfactory to us, we must for various reasons confine
the remarks we design to make chiefly to the remedy proposed. The
error, nay, the blunder, the author assures us, was in breaking
away from the One Holy Catholic Church of the Bible and the
Creed, and setting up in its place the Bible interpreted, by the
private spirit or private judgment, almost inevitably tending to
discredit the Bible, and to develop in pure rationalism or
naturalism; the remedy, of course, must be in the return to this
One Catholic Apostolic Church with its divinely instituted
priesthood, its august sacrifice, its sacraments, sacred rites,
and plenary authority in matters of faith and discipline. This,
if asserted by us, would be very intelligible to all the world,
and would mean a return to the Roman Catholic Apostolic Church,
or church in communion with the Apostolic See of Rome, the See or
the Chair of Peter. But Dr. Ewer takes great pains to have us
understand that this is not his meaning, and that in rejecting
Protestantism he is far from accepting _Romanism_, or Roman
Catholicity. The puzzle, then, is to determine what, which, or
where is the One Catholic Apostolic Church which he proposes as
the remedy of the widespread evils of Protestantism.

Is it the Roman Church? No. That is a Catholic Church, but not
the Catholic Church. Is it the Greek or Oriental Church? No. That
is a catholic church, but not the Catholic Church. Is it the
Anglican? No. That, again, is a catholic church, but not the
Catholic Church. These, the doctor says, near the conclusion of
his second sermon, are particular and local churches, not the one
universal church itself, but holding from it and subordinate to
it. Where, then, is this universal church? He answers, in the
same sermon, a little further on, "We must go deeper and broader"
than these particular and local churches "to find the Catholic
Church, down to the great foundation on which the three stand;
down out of the differences of the brothers to the unity of the
family, to find the ground upon which we stand as Catholics, not
as Romanists, not s Greeks, not as Anglicans, far less as
Episcopalians."
{505}
But is this catholic church which underlies alike the three
particular churches an organ or organism distinct from them, with
a centre of unity, life, and authority, independent of them, but
on which they themselves depend for their church unity,
authority, and life? Not at all. If we understand the author, the
Catholic Church is in what these three particular or local
churches have in common, in what they agree in holding, or what
remains after eliminating their differences. In order not to do
the author any injustice, we quote nearly at length, in his own
words, the answer he gives in his fourth discourse to the
question, "What is the Catholic Church?"

  "Now, a church is an organism. The Catholic Church must be an
  organism universal over space and universal back through time
  to Christ. Suppose, now, I go to the Methodists again. I find
  there an organism; but in looking back I find it was arranged
  about the time of John Wesley, one hundred years ago. Before
  his day there was no such church organism. I pass then to the
  Presbyterians. There I find a different organism. But in
  looking back I find it dates its origin only about three
  hundred years ago. That will not answer, then. Very well, I try
  the Congregationalists, and, in fact, each and all of the
  modern Protestant organizations. Avowedly they do not, any of
  them, run back into the dreadful mediaeval times--those _dark
  ages_. Whatever these Protestant organisms may be, then,
  they must each and all be set aside, as, at any rate, not
  Catholic organisms either in space or in time, and therefore
  not Catholic at all. Well, suppose I come to our church. I find
  it, as an organism, with its bishops, priests, and deacons, its
  ritual form of worship, its altars and sacraments, its
  conventions and synods, its dioceses and parishes, running back
  in the history of England into mediaeval times; yea, still
  further back through the early days of old Britain and up even
  to the apostles. I seem to strike something Catholic here. But
  be not in haste. Suppose I go to the Roman Church. I find that
  I can trace its life back also interruptedly to the apostles.
  Suppose I go to the Greek Church. I find the same peculiarity
  of continued existence back to the apostles there. Here, then,
  in the Roman, Greek, and Anglican churches, we have reached
  something which it will do at least to pause upon for further
  investigation.

  "But have a care. When we look a little more closely into the
  Anglican organization as a whole and consider it part by part,
  and when we examine the Roman organization in like manner, and
  the Greek, we find that each of the three differs from the
  other two in certain respects. Rome has a pope and a cultus of
  St. Mary the ever-Virgin; these are not parts of the Greek (?)
  or of the Anglican organisms. Though we have paused here, then,
  though the Catholic Church must be hereabouts somewhere,
  nevertheless, when we have reached our church, we have not yet
  reached the Catholic Church we are in search of; when we go to
  Rome, we have not yet reached that Catholic Church; and
  equally, when we go to the Greeks, we have not reached the
  object of our search. For we find that neither of these three
  organisms, when taken as a whole, and in all its minutiae, is
  accepted by the other two. _Shall we go elsewhere, then?
  There is nowhere else to go._

  "Let us look, then, more closely still here. As we examine, we
  find that, although the three--Anglican, Greek, and Roman--
  thus differ in some respects, they are marvellously alike in
  all others. All three have a hierarchy of bishops, priests, and
  deacons. All have the holy altar of the tremendous sacrifice as
  the central object in their churches. All have robed clergy.
  All have saints' days and identical ecclesiastical seasons. All
  have a ritual form of worship. All have parishes, dioceses, and
  provinces, All (?) date their life back into the first century.
  All have stately ceremonials and processions; the Greeks the
  most glorious, the Romans less, and the Anglicans the least.

  "All acknowledge the authority of general councils. All have
  the same apostolic succession and the same sacraments. Here,
  then, I begin to find the Catholic Church. Those few
  peculiarities in which the Greek, the Anglican, and the Roman
  differ from each other are merely local; all those many
  peculiarities in which the three are at one shape out for me
  visibly, solidly, and sharply the great Catholic Church; one in
  space as in organism, and one in time; to be found equally in
  Russia, and Italy, and England, and America, and Mexico, and
  Germany, and Brazil--everywhere; to be found, too, in the
  nineteenth century, and equally in mediaeval time, and also in
  the earliest days, unchanged and unchangeable.
{506}
   And everything in the Anglican, Greek, and Roman bodies which
   the three hold in common, and which has been held in them,
   everywhere, always, and by all, is Catholic. Anything else,
   any peculiarity which we have that Rome and the Easterns have
   not, or which Rome has, but the Greeks and we have not, or
   which the Greeks have, but Rome and we have not, is merely
   local, partial, and not Catholic."

This is explicit enough. Take all that any one of the three holds
in which the other two agree, and you have the One Holy Catholic
Apostolic Church. Eliminate from all three the points in which
they differ, which are assumed to be trifling, and take their
points of agreement, and you will have what the preacher calls
"Catholicism," and which he proposes as the remedy for the evils
of Protestantism. Extend the rule so as to include all
professedly Christian churches, denominations, or sects which
professedly recognize a Christian church and a Christian
ministry, and it will be the view of the Catholic Church
generally taken by Protestants. No Protestant sect has ever had
the audacity to claim to be itself alone the visible Catholic
Church of the Creed; and none of the older Protestant sects deny
that there is, in some sense, a visible Catholic Church. In the
early Protestant teaching, if not in the later, there is
recognized one visible Catholic Church, which is what all
professedly Christian communions agree in holding, or which alike
underlies them all. In this sense, Presbyterians and
Congregationalists, Methodists and Baptists, Lutherans and
Calvinists, have always been as strenuous asserters of the
Catholic Church and of Catholicity as is Dr. Ewer himself. We
see, then, in Dr. Ewer's "Catholicism," nothing that need startle
a Protestant or especially gratify a Catholic. In principle, at
least, he asserts a very common Protestant doctrine, and in no
sense necessarily breaks, except in words, with the Protestant
Reformation.

But be this as it may, it is certain that Dr. Ewer admits no
catholic body or organic centre of unity and catholicity distinct
from the Roman, the Greek, and the Anglican churches, and
independent of them, and recognizes no catholicity but what these
three churches agree in maintaining and possess in common.
Neither of them, he contends, is by itself alone the Catholic
Church; each is a catholic church, but no one of them is the
Catholic Church herself. Whence, then, their quality of catholic
churches? Particular or local churches are catholic because they
hold from, depend on, and commune with a catholic centre of
unity, life, and authority, which is distinct from and
independent of themselves. This is not the case with the three
churches named; they hold from and depend on no common organic
centre, recognize no organic source of life independent of
themselves, are subordinated to no authority not each one's own,
commune with no centre of unity which each one has not in itself,
and not even with one another. They are each complete in
themselves, and are therefore not three inferior churches,
subordinate to one supreme catholic apostolic church, but, if
churches at all, three distinct, separate, and independent
churches. If, then, no one of them is the one holy catholic
apostolic church, no one of them is even a catholic church, and
Dr. Ewer fails entirely to recognize any Catholic Church at all.

{507}

The author is deceived in his assumption that these three
churches are particular or local churches, subordinated to the
universal church. St. Mary's church, which is my parish church,
is a catholic church, if the see of Rome is the Catholic
Apostolic See; for it depends on it, and through the bishop of
the diocese communes with that see, and through that see with
every other particular catholic church, thus establishing in the
unity and catholicity of the See of Rome, or, as the fathers
said, the See of Peter, the unity and catholicity of all
particular or local churches in communion with it. By coming into
communion with St. Mary's church, one comes into communion with
the one universal church, is in the catholic communion, and is a
Catholic; but nothing of the sort can be affirmed either of the
Greek Church or of the Anglican. They acknowledge no
subordination to any other organic body in existence; they depend
respectively on no ecclesiastical authority or organic centre
independent of themselves; they commune neither with each other
nor with the Church of Rome, which holds them to be both in
schism, and one of them in heresy. Certain Anglican ministers
would willingly commune with the Greek Church, but it repels
them, and declares that sect to be not even a church. The three
churches named cannot, then, be particular churches holding from
a common centre of unity, and Dr. Ewer must take one of them as
the Catholic Church and exclude the other two, or have no
Catholic Church at all.

The fact that there are certain points, if you will, essential
points, of agreement between these three bodies, does by no means
make them one body. Agreement is not identity. Great Britain and
the United States speak the same language; adopt the same Common
Law, which governs their respective courts; agree to a great
extent in their usages, manners and customs, and civil
institutions; and throughout they have a far closer resemblance
to each other than has the Anglican Church to either the Greek
Church or the Roman Church; and yet, are they not one nation,
with one national authority, and having one and the same national
life. Eliminate from New York and New Jersey the points in which
they differ, and retain only the points in which they agree, and
would they be one state under one and the same state government?
Not at all, because they are separate organizations, and, as
states, are each independent of the other. The Eastern churches
were once in communion with Rome under the supremacy of the
Apostolic See, and then were one with the Roman Church; but
having separated from that see, they are churches in schism
indeed, but _de facto_ independent. There was, down to the
sixteenth century, a Catholic Church in England in communion with
the Church of Rome or the Apostolic See; but the so-called Church
of England is not its continuation, and, in the judgment of both
the Roman Church and the Greek Church, is not a church at all,
for it has no orders, no priesthood, no sacrifice; its so-called
bishops and clergymen are only laymen, but for the most part
educated, refined, and highly respectable laymen, devoted to the
elegant pursuits of literature and science, the cultivation of
private and public morals, and the interests and well-being of
their families. But not to insist on this at present, we may
affirm that, even supposing Anglicans have an episcopate, and
that it resembles the Greek and Roman episcopates, it is no more
identical with them than the government of Great Britain is
identically that of Italy, Prussia, or Austria. These three
states are all limited monarchies; they also all have
parliamentary governments, and place the sovereignty in the
nation, not in a particular family.
{508}
But they are not one and the same monarchy, nor one and the same
government, for they are politically separate and independent. It
will not do to answer this by saying that each of these three
episcopates hold equally from Jesus Christ, and are one in him;
for that would either suppose the church to be in her unity and
catholicity invisible, and without any visible organ or
manifestation; or else that Christ has three churches, or three
bodies, which the author can admit no more than we, for he
professes to hold or believe ONE Holy Catholic Apostolic Visible
Church.

In the beginning of the extract from Dr. Ewer's fourth discourse,
the church is declared to be "an organism." An organism, we need
not tell a man like him, is a living body, not a simple
aggregation of parts, or an organization which, having no life in
itself, depends on the mechanical, electric, or chemical
arrangement of its several parts. In every living body or
organism, there is and must be--as the older physiologists, and
even the most recent and eminent, like M. Virchow, of Berlin, and
M. Claude Bernard, of Paris, tell us, and by their researches and
discoveries have proved--an original central cell, from which the
whole organism proceeds, in which its vital principle inheres,
and which is the type, creator, originator, and director of all
its vital phenomena. The whole life, evolution, and course of the
organism is originated and determined by this original central
cell--this germ, or ovule, without which no organic life or
living body is possible. This primitive cell or germ is never
spontaneously generated, but is always generated by a living
organism which precedes and deposits it, according to the old
maxim, _omne vivum ex ovo._ [Footnote 161]

    [Footnote 161: See a very learned and scientific essay in
    _Le Correspondant_, for October 25th, 1868, _De l'Idée
    de Vie dans la Physiologie Contemporaine_, by Dr.
    Chauffard, known to our readers by a very able essay _On
    the Present Disputes of Philosophy_, translated and
    published in this magazine for November last, though the
    types made us call him Dr. Chauf_ai_d instead of Dr.
    Chauff_a_rd.]

It is the origin and law of the unity, evolution, or growth of
the organism, and is the type and generator of all the
innumerable cells which form the whole cellular system of the
entire organism, whether normal or abnormal.

What we insist on here is that there is no organism without this
original central cell or germ, and that this central cell, whence
the unity of the organism is generated by a pre-existing
organism, that is, by ancestors of the same species, and is
neither self-generated nor made up by any possible mechanical or
physico-chemical action or combination of parts, as Messrs.
Virchow and Bernard have demonstrated. This principle or law of
all organic life is universal, and applies to the church as an
organism, notwithstanding her supernatural character, as to any
of the organisms studied and experimented upon by physiologists
in the natural order. The Creator does not work after one law in
the natural order, and another and diverse or contradictory law
in the supernatural order; and herein we discover the reason of
the perfect accord of all the Creator's works, the perfect
harmony of revelation and real science, and the aid revelation
gives to science, and, in return, the aid that real science gives
to the interpretation and clearer understanding of revelation.
God is one, and works always after one and the same law in all
orders, and is never in contradiction with himself.

{509}

The essential error of the non-catholic church theory is, that it
denies the central cell or germ whence is evolved or produced the
whole church organism, and assumes that the church derives her
life from her members, and that she is constituted in her unity
and catholicity as a living body by the combination of the
several parts, or that the central cell is created by the
organism, not the organism by the central or organic cell, which
is as much as to say, multiplicity can exist without unity to
produce it, or that dead or unliving parts can generate life and
activity! No one need be surprised that men of clear heads and
logical minds, trying to remove, on Protestant principles, the
discrepancies between science and the Protestant religion, should
rush into materialism and atheism. The principle the Protestant
adopts in his non-catholic church theory is precisely the
principle on which Mr. Herbert Spencer proceeds when he ascribes
all the phenomena of life, or of the living organism, to the
mechanical, electric, and chemical arrangement of material atoms.
The same principle applied in theology leads inevitably to
atheism; for, multiplicity given as prior to and independent of
unity, no argument in favor of the divine existence can have any
validity, nay, no argument to prove that there is a God can be
conceived. Such is the terrible injury the non-catholic or
Protestant church theory has done and is doing to both religion
and science.

Dr. Ewer, no doubt, intends to reject, and honestly believes that
he has rejected, this destructive theory, which, universally
applied, results in nihilism; but we fear that he has not. He
includes the one catholic church in what he calls the three
particular churches--the Roman, the Greek, and the Anglican. Each
of these, he says, is a catholic church, but no one of them is
the Catholic Church. Whence, then, do they or can they derive
their character of catholic? The Catholic Church, according to
him, is an organism. If an organism, it must have a central cell,
an _organite_, or organic centre, originated not by itself,
from which all in the organism proceeds, or in which, in the
language of St. Cyprian, all "takes its rise," and therefore on
which all the parts depend. This central cell, which in the
church we may call the central see or chair, and which the
fathers, whether Greek or Latin, call the Chair of Peter, and
since it is the origin of all the parts, is evidently prior to
them and independent of them. They do not constitute it, but it
produces, sustains, and governs them. On no other conditions is
it possible to assert or conceive the unity and catholicity of
the church as an organism. Particular churches are Catholic by
holding from and communing with this central see or the organic
centre, not otherwise.

But Dr. Ewer acknowledges no such central cell or central see.
His organism has no organic centre, and consequently is no
organism at all, but a simple union or confederacy of equal and
independent sees. Rome, Constantinople, or Canterbury is no more
a central see or organic centre of the church than any other see
or diocese, as Caesarea, Milan, Paris, Toledo, Aberdeen, London,
or Armagh, and to be in the unity of the church there is no
particular see, mother and mistress of all the churches, with
which it is necessary to commune. The several sees may agree in
their constitution, doctrine, liturgy, and discipline, but they
are not integrated in any church unity or living church organism.
This is the theory of the schismatic Greeks, and of Anglicans and
Protestant Episcopalians, and is simply the theory of
independency, as much so as that of the New England
Congregationalists, but it admits no organic unity.
{510}
It is also the theory which Dr. Ewer himself appears to assert
and defend. By what authority is he able to pronounce any one of
the three churches named a catholic church, since no one of them
holds from a catholic centre, or a central unity, for he
recognizes no such centre or unity? The only unity of the church
he can admit is that formed by the combination of the several
parts, a unity formed from multiplicity. He holds that we need a
great catholic reformation, a combination of the Roman, the
Greek, and the Anglican churches, which shall "evolve unity from
multiplexity." Here, it seems to us, is an unmistakable
recognition, as the basis of his catholicity, of the non-catholic
church theory, and a virtual denial of the unity and catholicity
of the church; for from multiplicity can be evolved only
totality, which, so far from being unity, excludes it altogether.

Recognizing no central see, centre and source of the unity and
catholicity of the church, how can Dr. Ewer determine what
churches are in schism or what are in union, what are catholic
and what are not? What criterion of unity and catholicity has he
or can he have? He says the Roman, the Greek, and the Anglican
are catholic, and he confines the Catholic Church to them. But
how can he call them catholic, since they have no common organic
centre, and have no intercommunion? We can find in his discourses
no answer to this question but the fact that they have certain
things in common. Why confine the Catholic Church, then, to these
three alone? Why exclude Methodists, Presbyterians, Lutherans,
and the Swiss, the Dutch, and the German Reformed communions? All
these have something in common with the Roman, Greek, and
Anglican communions, and even profess with them to believe the
Apostles' and Nicene creeds. The Methodists have bishops, priests
or elders, and deacons, as the Anglicans, and adopt the same
articles of faith. The churches named have presbyters, and so
have Presbyterians, the continental Reformed, and the Lutheran
churches; some of the Lutheran churches even have bishops. There
is something in common between these and the churches the author
claims to be catholic. Why, then, does he exclude them from the
list of communions of which the Catholic Church is composed? Or
why, indeed, exclude any one who professes to hold the Christian
church and the Apostles' and Nicene creeds? And why not reject as
non-catholic everything which all these do not agree in holding?
Does he not say that _catholic_ means all, not a part, and
why exclude from the _all_ any who acknowledge Christ as
their Lord and Master, and profess to be members of his church?
The author has no criterion in the case but his own private
judgment, prejudice, or caprice. He has no other rule, having
rejected the apostolic or central see, for interpreting the
_quod semper, quod ubique, et ab omnibus creditur_ of St.
Vincent of Lerins. The _all_ with us means all those, and
those only, who are, and always have been, in communion with the
central or Apostolic See, and obedient to its supreme authority;
but Dr. Ewer, who admits no such see, has, and can have, no
authority for not including in the _all_, the
_omnibus_, all who profess to follow Christ or to hold and
practise the Christian religion. His catholicity is, then, the
creature of his own private judgment, prejudice, or caprice; and
his catholic church is founded on himself, and is his own
arbitrary construction or creation. This is not the rejection of
Protestantism, but is rather Protestantism gone to seed.

{511}

Throughout the whole of Dr. Ewer's reasoning, except where he is
simply following Catholics in pronouncing and proving
Protestantism a blunder and a failure, and answerable for the
rationalism and unbelief in revealed religion now so prevalent
among scientific, intelligent, clear-headed, and honest-minded
men, there is the implied assumption that catholicity precedes
the church, and that we are to determine not what is catholic by
the church, but the Catholic Church by what we have, without her,
determined to be catholic. This is not a Catholic but a
Protestant method. We must first find the One Catholic Apostolic
Church, and from her learn what is catholic, and who are
catholics and who are not. This is the only scientific rule, if
we acknowledge a Catholic Church at all.

If the Roman, Greek, and Anglican churches are no one of them the
Catholic Church, they can be catholic, that is, be in the
catholic organism, only by communing with the organic centre from
which the life, activity, and authority of the organism proceeds,
in which is the source and centre of the unity and catholicity of
the church. But all particular churches in communion with the
organic centre, and obtaining their life from it, exist _in
solido_, and commune with one another. The three churches
named do not commune with one another; they are, as we have seen,
three distinct, separate, and independent bodies, and foreigners
to one another. Then only one of them, if any one of them, can be
a catholic church. The other two must be excluded as
non-catholic. What the author has to determine first of all,
since he restricts the Catholic Church to the three, is, in which
of these three is the original, organic, or central cell, or
central see, whence all the others proceed, or from which they
take their rise. But instead of doing this, he denies that any
one of the three is the Catholic Church, and contends that it is
all three in what they hold in common or agree in maintaining.
The meaning of this is, that no one of them contains the organic
cell, that there is no central organic see, as we hold the See of
Peter to be, and therefore no church organism one and catholic.
But this is to deny the Catholic Church, not to assert it. In
attempting to include in the One Catholic Apostolic Church
non-catholic and foreign elements, Dr. Ewer, therefore,
manifestly loses the Catholic Church itself.

Dr. Ewer, notwithstanding his vigorous onslaught upon
Protestantism, remains still under the influence of his
Protestant training, and has not as yet attained to any real
conception either of unity or of catholicity. Unity is
indivisible; catholicity is illimitable, or all that is contained
in the unity; and both are independent of space and time. The
unity of the church is her original and central organic
principle, or principle of life; the catholicity of the church is
inseparable from her unity, and consists in the completeness of
this organic principle, and in its being always and everywhere
the complete and only principle of church life. The unity of the
faith is in the fact that it, like the church, has its central
principle out of which all in it grows or germinates, and on
which all in it depends; the catholicity of the faith is in the
fact that this faith is complete, the whole faith, and is always
and everywhere believed and taught by the One Catholic Church, is
always and everywhere one and the same faith, always and
everywhere the truth of God. The catholicity of the church
depends in no sense on diffusion in space or the number of her
members.
{512}
The church is catholic, not because she is universally diffused
in space, but because she is the one only church, and includes in
her organism all that is essential to the church as the church,
or the mystic body of Christ, to the entire church life for all
men and for all times. _Catholic_ means _all_, rather
than _universal_, or universal only because it means all;
and hence the church was as truly catholic on the day of
Pentecost as she is now, or would be were all nations and all men
included in her communion, as the human race, in the order of
generation, was as complete and entire when there was no
individual but Adam, as it will be when the last child is born.
Time has no effect on either the unity or catholicity of the
church; for she is always living in her unity and catholicity, an
ever-present church, in herself the same yesterday, and to-day,
and for ever. She is in time and space, but not of them, nor, in
her internal organism, affected by the accidents of either. The
primitive church, the mediaeval church, and the church of to-day
are identically the same, and the distinctions these terms imply
are distinctions only in things externally related to her, not in
herself. Such must be the church if one and catholic, holy and
apostolic.

The central life of the church, the source of all the vitality,
force, and authority of the organism, of which--to use the
figure we have already so many times used--the central cell is
the organ, and which gives it all its generative force and
governing power, is Jesus Christ himself, who is the _forma_
of the church, as the soul is the _forma_ of the body, or
its organic principle; for the church is the _body_ of
Christ, and is nothing without him, and if separated from him
would instantly die, as does the body when separated from the
soul. But we are treating of the church, in which the unity of
Christ is made manifest in her visible unity, and therefore of
the visible, not of the invisible church. That the invisible
unity might be manifested, St. Cyprian argues, in his _De
Unitate Ecclesiae_, Christ established a central chair, the
Chair of Peter, whence all might be seen to take its rise from
one. This chair, the visible centre of unity, is to the church
organism, as we have seen, what the central or organic cell is to
every organism or living body in the natural order; but Jesus
Christ, whom it manifests or represents in the visible order, is
the living force and generative power of the central chair, as
the soul is of the organic cell of the human organism. So much we
must affirm of the _Christian_ church, if we call it, as Dr.
Ewer does, "an organism."

This organic central cell generates or produces not many
organisms, but one only. So the Chair of Peter, the central cell
of the church organism, can generate only one organism. Christ
has one body and no more. That only can be the Catholic Church in
which is, as its centre, the Chair of Peter, or, as we have
before said, the organic central see, which may justly be called
the Holy See, the Apostolic See, "the mother and mistress of all
the churches," as in the living body the original central organic
cell is the mother and mistress of all the secondary or inferior
cells generated in the evolution of the organism. Here, again,
theology and physiology coincide in principle.

We may now ask, Does the Greek schismatic church, as we call it,
contain this central organic see? Certainly not; for she admits
no such see, or, if she does, she confesses that she contains it
not, and the Roman Church does.
{513}
The Greek schismatic, as we call him, recognizes no church unity
in the sense we have explained. He recognizes only diocesan,
metropolitan, or patriarchal unity. Does the Greek Church, then,
commune with this central see? No. For it communes with no see or
church outside of itself. How is it with the Anglican Church? It
does not any more than the Greek Church claim to possess it. It
does not pretend to find it in the see of Canterbury, York,
Dublin, or Armagh, and indeed denies both the necessity and
existence of such see. She denounces the Roman see because she
claims to be it; and Dr. Ewer tells us, in his reply to Mr.
Adams, that the Protestant Reformation rendered noble service to
the Anglican Church by delivering it from papal tyranny and
oppression. Well, then, does the Anglican Church commune with the
central or organic see, or Chair of Peter? No. For she communes
with no see beyond herself. Then she is not the, or even a,
catholic church. There remains, then, only the Roman Church,
which is and must be the One Holy Catholic Apostolic Church, if
such church there is; for it can be no other. The reverend
doctor's attempt, then, to find a catholic church which is not
the Roman Church, or a catholicity which is "broader and deeper"
than what he, as well as other Protestants, calls "Romanism,"
seems, like Protestantism itself, to have failed.

Dr. Ewer would evade the force of this conclusion, which the
common sense of mankind unhesitatingly accepts, by resorting to
what is known as "the branch theory." The Roman, the Greek, and
the Anglican churches are not one or another of them exclusively
the Catholic Church, but they are catholic churches, because
branches of the One Catholic Church. But branches suppose a
trunk. Where there is no trunk there are and can be no branches;
for the trunk produces the branches, not the branches the trunk.
Where, then, is the trunk of which the three churches named are
branches, especially since the author says we are not to look
beyond them for the Catholic Church? We let him answer in his own
words:

  "Permit me to close this part of my discourse by an
  illustration of the Catholic Church. We will take, for the sake
  of simplicity, a tree. For eight feet above the soil its trunk
  stands one and entire. Somewhere along the ninth foot the trunk
  branches into two main limbs. We will call the eastern the
  Greek limb, and the western we will call the Latin. Six feet
  further out on the Latin limb, that is to say, fifteen feet
  from ground, that western limb subdivides into two vast
  branches. The outmost of the two we will call the Anglican
  branch, the other we will call the Roman. These two branches
  and the Greek limb run up to a height of nineteen and a half
  feet from the ground. There they are, the three great boughs,
  each with its foliage, Anglican at the west, Roman in the
  centre, Greek at the east. If now you shield your vision from
  all but the top of the tree, there will appear to you to be
  three disconnected tufts of vegetation; but lo! the foliage and
  the flowers are the same. But remove now the shield from before
  your eyes, and behold in the whole tree a symbol of the
  Catholic Church--one organism from root to summit."

This assumes that the trunk is the primitive undivided church, or
the church prior to the separation of the Eastern churches from
the jurisdiction of the Roman see. But does that undivided
church, the trunk church, still exist in its integrity? No. For
if it did, there would be no difficulty. It ceased to exist in
the ninth century, and now there is no undivided church. Then
that has fallen into the past. Then there is no present living
trunk, but branches only. Branches of a trunk that has ceased to
live can be only dead branches. The alleged branches communicate
with no living root, and have no intercommunion; they therefore
are not and cannot be one living organism. The author himself
half concedes it, for he continues:

{514}

  "A church that is one like the trunk of that tree for the first
  nine centuries--that the Western subdividing at the fifteenth
  century into Anglican and Roman. As a fact, the unity of the
  organism is not broken; intercommunion between its three parts
  is simply suspended for a time--suspended until that
  differentiation shall take place in God's one church which, as
  Herbert Spencer so admirably shows, is the law of all growth; a
  differentiation which means, in its last issue, not a complete
  sundering, but the eventual unity of multiplexity, the harmony
  of co-ordinate parts. Did it not mix the metaphor somewhat, I
  would go on and complete the illustration by supposing sundry
  branches of this tree to be cut off from time to time and
  inserted into vases of water standing round about the great
  tree. Being without root, those cut longest ago are all dead;
  while only the most recently cut are green with a deceptive
  life, themselves soon to wither and die. These cut branches,
  standing trunkless and rootless about the living tree, would be
  apt symbols of the Protestant sects.

  "We have found, then, what the Catholic Church is."

There can be no suspension of intercommunion of the branches so
long as their communion with the root, or organic cell, through
the trunk, is not suspended; for through communion with that they
intercommune. But any interruption of that communion is not only
the suspension, but the extinction of intercommunion. The
restoration of intercommunion once extinct cannot be affected
except by a living reunion of each with the root or organic cell
of the organism. Probably, then, the author has been too hasty in
exclaiming, "We have found what the Catholic Church is." He seems
to us to have found neither unity nor catholicity.

Dr. Ewer seems to forget that the church never has been and never
can be divided. Has not he himself said that she is one, and does
he need to be told that one is indivisible, or that its division
would be its death? The tree with successive branches which he
adduces in illustration is, no doubt, a living organism; but it
can illustrate only the unity and catholicity of the central and
ruling see, and the particular churches holding from it. Branch
churches are admissible only as particular churches produced by
and dependent on the organic centre, or apostolic see, mother and
mistress of all the churches of the organism. But we have already
shown that the Roman, the Greek, and the Anglican churches are
not particular churches, for they are independent bodies,
subordinate to or dependent on no organic centre which each has
not in itself. As the Catholic Church is one, not three, and as
we have shown that it is neither the separated Greek Church nor
the Anglican, it must be the Roman See and its dependent
churches, in which is the primitive, original, productive, and
creative life of the church, since, as we have seen, it can be no
other. We have refuted the "branch theory" in refuting the
author's assumption that the Roman, the Greek, and the Anglican
churches hold from and are subordinate to the one universal
church, which, as independent of them, has no existence.

The failure of the author to find the Catholic Church is due to
the fact that, from first to last, though he calls the church
one, he really recognizes no church unity, since he recognizes no
visible centre of unity whence emanates all her life, activity,
and authority. Till the ninth century the East and West were
united, and the church was one; but it had no centre of unity at
Rome any more than at Antioch, at Alexandria, or Constantinople,
in the successor of St. Peter in the See of Rome any more than in
any other patriarch or bishop.
{515}
Hence no church could be convicted of schism, unless its bishop
refused to commune with another, or another refused to commune
with him; but which was the schismatic was indeterminable, unless
the whole church should come together in General Council and
settle the question by vote. This is the author's theory of
unity, a unity which has no visible centre. It is the common
Anglican theory, and appears to some extent to be that of the
schismatical Greeks. But this theory makes the unity of the
church a mere collective federative unity, or an aggregation of
parts, which is simply no unity at all, and at best only a union.
The unity of the church implies that all in the church proceeds
from unity, and is generated, upheld, and controlled by it. The
unity is the origin of the whole organism, and what does not
proceed from it or grow out of it is abnormal--a tumor, or an
excrescence to be exscinded. Hence the impossibility of arriving
at the unity of the church by aggregating the parts which have
lost it or have it not. It is impossible to assert the unity of
the church without asserting a central see, and its bishop as its
visible manifestation. There is, we repeat, no organism without
the central cell, and no visible organism without a visible
centre of unity. The author would do well to study anew the
treatise _De Unitate Ecclesiae_ of St. Cyprian, to which we
have already referred.

There is and can be no visible unity of the church without a
central see, the centre and origin of unity, life, and authority;
and when you have found that see, you have found the Catholic
Church, but not till then. Every see, or particular or local
church in communion with that see; and dependent on it, is in the
unity of the church and catholic; and every one not in communion
with it is out of unity and not catholic, nor any part of the
Catholic body. Admitting that there is the Catholic Church, the
only question to be settled is, Which is that See? Reduced to
this point, the controversy is virtually ended. There is and
never has been but one claimant. Rome has always claimed it, and
nobody in the world has ever pretended or pretends that it is any
other. Constantinople and Canterbury have disputed the supremacy
over the whole church of its pontiff; but neither claims nor ever
has claimed to be itself the central organic see, the visible
centre of the church organism, and organ of its life and
authority.

With no recognized central and ruling see with which all, in
order to be in unity, must commune, and with only particular, or
rather independent and isolated, churches in existence, without
any intercommunion one with another, and all of which, as
separate and independent churches, have failed, how can those
several branches, which are only trunkless, be restored, "unity
evolved from multiplexity," and intercommunion re-established? If
there is an organic see, the centre of unity, mother and mistress
of all the churches, particular churches that have failed can
easily be restored if they wish. They have only to abjure their
schism or heresy, be reconciled with that see, submit to its
authority, and receive its teaching. They are thus reincorporated
by the mercy of God into the church organism, and participate in
its unity and the life that flows from it. But on the author's
church theory, we can see no possible way in which the separate
bodies can be restored to the unity of the church.
{516}
Unity cannot be constructed or reconstructed from multiplicity;
for there can be no multiplicity where there is no unity.
Multiplicity depends on unity, which creates or generates and
sustains it. Suppose we grant for the moment the Catholic Church
is no one of the three churches, yet is not separable from or
independent of them, and, in fact, underlies them, but inorganic,
or having only these for its organs. How shall they be brought
into organic unity? By a General Council? Where is the authority
to convoke it, to determine who may or who may not sit in it, and
to confirm its acts? You say, Summon all the bishops of the
Roman, the Greek, and the Anglican bodies. But who has authority
to summon them, and why summon these and no others? Who shall
say? It is the same question we have had up before. Why extend or
why confine the Catholic Church to the three churches named?
Where there is no recognized centre of authority, that is to say,
no recognized authority, there is authority to admit or to
exclude. It is necessary that authority define which is the
Catholic Church, before you can say what organizations it
includes or excludes, or what prelates or ministers have the
right to be summoned as Catholic prelates or ministers, and what
not.

A nation disorganized, as the author assumes the church now is,
though he trusts only temporarily, can reorganize itself; for the
political sovereignty resides always in the nation, or, as we
say, in modern times, in the people. The people, as the nation,
possess, under God, or rather from him, the sovereign power to
govern themselves, which they can neither alienate nor be
deprived of so long as they exist as an independent nation or
sovereign political community. When the old government which, as
legal, held from them, is broken up or dissolved, they have the
inherent right to come together in such way as they choose or
can, and reconstitute government or power in such manner and vest
it in such hands as they judge best. But the church disorganized
cannot reorganize itself; for the organic power does not vest in
the church as the faithful or the Christian people. Authority in
the church is not created, constituted, or delegated by the
Christian people, nor does it in any sense hold from them. Church
power or authority comes immediately from God to the central see,
and from that see radiates through the whole body; for the author
agrees with us that the church is an organism. Hence we recognize
the Council of Constance as a General Council only after it was
convoked by Gregory XII., who was, in our judgment, the true
Bishop of the Apostolic See, and hold legal only the acts
confirmed by Martin V. The disorganization of the church is,
then, its dissolution or death. It has no power to raise itself
from the dead. If the central see could really fail, the whole
organism would fail. The church is indefectible through the
indefectibility of the Holy See, and that is indefectible because
it is Peter's See, and our Lord promised Peter that, however
Satan might try him, his faith should not fail: "Satan has
desired to sift thee as wheat; but I have prayed the Father that
thy faith fail not." The prayer of Christ cannot be unanswered,
and is a promise. The attacks on the Holy See have been violent
and continual, but they have never been successful. Our Lord's
prayer has been effective, and Peter's faith has never failed. No
doubt there is the full authority to teach and to govern in the
church; but this authority is not derived from the faithful nor
distributed equally among them, but resides primarily and in its
plenitude in the Holy See, and therefore in the bishop of that
see, or the pope, Peter's successor, in whom Peter lives and
continues to teach and govern the whole church.
{517}
All Catholic bishops depend on him, and receive from him their
jurisdiction, and by authority from God through him govern their
respective dioceses. The church is papal in its essential
constitution, not simply episcopal; for we have seen that it is
an organism, and can be an organism only as proceeding from an
organic centre, or central see, on which its unity and
catholicity depend. The Apostolic See cannot be separated from
the _Sedens_; for without him it is empty, incapable of
thinking, speaking, or acting. It is, then, it seems to us, as
utterly impossible to assert the church as really one and
catholic, without asserting the pope, or supreme pastor, as it
would be to assert an organism without asserting a central
organic cell. The failure of the pope would be the failure of the
whole church organism, with no power of reorganization or
reconstruction left--an important point in which the church and
the nation differ. The overlooking of this point of difference is
the reason why our catholicizing Anglicans suppose that the
church, though disorganized, is able to reorganize herself. The
reorganized church, if effected, would be a human organization,
not a divine organism as created by our Lord himself. But the
church, as we have seen, has never been disorganized, and could
not be without ceasing to exist, and cease to exist it cannot, if
catholic. The organic centre from which the whole organism is
evolved and directed has remained at Rome ever since Peter
transferred thither his chair from Antioch, and the particular
churches holding from it and continuing subject to it are
integral elements of the catholic organism, which is as perfect,
as complete, and as entire as it was when the Oriental churches
acknowledged and submitted to the supremacy of the successor of
Peter, or when the church in England was in full communion with
the Apostolic See of Rome. The separation of these from the Roman
communion, though it destroyed their unity and catholicity, did
not break the unity and catholicity of the organism; it only
placed them outside of that organism, and cut them off from the
central see, the source of all organic church life. The revolt of
the Anglo-American Colonies from Great Britain, in 1776, and the
Declaration of their Independence of the mother-country, did not
break her unity or authority as a nation, and indeed did not even
deprive her of any of her rights over them, though it enfeebled
her power to govern them, till she herself acknowledged them to
be independent states.

The author seems to suppose that the Greeks and Anglicans, in
separating from Rome, broke the unity of the church, and carried
away with them each a portion of her catholicity, so that there
now can be no One Catholic Church existing in organic unity and
catholicity, save in reminiscence and _in potentia_, unless
these two bodies are reunited with Rome in one and the same
communion. But the Greeks and Anglicans had both for centuries
recognized the authority of the Apostolic See, as the centre of
unity and source of jurisdiction. When the Greeks separated from
that see and refused to obey it, they took from it neither its
organic unity nor its catholicity; they only cut themselves off
and deprived themselves of both. The same may be said of
Anglicans in separating from Rome and declaring themselves
independent.
{518}
They deprived themselves of unity and catholicity, but left the
original church organism in all its integrity, and only placed
themselves outside of it. The separation in both cases deprived
the church of a portion of her population, and diminished her
external power and grandeur, but took away none of her rights and
prerogatives, and in no respect impaired, as we have already
said, the unity or catholicity of her internal organism. All that
can be said is that the separated Oriental churches and
Anglicans, not the church, have lost unity and catholicity, and
have ceased to be Catholics, even when agreeing with the church
in her dogmas and her external rites and ceremonies.

There is, then, on the side of the church, no broken unity to be
healed, or lost catholicity to be restored. If the Oriental
churches wish to regain unity and catholicity, all they have to
do is to submit to the jurisdiction of the Apostolic See, and
renew their communion with the mother and mistress of all the
churches. Not having lost their church organization, and having
retained valid orders or the priesthood and the august sacrifice,
they can return in their corporate capacity. There is in their
case only a schism to be healed. The Anglicans and Episcopalians
stand on a different footing; for they have not even so much as a
schismatic church, since the Episcopalians hold from the
Anglicans, and the Anglicans from the state. They have no orders,
no priesthood, no sacrifice, no sacraments--except baptism, and
even pagans can administer that--no church character at all, if
we look at the facts in the case, and therefore, like all
Protestants, can be admitted to the unity of the church only on
individual profession and submission. There is much for those out
of unity to do to recover it and to effect the union in the
Catholic communion of all who profess to be Christians, but
nothing to render the church herself one and catholic. Her unity
and catholicity are already established and unalterable, and so
are the terms of communion and the conditions of church life. No
grand combination, then, is needed to restore a divided and
disorganized church.

But if the church were disorganized and a restoration needed, no
possible combination of the several disorganized parts would or
could effect it. The disorganization could not take place without
the loss by the whole organism of the organic centre, and that,
once lost, can be recovered only by an original creation, by our
Lord, of a new church organism, which, even if it were done,
would not restore us the Catholic Church; for it would not be a
church existing uninterruptedly from the beginning, and there
would be a time since the Incarnation when it did not subsist,
and when there was no church. The author assumes that unity may
be evolved from "multiplexity," which is Protestant, not Catholic
philosophy; without unity there can be, as we have said, no
multiplicity, as without the universal there can be no
particulars. The universal precedes the particulars and generates
them, and when it goes they go with it. Unity precedes
multiplicity, and produces, sustains, and directs it. This is
implied in every argument used, or that can be used, by
philosophers and theologians, to prove the existence of God and
his providence. Atheism results from the assumption that
multiplicity may exist by itself, independently of unity;
pantheism, from the assumption that unity is a dead, abstract
unity, like that of the old Eleatics, not a concrete, living, and
effective unity, and the denial that unity creates multiplicity.
{519}
Physiology is refuting both by its discoveries, confirming what
has always been affirmed in principle by traditional science, the
fact that there is no organism or living body, in either the
animal or vegetable world, without the original central cell,
born of ancestors, which creates or generates and directs all the
vital phenomena, normal or abnormal, of the organism, as has
already been stated, thus placing science and the teaching of the
church in harmony.

Dr. Ewer probably does not in his own mind absolutely deny the
present unity on which depends the catholicity of the church; but
he supposes it is in some way involved in multiplicity, so that
it needs not to be created, but to be evoked from the existing
"multiplexity" which now obscures it and prevents its
effectiveness. But this we have shown is not and cannot be the
case, because the unity not only produces, but _directs_ or
_governs_ the manifold phenomena of the church, and must
therefore be always distinct from and independent of them. Also,
because so long as unity and catholicity remain, no
disorganization or confusion requiring their evolution can take
place, except in the parts exuded or thrown off by the organism,
severed or exscinded from it, that is, only in what is outside of
the One Catholic Church, and forming no part of the catholic
body. That schismatics and heretics lack unity and catholicity,
is, of course, true; but they cannot obtain either by an
evolution from such organization as they may have retained when
the separation took place, or may have subsequently formed for
themselves, but must do it, if at all, by a return to the organic
centre, where both are and have never ceased to be, on the terms
and conditions the Holy See prescribes.

Dr. Ewer maintains that the Catholic Church is restricted to the
Roman, Greek, and Anglican Churches, and consists in what these
have in common or agree in holding. These, he maintains, have all
failed, have taught and still teach grievous errors, set up false
claims, and one or more of them at least have fallen into
superstitious practices; yet he contends that the universal
church has not failed. But as the universal church has no organic
existence independent of these, has no organs of speech or
action, no personality but in them, how, if he is right in his
theory, can he maintain that the whole church has not failed? If
he held that the unity and catholicity of the church were in the
central or organic see, he might hold that particular churches
have failed, and that the One Catholic Church has not failed.
Then he could assert, as we do, that the organism remains, acts,
teaches, and governs through its own infallible organs, in its
own individuality, or the supreme pontiff who is its personality
or person. But on his theory, the failure of each of the three
parts which comprise the whole church, it seems to us, must carry
with it the failure of the whole.

Dr. Ewer's difficulty would seem to grow out of his wish to be a
Catholic and remain in the Anglican or Episcopalian communion in
which he is a minister, or to return from Protestantism to
Catholicity without any change of position. This would be
possible, if holding, on private judgment, Catholic dogmas, and
observing, on no authority, Catholic forms of worship,
constituted one a member of the Catholic Church. But he should
understand that what he wishes is impracticable, and that all his
efforts are labor lost.
{520}
So long as a man is in a communion separated from the present
actual living unity of the church, he can become a Catholic only
by leaving it, or by its corporate return to the Holy See and
submission to the supreme pontiff.

A corporate return is practicable in the case of the Eastern
churches; but even in them the individual who is personally aware
of the schismatic character of his church should abandon it for
unity at once without waiting for its corporate return; but in
the case of Anglicans and Episcopalians, as in the case of all
Protestant communions, the return must be individual and
personal.

We are surprised at Dr. Ewer's statement that the Greek Church
has no cultus of St. Mary ever-Virgin, as we are that many
Anglicans, like Dr. Pusey, who object to the Roman Church on
account of that cultus, should seek communion with the schismatic
Greeks, with whom that cultus is pushed to an extreme far beyond
anything in the Latin Church. The truth is, that all that offends
Protestants in the Church of Rome, except the papacy, exists in
even a more offensive form in the Greek schismatic Church. The
schismatic Greek bishops exercise over their flocks a tyranny
which is impracticable in the Roman Church, where the papal
authority restricts that of bishops and tempers their
administration of their dioceses.

But it is time to bring our remarks to a close. We are unable to
recognize the Catholicity we profess in that proposed by Dr.
Ewer. The one holy catholic apostolic church he sets forth does
not appear to us to be the church of the fathers, nor the one of
which we are an affectionate if an unworthy son. In our judgment,
Dr. Ewer is still in the Protestant family, and following private
judgment as his rule, though denouncing it. He has not grasped
the central, or, as Dr. Channing would say, the "seminal"
principle of the Catholic Church. Yet he seems to be well
disposed, and to be seeking it, and has made large strides toward
it. We think his discourses are not only brilliant, bold, and
energetic, but fitted to have great influence in turning the
public mind toward the Catholic Church. We have given our reasons
why we do not admit that he has as yet found that church; but
still we think his discourses will help many to find it, though
he himself may not find it. He has, as yet, strong prejudices
against the Church of Rome, and is undeniably anti-papal. But
still there can be no doubt that he would like to feel himself a
Catholic, and have done once for all with Protestantism. Dr. Ewer
stands not alone. There are large numbers in his communion, and
other Protestant communions, who think and feel as he does, who,
from the top of Mount Pisgah, have obtained--if not the clear
vision Moses had--at least some glimpses, more or less confused,
of the promised land, and are attracted and charmed by what they
see of it. We have a feeling of respectful tenderness toward
these men, and of great sympathy with their trials and struggles.
While we must tell them the truth in firm and manly tones, treat
them as men, not as children, we would, on no account, say or do
anything to wound their susceptibilities, or to create an
impression that we do not take a deep and lively interest in
their efforts to arrive at Catholicity. The spirit is working in
them to bring them to light and life. They are not against us,
and to some extent are with us. We would, for their sakes, they
were wholly with us, and we never cease to pray God that they may
find the haven of security and rest it has pleased him that we
should find for ourselves.
{521}
We once were one of their number, thought and felt with them,
struggled with them, and we can have for them only words of
encouragement and hope. In what we have said we have had only the
desire to assist them to find and understand the One Holy
Catholic Apostolic Church.

            ----------

       The Evening Primrose.

      Of twilight and fresh dews,
  Most odorous flower, thou art the child;
  Adorning evening's pensive hues
      With splendors mild.

      A vesper acolyte,
      Born, but for this one night,
  To swing thy golden censer of perfume,
  While stars the tranquil firmament illume,
      For heaven's delight.

      Thy term of service, fleet,
      Creative wish doth meet;
  A swift existence; but which this rare grace
  Of ceaseless worship, filling life's brief space,
      Crowns as complete.

      Thy blissful vigil keep,
      Rapt flower, while others sleep:
  Adoring angels claim thee from above
  A dear companion in their task of love;
      And I would fain present,
      With worshipful intent,
  Thy dewy blossoms on my evening shrine;
  A contrite homage; sighing to repair,
  With the accepted incense of thy prayer,
      For sloth like mine.

           ----------

{522}

      Heremore-Brandon; Or,
    The Fortunes Of A Newsboy.


  "Howe'er it be, it seems to me
     'Tis only noble to be good;
   Kind hearts are more than coronets,
     And simple faith than Norman blood."


           Chapter I.

Four little boys: two of them had soft fair hair, and were
dressed in the finest cloth; the other two had very bushy heads,
and were dressed in whatever they could get. It was early
Christmas morning, and the two rich boys were sitting by the
window of a handsome brown-stone house, and they had each a
stocking plump full of dainties; the two poor boys were calling
the morning papers on the stone-cold sidewalk, and if they had
any stockings at all, you may be very sure they were plump full
of holes.

"An't he funny," remarked the smaller of the two in the house,
looking at the larger of the two in the street; "an't he
_too_ funny!" And between laughing and eating, little Fred
came near choking himself. "See his old coat, Josie, it trails
like Aunt Ellie's blue dress! And such a queer old hat; don't it
make you laugh, Josie?"

"I have seen so many of 'em," explained Josie.

"What are you laughing at, Fred," asked their sister Mary, coming
up to them.

"Those newsboys," he answered, and imitated their "Times, 'Erald,
Tribune! Here's the 'Erald, Times, Tribune!" so perfectly that
their father thought it was a real newsboy calling, and cried out
to them from another room to "hurry up and bring a Herald," at
which command the children rushed eagerly into the hall, and
tugged with their united strength to open the doors, each anxious
to be the first to speak to the odd-looking newsboys, and also to
be the fortunate one to take the paper to their father. In the
mean time, the two newsboys had not been unmindful of the faces
behind the plated window.

"I say, Jim," said the big boy, who was about twelve or thirteen
years old, "did you ever see the beat of that young 'un there?
Don't you choke yerself, youngster, f'fear you'd cheat a friend
from doing that same when you're growed up.--Ere's the 'Erald!
Tribune! Times!--George! Jim, I wish to thunder there'd some new
papers come up. An't yer tired allers a hollerin' out them same
old tunes?--Times! 'Erald! Tribune!--How d'ye s'pose a feller'd
feel to wake up some of these yere mornin's in one o' them big
houses?"

"Heerd tell of stranger things 'n that, Dick," replied Jim, who
read the weekly papers. "'Turn again, Whittington, Lord-Mayor of
London,' as the cat said! Turned out true, too."

"_You'd_ better get a cat, Jim, you're such a stunnin'
feller; shouldn't wonder if you'd turn out alderman some of these
days!" At which, for no apparent reason, Dick laughed until every
rag was fluttering.

"They wants a paper; better 'tend to yer business," answered Jim,
at which the other newsboy instantly grew grave, and, shuffling
his old shoes across the street, mounted the steps where the
children were waiting and calling for him.

{523}

"I want a New York Herald," said Fred very grandly.

"Han't got no 'Eralds," answered the newsboy.

Fred rushed into the house saying, "His Heralds are all gone."

"Tribune, then, and don't keep the door open," instructed the
rough voice from some invisible spot. Mary shut the door all but
a little crack. "Papa wanted a Herald," she said; "you ought to
have one when my papa wants it."

"Thought I had, but couldn't help it; 'Erald's got a great speech
to-day, and I've sold 'em all."

"Do you sell papers every day?" Mary asked.

The bushy head made a sort of bow, as the poor newsboy looked at
the fair-haired little girl on the stoop, who condescended to
question _him_.

"Yes, miss," he answered, "since ever I wasn't bigger'n a
grasshopper."

"An't he funny?" said Fred.

"Don't you get tired?" asked Mary.

"Well, I can't say I doesn't, 'specially sometimes."

"An't you glad it's Christmas?" Josie asked, as questions seemed
the fashion.

"I kinder am," replied the newsboy.

"Did you have many presents?" questioned Mary.

"Me? Bless you, who'd give 'em to me, miss?"

"Didn't you hang up your stocking last night?" Fred asked.

The newsboy seemed much amused at the question; for it was plain
that he could hardly keep from laughing right out.

"Well, no, I didn't," he answered. "Don't think things would
stick in one long, if I did!"

"Do you put your money in a savings bank? By and by you'd have
enough to build a house maybe, if you were careful," said Josie.

"Jim and me likes takin' it out in eatin' best," answered Dick.

"Why don't you bring me that paper?" cried their father's voice.
And the two boys ran hastily into the house.

"You may have my candy," said Mary in a stately way. "I can have
plenty more." And she put her store of dainty French candy into
the boy's hand, and, while he was still looking at her in
amazement, followed her brothers into the house and shut the
door.

"Just you pinch me, Jim," Dick said, joining his companion.
"Drive in hearty, now. An't I asleep?"

"Well, I dunno; what yer got there?"

"She give it to me."

"Who's that?"

"Her on the steps; didn't you see her?"

"You tell that to the marines! Guess you took it."

"No, I didn't," Dick said indignantly. "I never took nothin' as
warn't mine yet."

"Let's have a look," said Jem, reaching out his hand for the
package; but Dick would not let him touch it. "I'm going to keep
it always to remember her," he said.

"Guess you want ter eat it yerself," Jem said. "I wouldn't be so
mean."

"I an't gen'rally called mean," Dick answered with great dignity.

"Don't you wonder, Jim," said Dick, as they made friends and
passed on--"don't it seem curious how some folks is rich and
purty like them there, and others is poor and ugly like me and
you, Jim?"

"George! speak for yerself, if ye like. Guess I'd pass in a
crowd, if I'd the fine fixin's!"

{524}

"S'posin' me and you had dandified coats and yeller gloves, and
the fixin's to match, s'pose anybody'd know we was newsboys?"
Dick asked thoughtfully.

"I _rayther_ think," said Jim, "we'd be a deal sight
handsomer'n some of them chaps as has 'em now."

"Let's save our money and try it, Jim."

"'Nuff said," answered Jim, laughing. And the newsboys in their
queer garments, and with their light hearts, passed out of sight
of Mr. Brandon's brown-stone house and fair-haired children.

But not out of all remembrance. The children had a party that
Christmas afternoon; and when they were tired of romping, and
were seated around the room, the girls playing with their dolls;
the Catholic ones telling the others in low voices about the
flowers and lights, and the wonderful manger which they had seen
at Mass that morning; and the boys eagerly listening to the
stories of faraway lands, which one of the older people was
telling, little Mary knelt in an arm-chair, and looked out of the
window at the people hurrying through the driving rain and snow,
and at the street-lamps glaring through the wet and cold. Her
kind little heart had been very light, and a strange joyousness
had surrounded her all day, making her more gentle than ever, so
that she had not spoken one hasty word, or once hesitated to take
the lowest part in any of the plays. Though she did not know it,
the little infant Jesus had smiled on her that morning when she
was kind to the poor, homeless newsboy; and now she
understood--for charity had enlarged her mind--more distinctly
than she ever had before, that there were many cold and desolate
children for whom there were no earthly glad tidings that day,
yet who were as much God's own as the little ones grouped around
her father's pleasant parlors. Then, just as she did the best she
could, and prayed in her heart for the children of the poor, she
thought she saw the newsboy to whom she had spoken in the morning
standing close to the railing by the window; but before she could
be sure of it, the servant lighted the gas; she heard the
children calling her for a new game, and she ran lightly away.
But there was one crouched in the cold outside, who wondered at
the sudden light and glow within; and as the bewildered newsboy
saw her dancing past the lighted windows, it seemed to him that
it was not so far, after all, to the heaven and the angels of
whom he had heard; for the "glad tidings" had come to Dick, even
Dick, and they woke up the good, the will to do right, which is
in every heart, and which did not sleep again in him, even when
the little, uncared-for, outcast head rested on the stone steps
that Christmas night.



               Chapter II.

Very little idea had poor Dick of right or wrong. No fond mother
took him to her heart when he was a toddling wee one, just big
enough to half understand, and between her kisses told him of
angels and saints, of heroes and martyrs, and of that Queen
Mother up in heaven, dearer than them all, who never forgot those
who once had loved her, and of the beautiful world with its
flowers and fruits, its great rivers and high mountains, its
delicious green and its glorious blue, which a good Father had
given to men for their enjoyment. No loving sister, with bright
eyes and tender voice, tossed him in her strong young arms, and
sang to him how knights and warriors, the great and good of
earth, and loved of heaven, had all been children once like him,
only never half so sweet and dear.
{525}
No noble father, true in the midst of trials, ever watched with
anxious care that those little feet should walk only in the
straight and narrow path. So it was a hard thing for poor Dick,
when he rubbed his brown hands through his bushy, uncombed hair
the next morning, and pushed the worn old hat over his still
sleepy eyes, to know just what to do to find the temple of
Fortune. At times, though, he had followed the crowd of noisy
boys and girls whom you may see around the doors of any Catholic
church at about nine o'clock on Sunday mornings, and had listened
with a critical air, and slightly supercilious, from some dark
corner near the door, to the talking and the prayers which he did
not wholly understand, but portions of which he did once or twice
take into his "inner consciousness" and fully approve. In some
way, he then seemed to feel that which made him less rough in all
his answers, readier in all his responses to the call for papers,
not always gently called for; and, though he knew not why, there
were fewer wicked words on his lips that day than for many a day
before.

It happened that he kept his eyes open and grew thoughtful, and
did not forget his wish to be better; so that, from being a
newsboy, he became an errand-boy in a book-store, where he
learned to be honest and to tell the truth, which was a rapid
advance in his education; for you know it is more than some
people have learned who have lived to be six times Dick's age.
Sometimes a little lady came to that very store to choose her
picture-books and Christmas stories; and it was his place to open
the door for her; or perhaps some one would call out, "Dick, a
chair for this lady," and then he was as happy as a prince.
Sometimes he would be sent home with her purchases, and mounted
the steps, entered her father's house, and always felt "good"
again; for always the same picture of a little girl in blue, with
fair hair, and her hands full of dainty French candy, and a
ragged newsboy, dirty and amazed, would be there before him.

Christmas had come and gone more than once, and it was coming
again, when Dick turned up the gas in a mere closet of a room
very high up in a dingy boarding-house, and made a ghost of a
fire in an old rusty stove. It wouldn't seem to us a very
enlivening prospect; for the room was but slightly furnished, and
the stove smoked, while the wind beat at the not overclean
windows, on which there were no curtains to shut out the dark and
cold. But Dick seemed to think it something very luxurious; for
he rubbed his hands before the blue apology for a flame, and sat
down on the broken wooden stool, with as much zest as that with
which I have seen grand people sink into a great arm-chair after
a walk.

"Christmas eve again," he said to the fire, for it was his only
companion. "Let me look at you, Mr. Coals, and see what pictures
you have for me to-night. How many nights, worse nights than
this, I have been glad to crouch under an old shed, or in some
alley, and now to think, thanks to the good God, I have a fire of
my own! Poor little bare feet on the icy pavement to-night, I
wish I had you round my jolly old stove. When I am rich, I will!"
Then he laughed at the idea. "But I won't wait until I am rich,
or I would never deserve to have the chance."

"How are you, Dick?" said a cheery voice, though deep and rough,
at the door. And a man came into the room, which either his
figure, or his coat, or his voice, or the flute under his arm,
seemed to fill to such an extent that the very corners were
crowded.

{526}

"How are you, Dick? It's blowing a hurricane outside, and you're
as cold as Greenland here. It may do for you, but not for me; old
blood is thin, my boy, old blood is thin." At which Dick laughed
heartily, while putting more coal on the fire; for Carl Stoffs
was in the prime of life, hale and hearty, weighing at least two
hundred pounds, I am sure, and with a round face, very red, but
also very solemn, for Carl Stoffs was a German every inch of him.
The stove grew very red also under his vigorous hands; but
whether from anger or by reflection I will not attempt to say.
"And now," he said, seating himself on the wooden chair, Dick
having given it up to his guest, while he occupied a box
instead--"and now, how are you, boy? Ready for merry Christmas,
eh? You'll come to us to-morrow, so says my wife. In America, you
all do mind your wives; mine tells me to bring you."

"Then I must, I know," Dick said, looking at the other, who was
near three times his size. "I would have a poor chance in
opposing you!" But Carl Stoffs knew well how gratefully the
friendless boy accepted the thoughtful invitation.

"Now, shall we have some music," said he, as he drew out his
flute, and, without waiting an answer, put it to his mouth, and
brought forth such rich, full tones from the instrument that
Dick, as he stared at the now bright fire, seemed to be in a land
of enchantment.

"You are the only man, from the queen of England down, whom I
really envy," said Dick, in one of the pauses. "You can have
music whenever you wish it; I am only a beggar, grateful for
every note thrown in my way. Were you out, last night?"

"Yes, all night in Fourteenth street, at the rich Brandons. Madam
is very gay, this winter."

"I wish I were a musician," said Dick. "It must be jolly to see
all the dancing and the bright dresses!"

"And the pretty ladies, eh? who don't mind you no more than if
you were a stick or a stone. Indeed, my boy, you'd soon get tired
of it; it seems so grand at first, the beautiful picture all in
motion; but your eyes--they ache after a little. Too much light,
my boy, too much light." And the musician went long journeys up
and down his wonderful flute before he spoke again. "They'll go
music-mad over some fool at the piano; but you play until your
own music makes you wild, and never one thinks or cares about
you. Last night, I played only for one. She was always dancing,
and she seemed to go on the wings of the music just as it said to
her _go_. I was not tired last night."

Awaiting no answer, he turned again to his flute, and all through
the dingy, crowded house rang a joyous "_Gloria in
excelsis_." Rough captives of labor heard it, and answered to
it, knowing well the glad tidings, the most glorious ever sung,
and yet sung to kings and shepherds alike. The old sinners heard
it, and thought of the strange days when even they were young and
innocent.

"Finis," cried the German, rising slowly, and putting on his
shaggy overcoat. "I promised my wife that I would be home at
nine, and, as do all the people here, I mind my wife; but it is
one inconvenient thing. You will come to us after Mass,
to-morrow?"

"You are too good to me. When I am rich, perhaps I shall know how
to thank you."

{527}

"You should think yourself rich now. You are young; there is no
riches like that."

"I wish I were older, though," sighed Dick.

"Never say that, never, never. The poorest youth is better than
the richest age," said the German earnestly. I shouldn't wonder
if Mr. Stoffs had just found his first gray hair, and was
speaking under its influence. At all events, he did not convince
Dick, who said, with equal earnestness and more quickness:

"I must say it: every day seems too long, every hour goes too
slowly, until I can get at my life's work. This waiting for it
kills me."

"My friend, do you call this waiting?" laughed the German. "Was
it waiting and doing nothing that changed you from--"

"But think," interrupted Dick, "of what ought to have-been. Some
day--some day I will get my hand to the plough, you'll see! At
least," a little ashamed of the seeming conceit, "I hope you
will."

"And what makes you care?"

"I think it's born in us all to like to be active--to be doing
something. Indeed, it's about the only legacy my poor parents
left me. It may be, for I know nothing of them, that they were
just the same as other people, out of whom bitter poverty has
taken all pride and ambition; but I can't think it, somehow."

"Do you really know nothing of them?"

"Nothing. I have a little sealed box, with an injunction on the
outside of it that I am not to open it until I am of age. I don't
know where I first got it, nor from whom it came. It may be some
trick to tease me for years, and disappoint me at last, for all I
know; and still I have always kept it, for it is all I have. And
I think it came from them."

"It may tell you something wonderful," said his visitor,
laughing. For it was easy for _him_ to understand that some
young mother, who even in her poverty had found the means of
reading and believing stones of princes in disguise, and
countesses in cellars, disowned and disinherited, all for true
love's sake, had made a mystery of leaving a lock of her hair,
and perhaps a cheap wedding-ring, to her boy; and he could not
forbear a little ridicule of the folly. "It may tell you
something wonderful. If it gives you possession of half of New
York, don't forget your friends, will you, Dick?" And then,
buttoned up to his chin, and with his cap covering half his face,
and looking just like Santa Claus, Carl Stoffs bundled his
cherished flute under his arm, and obediently went home to his
wife.

Dick lingered a moment, after he left, before closing the door.
The room was not wholly his own; but his companion had a father
and a mother in New Jersey, and he had gone home to them, with
something in his pockets for the children's Christmas; so for
that night Dick was in undisputed possession. The passages were
dark and cold; the snow had got through some of the broken
windows, and lay in several little hills on the entry floor; the
sash rattled, and Dick shivered, as he stood irresolute at the
door of his room. But the irresolution did not last long. He
bundled up, as well as his scanty wardrobe permitted, closed the
door firmly behind him, and went down the creaking, broken
stairs, and through the dreary passages, where he could see the
snow huddling up to the dark window-panes, as if it were a white
bird trying to get in and beating its wings against the dirty
glass. Dick had not far to walk, after leaving the house, before
he found that which he had come out to find--somebody without a
shelter from the storm.
{528}
And I should not wonder if any night, however bitter and cold,
that you or I should take a notion to go out on the same errand,
we should not have to go far for equal success, and that even if
we started from the most delightful dwelling-place in all New
York.

Under the remains of some broken steps, or more truly by the side
of them, for they were too broken to shelter a kitten, two dark
figures were lying close together. In one of the pauses of the
storm, when the street-lamp had a chance to shine a little, Dick
could see that the figures were those of two boys asleep. He did
not wait long to rouse them. One woke up at once, cross, and, if
I must tell the truth, with some very wicked words on his lips.

"Get up, and come with me," said Dick.

"What yer want 'long o' me? I an't doing nothin'," he muttered.

"I know that; but I will give you a better place to sleep in.
Come."

Bad words again. "I an't done nothin' to you. Le' me 'lone."

"I want you to come home with me. Did you ever hear of a newsboy
called Big Dick? That's me."

"I an't afeard o' nothin'. H'ere goes!" And the poor little
fellow, still believing the other was "chaffing," got on his
feet. "Do you want t'other? He an't worth nothin', but he'll keep
dark."

"Yes, both of you. Hurry him up; it is a terrible night."

"Come along, Joe. Where's yer spunk? I an't afeard o' nothin'."

"There's nothing to be afraid of," said Dick, as gently as the
roaring storm would let him. "Don't talk now, but come on. I'll
take you to a room with a fire in it," added Dick, in spite of
himself feeling that he was _bon prince_ to the little
newsboys.

"Come on, Joe," urged the other, dragging and pushing the little
newsboy, who was hardly more than a baby, but who seemed to
whimper, sleepy and frightened, as no doubt he was, until, as
quietly as the old stairs would permit, and almost holding their
breath, they followed Dick to his room.

"An't this bully, now?" said Jack in an undertone, when he stood
before the fire in the lighted room, and Joe, with round, staring
eyes, but not a word of complaint or fear, had been put on the
wooden chair. "I say, now, Joe an't much, but he'll never blab;
but I'se all right. What yer want us to do, now, sir?"

"To get warm," answered Dick. "I was once a newsboy, and slept
under stoops and sheds, like the rest of them; but now I've got a
fire of my own, and I wanted company; so I went out and got you
and Joe, and now make yourselves at home for tonight. Here's some
crackers and cheese, and when you've had something to eat you can
go to sleep here. It's better than out there, isn't it?"

The newsboy stared at Dick, and grunted something which sounded
very much as if he did not believe a word that his host had said.
The other sat silent, stolid, and seemingly ready to hear
anything. He ate his share of the crackers and cheese greedily,
but with a watchful eye on the giver. The warmth, however, soon
proved too much for his vigilance, and, though his eyes were
still fixed on Dick's face, they were heavy and expressionless.
At last, Dick took him up, undressed him, and laid him in his bed
in the corner; and then, for the first time, Joe's tongue was
loosened. "There, now," he said, as he lay exactly as Dick had
placed him, "I are dead and gone at last. Twasn't no lies about
t'other world; they wasn't a foolin' on us, after all. Here an't
no more Heralds and Tribunes. I are dead and gone at last!" And
so rejoicing, Joe's eyes closed securely, and it is likely he
dreamt of angels, if he dreamt at all, until morning came.

{529}

"He an't much," said Jack, whom this act of Dick's, together with
the fire and the food, had made less incredulous and more
confidential. "He's a soft 'un; he an't got the right pluck.
He'll never be nobody."

"Is he your brother?" asked Dick. "Do yer think I'd have him for
my brother? He's a youngster, come from nobody don't know where.
He was fetching up in my quarters last winter, and didn't know
his name nor nothin'; so we gives him a start, us fellers, and
he's stuck on to me ever since."

Then Dick asked more about his new friend's life, and told him a
little his own, and a story or two that he thought suited to his
understanding; and, having won the child to believe a little in
his good intentions, had the satisfaction of seeing him at his
ease, and willing to go to sleep with Joe in the corner. When
this was accomplished, Dick put out the fire and the light, and
lay down on the floor to sleep soundly and well, until the
joy-bells from the great city churches should wake his guests and
himself to the glad tidings that Christmas had come again.


               Chapter III.

And now I am sure you are satisfied that Dick was on the right
road, acting religion as fast as he learned it; trying to be all
he knew--to live a truthful, generous, self-respecting life. He
had little help, you know, and, if he followed that crowd that I
told you of oftener than before, and heard much that enabled him
to take whole books into his "inner consciousness" which would
otherwise have been a dead letter to him, he was not one to make
a flourish of trumpets about it, or to dream of complaining that
the world would not stand still until he got up to it. He had but
one intimate friend, it is true; but he was a friend you and I
might be glad to win; a friend who never argued or lectured, but
only quietly built his life on the only true foundation--the true
faith--and then left it to show for itself. So, simply trusting
in whatever was good, yet so fierce against whatever was evil,
scornful of everything wrong and weak, practising as well as
believing, you may be sure Carl Staffs would never have held out
his honest hand to Dick, if Dick were not worthy of it. And this
makes me think great things of my hero, of whom scarcely anybody
thought at all. He had his place in Ames & Harden's store, and he
had his talks, too, now with one person, now with another, and
perhaps thought of things he heard. He was only a boy yet, and
had his follies, without doubt, fancying at times that there was
something in him, if circumstances would only draw it out, which
would prove him a great deal worthier of high places than those
now occupying them. I am not sure but that, if he had had a
country-home, he might sometimes have lain down under the trees,
and, while watching in a dreamy way the clouds sailing down to
the west, and the vigilant stars coming out to guard the earth in
the sun's absence, and listening to the wind among the trees, the
twittering of some wakeful bird, or the rustling of some grand
old river, he might have had yearnings no one could explain, and
not have felt the sky too far to climb or the river too deep to
fathom; for Dick's was only a boy's heart, that had still to
learn that we cannot go from the Broadway pavement to Trinity
spire in one step.
{530}
Even in his city home, if home it could be called, it may be
that, just after he had been to church with Carl, he had glowed
with the thought that he--even he--might some day be a Loyola or
a Francis Xavier, for "the thoughts of youth are long, long
thoughts."

But as yet his life consciously held but one romance--one dream
of earth. There were few to care for him; but there was a little
girl once who had made Christmas memorable to him, and Dick had
not forgotten her. She had grown a beautiful young lady now, in
Dick's eyes, though to all others she was merely a thin, dark
school-girl. They still lived in the handsome house on Fourteenth
street, and Carl Stoffs and his band played for many a dance
there, although I am sorry to say that, even after a New Year's
party, Dick had to be sent more than once to Mr. Brandon's office
with a little bill, due to Ames & Harden, mostly for
school-books, novels, and gilt annuals. But then that was no
fault of Mary's, you know.

Mr. Brandon was not a pleasant man to go to with a bill, or for
much of anything in the money line. "The deuce take it, my dear!"
he often said to his wife. "Are you bent on ruining me?"

"Don't be silly, Charley, love," the dauntless little woman would
say, not in the least disturbed by the angry voice and black brow
that were so terrible to Dick. "For people of our position, we
live very shabbily."

"Hang our position! I tell you, madam, we are going the road to
beggary; we are, indeed."

"O Charles! do be quiet," was her ready answer. "I am so sick of
that sort of stuff."

"Then _be_ sick of it," this dreadful man would exclaim;
"for I'll tell it to you every day and every hour, until it gets
through your silly head. Money! money! money! I never hear
anything else in this house. I've sold myself for it, body and
soul, and much good it has done me! I'll not give you a penny,
madam; not a penny."

But that was all talk; for, of course, he had to give his wife,
who was a nice little body, very sweet and good-tempered, but
rather fond of the good things of this world, whatever she had
set her heart upon having.

"If papa should be right--" Mary would sometimes urge.

"Nonsense! they all say the same thing; why shouldn't they? If I
didn't spend your father's money in making things pleasant at
home, he'd be spending it on clubs, or whatever it is which uses
up their money when they have the spending of it all to
themselves. You'll have a husband, likely enough, one of these
days, who'll scold for every pocket-handkerchief you buy; but you
won't mind it. They must scold about something, you know, dear."

"O mamma! I'd never live a day--if--" At which sentence, never
completed, Mrs. Brandon would laugh, and the subject would be
dropped for the present; but, of course, after such scenes, Mr.
Brandon wouldn't be very amiable to a boy like Dick with a bill
in his hand. But Dick to him was a mere machine, belonging to a
store over the way, and as such he treated him, with as little
malice in his hard words as if he were swearing at a table or
chair. To Dick, Mr. Brandon was Mary's father, and that meant a
great deal; Dick could never talk openly to him, nor stand in his
presence quite as he did in the presence of other men.

{531}

For, though Dick had never been outside the city limits, and had
never seen a hill, nor a field of corn, he was a trifle romantic,
I am afraid, after all.

Yes, it is true that he grew to be almost a man without having
ever climbed a hill or seen a field of grain. But there was a
good time coming.

"Dick," said Carl Stoffs, that true and faithful friend--"Dick,
would you like to go to the country?"

"Would I like to go to the country?" he repeated, finding no
words of his own to say, so great was his bewilderment at such a
question--"Would I like to go to the country?"

"Any time you're ready," said the German, seating himself. "Take
your time to answer, my lad."

"What would I do in the country? I was never there in my life!"

"And you don't look more pleased than though I'd asked you to go
to--to--the end of the world."

"I have often wished to see the country," returned Dick, in the
tone in which we might wish to see China if we had nothing else
to do; "but I don't see my way to doing so at present."

"I do believe, Dick, that you have lined the walls with gold
pieces, you are so miserly of your time, and so stuck to this old
place. Come now, we shall take you to the country, my wife and I.
Now, to think there should be one on earth who never saw the
green fields and the woods! It is to me a very odd thing! You are
the blind man who never saw the sun, and does not think the sun
worth seeing."

"Oh! no, indeed; not so bad as that; but--"

"Then you shall go. My sister has a house, with room for many,
and we have taken half, keeping one room for you. Come and take
your week with us."

"But, Mr. Stoffs, I intended during that week to read so much to
take long walks about the city--and Mrs. Stoffs--"

"My wife sent me; I would not of myself have such a blind man
with me, to read, to study, to walk; how can you in the city now?
You will be wild when you have been once with us. You will go
to-day with me--I will be waiting for you at my place at five.
Will you come?"

"Indeed--"

"You will come." And, in truth, Mr. Stoffs had previously said so
much of that wonderful land in which he was now living that Dick
could not resist his last appeal, and afraid and shy as he well
might be, having never spent twenty-four hours in a home circle
in his life, he gave his promise to be at the appointed place of
meeting in good time for the train.

But when the magnetism of his friend's presence was taken from
him, Dick's heart grew heavy in his breast. If it had been to go
to another city, or on a matter of business, Dick's excitement
would have been delightful; but "the country," of which he knew
nothing, and of which he had such strange fancies, picked up he
could not tell where, that was another thing. City boys always
laughed at country people when they came to the city--they had
such queer ways--and yet--and yet--he felt strange and shy about
going among them. Perhaps he felt that the tables would be turned
on him there, and that his ways would be as queer in their eyes
as theirs had been in his; perhaps he felt the full force of the
homely old saying that "a cock can crow best in his own
farm-yard."

{532}

But, as the day wore on, Dick's spirits rose; he thought of all
the stories he had read of fresh country life; a poem or two of
cows and brooks came vaguely among his thoughts, and by the time
he reached his little room, and began to pack his not abundant
wardrobe, he was eager for the first glance at "the country."

"Then, may the Lord's blessing go with you," said his kind but
very slovenly landlady. "I hope you'll come back as brown as a
berry, sir. I was two year in the country once, and, though I
won't say I'd like it for always, yet my heart do get to wishing
these days for a sight o' the flowers and the fields. You'll mind
the fruit, sir, and the dews o' night; there does be great dews
fallin', and a deal of ague, I'm told. Good-by to you." And Dick
said "good-by" to her with something like emotion; for it was his
first "good-by" to any one, and the woman had been good to him,
and if her hair was in a blouse, and her garments ill made and
not clean, Dick was not startled, for he had never seen them
otherwise.

Then he walked on to meet Mr. Stoffs, and found he was nearly an
hour before the time. It seemed as if the moment of departure
would never come; but it did, at last, and, as in a sort of
dream, the dusty city youth was whirled by cottages nestling
among proud, protecting trees, past the green hills, and through
fields "all rich with ripening grain," until the panting train
pulled up between a pile of stones and a little yellow
station-house, with a narrow platform running beside it.

"Now, then, here we are!" said the German, and took up his
bundles and basket; for who ever saw a Carl Stoffs in the cars
that had not a bundle and basket, and a quantity of household
furniture besides? This last Dick took in charge, and so laden
the two made their way out of the cars. Around the little yellow
station-house dodged two splendid bays with silver harness, that
were being driven rapidly round a corner close to the narrow
platform, and went out into the dusty road; for sidewalks there
were none. Soon the sound of carriage-wheels made them turn
aside, and Dick stumbled, as he walked for the first time on the
soft green grass.

When you take a mountain lassie to Rome and show her St. Peter's,
she is not enthusiastic; indeed, she is terribly disappointed.
She expected something so much greater than her mountains, so
much brighter than her green valleys. If Dick was disappointed
when he put his foot on nature's velvet carpet and found it only
caused him to stumble, I cannot say. I think he felt surprised
that a brook beside the way and far blue hills before him wrought
no emotion within him. Fortunately Carl asked no raptures.

"That was the Brandons' turnout," he said in a prosaic way, as
Dick recovered his footing, and returned to the road.

"Is that so?" asked Dick. "Do they live here?"

"Yes," said Carl, "and a fine place it is too; but I think the
man's going too fast."

Then Dick was thoughtful for a minute or two, pitying the
daughter, if it were so; but it is hard to think that a man's
family are near to want when his stylish carriage has just turned
you out of the road, and the pity soon seemed misplaced.

{533}

The walk seemed long to Dick; he did, indeed, enjoy the cool
breeze, fresher and purer than any he had ever felt before but he
had his own baggage and Carl's curtain-rods besides, and he was
used to pavements. They had already passed many fine houses, with
lawns and carriage-ways, shaded by great trees in front of them,
and now and again a little house, with flowers and clustering
vines, and groups on the porches; but Carl's steps lingered at
none. At last they turned out of the dusty road into a shaded
lane, a veritable lane, as new to Dick as the Paris Boulevards
would be to Mrs. Partington; two or three more cottages, smaller
and not so much garden-room, and then Carl said:

"Eh! but I'm glad to get home! Come here, Will! Come, boys!"

The last call seemed to fill the lane with children. They might
have come down from the trees, or up from the earth, for all Dick
could tell; but at the sound of Carl's voice the place was
alive--big boys and little boys, great girls and small girls, all
round and fat, brown-eyed and yellow-haired, with all manner of
greetings, gathered around the travellers, eagerly drew their
baggage from their hands, and with baskets, bags, bundles, and
curtain-rods, made a grand triumphal procession before them,
shouting, laughing, pushing against each other, the big ones
stumbling over the little ones, and yet nobody hurt.

A few steps more and a rustic gate was opened and some one came
and stood under the archway of evergreen branches, intertwined
with some drooping vines. She was facing the West, looking down
the lane, shading her eyes with her hand, although the sun was
almost down. Just for a moment she stood in the bright sunset
glow, under the green archway, shading her brown eyes from the
light, looking down the shadowy lane; and, as she so stood, she
seemed a very fair and graceful girl indeed. An instant more and
the children, in the importance of their mission as
baggage-carriers, pushed past her, and she retreated with them
toward the house.

"Come, Rose! Here we are!" called Carl to her. And she turned and
met them as they reached the gate.

"You are welcome," she said to Dick when he was introduced at the
gate.

"You are welcome," said Mrs. Stoffs, coming toward them from the
porch.

"You are welcome," repeated Mrs. Alaine, at the door. And Dick
had not a word of answer to any one of them.

They were to him as grand as princesses and as gracious as
queens, as they came forth to receive him and bid him welcome to
their little cottage; and Dick was not used to courts or to
queens and princesses, so he could only bow and shake the hands
so cordially extended to him.

I am afraid my hero was not at all happy for the first few
minutes that he sat on the stoop between Mrs. Stoffs and Mrs.
Alaine, not knowing what answer to make to even their simplest
remark, and that he was much relieved when they joined their
voices to the hubbub the children were making around Carl. Such
shyness as Dick's is very painful to the spectators, as well as
to the embarrassed one; but, then, there's this to be said about
it, when it is once entirely conquered it never can come back
again, and I fancy there are some very nice people in the world,
now very self-possessed and perfectly well-bred, who would give
much to feel again the awkwardness and embarrassment which, once
upon a time, caused them such keen annoyance.
{534}
The women pitied Dick, but liked him none the less for the color
that would come into his face and the hesitation of his replies;
but their feeling for the stranger was greater than any pleasure
to themselves, and so it was not long before they went into the
house with the declared intention of "getting tea." But going
into the house was not going away altogether, for the room which
served for parlor, library, sitting-room, dining-room, and all,
had a low window opening on the stoop, and Carl and Dick could
see them well, and speak, if they chose, without raising their
voices, as they went-back and forth from the table to the closet,
and from the closet to the table, not to mention innumerable
visits to Carl's basket, which seemed a pantry in itself. The
children ran in and out, and one jolly little one, called Trot,
who was as round as a dumpling, and was too young to be shy for
very long, informed Dick she was glad he had come, for they were
to have sweet-cakes for tea. Occasionally Rose would come and
stand at the window and say something to tease "Uncle Carl," who
was not slow to "give her as good as he got." Thus gradually Dick
became more at ease, and began to distinguish a difference in the
tones of the children's voices, and to take note of the strange
Sunday-like stillness which, except for the merry noises in the
house, was complete, and, to him, wonderful.

I think a tea-table is one of the nicest sights in the world. If
there is a grain of poetry in a woman, and I believe that there
is no woman without a grain of poetry in her, it will surely,
mark my words, however rough and prosaic she may be, come out
about tea-time. That was a very pretty tea-table at which Dick
took his place that evening; there was no silver nor China, and
there was, perhaps, too great an abundance of good things; but it
startled Dick, and I contend that it was nice and pretty, if only
for the reason that it had a clean table-cloth, a bunch of
flowers, and every dish in its proper place. Mrs. Alaine, who was
only a feminine edition of her brother Carl, sat at the head of
the table, in a clean calico dress, with a white collar and a
blue ribbon. She had a child on each side of her, whose glee, at
the prospect of sweet-cakes and peaches (out of Carl's basket)
after they had eaten their bread and butter, she tried to
moderate with a smiling, "Hush, children! What will Mr. Heremore
think of you?" Mrs. Stoffs, who had also a round flat face, and
was dressed in a clean calico, with white collar and a knot of
pink ribbons, Dick had seen many times before, and dearly loved
the good humor that bubbled all over her face whenever she spoke.
She also had a child on each side of her, whose audible whispers
about the good things coming she answered and mysteriously
increased by promises of the same again another day. But opposite
Dick was a face that was not round nor especially good-humored;
for the two children under charge of Rose were the least
repressible of the whole flock, and they tried her slender stock
of patience sorely; especially, as she said afterward to her
mother, with many blushes and half crying at the recollection,
"as they would say _such_ things right before the strange
gentleman!" Rose had a pretty blue muslin, with a tiny bit of
lace around the neck, for her raiment, and there was a something
red, green, brown, blue, pink, or yellow, that fluttered here and
there before Dick's eyes whenever she moved to help the children,
or turned her young face, with its flitting colors, toward him.
{535}
But whether it were a ribbon, or a blush, or the hue of her hair,
or an aureole around her head, and whether it were no color at
all, or all colors together, or a rainbow out of the clouds, I do
not think Dick had, for one moment, a definite idea--at least,
while it was flitting before his eyes.

After tea, Carl took out his pipe, and settled into his big chair
on the porch; and the children, having got somewhat over their
awe of the stranger, volunteered to take him down the lane, and
show him where there had been a robin's nest last spring, an
expedition, however, that was vetoed by Carl on the ground that
you couldn't see even a robin's nest in the dark. Then Rose came
out to tease Uncle Carl again; but, forgetting her purpose, stood
where the light from within seemed to set her in glory, like the
angels in pictures; and by and by, it came about, no one knew
how, that her shrine was vacant, and she, a very nice little girl
with her hands in the pockets--very impracticable pockets they
were--of her muslin apron, was telling Dick, with the children as
prompters and commentators, the full particulars of the finding
of the robin's nest, and what work she had had to keep the
children from bringing sorrow and dismay to the hearts of the
parent robins by stealing away their little ones. Then, as the
moon rose, there was no reason why the children should not take
Dick down the lane to show to him the tree where the nest had
been; and then it was needful that he should know just how far it
was from sister Rose's window, and yet how quickly, on hearing
the shouts of rejoicing, she had come to Mrs. Robin's assistance.
Then it was so funny to see a man who had never climbed a tree,
that it was needful two or three should go up one to show how it
is done. Then, too, there were lightning-bugs by the million
around them, and as Dick had never seen anything like them,
unless it was fire-crackers on Fourth of July night, they had to
catch several for his investigation. When Rose told how those
little things are really the people of the forest, who are so
timid they do not dare to come out in the daytime, but do all
their praying by night, and have always been good friends to
children, showing them their way home when lost, and driving away
the ghosts that would frighten the wanderers, then the children
opened their brown hands and let them fly away, promising never
to make prisoners of them again.

And so, though Dick still felt strange and shy, it was not in
such an unpleasant way as when he sat on the porch trying to
answer Mrs. Alaine and Mrs. Stoffs when they spoke to him. When,
at last, he closed his eyes that night, he was half ready to
admit that "the country" might almost be the enchanted land some
people had made it out to be.

              ----------

{536}


   Letter Apostolic Of Our Holy Father The Pope Pius IX.

     To All Protestants And Other Non-catholics.


  To All Protestants And Other Non-Catholics, Pius IX., Pope:

  You already know that We, having been elevated, notwithstanding
  our unworthiness, to this Chair of Peter, and therefore
  invested with the supreme government and guardianship of the
  whole Catholic Church by Christ our Lord, have judged it
  reasonable to summon to Us Our Venerable Brethren the Bishops
  of the whole earth, and to unite them together, to celebrate,
  next year, an OEcumenical Council; so that in concert with
  these our Venerable brethren who are called to share in our
  cares, we may take those steps which seem most opportune and
  necessary, to disperse the darkness of the numerous
  pestilential errors which everywhere rage to the increasing
  overthrow and the intoxication of many souls; and also to
  confirm and increase daily more and more among the Christian
  people entrusted to our watchfulness the dominion of true
  Faith, Justice, and the Peace of God. Confidently relying on
  the close ties and most loving union which in so marked a way
  unite to Ourselves and to this Holy See these our Venerable
  Brethren, who, through all the time of our Supreme Pontificate,
  have never failed to give to Ourselves and this Holy See the
  clearest tokens of their love and veneration; We have the firm
  hope that this OEcumenical Council, summoned by Us at this
  time, will produce, by the inspirations of Divine Grace, as
  other General Councils in past ages have done, abundant fruits
  of benediction, to the greater glory of God, and the eternal
  salvation of men.

  Sustained by this hope, and roused and urged by the love of our
  Lord Jesus Christ, who gave his life for the whole human race,
  We cannot restrain Ourselves, on the occasion of the future
  Council, from addressing our Apostolic and paternal words to
  all those who, whilst they acknowledge the same Jesus Christ as
  the Redeemer, and glory in the name of Christian, yet do not
  profess the true faith of Christ or hold to and follow the
  Communion of the Catholic Church. And we do this to warn, and
  conjure, and beseech them with all the warmth of our zeal and
  in all charity, that they may consider and seriously examine
  whether they follow the path marked out for them by Jesus
  Christ our Lord, and which leads to Eternal Salvation. No one
  can deny or doubt that Jesus Christ himself, in order to apply
  the fruits of his redemption to all generations of men, built
  his only church in this world on Peter; that is to say, the
  Church, One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic; and that he gave
  him all the power necessary to preserve the deposit of Faith
  whole and inviolable, and to teach the same Faith to all
  kindreds, and peoples, and nations; so that all men who through
  baptism become members of his mystical body, and of that new
  life of grace, without which no one can ever attain to life
  eternal, may always be preserved and perfected in them; and
  this church, which is his mystical Body, may always in its own
  nature remain firm and immovable to the consummation of ages,
  that it may flourish, and supply to all its children all the
  means of Salvation.

  Now, whoever will carefully examine and reflect upon the
  condition of the various religious societies divided among
  themselves, and separated from the Catholic Church, which from
  the days of our Lord Jesus Christ and his Apostles has ever
  exercised, by its lawful pastors, and still does exercise, the
  divine power committed to it by this same Lord; will easily
  satisfy himself that none of these societies, singly nor all
  together, are in any way or form that one Catholic Church which
  our Lord founded and built, and which he chose should be; and
  that he cannot, by any means, say that these societies are
  members or parts of that Church, since they are visibly
  separated from catholic unity.

{537}

  For such like societies, being destitute of that living
  authority established by God, which especially teaches men what
  is of Faith, what the rule of morals, and guides them in
  everything that relates to eternal life, are always varying in
  their doctrines, and this changing and instability is
  increasing. Every one therefore must perfectly understand, and
  clearly and evidently see, that such societies are distinctly
  opposite to the church instituted by our Lord Jesus Christ; for
  in that church truth must always continue firm and inaccessible
  to change, so as to preserve absolutely inviolate the deposit
  confided to her, for the guardianship of which the presence and
  aid of the Holy Ghost has been, promised to her for ever. Every
  one also knows that from these divergent doctrines and
  opinions, social schisms have had their birth, which have again
  generated within themselves sects and communions without
  number, which spread themselves continually to the great injury
  of Christian and civil society.

  Indeed, whoever observes that religion is the foundation of
  human society, must perceive and confess the great influence
  which this division of principles, this opposition, this strife
  of religious societies among themselves, must have on civil
  society, and with what force this denial of the authority
  established by God, to determine the belief of the human mind,
  and direct the actions of men as well in private as in social
  life, has fostered, spread, and supported those deplorable
  changes of times and circumstances, those troubles which at
  this day overwhelm and afflict almost all peoples.

  Let all those, then, who do not profess the unity and truth of
  the Catholic Church, avail themselves of the opportunity of
  this Council, in which the Catholic Church, to which their
  forefathers belonged, affords a new proof of her close unity
  and her invincible vitality, and let them satisfy the longings
  of their hearts, and liberate themselves from that state in
  which they cannot be assured of their own salvation. Let them
  unceasingly offer fervent prayers to the God of Mercy, that he
  will throw down the wall of separation, that he will scatter
  the darkness of error, and that he will lead them back to the
  Holy Mother Church, in whose bosom their fathers found the
  salutary pastures of life, in whom alone the whole doctrine of
  Jesus Christ is preserved and handed down, and the mysteries of
  heavenly grace dispensed.

  For Ourself, to whom the same Christ our Lord has entrusted the
  charge of the supreme Apostolic ministry, and who must,
  therefore, fulfil with the greatest zeal all the functions of a
  good Pastor, and love with a paternal love, and embrace in our
  charity all men, wherever dispersed over the earth, We address
  this letter to all Christians separated from Us, and We again
  exhort and conjure them quickly to return to the one fold of
  Christ.

  For We ardently desire their salvation in Jesus Christ, and We
  fear to have one day to render account to him who is our Judge,
  if We do not show them, and if we do not give them, as far as
  is in our power, the sure means to know the way which leads to
  eternal salvation. In all our prayers, beseeching and giving
  thanks, we cease not, day or night, to ask earnestly and humbly
  for them, of the Eternal Pastor of souls, the abundance of
  light and heavenly grace. And since, notwithstanding our
  unworthiness, We are his Vicar upon Earth, with outstretched
  hands We wait, in the most ardent desire, the return of our
  erring sons to the Catholic Church, so that We may receive them
  with love into the mansion of our Heavenly Father, and enrich
  them with his unspeakable treasures. On this longed-for return
  to the truth and unity of the Catholic Church depends not only
  the salvation of individuals, but still more Christian society;
  the whole world cannot enjoy true peace unless it becomes one
  Fold under one Shepherd.

  Given at St. Peter's, in Rome, the 13th day of September, 1868,
  and the twenty-third year of our Pontificate.

The remarks which follow are extracted from _The London
Saturday Review_:

  The Pope And The General Council.

  We read the Pope's Address to all Protestants and non-Catholics
  at some disadvantage. It reaches us only through a French
  version, furnished to the _Moniteur_, and published in
  that journal of Monday. And we may, in the first place,
  complain to His Holiness of the slovenly and parsimonious way
  in which he discharges the function so dear to him. He
  expatiates on his zeal for all Christian souls, and he is
  assured that he shall have to give account for us all at the
  Great Day. He, the Good Shepherd--such is his title, and we
  ought perhaps to write it, "His," entrusted to him by Christ
  Himself our Lord--is bound by the charge of his Supreme
  Apostolic Ministry to embrace in his paternal charity all men
  in the whole world, and therefore he addresses this letter to
  all Christians separated from him. So lofty a purpose might
  have justified some care in carrying it out. But what has His
  Holiness done that his epistle should reach his erring people?
  Does he expect that the whole human race is bound to read the
  Government journal of Rome? Is his conscience satisfied that
  his tremendous responsibility is fulfilled by the cheap and
  easy method of publishing his behests in an obscure newspaper,
  and leaving to those most concerned to find out, as they can,
  what so nearly concerns their eternal salvation, through the
  medium of unauthorized versions and newspaper reports?
{538}
  This is the difficulty of a Vicar of Christ who has heavenly
  functions to discharge, and only human means to work with. As
  it is quite certain, as things stand, that the awful words
  which concern the immortal destinies of every human being who
  names the name of Christ will not reach one in a hundred
  thousand of them, it seems to follow that if the Pope has these
  duties toward all mankind, he ought to have been entrusted with
  an archangelic trumpet to address himself to so very large an
  audience. It is a sad come-down from the appeal _urbi et
  orbi_ to have to hoist it up in a penny Dublin paper. Who
  knows how many the Pope would not influence if he would be at
  the trouble of addressing us by some such mundane
  instrumentality as the penny post? The Archbishop of
  Canterbury, for example; has he, as courtesy would seem to
  require, received in any authoritative way this communication
  from Rome, or heaven, or wherever it was indited?

  We say it with all respect, that the Pope's address was
  calculated not so much to attract as to repel. He does not
  condescend to argue; although he assures us that we are
  enveloped in a cloud of error, he is at no pains to dissipate
  it; with a bold _petitio princitii_ he sonorously assumes
  the very point at issue--the point, be it added, at issue not
  only between him and his bishops on the one hand, and the
  imposing ranks of the vast oriental church, our own church, and
  the vast Protestant communities of Europe and America, on the
  other, but the point which has been most keenly debated by the
  theologians and canonists of the western obedience. The Pope's
  address rests upon one, and upon only one, huge assumption. It
  is that the Pope, in his single capacity as monarch and
  autocrat of the church, advanced to the supreme government of
  the whole Catholic Church, has the inherent right of
  prescribing the faith of the church; that he is the one and
  supreme legislator as well as administrator. This is what even
  the church of Rome has not yet formally decreed, even by the
  easy method which a few years ago decreed the Immaculate
  Conception. Ultra-montanism--or, in other words, and to express
  it generally, the personal infallibility and supreme authority
  of the pope--is not yet _de fide_. But this is what the
  Pope assumes; and it is most likely as a step toward what it is
  understood will be the next Roman development of doctrine, and
  probably the end aimed at in summoning this so-called
  oecumenical council that the Pope, in his letter, takes up the
  position of autocrat. He addresses us, but it is only to assist
  his next move as regards his own subjects, and to help to
  settle the vexed question which his predecessors have found to
  be so inconvenient when denied by Bossuet, De Marca, Van Espen,
  and the Doctors of the Sorbonne, to say nothing of the Councils
  of Constance and Basle.

  In the mean time let us see what it is the Pope in his
  exuberant charity offers us. It is, we regret to say, extremely
  little. He bids us stay at home and pray to be united; at least
  we hope that he goes as far as this. But as he cannot count
  much upon the efficacy of the prayers of obstinate heretics, it
  would be perhaps nearer to the truth if we said that all that
  the Pope has to say is to invite us to return to his fold. The
  Vatican Eirenicon is of the simplest--no conditions, no
  explanations, no discussion of difficulties, no healing of
  wounds, no solemn canvassing of controversies, no arguments.
  Return first, and discuss afterward, when there is nothing to
  discuss. Might we venture to hint to Archbishop Manning who is
  polite enough to consider the present attitude of the Church of
  England toward Pius IX. as exactly similar to the state of
  things as between Gregory I. and the Pagans and Goths and
  Arians of his time--that even Arius got a hearing, and was
  allowed his say? Not so with us. There is a controversy between
  Rome and those whom Rome calls non-Catholics, as to the, not
  primacy, but exclusive autocracy of the See of Rome. There is
  only one way of deciding it--_rixá est ubi tu pulsas, ego
  vapulo tantum_. All that we have to do is to be kicked, and
  submit. This is good schoolmaster's language; but, as far as we
  remember, it is not the old way of dealing with even heresy and
  schism. The huge series of councils might have been reduced to
  a single and very portable volume, had this mode of settling
  controversy been the church's old and compendious method.

  One misunderstanding, or misrepresentation, it seems to be well
  at once to remove. The Westminster _Gazette_--writing, we
  hope, without having read the Pope's address speaks of it as an
  invitation to those to whom it is addressed to repair to the
  OEcumenical Council of 1869, adding that the church will ever
  be ready to offer explanations, and to labor to remove
  obstacles to reunion. This is just what the Pope does not do.
  He does not invite non-Catholics, either in any corporate or
  private capacity, to repair to Rome. He simply says that he
  will pray for them, and bids them be reconciled.
{539}
  Invitation there is none; offers of explanation there are none.
  We are seriously to lay to heart our condition, and give it up.
  We are invited to conform, and nothing else. To the council
  neither our bishops nor pastors are asked. And this is the more
  noticeable because the Orientals are invited. "We raise our
  voice once more to you, and with all the power of our soul we
  pray you, we conjure you to come to this Council, as your
  ancestors came to the Council of Lyons and to the Council of
  Florence." Such is His Holiness's language to the Oriental
  bishops, as we find it in his Apostolic letter of September
  8th, translated in the Westminster _Gazette_. This
  Florentine precedent will hardily be reassuring to the
  Orientals; and though, after all, the summons to them is
  substantially only what the summons to us is, as the Pope in
  either case takes up the same position--that of the exclusive
  supremacy of the See of Peter, and denies that the Eastern
  bishops are really bishops till they have submitted to him--yet
  we must remind not only the Westminster _Gazette_ but the
  _Univers_, that their statement that the Pope has issued
  anything like an invitation to attend the council, or rather
  his council, to "all those whose separation dates from the
  sixteenth century," is simply untrue. Even if we had been
  asked, and even were it announced that we should have ample
  liberty to state our case, we say, as Laud said more than two
  centuries ago, "To what end freedom of speech, since they are
  resolved to alter nothing?"

The following report of the action of the New School Presbyterian
Synod of New York and New Jersey we clip from the columns of one
of the daily papers:

    The Presbyterians And The Pope.

The following memorial and resolutions were presented by Rev.
Dr. Adams:

  _Whereas_, The Pope of Rome, called Pius the Ninth, did,
  on the 13th day of September, in the year of our Lord 1868,
  issue a certain letter, a proclamation addressed to all
  Protestants and non-Catholics throughout the world, the import
  of which is to unite and urge all persons and organizations
  thus designated to hasten to return to the only fold, meaning
  the Church of Rome.

  _Whereas_, The said Pope in the said letter, called
  paternal and apostolic, has in an unwonted manner, as if
  pleading at the bar of public opinion, assigned several and
  various reasons for its preparation and publication.

  _Whereas_, Among the reasons so mentioned are the
  assertion of his own supremacy over the human conscience as the
  vicar of Jesus, and "the authority to govern the persuasions of
  the human intellect and to direct the actions of men in private
  and social life," as also this, that the rejection of this
  authority and protest against it by so many has promoted and
  nourished those perturbations in human affairs, in this our
  day, which the said Pope pronounces miserable and grievous, but
  which must be regarded by every friend of his species as
  eminently hopeful and auspicious.

  _Whereas_, All such claims and assertions on the part of
  the Pope of Rome are to the last degree unfounded in fact,
  contrary to the truth, reason, Scripture, and the whole genius
  of Christianity, and, if allowed, would prove subversive to all
  human rights and liberties.

  _Whereas_, Recent movements, especially in Austria and
  Spain, nations long in subjection to the monstrous pretensions
  of the Papacy, command the prompt recognition, sympathy, and
  support of all friends of humanity, freedom, and religion
  throughout the land; therefore, be it

  _Resolved_, That the facts here recorded furnish and
  present a proper and fitting occasion for all Protestant
  churches throughout Christendom, each in the mode which its own
  wisdom shall suggest, to prepare and set forth for general
  distribution, through the same channels which the Pope himself
  has chosen, a suitable response to his letter, which response
  shall contain a statement of the reasons why his claims can in
  no wise be recognized, as inconsistent with a catholicity more
  catholic than Rome the authority of infallible Scripture and
  the glorious supremacy of Jesus Christ.

  _Resolved_, That a committee be appointed by the Synod,
  whose duty it shall be to consider the expediency of
  corresponding with other Protestant bodies in this country and
  in Europe as to the propriety of such timely action for the
  furtherance of free Biblical Protestant Christianity.

  _Resolved_, That it be referred to the same committee, if
  they deem it wise, to prepare and publish a reply to the said
  letter of the Pope, which shall be regarded as an expression of
  the sentiments of this Synod concerning the matters therein
  contained as of vital importance to all civil and religious
  liberty throughout the world, and to the salvation of the human
  race.

{540}

  It was suggested that a committee consisting of three ministers
  and three elders, be appointed to carry out the objects of the
  resolutions. Dr. Cox wanted to see the committee larger. It was
  an important subject, and we want names on the document which
  will encourage our brothers in England and in all parts of
  Europe. The following committee was appointed to take the whole
  subject into consideration: Rev. William Adams, D.D., Rev.
  Henry B. Smith, D.D., Rev. Roswell D. Hitchcock, D.D., Rev.
  Jonathan F. Stearns, D.D., Rev. Edwin F. Hatfield, D.D., Rev.
  Samuel T. Spear, D.D., Rev. George L. Prentiss, D.D., Hon.
  William E. Dodge, Professor Theodore W. Dwight, LL.D., Hon.
  Daniel Haines, Hon. Edward A. Lambert, J. B. Pinneo, Esq., S.
  F. B. Morse, Esq., Cyrus W. Field, Esq.

We subjoin another report of the action of the central authority
of the Evangelical Church of Prussia, from _The New York
Herald_:

  The Berlin Evangelical Consistory On The Pontifical Letter.

  The pastoral letter in connection with his oecumenical circular
  addressed by Pope Pius IX. to non-Catholic Christians has
  roused Prussian evangelic church authority. The following
  circular has been addressed to its consistories: "An open
  letter of the 13th ult., by the chief of the Roman Catholic
  Church, is directed to all Protestants, thus including the
  members of our Evangelical State Church. As this document
  contains, besides unjust accusations, many expressions of
  respect and kindness toward Protestants, we are ready and
  willing to consider it as a pledge of friendly and peaceable
  relations for the future between both confessions for the sake
  of the state and its citizens, and for the efficiency and
  triumph of Christian truth. Every sincere evangelic Christian
  acknowledges the duty of loving other confessions and deplores
  the separation in the church, especially among members of a
  common country. But as the chief of another church undertakes
  in the said letter to demand, with assumed authority, from the
  members of ours a renunciation of their cherished creed,
  founded upon the inviolable word of God, and a retractation of
  evangelical truth won by the blessed Reformation, without
  offering on his part the least prospect of a reconciliation on
  the basis of evangelical truth, we must decidedly reject his
  action as an unjustifiable trespass upon our church, and in so
  doing we are sure of the agreement of all Evangelicals. An
  appeal to the members of our church not to heed this voice may
  be deemed unnecessary; but it is proper to keep still more in
  mind, opposed to such pretensions, the numerous members of our
  persuasions who in the midst of Roman Catholicism are exposed
  to the temptations of infidelity toward the Evangelical creed;
  therefore, to procure the means for preaching to them, giving
  them the sacraments, the Evangelical school and pastoral care,
  collections are directed soon to be made in all our churches.
  The royal consistories will communicate this to the ministers
  of the dioceses, who on the days of collection on the following
  Sundays are to make proper mention of it to their
  congregations.

There was also an announcement in the papers that some sort of a
letter to the Pope was proposed by members of the late General
Convention of the Protestant Episcopal Church, although we do not
know what came of the affair eventually.

We must give justice to one portion of the comments of the
_Saturday Review_, namely, that which refers to the
publication of the pontifical letter. It is a matter of great
inconvenience to Catholics throughout the world, that the
publication of important official documents at Rome is so tardy
and insufficient. This is a defect which ought to be, and we hope
will be, remedied. We have not yet seen the Latin text of the
letter addressed by the Sovereign Pontiff to Protestants, and
have been obliged to take a translation of it which is not
remarkably well-executed, and in which we have corrected
forty-seven typographical errors, from an English Catholic
newspaper. The English translations of the grand and dignified
pontifical documents which are sent forth by the Holy See, are
generally wretched, and make them appear to readers who are
unacquainted with the originals in a very unfavorable light.

{541}

It seems to us that it would have added very much to the effect
of the Holy Father's paternal address to his erring and strayed
children, if authentic copies had been at once sent to all the
bishops, with a command to publish both the original Latin text,
and also a translation authorized by themselves, with their own
official counter-signature appended, for the benefit of all
Christians within their several dioceses. As it is, however, the
letter of the Holy Father has become very generally known through
the indirect channel of the newspapers, and has not failed to
produce a great sensation. It is just such an admonition as the
head of the Church, who is conscious that his authority to teach
the world is indubitable, might be expected to issue. It is in
the style and manner which become the Vicar of Jesus Christ
speaking to all the baptized, who, by virtue of their baptism,
are lawfully subject to his pastoral jurisdiction. The Pope
speaks as one having authority, and must necessarily do so, just
as our Lord and the Apostles did, because he knows that he has
authority, and that the evidence of his authority is so plain and
clear, that at least all the educated pastors and teachers of the
different Christian sects are capable of perceiving it and bound
to acknowledge it. The _Saturday Review_ complains that the
Pope does not argue on the subject, or adduce reasons to convince
those who reject his authority. This is a most unreasonable
objection. How would it be possible, within the limits of a brief
letter, to address arguments, at length, to all the hundred and
one different sorts of Protestants? The letter is not destitute
of that kind and amount of argument which are alone suitable in a
document of the kind. It appeals to the manifest fact that
Protestants are divided among a multitude of differing sects and
doctrines, without any principle of unity or certain criterion of
truth; whereas the Catholic Church, in communion with the See of
Peter, possesses that unity and universality which are the sure
and evident marks of the presence of the Holy Spirit within her
body, leading her perpetually into all truth, according to the
promise of Christ. Our Lord, when he demanded the obedience of
faith under the peril of eternal damnation from all his hearers,
did not enter into long arguments. He presented brief and simple
reasons in an authoritative manner to his auditors, and appealed
to the evidences by which his divine mission was attested from
heaven. In like manner the Holy Father, who is Christ's
vicegerent upon the earth, affirms his own authority, commands
submission to his teaching, and presents a simple, obvious
argument addressed to the reason and conscience of all men, which
they have the means of easily verifying if they will. The
affirmation of his authority, and the command or exhortation to
submit to it, are not made gratuitously, and do not rest upon a
mere personal declaration of the Pontiff, to which men are to
yield an assent which is blind, unreasoning, or destitute of
solid motives. The motives are not expressed explicitly and at
length in the letter; but they are appealed to as existing within
the reach of those who are addressed, and the claim of submission
is based upon them. The Holy Father speaks as the head of a
communion embracing almost two thirds of all Christendom, which
has existed in an unbroken continuity of doctrine and
organization from remote antiquity, with the entire united moral
force of all the bishops, doctors, and saints of the church in
the present and the past ages, to back and support him. He speaks
to those whose ancestors acknowledged his authority, and who have
been severed from his communion by a violent revolution, whose
justification three centuries have not been able to establish;
but whose condemnation has been unmistakably pronounced by the
disastrous results it has produced.
{542}
He has, therefore, a _prima-facie_ claim of prescription,
possession, and general acknowledgment in his favor, which gives
an immense moral weight to his utterance. Moreover, he speaks
after having for three hundred years argued the whole case
between himself and Protestants in the most thorough and complete
manner, by the means of the theologians and writers of the
Catholic Church, whose works are accessible in all languages. His
bishops and priests are everywhere to be found, ready to argue
and explain the doctrines of the church for the benefit of all
those who desire it. At the council itself, instructions and
conferences in various languages will be given upon all the
points of controversy by the ablest and most learned preachers of
all nations, and theologians will be ready to give private
conferences to those who desire them. It cannot be said,
therefore, that the Holy Father shuts out inquiry, argument, or
discussion; for he does everything to invite and favor them, and
by his act in summoning a council, and challenging the attention
of the whole world, throws open all the doors and windows of the
church to the light of all the intelligence of Christendom.

The reviewer complains, moreover, that the Pope claims an
authority above that which is admitted by a school of Catholic
theologians, or even required by any formal pontifical decree to
be acknowledged as of obligatory doctrine. This is an utterly
reckless and baseless assertion. Whatever may be the teaching of
Van Espen, Von Hontheim, Richer, and other court canonists and
lawyers, whose erroneous and schismatical doctrine is condemned
rejected in every Catholic school, Bossuet, De Marca, and all
orthodox Gallicans have always recognized and supported every
whit of that authority which is affirmed or implied in the
pontifical letter.

As for the schismatical Orientals, who are supposed to be
aggrieved by the terms of the invitation which the Pope has
extended to them to attend the council, they are forced, in
consistency with the doctrine they have evermore admitted, to
acknowledge the primacy of the Roman Pontiff, and his right to
call an oecumenical council. The Patriarch of Constantinople,
although some of the bishops of his synod are said to have
favored the acceptance of the Pope's invitation, has refused even
to receive the letter containing it. The Armenian Patriarch will
probably follow suit, and the Synod of St. Petersburg, which is
only a bureau of the imperial government, will, of course, not
only reject the invitation to the council in the most decisive
manner, but will put forth the entire political influence which
Russia possesses in the East to hinder the Oriental prelates from
attending. This line of conduct, however, is totally inconsistent
with the principles and professions of the Eastern communions.
They all recognize the primacy of the Roman bishop, and his right
to convoke a council. They acknowledge that their separation from
the Western church is an abnormal condition, and that all
portions of Christendom ought to be in unity. Their refusal to
attend the council will therefore be a condemnation of
themselves, and will manifest most clearly the schismatical
spirit by which they are actuated. It may be said that the terms
on which they are invited are such that they cannot attend.
{543}
The gist of this excuse is, that the Pope demands a submission to
his supremacy which they cannot admit. This, however, does not
really excuse them. Admit, for the sake of argument, that the
Roman Church has usurped a supremacy which does not belong to it,
and is really to blame for the existing schism. They are invited
to attend the council and sit in it as bishops. If they are
confident of the justice of their cause, why do not they embrace
the opportunity to send their patriarchs, metropolitans, and
fifty or a hundred of their principal bishops, together with
their most learned archimandrites and theologians, and the
diplomatic representatives of Russia and Greece, who may argue
their cause before the council and in presence of all
Christendom. If they had any moral force at all, now would be the
opportunity to show it. But they have none, and therefore they
dare not go, and by their open manifestation of cowardice and
utter recklessness of the common good of Christendom, they will
give a death-blow to their own cause.

The Pope is blamed for not having invited the Protestant bishops
to attend the council. It is impossible for him to invite them,
because it is impossible for him to recognize their episcopal
character. The Orientals themselves would not sit with them in
council as fellow-bishops. Their claim even to an exterior
succession is so extremely doubtful that at the highest it has
only probability in its favor. Aside from all question, moreover,
concerning the alleged fact of Parker's consecration by Barlow,
and of the consecration of Barlow himself, the essential defect
of form in the English ordinal of Queen Elizabeth must prevent
the recognition of any true episcopal succession in the
Protestant Episcopal Churches. This is no reason, however, why
the Protestant bishops should not make an attempt to gain a
hearing and present their claim before the council. They cannot
be admitted to the council as bishops, but they might, and no
doubt would, be received with courtesy and urbanity as
distinguished personages, and as representatives of some millions
of baptized Christians. Do they believe themselves to be a
portion of the Catholic episcopate? One of their most learned
divines, Palmer, to say nothing of many others, acknowledges that
the Roman Bishop, when he is in communion with the whole Catholic
Church, is the centre of unity and the presiding bishop of all
Christendom. Why, then, do they not depute a large body of their
number to go to the council, attended by their most learned
theologians, and ask for a hearing? Nothing could give them a
better chance of manifesting the full strength of their position,
and bringing into the light all the justice there is in their
cause, than such a demonstration as this, if they only had
courage, independence, and concert of action enough to make it.

We would say the same of other Protestant communions making no
pretension to any Episcopal succession. They very generally
profess a desire for union among Christians. Surely there must be
some basis upon which this union is possible. Those who profess
that Jesus Christ has established a religion, given a revelation,
taught a doctrine and way of salvation, must admit that there is
some way of ascertaining with certainty what Christianity really
is, and refuting the claims of every kind of pseudo-Christianity.
Why can they not make a bold and generous effort, then, to bring
the matter to a test, send their representatives to Rome, and try
to have at least some beginning of a conference respecting the
cause of dissension and disunion?

{544}

We are glad to see the action taken by the Presbyterians of New
York and New Jersey and the Evangelicals of Berlin. We could have
wished that the former had exhibited equal courtesy and amenity
in their language with the latter. However, we let that pass.
What we desire above all things is, that attention should be
drawn to the letter of the Holy Father, and to the great and
vital matters which it presents. Our Protestant brethren can do
us, in this respect, a much greater service than we can do
ourselves. Their resolutions, replies, discussions, and indignant
denials of the authority of the successor of Peter only bring
before the minds of the multitude more distinctly and universally
the claim which he makes to be heard and reverenced as the Vicar
of Christ. This is precisely what we desire. We do not ask, and
the Holy Father has never demanded, that those who are separated
from his communion should submit to his authority without having
just and adequate reasons presented before their minds. We ask
only that they lay aside their inherited prejudices, and that
animosity which is their result; examine, inquire, and weigh
calmly, with a pure desire to know the truth, and with prayer to
God, the evidence of the supreme authority bequeathed to the
Roman Pontiff by St. Peter, the Prince of the Apostles. It is
idle to pretend that the claims of the Roman See are unworthy of
a hearing, and can be set aside by a simple denial. There is no
other human being except the Pope who has the slightest claim to
call himself the Father of all the faithful, or who would dream
of doing it. Whoever should attempt it would receive no
attention, but would be disregarded as an idiot. No church, even,
however large its numbers, can gain any general attention to its
pretensions of possessing that doctrine and polity which are
truly apostolic, or its invitations to the rest of Christendom to
conform to its peculiar type of Christianity. The Pope alone
compels the attention of the world when he speaks. The emphatic
protests which his majestic and paternal admonitions to all
Christians to return to the fold of unity call forth, are
themselves witnesses to the immense power which he possesses as
the successor of St. Peter and the heir of that promise which was
made by Jesus Christ: "Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will
build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against
it: and I will give to thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven;
whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and
whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven."
There is no humiliation in being admonished and instructed by the
voice of one who is the inheritor of such a promise, or in being
invited to return under the guidance of such a majestic and
ancient pastoral authority. It is not in the spirit of pride or
disdain that we urge upon our fellow-Christians the duty of
returning to the bosom of the Mother Church. We ardently desire
that they may be our brethren, united with us in faith and
fellowship, sharers with us in the glorious privilege of Catholic
communion, and in the noble work of propagating Christianity
throughout the world. We desire to judge as favorably as possible
of the motives and intentions of those who, with mistaken zeal,
repulse the earnest and paternal exhortations of the Father of
Christendom, and trust that when they have more calmly and
thoroughly investigated the grounds of their separation, many of
them will obey the voice of truth and conscience, and retrace the
path which led their ancestors away from the doctrine and fold of
the successor of St. Peter.
{545}
We are not sanguine enough to expect that the approaching Council
of the Vatican will be followed by the immediate and universal
return of all Christians to Catholic unity. We have no doubt,
however, that it will mark a great epoch in ecclesiastical and
human history, and, like the Council of Trent, will inaugurate a
new period of progression and triumph for the church. To what
extent the separated Christians of the East and West will become
reconciled to the Catholic Church, we will not venture to
predict; but we will hazard a prophecy that within the next
half-century the great mass of those who are not reabsorbed into
catholicity will have melted away into some form of infidelity,
or have been swept up by some new false religion which is openly
anti-Christian. What course the body of the Protestant clergy
will take remains to be seen; but if they are not wise enough to
anticipate and lead the movement which must inevitably bring back
the most religious portion of their people to the unity of the
See of St. Peter, they will be left behind by it, and will ere
long find themselves without flocks and without churches.

              ----------

  Sonnet (XIII.) From The _Vita Nuova_ Of Dante Alighieri.


    So gentle seems my lady and so pure
  When she greets any one, that scarce the eye
    Such modesty and brightness can endure,
  And the tongue, trembling, falters in reply.
    She hears; but heeds not, people praise her worth--
  Some in their speech, and many with a pen--
    But meekly moves, as if sent down to earth
  To show another miracle to men!
    And such a pleasure from her presence grows
  On him who gazeth, while she passeth by--
    A sense of sweetness that no mortal knows
    Who hath not felt it--that the soul's repose
    Is woke to worship, and a spirit flows
  Forth from her face that seems to whisper, "Sigh!"

                                           T. W. P.

              ----------

{546}

           Christmas Gifts.


A pleasantly-furnished parlor, looking out upon noble trees and
gray shrubbery.

Within, books, pictures, portfolios, and a superb piano.

At the piano a lovely girl of twenty summers, whose face, figure,
and fair white hands give token that no care, or sorrow, or labor
has ever reached her.

A footfall on the piazza startles her; the bell rings, and is
answered.

"George!"

"Isabel!"

And in another moment brother and sister are locked in each
other's arms. He put her from him a little, and looked in her
face.

"You are more than ever _Bella_," he said, while two or
three times he kissed her fair forehead.

"How is my mother? Didn't I hear some strains of Mozart's
'Twelfth' as I came into the gate?"

"Yes, I was just playing the _Agnus Dei_. Mother is nicely;
and I was enjoying my music immensely; for it is the first day in
two or three weeks that I have been allowed to touch the piano."

Why?"

"Because mother has been so sick. Don't look so frightened; she
is quite well now. Did you know you had a little sister
up-stairs?"

"No, indeed!" he exclaimed, with an expression of delight, at
which Isabel laughed again, while she went on to say:

"Mother was so nervous, and so excited by the storms and
shipwrecks that the papers were full of, that for nights and
nights she did not sleep at all, and the doctor was afraid she
would die or lose her reason; but for some time past she has
slept, and now she seems quite recovered."

"Let us go to her--can I go up?"

Just then a little girl of six years came into the room, with
wide expectant eyes, and, "Mother says--"

"Ah! little one," said the young man caressingly, "do you
remember brother George?"

"Yes, indeed I do."

"Then give me a hug," said he, folding her in his arms, and then
releasing her. "It is a long time since you saw me. I should not
wonder if you had forgotten me."

"But I have not forgotten you; and mother says," she went on,
dancing up and down in great glee, "if it's brother George,
you're to come right up-stairs; only you mustn't make a noise for
the sake of the baby. What did you bring me?"

"If you have a baby, you ought not to expect me to bring you
anything. Isn't the baby enough?"

She smiled rather doubtfully, and trotted on before them
up-stairs.

"Isabel," said George, "wait a minute." Then, as if something in
his sister's face failed to invite the meditated confidence, he
asked, as they slowly ascended the stairs, their hands locked,
"Is Philip here?"

"No; he will not be here till next Monday--the Monday before
Christmas."

"And you are to be married--"

"On Christmas eve; how glad I am you've come!"

"Is my father well?"

"Yes; he will be so sorry not to have met you at the wharf; but
he had to go to W---- on Thursday, and will not be home till
evening."

{547}

They entered Mrs. Hartland's room, and the son, so hardly parted
from, so anxiously and long expected, was pressed to his mother's
heart. "My darling boy, you are indeed a Christmas gift."

"Yes, dear mother, we ought to have been back long ago; sometimes
I was afraid I should never get back to you. Besides that
hurricane off the Cape, which obliged us to put in for repairs,
we have had very heavy weather since we crossed the line. But I
have accomplished the business father sent me to do, thank God,
and am with you all once more. Are Mary and Fanny well?"

"Yes, they have gone out to buy Christmas presents, and Robert
with them."

"And Charlie?"

"Is spending a few days with Aunt Ellen, and will come back with
them on Monday for the wedding and for Christmas."

"O mother dear!" said Isabel, "whom was your letter from?"

"From Aunt Ann. They are all well, and are coming on Monday."

"And Lucy and Jane?"

"Yes."

"But, my darling mother," exclaimed George, with a look of
distress, "you will be perfectly worn out with all this company."

"Mother has nothing to do with that," said Isabel; "we take care
of that. If mother takes care of the baby, that is all we expect
of her; and Mrs. Reilly is to stay till Philip and I are off."

"And how is this dear little Christmas present?" said George,
stooping tenderly over the sleeping infant.

"Lovely," said his mother, smiling.

"As lovely," said Isabel, with a slight laugh, "as such little
nuisances ever are."

"Why, Bella dear, don't you love her?" asked George.

"Oh! yes, to be sure, I love her; but I don't see the use of her;
nobody wants her."

"I beg your pardon, dear, I want her," interrupted her mother.

"Oh! yes, mother, I don't mean that; I know you want her, and I
am sure I am glad you have her; only I mean to say that she has
chosen to come at the most inconvenient time possible, as babies
always do; and that there is no place here for a baby, and that
she deranges everything; and turns the whole house upside down;
and I think babies are a nuisance; and then Kate is six years
old, and we had no right to expect any more babies; and there
were enough of us without her; and I am just going to be married,
and it all seems so odd and queer."

Mother laughed, and seemed to think it not at all odd and queer,
nor yet did she take to heart Isabel's repugnances; but George
said musingly:

"And yet you are going to be married yourself next week?"

"That is precisely why it is such a nuisance," said Isabel.

"Would there have been enough of us without her," said her
mother, "if brother George had never come back, as for so long a
time we feared he would not?"

"There are never enough of us without George," replied Isabel,
reddening, partly from vexation, and partly from the
consciousness that the brother, of whom she was so fond and
proud, was regarding her, she really did not know why, with
something like surprise and disappointment.

Just then the baby stirred, woke, was taken up, admired,
discussed, and caressed, and in the midst of a consultation as to
what her name should be, a noise of feet and voices was heard in
the hall below.

{548}

By a mutual instinct that "mothers room" should be spared the
disturbance of too noisy greetings, the young people ran
down-stairs. There were tender embraces on the part of the girls,
more vehement and tumultuous ones from Bob, and confused cries
of, "Are we not glad to see you!" and "How long you staid!" and
"We thought you would never come back!" with "I was in danger of
never coming back;" and "How you have grown!" and "How pretty you
are!" at which Mary and Fanny laughed and blushed.

"I say, old fellow," cried Bob, "hadn't you a terrible time? were
you frightened?"

"I hadn't time to be frightened," returned George, "there was too
much to do."

"What could you do?"

"Not so much as a sailor, of course; but every one can do
something--every one who is cool and not afraid."

"By Jove! but I should think 'twould be fun! only I should be
afraid; I shouldn't like to go to the bottom."

"No, most of us would object to that."

"I wish you wouldn't say 'by Jove,' Robert," said Isabel; "I wish
you wouldn't take up expressions from your school-fellows that
you never hear at home."

"Isabel isn't fond of foreign importations," said Fanny.

"Yes, she is, though," retorted Robert wisely, "what is she made
of, from top to toe, but foreign importations?"

Amid the general laugh which followed this thrust, Mrs.
Hartland's voice was heard at the head of the stairs:

"Fanny! brother George will want to go to his room; is it ready
for him?"

"Yes, mother, it is all ready; I will go and see. You will have
plenty of time, George; for dinner is half an hour later to-day,
on account of father."

Not long after this, there was a thundering rap at George's door,
which opened and admitted his youngest brother, a lad of ten
years.

"Why, Charlie, boy," he exclaimed, as the lithe little fellow
sprang into his arms, "I didn't expect you; I thought you weren't
coming till Monday."

"No, I wasn't; but father saw by the paper that the ship was in,
and I told Aunt Ellen I couldn't stay any longer."

"You've grown a head taller since I saw you."

"I should think I'd had time enough to grow; how long have you
been gone?"

"Fourteen months; but let's go down and see father."

"But, George," said the little boy, looking round the room, "do
let me come back and chum with you now. I've slept with Robert
ever since you went away, and I like it very well with Robert,
but I'd rather come back to you, mayn't I?"

"Certainly you shall, if mother and Robert agree to it." And
Charlie made one leap to the first landing, another to the
second, and with a third bound reached his father's door.

A gay party assembled at dinner. Mother came down for the first
time, to honor her boy's return. Mr. Hartland said a long,
earnest grace, thanking God for the bounties spread before them
less than for the return of the long-absent, and for their joyful
reunion. The girls were looking their prettiest, the boys full of
glee. All being more talkative than hungry, they discussed home
affairs, family affairs, the voyage, the tropics, and Valparaiso,
until Charlie, tired of his chair, pushed it back, and began
turning summersets over the floor, by way of digesting his
dinner.

{549}

A general move followed; father and George exchanged a few
sentences on business matters in a low voice to which nobody
listened, and the young man left the room. Presently he returned
with a bulky envelope, which he gave his father, saying:

There are the papers, sir; I think you will find the whole matter
very clearly stated, and the affair satisfactorily arranged."

Mr. Hartland took the bundle, and, placing himself at a side
table, turned the drop-light conveniently and began to open and
read. At this signal the rest of the party moved into the parlor;
mamma was placed in the most comfortable chair, and the young
people were presently absorbed in a conversational and
philosophical game. How long the wits of all of them had been on
the strain, not one of them could have guessed, when, just as
Robert was insisting that the article under discussion must be
red clover, and that it must be found chiefly in icebergs, or
else both Fanny and George had made wrong answers, suddenly their
father's tall figure loomed up before them. His usually calm face
was slightly tremulous.

"We never can be thankful enough, my dear boy," he began
abruptly, and his voice trembled also, "to have you among us once
more; and I must say I am very proud at the manner in which you
have managed this business."

George blushed, mamma's eyes filled with tears, and Charlie, who
for the last half-hour had been so sleepy that he was of no use
except to make a laugh at his own expense, rubbed his eyes and
looked up.

"George is a trump!" said he sententiously.

This was a great relief to papa, who fairly looked as if he would
have liked to cry himself, and the hubbub of voices and inquiries
which followed was quieted by Isabel placing herself at the
piano, and beginning the same strain from Mozart's Twelfth which
had charmed her brother on entering the gate.

George stood over the piano and again looked at Isabel, as if he
were half inclined to tell her something, but refrained; and
Isabel was too much occupied with her own plans and prospects to
indulge an indiscreet curiosity.

The next day Mr. Hartland having established himself in the
library soon after breakfast, and the younger members of the
family having gone out on their Christmas errands, Mrs. Hartland
bethought herself to go and see if her son's room were supplied
with all things necessary to his comfort. The door was open, and
George and Isabel were both there, gaily chatting and laughing,
amid a confused medley of books, papers, clothes, and odd
nicknacks, to which George was busily adding, as he pulled pile
after pile from his trunk. Isabel glanced from one object to
another, with the idle curiosity and eagerness begotten of such
occupation; but seeing her mother approach, she made haste to
clear the rocking-chair and place a footstool for her feet.

"Tell mother about that curious little pipe," she said.

"Yes, but let her see it first; isn't it odd?" said he, showing
it. "I thought of giving it to Robert, he is so fond of oddities;
and see, mother, is not this shagreen case pretty, with the
silver trimmings, and that quaint old medallion on the cover? It
will do to keep your needles and thimble in."

{550}

"Yes, and scissors, and a good-sized spool of cotton; it will do
nicely to take to the sewing society, mother dear."

"And here is a box which I thought of giving to father," returned
George, "only he never takes snuff," producing a beautiful amber
snuff-box, mounted and lined with gold.

"Exquisite! he could keep postage-stamps in it," suggested
Isabel.

"That would do very well for you girls, who only write three or
four letters a week; I have something else that will please
father much better." And he brought from his trunk a dagger of
fine metal, curiously wrought in arabesque, the massive handle
also richly carved and inlaid. While her mother was admiring the
workmanship of the dangerous little weapon, Bell took up, one
after another, the books upon the table, most of them old
acquaintances, travelling companions, taken from home and brought
home again. As she listened to the story of the pipe, mamma
observed in Isabel's hand a little, well-thumbed book which
attracted her attention.

"What book is that, dear?" she asked, as the story ended.

"A prayer-book," said Isabel.

"An Episcopal prayer-book?"

"No," said George, "a Catholic."

"What do you have that for?" said Mrs. Hartland, with a mingled
expression of surprise, contempt, and indignation.

"Because I want it," he returned, smiling.

"What do you want it for?" she exclaimed, instantly alarmed at
his look and tone.

"Because, dear mother, I want it to use; I am a Roman Catholic."

"A Roman Catholic! You might as well plunge this dagger into my
heart," said his mother, "as tell me that. Dearly as I love you,
I would much rather see you dead and buried."

"And I," said George quietly, "would much rather be dead and
buried than ever be a Protestant again."

"What infatuation! But how came you to be a Catholic, and what
put it into your head to change your religion?"

George began to tell her of an acquaintance formed on the outward
voyage with a Catholic priest, who was bound for the same port as
himself; of the inexplicable attraction which drew him to this
man; of the charm of his conversation and manners; of their
discussions; of the books which he lent him; of his tender and
fatherly advice and instructions--here Mrs. Hartland interposed
an expression of impatience and contempt--"in short, dear
mother," pursued the young man earnestly and quietly, "I became
perfectly convinced that the Catholic religion is the only true
religion; and as I did not choose to risk my salvation by living
any longer without it, I was received into the church before I
left Valparaiso."

"Well, I feel as if all the happiness of my life were blighted."

"I am sorry you feel so, dear mother; I am grieved to pain you,
but there was no help for it; you would not have me violate my
conscience."

"There is such a thing as an ill-enlightened conscience."

"That's so, my dear mother," said he, with something more than
his old bright smile, "and I am sure that when you have heard
fairly stated the arguments which have influenced me--"

"I don't want to hear any arguments or any reasons; I would
rather die than be a Catholic; it is a bad sign when young people
begin to think themselves wiser than their elders."

{551}

"So it is, dear mother; but you did not repulse Grace Estabrook
with that argument when she left the Unitarian church and began
to come to yours, against the wishes of both her parents."

"I don't wish to hear anything about it, or to talk or argue; the
whole subject is hateful to me. You have given us all the dagger,
my son," said she, placing it upon the table, and rising, she
went below to communicate to Mr. Hartland the sad intelligence.

The allusion to the dagger affected George very sensibly, and he
dreaded to go down-stairs or meet his father and sisters; but
having at last made the effort, he was immensely relieved to find
every one as kind as usual. His father's face was pale and
excited, but he said nothing; Bob stared at him rather saucily,
as if he were a phenomenon; and the rest of the family evidently
regarded him as an amiable dupe. This was hard, but endurable.
His spirits rose, he romped with the little ones, capped verses
with his sisters, and convinced every one that his self-respect
was in no way diminished by the slender appreciation put upon his
faith. There were, of course, not wanting arguments and
persuasions to lure him back to the faith of the family; but
George was not a fellow having once in his life met with positive
truth, to abandon it afterward for a mere negation.

After dinner, some of the novelties which he had brought home
were produced: the dagger, which his father accepted and admired,
without seeming seriously wounded by it; a collection of shells,
a set of corals, and some exquisite little articles of
mother-of-pearl. Kate fished out of his pocket a necklace, as she
called it, of garnet beads, not running all together, but
separated occasionally by little bits of gold chain, with a gold
medal pendent from it.

"Isn't this a reward of merit?" exclaimed she; "is this for me,
brother George? may I have it?"

"Yes," said George, laughing, "you may have it."

But it would not go over her head, and it had no clasp to fasten
round her neck; then she tried it on for a bracelet, but it would
fall off. In short, it was not meant to wear, nor for an ornament
at all, but for something else; and as she twirled it rather
uneasily over her fingers, not knowing exactly what to do with
it, George took it from her, and replaced it with a carnelian
necklace which he clasped round her white throat. Kate was
contented to see the little garnet beads slip back into her
brother's pocket, with the assurance that she should see them as
often as she wished, not, however, till they had been curiously
examined and inquired into by Charlie and Fanny.

"They are to say?" said Fanny, with great curiosity, "how do you
say them?" But before George could answer the question, the baby
was brought in, and the subject dropped.

The little one was petted, praised, and passed from hand to hand
with an affectionate eagerness which showed plainly that she was
not generally considered a nuisance, and at last all protested
that it was high time she had a name.

"I shall not call her Bridget, to please George," said mamma.

"But it would not please me, dear mother, to have you call her
Bridget. I see no more propriety in calling her Bridget than in
calling her Eulalie, or Genevieve, or Inez."

"I think I will call her Elizabeth Tudor; she was a good
Protestant."

{552}

"I doubt very much Elizabeth's being what you would call a good
Protestant," returned George merrily; "but if you call baby after
her, I shall immediately put her under the protection of St.
Elizabeth."

"Who was St. Elizabeth?" asked Fanny.

"She was a Hungarian princess, and very pious. She washed the
saints' feet and tended the sick and poor with her own hands."

"If it was a boy, I would call him Cranmer," said mamma.

"I guess not," said Mr. Hartland; "I should have something to say
about that."

"You might call her Jezebel, or Bathsheba," suggested Robert; "I
dare say they were both genuine Protestants." There was
frequently an uncertainty as to how Robert's missiles were
intended to fall; and whether his barbed arrows were sped in
innocence or with malice aforethought was a point in regard to
which the most unlimited private judgment was conceded to every
member of the family. Of course, nobody laughed at this sally,
though Isabel bit her lip to keep from smiling, and George said,

"Why not call her Annie, after Aunt Ann?"

"I have been thinking of that," said mamma, "only Isabel thinks
it is such a homespun name."

"I like homespun names," said papa.

Isabel liked Blanche, and Fanny suggested Margaret. Robert
thought Schwartz would be more appropriate than Blanche. George
said any name was good that was in the calendar. Robert said
Charlotte Corday was in the calendar. George thought not, and
after a brisk discussion and sundry pros and cons, it was decided
to call the little one Annie.

"And St. Anne was the mother of the Blessed Virgin Mary,"
whispered George to Isabel, as he opened the piano for her.

"Christmas gifts not appreciated," said George, turning round at
the head of the first flight of stairs to bid Isabel good night.

"What do you mean?" said Bell.

"I mean the dear little sister in there," pointing to his
mother's room, "whom you think a little nuisance."

"Psha!" said Isabel.

"And I here, too," he went on, "who should have been under the
water rather than have come home a Catholic. And the gift of
faith," he said seriously, "which God has bestowed upon me, and
which my friends would wish me to throw away or trample under
foot, and the guardianship of saints and angels, which people
mock at."

"Baby can hardly be called a Christmas present," said Bell,
"since she is four weeks old, and Christmas is not until next
Thursday."

"Not precisely."

"Nor your gift of faith, as you call it, since you became a
Catholic, you say, before leaving Valparaiso."

"Not as we usually speak; but every blessing comes to us really
because of the Incarnation, and so any blessing which we have
particularly to be thankful for may be gratefully regarded as a
Christmas gift."

"Well, it must be owned," said Isabel, "that you bring your
ideas, like the wise woman in the Proverbs, from afar."

George went on quietly without smiling. "There will be more
Christmas gifts next Thursday."

"I dare say," said Bell, though her face demanded an explanation.

"Father and mother will have another son, and we all shall have
another brother, and you will have one who in some sort will
stand to you in the place of God."

{553}

Bell colored and was silent. If she had chosen to speak, she
would have said that of all her brother's far-fetched ideas this
was the oddest, and one which she was little likely to
appreciate. She certainly had not regarded Philip at all in that
light, or as a gift from God any way. She returned her brother's
good night, and, going into her own room, meditated how George
was always the same incomprehensible fellow, always gay and full
of life, and yet always taking seriously what every one said in
temper or in fun, or by vanity, or for effect, "as if an idle
word signified." With every one else in the house she did pretty
much as she pleased; but George always contrived to manage her,
and had done so ever since she was born. He had a quiet, serious
way of talking to her, as if he were twenty years her senior,
which was not flattering to Bell's vanity; yet she loved him so
very much, she was not at all sure that she loved Philip better.

"Well, George," said Robert on Saturday night, "I suppose you are
not going to church to-morrow with us?"

"Probably not," said George.

"I suppose you will go to St. Lawrence's, over here, with
servant-girls, and stable-men, and rag-pickers; won't it be a
sweet crowd!"

"Do be quiet, Robert," said his father, "what difference does it
make whom you go to church with?"

"Mother," said Fanny, "may I go to church with brother George
tomorrow?"

"No, Fanny, you may _not_," said Mrs. Hartland shortly, "and
you are not to ask for such a thing. The Catholic religion is the
religion of the devil, and I don't want you to know anything
about it, or to hear or think anything about it. I would rather
you were dead and buried than that you should be Catholics, any
of you."

Poor Fanny looked dismayed, and Robert and Mary laughed
irreverently; but Mr. Hartland said mildly,

"If the Catholic religion were the religion of the devil, my
dear, I think there is nothing gained by saying so."

And when the children had dispersed for the night, and he was
alone again with Mrs. Hartland, he said:

"George has been led away by his imagination; and your vehement
opposition will only strengthen him; let him alone, and he will
get over this."

In due time Philip made his appearance. He was a gay, spirited,
handsome fellow--a great favorite with every one, and especially
with George, whose classmate he had been.

The Shirleys and Hartlands had been intimate for many years,
having moved in the same society, inherited the same religious
opinions, and imbibed by association the same ideas. Mr. Shirley
was a man of great wealth, and was still living; but Philip had
just inherited a fine property from the uncle after whom he was
named, so that he was as rich as he needed to be now, with a
prospect of as much again hereafter. Indeed, as Mrs. Hartland
rather proudly said, "It was precisely the connection which they
had most desired for Isabel."

And yet, such as Philip was, it was not strange, perhaps, that
George's idea of the Christmas gift should seem to Isabel
far-fetched. "But it is not so," George reasoned, "for you all
say that marriages are made in heaven, and St. James says that
'Every best gift, and every perfect gift, is from above, and
cometh down from the Father of lights.'"

{554}

Christmas eve arrived, and, according to the programme, the young
people were married. "The wedding was furnished with guests," and
it may be taken for granted at once that everything was planned
and carried out in the most approved style, since Isabel had the
supreme dictatorship. George was first groomsman, and the others
were selected from the list of Belle's inconsolable admirers.
Little Kate was the smallest bridesmaid, and went through her
part with serious gravity, evidently believing that she was
assisting at a solemn function. The bride and groom were
pronounced the handsomest couple, and so forth; the cake and the
weather were delicious. Philip certainly appreciated his
Christmas gift, and thought himself a happy man. He had always
considered Belle the prettiest girl in P----, as she was
certainly one of the cleverest; he was perfectly persuaded that
she was equally good and beautiful, and he had the grace to think
that his own wealth, with his other advantages, did no more than
place him upon a par with her. Certainly, Isabel's prospects of
happiness were very fair.

And so she passed away to adorn a new house, very much missed by
all at the old, and by none more than by Mary, who succeeded to
the place and honors of elder sister, though confessedly by no
means so beautiful, brilliant, or clever as "Miss Hartland that
was." But Mary was a good girl, played and sang very sweetly, and
was always ready to gratify her father with those simple ballads
in which he chiefly delighted. Home was quieter, but perhaps
scarcely less happy, and home happiness was constantly augmented
by the pleasure of anticipating Isabel's visits.

If Mr. Hartland really expected George to get over his love for
and belief in the Catholic religion, he was evidently doomed to
disappointment; for, to all appearance, it every day penetrated
more and more the very substance of his being, though he had
always been so sincerely religious that his external conduct was
modified by it less than might have been supposed. Fanny never
repeated her preposterous request for permission to go to church
with brother George; but she was perpetually slipping into his
room, peeping into his books, admiring his little pictures and
statuettes, trying, in fact, with a girl's insatiable curiosity,
to discover why the forbidden fruit was so unspeakably poisonous.
She incurred repeated scoldings for her restless inquest; and,
after being reproved the twentieth time for taking possession of
brother George's books and carrying them off into her own room,
she fairly disconcerted her mother by indignantly inquiring, "Why
they had no '_creed_,' and what right the people who first
started the Protestant religion had to hide away the 'Apostles'
Creed' from everybody, so that hundreds of persons who thought
themselves Christians, and meant to be Christians, lived and died
without ever knowing there was any 'creed.'"

Poor Mrs. Hartland was completely nonplussed; she knew nothing
about creeds herself, but she hesitatingly suggested that they
had a "form of covenant." This, Fanny insisted, was not the least
like the "Creed," and her mother, having no other forces in
reserve, took refuge in the usual invective, and assured her
daughter in the most solemn manner that she would prefer to see
her in her grave rather than have her imbibe her brother George's
sentiments.
{555}
Fanny, of course, was obliged to go to George for a satisfactory
answer to her question, and having learned from him the gradual
process by which the first Protestantism had dwindled down into
New England Congregationalism, her reverence for the system in
which she had been brought up was not increased.

Meanwhile, almost another year has passed away. Little Annie
Hartland is creeping about the carpet, or pushing herself round
with a chair, and, under great persuasion and generous bribery,
making some diffident attempts to talk. Isabel has been at home
some weeks, and is domiciled in her own old room. Philip's visits
are frequent, but short and uncertain, for though a rich he is by
no means an idle man. All are improving the last beautiful days
of autumn, in anticipation of the disagreeable weather of settled
winter.

Fanny, especially, who was fond of riding and a capital
horsewoman, rode almost every afternoon, sometimes without any
escort, and sometimes accompanied by Robert, who was very proud
of the elegant figure his sister made on her spirited yet gentle
horse.

On one of the loveliest of these days, as George, returning from
a long walk, was sauntering up the drive, he was startled at
seeing Robert upon the lower end of the piazza without a hat,
trembling, and excessively pale.

"Do you know? did you see her?" he asked, quivering with
excitement, and without waiting for an answer, "Fan--she's been
thrown--and mother says she's been terribly hurt."

"Where was she? who was with her? is she here?"

"In mother's room. Where were you that you did not see it?"

"I have been in the other direction, up toward the academy. Has
Philip come?"

"Yes, he came just before Fan was hurt."

George went up-stairs, and found Fanny quite insensible.

The poor child was settled in her mother's room, out of the way
of Isabel, whose little boy was only a week old, and from whom
the sad news was to be kept as long as possible. For some days it
seemed very doubtful whether Fanny would recover; but her youth
prevailed, and at last the doctor pronounced that, with great
care, she would be perfectly restored, though she would scarcely
be able to leave the house before spring.

During this interval Belle, who was rapidly convalescing, had
repeatedly asked for Fanny, and wondered so much that she did not
come to her room that it was at last no longer possible to
conceal her sister's injury. Isabel's excitement and agitation
were at first extreme; but the assurance that the invalid was now
doing well soon soothed and cheered her, and she pleased herself
that before long she could go into her mother's room and show
Fanny her beautiful baby.

"He is four weeks old to-morrow," said Isabel, "and the doctor
says I may go down-stairs to-morrow. Poor dear little Fanny! I
wonder when she will be able to go out? Do you know, George, I
think, considering all that has been said on several occasions
about preferring that we should be dead and buried rather than
that we should be this and that, we all ought to be very thankful
that Fanny was not killed outright?"

"Of course."

"I wonder if mother ever thought of it?"

{556}

But George made no reply; only, after a few minutes, he said:

"You ought to have this dear little fellow baptized, now, while
Philip is here."

"O clear!" said Isabel, "we don't dream of having him baptized
till spring; it is too cold; and Philip is going to-morrow
evening. Annie was almost six months old before she was
baptized."

"I know, but it is very wrong; most Catholic children are
baptized before they are ten days old."

"Oh! yes, I know you think it is necessary."

"If it is not necessary, I don't see why you do it at all."

"Why, it is a pious observance," said Isabel. "What hurry is
there? besides, we can't have him baptized now, for Philip and I
have not agreed what to call him."

"And while you are debating that point, you run the risk of
having him die without being baptized at all."

"I don't think there is any danger. He is as well as he can be.
And mother's little--I forget what his name was--died without
being baptized at all, and I don't believe it makes any
difference."

"Just as I told you last year, Belle," said George, smiling,
"gifts despised; you place a sacrament instituted by our blessed
Saviour himself on the same footing with grace at table; a pious
observance, of course; to be attended to, no doubt, when one is
not in too much of a hurry."

Isabel half smiled; but she was too proud and happy, and too busy
petting her darling, to regard much the drift of her brother's
words. At that moment Philip came in to get the baby to show
Fanny, and the three adjourned into their mother's room, Philip
carrying the baby, of whom he was evidently very proud.

"There are most too many of you," said Mrs. Hartland; but she
could not choose which to dismiss, so they all went in. "I don't
let Fanny hold _levees_, but you need not stay long."

Fanny was very fond of babies, and they made her examine his
beautiful eyes and forehead and dimpled chin; and then Belle
called her sister's attention to the exquisitely embroidered
dress which she herself had worked.

"I wonder how long it will be before I shall be able to work
another," said Fanny, with a patient smile.

"You will soon be well enough, dear Fanny, for me to come and
read to you," said George.

"Oh! yes, I shall enjoy that; and if Belle is going down-stairs
to-morrow, she can play a little, and if the doors are left open,
I shall hear."

"Yes, and Mary can play to you; for I shall be carrying Belle off
pretty soon," said Philip.

"No, indeed," said mamma, "she can't go till after Christmas; so
you will have to come back and spend Christmas with us."

"It will be a great drawback to our Christmas, having Fanny
upstairs," said Isabel.

"Yes," returned mamma; "but if she recovers, we shall have no
reason to complain."

"I have been telling Isabel that she ought to have the baby
baptized while Philip is here," said George.

"Nonsense, George!" replied his mother; "nobody thinks as you do,
and why will you be forcing your peculiar notions upon us?" And
so the suggestion passed and was thought of no more.

"Put him down and let me kiss him," said Fanny; "dear little
fellow! I wish I could take him." But she knew it was impossible,
and she made no objection when, after a few minutes, Mrs.
Hartland put them all out of the room.

{557}

That evening, when the baby was put to bed, Mrs. Hartland thought
he seemed dull; but this was natural enough; nurse said he was
sleepy. He slept very well and was bright in the morning, but
toward night became dull again. Another day brought no
improvement, and Mrs. Hartland became uneasy. She consulted the
doctor, and strictly followed his suggestions, but the symptoms
were only aggravated. She did not like to show Belle her anxiety,
and proposed taking the baby herself into Fanny's vacant room, in
order, she said, that Isabel need not be disturbed. For two
nights she watched and tended him, hardly sleeping herself until
daylight, when she suffered Mrs. Reilly to take her place.

Mrs. Reilly was a kind, prudent, motherly woman, and very fond of
Mrs. Hartland's children, most of whom had been washed and
dressed by her for the first time in their lives. She was also a
Catholic.

The second night George sat in his room till very late, reading.
Shortly before midnight, he went to bed, and slept uneasily for
two or three hours, then rose, and finding that it wanted some
minutes to four o'clock, he dressed, and resumed his reading,
listening the while till some one in the house should stir.

Soon after the great hall-clock struck five, Mrs. Reilly left
Isabel's room very softly, and went into Fanny's to take the
baby. George waited until he heard his mother pass from the
little room into her own, and close the door. Then he went
down-stairs and into Fanny's room, where Mrs. Reilly sat with the
poor little suffering child upon her lap.

"Is there any change?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"He'll not live till night, Mr. George," she whispered. "Poor
Miss Belle! what will she do?"

Mrs. Reilly could not get over her habit of calling: Isabel "Miss
Belle."

"Did you ever baptize a child, Mrs. Reilly?"

"Indeed I have, sir."

"Then you can do it once more," said he, smiling sadly. "We must
not let this child die without baptism." And he poured water into
the basin, and brought it to her.

And the humble Irish nurse performed those sacred acts which, by
the power of the Word made flesh, sanctify the soul.

George replaced the basin, kissed the little creature upon whose
head the baptismal water was still glistening, and returned to
his own room as silently as he came.

Isabel slept heavily and uneasily, and woke unrefreshed and with
a vague sense of apprehension. She rose on hearing the bell ring
for family prayers, and hearing her brothers go down-stairs she
dressed languidly and went into the next room.

The babe still lay upon the pillow in the nurse's lap, and,
although the breakfast-bell had already rung, Mary was sitting in
the window, looking silently and with folded arms at the sick
child.

"Why, he seems so sick," said Isabel, with a tone and look of
pain and alarm.

"Yes," said Mary, "he is very sick."

Mary had always helped her mother more than Belle in taking care
of the little ones, and she knew better than her sister how to
judge of illness. Isabel asked several questions, to which Mrs.
Reilly gave only the most vague and cautious answers. The faint
ring of silver was heard in the hall.

"There is your breakfast, Belle, dear," said Mary, "go into your
own room and take some coffee; you ought not to be standing about
here without having taken anything." "O dear!" said Isabel, "I
don't want any breakfast. I wonder when Philip will come, and
what will he say to see the baby so sick?"

{558}

After a few moments, she followed her sister's advice.
Mechanically she put the sugar and cream into the coffee, and had
just drunk it off, and pushed away the little stand, when the
door opened and Philip entered.

"Where is he?" and his face of agony and consternation told all.

He had been sent for, and she knew why.

"Oh! no, no, they don't think he will die," cried Isabel
passionately, throwing herself into Philip's arms; "they don't
think he will die! O my darling! my baby! my beautiful boy!" And
she rushed into the next room.

Her grief was terrible to witness, and Philip had to command
himself.

"He has changed a good deal since daylight," said Mrs. Reilly,
looking up at Philip; but she was sorry she had looked, and
hastily turned her eyes again upon the child.

Presently Mrs. Hartland came in, and insisted that Philip should
go down and have some breakfast, and he felt bound to obey.

Isabel was stunned. It had never entered her head that _he_
could die; he was so strong and bright and beautiful, and he was
_hers_. She threw herself helplessly upon the couch, and
cared for nothing. By and by she remembered that now she could
see him for a little while, but that soon she could see him no
more, and she rose and went into the room.

George and Philip were both there. The quiet little form lay
sweetly, as in sleep, upon the white counterpane of Fanny's cot.
Death had only beautified him. The tiny waxen hands clasped upon
the breast, almost as white as the white rosebud they enfolded,
the smile of beatitude upon the face, the beautiful forehead, the
closed eyes with their long lashes--no pain, no sorrow, the
ineffable peace there, contrasting with the tumult of agony in
her own soul, brought the tears to Belle's eyes.

George could not help thinking of his own little brother, just
about as old, whom, years ago, he had seen lying in the same way
in that very room, upon whose head the baptismal water had never
fallen; and he thought Isabel very happy.

And thus was laid away, till the morning of the resurrection, the
fair casket which had enclosed, for so short a time, a beautiful
soul.

Isabel's room was neatly set in order. It was the brightest and
prettiest chamber in the house, but it looked empty and desolate,
though the family inclined to congregate there, every one wishing
to do something to comfort their poor sister.

"It is five weeks to-day since my little darling was born," said
Isabel; "how proud and happy I was only a week ago, showing him
to Fanny."

George seemed in a reverie, but after a moment he said,

"And it is a year to-day since I returned from Valparaiso."

Belle fixed a look of anguish upon her brother's face, and then
wept bitterly, until having stopped, apparently from mere
exhaustion, she said,

"I have been properly punished."

"What do you mean, Belle dear?"

"I mean I have been punished for making so light of one little
life, or rather, for my own life-long selfishness," said she,
looking at Annie who was playing upon the carpet.

George looked at Isabel with much concern and tenderness, but
said nothing.

{559}

"I deserve to be punished, I know, George. I have been perfectly
selfish. I have thought more, all my life long, about dress and
vanity and pleasure than about anything else in the world. I have
been a member of the church and have had a class in the
Sunday-school, and I have thought myself a very good Christian;
but I have really occupied all my life in thinking how I should
contrive to look prettier and to dress better than others, and to
secure my personal gratification. And I have always thought
everything a nuisance that has stood in my way. When the dear
baby came, I have been thinking ever since he was born how I
should dress him and make him look pretty--and now the body that
I thought so much of--" She stopped and sobbed again.

"Don't make yourself so unhappy, my darling sister," said George
tenderly, as he rose and kissed her.

She seemed soothed, and presently ceased weeping.

"And for my Christmas gift this year, I have that little grave."

"Dear Belle, you must not be too hard upon yourself; the gifts of
God are as many as the sands upon the sea-shore, and one honest
sight of one's self is a Christmas gift worth having. Even if we
think we are punished, his chastisements are always gifts, if we
know how to receive them; my dear sister, isn't it so?"

"I have heard so times enough from the pulpit," said Belle,
through her tears; "but you know, George, I have never thought
about those things. And then, my baby's soul, which I cared so
little about--dear George, do you really think it makes any
difference?"

"What, dear?"

"Whether he was baptized or not?"

"I don't _think_ anything about it, my darling sister; I
_know_ that it makes all the difference between going
instantly to the heaven of heavens, where God is, and staying,
perhaps for ever and ever, in a place which, though not an
unhappy place, is by no means so happy as the very
presence-chamber of the King of kings. But you need not grieve
about that; for he was baptized, and your little darling has gone
to keep a joyful Christmas in heaven."

And then he told Belle how he came down that morning, and how
Mrs. Reilly had baptized the child.

Isabel listened and wept and seemed comforted.

"I am sure I thank you, dear George, you are always so kind and
thoughtful. I know father and mother don't think it makes the
least difference in the world, and I don't know why I should
trouble myself about it; but still, now that I have lost him, I
can't bear to think that anything was left undone which could
have been done to his possible advantage. And then Philip--Philip
is a great deal better than I am; I have thought very often,
George, of what you said last year about Philip being a gift to
me--a gift from God; he really is very good, and he seemed to
feel so badly because baby was not baptized."

"Our blessed Saviour has given us the sacrament of baptism for
_something_, no doubt," said George, "and it is taking
considerable upon ourselves, short-sighted creatures as we are,
to pronounce that it is of no consequence to any one, even to a
babe a day old. But you must be comforted now, my darling sister,
and remember that God has given you this year for your Christmas
gift, not merely that little grave, but a spotless soul before
his throne, who will never cease to pray for you and Philip until
you are so happy as to arrive there yourselves."

Then bending over her, he made the sign of the cross on her fair
forehead, and in his heart invoked on her those Christmas
benedictions which faith alone can give.

              ----------

{560}

        The American College In Rome.


We design, in the few following re to call the attention of our
readers to a work which is in process of execution in this
country at present, to secure an endowment for the American
College in the Eternal City. In the earnest appeal which will be
found at the end of this article, made by the most Rev.
Archbishop of Baltimore and the Rt. Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia,
in the name of their brethren of the Episcopate, to the more
wealthy among our American Catholics, the reasons are plainly
stated why this should be done. The voice of our prelates is to
us the voice of God; and we believe that we are furthering the
designs of his providence in sustaining this institution, which
was founded by the Holy Father for the benefit of the Catholics
of the United States. We have had the college in Rome for some
years, and we are now called upon to decide whether we shall
permit it to be closed for want of proper support, and thus show
that we are not able to appreciate the gift of his Holiness, to
maintain the College when he has given the building, to do our
share when he has so generously done his.

The prelates have placed the whole question with admirable
practical wisdom before us. Their plan is both grand and
feasible, and is characterized by that energy of purpose, zeal
for religion, and attachment to the real progress of the church,
which eminently distinguish the hierarchy, the clergy, and the
faithful of the United States.

It is not necessary to recapitulate the arguments which are
contained in the circular, for they speak for themselves.
Reference, however, may be briefly made to some of the immense
advantages which are enjoyed by the young Levites brought up in
the centre of unity, as Samuel of old within the precincts of the
temple. In the first place, the constant presence of the visible
head of the church upon earth reminds them continually of our
blessed Lord's promises to his first Vicar, so perfectly
fulfilled in the long line of his successors, the gates of hell
continually striving but never prevailing against them, and
excites in their hearts that true devotion to the Holy See which
is the surest test of orthodoxy, as it is the most perfect
safeguard against error. Wherever they turn, they behold the
evidences of the victory achieved by the faith of Christ over
paganism and infidelity. The despised cross has fully conquered.
The student in Rome is continually reminded of the immense
revolution which took place first in Rome, when Constantine
embraced the faith of Christ, and the Caesars gave place to the
pontiffs, and heathen temples were converted to the worship of
the one true God, and Rome became the centre of another empire
grander far than the one of which she was the centre before,
which stretches "from sea to sea, and from the river to the ends
of the earth." There is something, moreover, in the atmosphere of
Rome provocative of study; nor is there wanting that generous
competition which serves to awaken every energy in the endeavor
to excel in the various departments of learning. Rome is, in this
sense, an intellectual arena in which contend bright intellects
from all parts of the known world, whose powers are brought out
and strengthened by their very exercise.

{561}

Not only are there many advantages to be enjoyed there in a
literary and intellectual point of view, but even greater in a
spiritual. Where else are the great festivals of our holy
religion celebrated with the splendor and magnificence that they
are there? Where else is God awarded the first place, and
religion paramount? Where else is devotion to the blessed
sacrament practised as it is in Rome? To say nothing of the
countless masses, of the churches open from early dawn to dusk;
the kneeling worshippers; no day in the year but what, in the
beautiful devotion of the Forty Hours, the blessed sacrament is
exposed to the adoration of the faithful--now here, now
there--the Son of God upon his earthly throne; lights burning as
they burn nowhere else; and the silent throng adoring,
worshipping, thanking, praying. Then the intense devotion to the
Blessed Virgin, the Madonna at every street corner, in every
shop, in every house, and the light which love and reverence have
lighted, burning before it. It has well been said that the
business of Rome is prayer. What an advantage for one who must
labor in a country like ours, filled with every form of religious
error, to have these memories to fall back upon, to encourage him
in the midst of the contradiction of these dogmas of our holy
faith in which he has to dwell, to stimulate both himself and the
flock committed to his care to imitate the example of fervent
piety and devotion which Rome sets to the world. How powerful
there, too, the example of the saints! Nowhere else so much as in
Rome does the truth spoken by the apostle, that we are "the
fellow-citizens of the saints and the domestics of God," come
home to us; we seem to stand in their footsteps, from the martyrs
who laid down their lives during the fearful persecutions of the
first three centuries to the confessors and virgins almost of our
own day. There lie, side by side, the bodies of the great
apostles, Peter and Paul; of Peter, who received from our blessed
Lord the charge of the sheep and lambs of his flock; of Paul,
miraculously converted to faith in Him whose followers he had
persecuted; who, in turn, became the great instrument in the
hands of God of preaching that holy faith and leading thousands
to embrace it. There, in that amphitheatre, the martyrs were torn
in pieces by wild beasts from the Libyan deserts. There, in those
catacombs, their bodies were reverently laid. Here, one martyr
after another suffered. There is the resting-place of Lawrence,
of Sebastian, of Agnes, of Cecily. Here lived those holy popes
whose names are found in the calendars of the saints; and, to
come nearer home to our own day, there St. Ignatius lived; here
St. Aloysius and St. Stanislaus Kostka passed their angelic
lives, and breathed out their pure souls to God. This was the
home of St. Philip Neri, the apostle of Rome; here he preached,
said mass, and heard confession.

But the list is too long, and we must stop. Let the examples
given suffice. There can be no question of the advantages of such
influences as these upon the lives of those who are surrounded by
them, and specially upon those who are to be consecrated to God
in the service of his sanctuary.

{562}

Another point must be remembered, and that is, that as Rome is to
us what Jerusalem was, under the old dispensation, in a certain
sense, the place whither the "tribes of the earth go up," so it
is very desirable that every nation should have a college there
which should serve as a kind of headquarters to represent them,
and to which persons coming from that nation could go, and feel
that they were at home. Thus, the Englishman naturally finds his
way to the English college, the Irishman to the Irish, and so on;
and he finds those there who can speak to him in his own tongue,
and to whom he can apply for advice and information. Again, at
Rome are the _limina apostolorum_, which every bishop is
bound to visit at certain periods of his episcopate. We have now
between forty and fifty bishops in this country, and from time to
time they go thither, as Paul did to see Peter, to expose to the
Chief Pastor the condition of their flocks, to consult with him,
and to obtain for themselves and their flocks the blessing of the
Vicar of our Lord upon earth. During the late gathering at Rome,
fourteen of our bishops were lodged at the American College.
During the coming council there should be more; and at other than
these special times there will be sometimes one, sometimes
another of our bishops there, not for himself, but for us; and
this alone should be a strong argument why the college should be
sustained, that as the bishops of other nations have homes in
Rome, so ours should have one too.

There can be no doubt, then, about the advantages of the college
and the importance of maintaining it. It involves an outlay of
money, but the return will be sure and great. There is no more
pressing need at the present time than that which this college,
with many others, supplies, namely, an increased number of
priests. There are five millions of Catholics in this country,
and it is impossible that with so many to prevent it, and
specially of the class now called upon, the necessity of closing
the college should occur.

We are proud of our country, of its lakes, and its rivers, and
its mountains, surpassed nowhere in the world. Let us not be
content with these natural excellences which are not of our
making, but come to us from the hand of God. Let us try to excel
in those things which are under our control--in virtue, in
learning, and in all that makes man great and good; and in this
particular instance let us try to excel the other nations in our
college in Rome. Let it be a model in discipline, in spirit, and
in intellectual culture. Let us try to make it the leading
college in this respect, and also in the number of students. In
this point let it be second only to the Propaganda. Let us not be
satisfied until we have it fully established, and at least a
hundred students within its walls. That this may be accomplished,
we call the attention of our readers to the appeal, and trust
that every one who is able will take part in this great
undertaking to the utmost of his ability.


    Appeal To The More Wealthy Among
    The Catholics Of The United States.

  Beloved Children In Christ: You are aware that some years ago
  the cluster of National Colleges in Rome was increased by one,
  and that one was the College representing our own nation.
  Almost every nation had previously been represented there: the
  Irish, the English, the Scotch, the French, the Germans, the
  South Americans, etc. At last the deficiency was supplied,
  through the munificence of our beloved Pontiff, Pius IX., who
  generously bestowed a spacious and centrally located site for
  the purpose. Our College was opened, and it has already trained
  a number of priests for the American Mission; while it has also
  been a place to which Americans in Rome, no matter what their
  faith, might resort, and feel that they were at home.

{563}

  Unfortunately, however, sufficient means were not provided, at
  the commencement, to establish the College on a solid basis;
  and after struggling on for some years, it is now in imminent
  danger of being closed. It would be one thing never to have had
  the College, but it is another altogether to have had it and to
  lose it. This latter contingency, besides being a great
  disgrace to us, would be also an irreparable loss to the
  country.

  The late Plenary Council ordered a general collection for the
  relief of the immediate wants of the College; nor is it our
  intention to supersede this collection, but rather to aid it
  toward effectually accomplishing the object in view. This
  collection will still be necessary to pay debts already
  incurred, and to provide for pressing needs.

  But, in addition to the general collection, which we hope will
  soon be taken up, it has been suggested to propose to our
  wealthier Catholics, for their imitation in this matter, the
  noble example of their forefathers in the faith, who did great
  things for religion and for God. Instances of this occur in
  Rome itself, where, besides several other colleges for various
  nationalities, founded principally by the munificence of
  particular wealthy Catholics to rear up priests for their
  respective countries, the English College, since such a
  blessing to the English nation, was founded by Ina and by Offa,
  Saxon princes, first as a resting-place for English pilgrims,
  and then as a nursery to train up priests for the English
  Mission. In those days, kings and princes, and men of wealth
  willingly founded and endowed churches, colleges, asylums,
  hospitals, institutions of religion, learning, and charity,
  whose very ruins, in lands where they have been allowed to go
  to ruin, are monuments of former Catholic munificence while
  they are a reproach to our own degenerate days. It has been
  thought that, at this juncture, this glorious example of our
  ancestors would be promptly imitated; and that an appeal made
  to those Catholics in this country, whom God has blessed with
  abundant means, to come to the rescue, and not only to save the
  College, but to put it at once on a sound and substantial
  basis, would not be made in vain, but would be generously
  responded to.

  It is with this view, that we make our earnest appeal to you at
  this time, and propose a plan which, we think, with your
  co-operation, will be successful in speedily founding and
  endowing the American College in Rome. We urge the matter upon
  you the more strongly, as next year the great General Council
  is to be convened in Rome, and we are to meet the bishops of
  the whole world in one of those grand assemblies which mark an
  era in the history of the Universal Church. To the Councils of
  Nice, Ephesus, Chalcedon, Lateran, Lyons, Florence, and Trent,
  is to be added that of the Vatican. Let us, before we go to the
  Holy City, have the consolation of knowing that, through your
  munificence, we have a college there to which we can proudly
  point, as bishops of a great Catholic people; let us be spared
  the disgrace of going thither to find its doors closed, and its
  name blotted out from the list of National Colleges existing in
  the Eternal City. We confidently appeal to you as Catholics and
  as Americans, loving your religion and your country, that this
  may not be so. Surely, the means with which God has blessed you
  can be applied to no higher or holier purpose than this; nor
  can there be any which will draw down upon you and your
  families a more abundant blessing of heaven. The prayers and
  holy sacrifices which will be cheerfully offered up in your
  behalf by those who, through your bounty, will be trained up
  for the holy ministry, cannot fail to draw down upon you
  heaven's choicest benedictions. Our plan, then, is briefly
  this:

  We wish to raise from $250,000 to $300,000. We have appointed,
  as our agent in the matter, the Rev. G. H. Doane, Chancellor of
  the Diocese of Newark, to visit all the principal dioceses of
  the United States, and call upon those who are most able, to
  contribute their subscriptions. We propose that of these
  generous contributors to a noble work there should be three
  classes:

  1. Founders Of Burses; who will contribute, once for all,
  _five thousand dollars_ in currency, yielding something
  over two hundred dollars, in gold, of yearly interest; and who
  will have the right of selecting, from those who will be
  recommended and approved of their respective bishops for this
  purpose, one student of the College for ever.

  2. Patrons; who will contribute _one thousand dollars_,
  once for all, and will be entitled to send a student, approved
  of by the bishop, for three years.

  3. Life Members; who, by contributing _five hundred
  dollars_, will share in the holy sacrifices and prayers of
  the College and of the students.

  The names of all these three classes will be enrolled, and
  placed in a handsome frame, to be kept in the Chapel of the
  American College; and solemn high mass will be celebrated for
  them in Rome twice a year--once for the living and once for
  the deceased benefactors; besides the private masses which the
  priests educated at the College will feel impelled by gratitude
  to offer up frequently for their respective patrons and
  benefactors and their families.

{564}

  This plan, if zealously and efficiently carried out, will, we
  are convinced, accomplish the desired result in very short
  time. One Catholic gentleman in Baltimore has already founded a
  Burse, and others will follow his good example. We believe that
  we can safely calculate on the following amounts to be realized
  in the United States, under the three heads above named:

    Twenty Burses, at $5,000----         $100,000
    One Hundred Patrons, at $1,000----    100,000
    One Hundred Life Members, at $500.---- 50,000
    Total                                $250,000

  The reverend father to whom we have entrusted this important
  matter, and in whose zeal and efficiency we have the utmost
  confidence, will call upon you during the course of the coming
  winter. You will, we are quite sure, receive him worthily, as
  our representative; and you will enable him, we trust, to
  return to us with fresh and abundant proofs of your well-known
  generosity and self-sacrifice, and with an ample and sufficient
  sum not only to save, but to endow, and render perpetual for
  all time, our _American College in Rome_.

        M. J. Spalding,
        _Archbishop of Baltimore, and Chairman of Metropolitans._

        J. F. Wood,
        _Bishop of Philadelphia, Chairman Executive Committee
	of Bishops, and Treasurer._

  _Baltimore_, Feast of the Presentation of the
  Blessed Virgin, 1868.


    Letter Of Rev. George H. Doane.

  Having been appointed by the Most Rev. Archbishop of Baltimore,
  and the Rt. Rev. Bishop of Philadelphia, as Chairmen
  respectively of Metropolitans, and of the Executive Committee
  of Bishops, who have charge of the affairs of the American
  College in Rome, with the duty of endeavoring to raise an
  endowment fund for the College, I have, with the consent of my
  own bishop, accepted the trust which they have confided to me,
  and propose to enter upon the work at once. Before Christmas I
  hope to visit, with the consent of the Archbishops and Bishops
  of those Sees, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Albany, Boston, and
  Hartford; during the holidays, New-York, Brooklyn, and Newark;
  and about the middle of January to start for the North, West,
  and South.

  Love for Rome, and the desire to make some little return for
  the many blessings I received while a student in one of the
  National Colleges there, (the American College not having then
  been founded,) by trying to procure the same blessings to
  others; and love for my country, with the desire to see
  preserved for her, in the very heart of the Eternal City, a
  place where some of her young Levites may grow up in the
  schools of Rome, under the shadow of St. Peter's, and in the
  immediate presence of the Vicar of our Lord upon earth, are the
  motives which prompt me to undertake this arduous duty.

  That it may succeed, I earnestly beg the prayers of the
  faithful, the generous and zealous co-operation of all in the
  good work, and remembrance on the part of my fathers and
  brethren at the altar of God in the daily sacrifice.

                             G. H. Doane.

              ----------

{565}

         Catholicity And Pantheism.

              Number Three.

       The Problem Of Multiplicity.


In the development of the Catholic idea of God, which we have
given in the previous number, we have met with no opposition from
pantheism.

Here, however, it raises the most difficult as well as the most
sublime and profound question which can be proposed to human
intelligence--the problem of multiplicity. We shall let a
pantheist propose it in his own words.

It will be remembered that the last of the attributes which we
vindicated as belonging to the infinite was that of absolute
unity. This attribute gives rise to the problem.

"What is unity," says Cousin, "taken by itself? A unity
indivisible, a dead unity, a unity which, resting in the depths
of its absolute existence, and never developing itself, is, for
itself, as if it were not. In the same manner, what is variety
without unity? A variety which, not being referable to a unity,
can never form a totality, or any collection whatever, is a
series of indefinite quantities, of each of which one cannot say
that it is itself and not another, for this would suppose that it
is one; that is, it would suppose the idea of unity; so that,
without unity, variety also is as if it were not. Behold what
variety or unity isolated would produce; the one is necessary to
the other in order to exist with true existence; with that
existence, which is neither multiple, various, mobile, or
negative existence; nor that absolute, eternal, infinite
existence, which is, as it were, the negation of existence. Every
true existence, every reality, is in the union of these two
elements; although, essentially, the one may be superior and
anterior to the other. You cannot separate variety from unity,
nor unity from variety; they necessarily coexist. But how do they
coexist? Unity is anterior to multiplicity; how then has unity
been able to admit multiplicity?" [Footnote 162]

    [Footnote 162: Cousin's _History of Modern Philosophy_.]

Again: "Reason, in whatever way it may occupy itself, can
conceive nothing, except under the condition of two ideas, which
preside over the exercise of its activity; the idea of the unit,
and the idea of the multiple; of the finite and the infinite; of
being and of appearing; of substance and of phenomenon; of
absolute cause and of secondary causes; of the absolute and of
the relative; of the necessary and of the contingent; of
immensity and of space, of eternity and of time.

"Analysis, in bringing together all these propositions, in
bringing together, for example, all their first terms, identifies
them; it equally identifies all the second terms, so that, of all
these propositions compared and combined, it forms a single
proposition, a single formula, which is the formula itself of
thought, and which you can express, according to the case, by the
unit and by the multiple, the absolute being and the relative
being, unity and variety, etc. Finally, the two terms of this
formula, so comprehensive, do not constitute a dualism in which
the first term is on one side, the second on the other, without
any other relation than that of being perceived at the same time
by reason.
{566}
The relation concerning them is quite otherwise
essential, unity being eternity, etc.; the first term of the
formula is cause also, and absolute cause; and, so far as
absolute cause, it cannot avoid developing itself in the second
term, multiplicity, the finite and the relative.

  "The result of all this is, that the two terms, as well as the
  relation of generation which draws the second from the first,
  and which, without cessation, refers to it, are the three
  integral elements of reason. It is not in the power of reason,
  in its boldest abstractions, to separate any one of these three
  terms from the others. Try to take away unity, and variety
  alone is no longer susceptible of addition--it is even no
  longer comprehensible; or, try to take away variety, and you
  have an immovable unity--a unity which does not make itself
  manifest, and which, of itself, is not a thought; all thought
  expressing itself in a proposition, and a single term not
  sufficing for a proposition; in short, take away the relation
  which intimately connects variety and unity, and you destroy
  the necessary tie of the two terms of every proposition. We may
  then regard it as an incontestable point, that these three
  terms are distinct but inseparable, and that they constitute at
  the same time a triplicity and an indivisible unity." [Footnote
  163]

    [Footnote 163: Lecture Fifth.]

As the reader may have observed, Cousin raises the problem of
multiplicity. He expresses it under a logical form, but the
problem is a metaphysical one, and hence applicable to all
orders, logical as well as ontological. It is raised by all
pantheists, whose words we abstain from quoting for brevity's
sake; and so far as the problem itself is concerned, it is a
legitimate one; and every one, who has thought deeply on these
matters, and is not satisfied with merely looking at the surface
of things, must accept it.

Let us put it in its clearest light. The infinite, considered
merely as unity, actuality, (all words which mean the same
thing,) can be known neither to itself nor to any other
intelligence. It cannot be known to itself. For to know implies
thought, and thought is absolutely impossible without a duality
of knowing and of being known, of subject and of object. It
implies an intelligence, an object, and a relation between the
two. If, then, there is no multiplicity in the infinite, it
cannot know itself. It is, for itself, as if it were not; for
what is a being which cannot know itself?

Nor can it be known to any other intelligence; for mere
existence, pure unity does not convey any idea necessary to
satisfy the intelligence.

Moreover, the mere existence and unity of an object does not make
it, on that account, intelligible. For an object to be
intelligible, it is required that it should be able to act on the
intelligence, such being the condition of intelligibility.
[Footnote 164] Now, action implies already a multiplicity, a
subject and the action. Therefore, if the infinite were mere pure
unity, it could not be intelligible to any intelligence. But in
the supposition that there is a kind of multiplicity in the
infinite, how would multiplicity be reconciled with unity? How
would these two terms agree?

    [Footnote 164: See _Balmes's Fundamental Philosophy_, on
    Intelligibility.]

Multiplicity seems to be a necessary condition of the infinite,
without which it would not be intelligible either to itself or to
others. Absolute unity seems also to be a necessary attribute of
the infinite, and yet these two necessary conditions seem to
exclude each other. How then must we bring them together?

{567}

This is the problem to be solved; the grandest and most sublime
problem of philosophy; which has occupied every school of
philosophy since man began to turn his mind to philosophical
researches.

The two great antagonists, pantheism and catholicity, give an
answer to the problem, and it is the province of this article to
discuss the two solutions, and see which of them can stand the
test of logic, and really answer the problem instead of
destroying it. We shall enter upon the discussion, after
premising a few remarks necessary to the right understanding of
the discussion.

The first remark which we shall make is to call the attention of
the reader to the absolute necessity for the existence of the
problem.

It is not pantheism, nor Catholicity, which arbitrarily raises
the problem; it exists in the very essence of being, in the very
essence of intelligibility. Those philosophers who cannot see it
may have taken a cursory glance over some pages of what purports
to be philosophy, but they never understood a word of that which
really deserves the name of that sublime science. We make this
remark for two different reasons: First, in order to close the
door to all the objections raised against the problem. For if it
is demonstrated that a multiplicity is required in the infinite,
then to raise objections against it only shows want of
philosophic depth, but does not prove anything against the
existence of the problem. We shall return to this subject. The
second reason is a consequence of the first, to wit, that should
we find that the answer to the problem is not as clear and
evident as we might desire, we must not, on that account, reject
the problem, but should be satisfied with the light that is
afforded. This is but reasonable. Deny the problem we cannot. It
follows then that we must be satisfied with an answer which,
whilst it saves the problem, throws as much light on it as is
possible, under the circumstances.


    Pantheistic Solution Of The Problem
    Of Multiplicity And Unity In The Infinite.

Pantheism arrives at infinite unity by eliminating from it all
possible determination, definition, reality, ideality, thought,
will, consciousness; and rising from abstraction to abstraction,
from elimination to elimination, from a more limited
indefiniteness to a higher and broader and less restricted one,
up to mere simple, unalloyed abstraction and unity.

All pantheists follow the same process in order to arrive at
unity. Cousin calls it dead, immovable, inconceivable; a thing
existing as if it were not; the Being--Unreality of Hegel. But
ascended to such a summit, all multiplicity eliminated, and pure
unalloyed unity once found, how is multiplicity to be
reconstructed? With the greatest ease in the world. Pantheists
make this Being--nothing unfold and develop itself like a
silkworm; alleging, as a reason for such development, an
intrinsic necessity of nature, an imperative instinct which
broods in its bosom.

Thus they reconstruct multiplicity by making the Infinite become
finite, cosmos, matter, spirit, humanity, etc. Let us hear
Cousin: "This is the fundamental vice of ancient and modern
theories; they place unity on one side, and multiplicity on the
other; the infinite and the finite in such an opposition that the
passage from one to the other seems impossible."

{568}

And, after having remarked that this was the error of the school
of Elea, he continues: "Immensity or unity of space, eternity or
unity of time, unity of numbers, unity of perfection, the ideal
of all beauty, the Infinite, the absolute substance, being
itself, is a cause also, not a relative, contingent, finite
cause, but an absolute cause. Now, being an absolute cause, it
cannot avoid passing into action. If being, in itself alone, is
given as absolute substance without causality, the world is
impossible; but if being in itself is also a cause and an
absolute cause, movement and the world naturally follow. The true
absolute is not pure being in itself; it is power and cause taken
absolutely, which consequently creates absolutely, and, in
_developing_ itself, produces all that you see around you."

We quote Cousin in preference to others on account of his
lucidity of style and expressions; but every one acquainted with
the systems of the German pantheists knows that their answer to
the problem of multiplicity is substantially the same. We refer
the reader, in confirmation of our assertion, to the excellent
lectures on the systems of the German Pantheists, of Heinrich
Moritz Chalybäus, professor at the University of Kiel.

Now, does the answer resolve the problem? Does it really
conciliate unity with multiplicity in the Infinite? Does it
really maintain intact the two terms of the problem? We think
that it does not, and maintain that it destroys both terms of the
problem. The leading idea and principle of Pantheism is that
unity is _becoming_ multiplicity.

It is an existence in a continual _ex-sistere_ in an
emergence and manifestation. [Footnote 165]

    [Footnote 165: Chalybäus' Lectures, etc.]

Now, who can fail to perceive that if unity is such, that is,
unity when it is merely potential, when it has only the power of
becoming, of passing into multiplicity, it is doubtless destroyed
as soon as it passes from the power into the act; or, in other
words, it is destroyed as unity when it becomes multiplicity?
Strip this idea of a potential unity becoming actual
multiplicity, strip it of all the logical phantasmagoria with
which it has been adorned, especially by pantheists of the German
school, which phantasmagoria can only impose upon the simple, and
you can see, as clearly as that two and two make four, that the
whole thing amounts to nothing but to this; that unity vanishes
as soon as it becomes multiplicity. It is with a special
intention that we have made use of the simile of the silkworm.
This poor creature too, like the unity of the pantheists, has an
instinct given it by God, of unfolding and developing itself, and
the effect of its operation is the silk which serves to set off
the beauty of man. But unfortunately, the process of development
exhausts the little creature; for when it is completed, the poor
creature dies, and its development is its death, and its
production is its shroud; yet, it has this advantage over the
unity of the pantheists, that its remains continue to exist,
whereas their unity evaporates completely in multiplicity. To
speak more seriously, it is perfectly evident to every mind, that
the answer of the pantheists destroys the very problem it
undertakes to solve. Unity is unity so long as it is a potency, a
power of becoming; it vanishes as soon as it becomes
multiplicity. Add to this, that their unity, to be infinite, must
remain undefined, potential, and in the possibility of becoming;
such being their idea of the Infinite.
{569}
For which reason they eliminate from it every limitation, all
individuality, all thought, all consciousness. The natural
consequence of this principle must be that it remains infinite so
long as it is wrapped up in its vagueness and indefiniteness. Let
it come forth from its indefiniteness, let it become definite,
limited, concrete, and its infinity together with its unity is
gone. It evaporates in the finite forms it assumes. On the other
hand, let it remain absorbed in its indefiniteness, in its
abstractiveness, and consequently, in its infinity, and
multiplicity can no longer be conceived. It is absurd then to
speak of multiplicity in the Infinite of the Pantheists, since it
is clear that, when it assumes multiplicity, it can no longer be
either infinite or one; and when it remains infinite it cannot be
conceived as multiple. All this we have said, conceding the
premises of pantheism. But we have, in the first article,
demonstrated the following principles:

1st. If the pantheists take their unity in the sense of a pure
abstraction, a transient act, the elements of which do not last
one single instant, it is in that case an absolute nonentity, an
utter unreality, and then it is useless to speak of multiplicity,
since _ex nihilo nihil fit_.

2d. Or, they suppose their unity as something really existing,
having the power of gradual development, and in that case we have
demonstrated that such a being could not develop itself without
the aid of a foreign being.

The premises of pantheism then being false, the solution of the
problem falls to the ground independently of its intrinsic value,
if it have any, which we have shown it has not.

Pantheism cannot answer the problem of multiplicity. How can we
then attain to its solution?

We answer: the Catholic Church resolves it, giving such an
explanation of it as the finite and limited intellect of man may
reasonably expect. For the Catholic Church does not pretend to
give such a solution of the problem as to enable us thoroughly to
understand it. She proceeds from two premises, to wit, that God
is infinite, and that man, necessarily distinct from God, is
finite, and therefore endowed only with finite intelligence. That
these premises are true, appears evident from the demonstration
we have already given, in which we have shown that the
pantheistic idea of the infinite is the idea of finite being when
it is not taken as meaning only an abstraction, a pure
mathematical point. The ideas of the infinite and the finite
exist, and therefore there must be also objects corresponding to
these ideas. We shall return to this subject in a following
number.

From these two ideas of the finite and the Infinite, it follows
that man can never comprehend God; or, in other words, that the
intelligence of man, with the relation to God as its object, must
find mysteries or truths above and beyond its capacity. For, as
it is absurd to shut up a body of large size in a body of much
more limited size, supposing the present conditions of bodies not
suspended, so it is absurd to suppose that the intellect of man,
limited and finite, could grasp or take in God, who is infinite.
We are aware of the opposition which is made by many to mysteries
or super-intelligible truths; but we insist upon it, that all
such opposition would vanish, if men would study philosophy more
deeply and more assiduously. Why, a real philosopher, one who has
sounded the depths of creation, and plunged into the profundity
of the great ideas of being, of substance, of the absolute, of
the infinite, the finite and the relative, into the ideas of
eternity, of immensity, of immutability, of space and time, into
the ideas of cause, of action, of movement; one who has entered
into the labyrinth of his soul, and tried to catch the flying
phenomena of its life, and to analyze all the fibres of its
consciousness; such a one meets, at every step, with mysteries,
and the more he digs into them, the profounder and the wider is
the abyss lying at his feet.
{570}
If we should meet with a man denying mysteries, and desirous to
engage in a discussion, we would beg of him to go and first study
the alphabet of philosophy.

The problem, then, proposing the reconciliation of unity with
multiplicity in the Infinite, is held by the Catholic Church as a
mystery, a truth which cannot be thoroughly understood by the
human mind. But, notwithstanding all this, the solution which
Catholic doctrine affords, though a mystery, is clear enough to
be perceived, and distinct enough to make us see through the
agreement of the two terms of the problem; so that, through the
help of the Catholic Church, we shall have all the light thrown
upon the problem in question which man may reasonably expect,
seeing that the object of the problem is the Infinite, and the
intellect apprehending it only limited and finite.

          ----------

       New Publications.


  Philip II. Of Spain.
  By Charles Gayarré.
  Author of the _History of Louisiana under the French,
  Spanish, and American Domination_.
  With an Introductory Letter by George Bancroft.
  New York. 1866. W. J. Widdleton.
  8vo, pp. viii. iv. 366.

Mr. Gayarré is not unknown among American authors. Of Spanish
origin, born and nurtured in Louisiana, he has connected his name
with the history of that State by his devotion to its annals.
Laborious research has enabled him to give to the world three
volumes, comprising the history of Louisiana, under French,
Spanish, and American domination. Unfortunately, the first volume
was taken up rather as a romance of history; and in the treatment
of his subject imagination is allowed a scope that the stricter
schools of history deny that faculty. Imbued to no small extent
with the petty philosophism of the worst age of France, he seldom
fails to give the Church, where it enters his historic paintings,
darker colors than truth will warrant.

His present work is not a life of Philip II. It is a series of
studies, not complete enough, indeed, to form a character of that
great and singular ruler, who made Spain a great power in Europe,
but failed to bequeath to his successors the ability and
statecraft that enabled him to maintain the influence of the
peninsula in European affairs.

Mr. Gayarré's studies are disconnected, involve repetitions, and
fail to give us the salient points which mainly need discussion
and examination. He begins with the death of Philip; then treats
of his religious policy; his love of art; his reign in general;
Antonio Perez; the Cortes during his reign; literature. The point
of view may be inferred from Mr. Bancroft's remark, that the
present work is written "with a mind superior to the influences
of superstition"--an idea we have already expressed in somewhat
different terms, vocabularies differing slightly, as Saul of
Tarsus notes, in giving the estimate made by the most civilized
and enlightened people of his day in regard to the cross.

{571}

Philip as ruler of Spain, Portugal, and the Indies; Philip and
the Low Countries; Philip in his relations with foreign
countries; Philip and the Inquisition in Spain; Philip and his
family, here were indeed themes to discuss, to examine by the aid
of the soundest authorities. Had Mr. Gayarré done this in true
historic spirit, his work, whatever the judgment at which he
arrived, would have been of real value to every thinking man. As
it is, we cannot say that we see any necessity or utility for the
work. In Prescott there is at least a complete picture and an
array of authority. Gayarré gives neither, and can scarcely be
read without obtaining false views--without the facts which in
Prescott often enable you to see the fallacy of statements based
really on erroneous arguments.

              ----

  Recollections Of A Busy Life.
  By Horace Greeley.
  New York. J. B. Ford and Company. 1868.

The autobiographical papers, which compose the larger part of
this volume, were originally published in a weekly journal of
this city, and have probably attracted the attention of many
thousands of readers. They are now issued in a permanent form,
under Mr. Greeley's personal supervision, and will take their
place among the standard works of American biography.

Whatever may be said or thought of the religious and political
principles from time to time professed and advocated by the
"Editor of _The Tribune_," no man can deny to him the
character of an earnest, outspoken, indefatigable supporter of
what, at the moment, he believes to be just and right. The manner
in which he braved a public opinion thoroughly tyrannical, both
at the opening and close of the late war, sufficiently attests
his independence of spirit and his fidelity to the dictates of
his own judgment.

One interest, however, attaches to Mr. Greeley, chiefly as a man
who, from the humblest beginnings, has raised himself, by his own
exertions, to one of the most influential and honorable positions
in this country. The story of his projects and reverses, of his
perseverance and his triumphs, is well told in the volume before
us, and will serve to encourage and refresh the hearts of many
young men, whose struggles after influence and honest wealth are
meeting with continual disappointment.

In the hurry of preparing this work for the press, Mr. Greeley
has fallen into an historical error which should certainly be
corrected. In his opening chapter he informs us that, in 1641,
during the insurrection which occurred in the province of Ulster
in Ireland, against the British power, "40,000 Protestant
settlers were speedily massacred, with small regard to age or
sex." The number who actually suffered in that "rebellion" has
been variously estimated by historians not favorable toward
Ireland or her people. Sir John Temple fixes it at 150,000;
Milton, in his _Eiconoclastes_, at 154,000 for one province
alone; Clarendon puts the number at 40,000. Mr. Greeley follows
Clarendon, but with equal reliability he might have taken Temple
or Milton for his authority. He might also have stated with the
former, that "Hundreds of the ghosts of Protestants, that were
drowned by the rebels at Portadown Bridge, were seen in the
river, bolt upright, and were heard to cry out for revenge on
these rebels. One of these ghosts was seen with hands lifted up,
and standing in that posture from December 29th to the latter end
of the following Lent." For additional testimony about the
presence of the ghosts, he might have called upon Dr. Maxwell,
the Protestant Bishop of Kilmore. But if instead of relying upon
such ghostly authorities, Mr. Greeley had consulted a little
work, entitled _Memoir of Ireland, Native and Saxon_,
written by Daniel O'Connell, and published by Greeley & McElrath
in 1844, he would have seen that, in 1641, there were less than
200,000 Protestants in the entire island, and that the number
massacred (?) in its most northern province failed to reach any
thousands whatever. He would also have discovered that in these
insurrections it was the Catholics who suffered, and not
Protestants, as, for instance, at Island Magee.

{572}

Mr. Greeley is too wise and liberal a man wilfully to repeat so
stale a calumny, and he is not so inconsistent as to contradict,
in 1868, the statements of a work which he deemed worthy of
public confidence in 1844. While, therefore, we point out the
error, we impute no malice to the writer; to whom, in view of his
constant activity, some inaccuracies may be pardoned. But the
injury inflicted by his mistake is not lessened by its
thoughtlessness, and the least that can be done to remedy the
evil is to correct the error in the next edition, should one be
ever issued.

           ----

  The Ideal In Art.
  By H. Taine.
  Translated by J. Durand.
  New York: Leypoldt & Holt. 1869.

The object of these two lectures, first delivered by M. Taine to
the students of the School of Fine Arts in Paris, and now
published in an American translation by Messrs. Leypoldt & Holt,
is to erect a standard of criticism in art, independent of the
taste and fancy of the individual critic, and so based upon
established principles as to be worthy of the name of "a law." To
our mind, the distinguished author has approached, if not
attained, success. The fundamental rule with which he starts,
distinguishes between that mechanical skill by which the
production of the artist is made a faithful representation of his
own ideal, and that artistic genius by which the loftiness and
grandeur of the ideal is itself determined. He then proceeds to
measure the ideal itself, and, upon the purity and elevation of
this, bases the standing of the artist and the merit of his
works.

A complete sketch of M. Taine's system would necessitate a
reproduction of the work itself. In his volume there are no
wasted words; and while, perhaps, not altogether intelligible to
the utterly unlearned in art, the treatise which he gives us will
serve to stimulate the reader to an inquiry which cannot fail to
improve his taste in literature as well as in the peculiar domain
which it professes to explore.

We especially welcome this volume at this time, because of the
opportunities which are now afforded for a study of the
principles of M. Taine, in connection with the great schools of
Italian art themselves. In the Jarves Collection, now at Yale
College, may be found paintings of representative masters, from
the dawn of Italian art to the commencement of its decline.
Hundreds of visitors have examined this treasure-house of
painting, and thousands more should follow their example. And we
venture to suggest that a careful study of the work before us
will render, at least in the case of cultivated persons, what
would otherwise have been a mere visit of curiosity, a most
valuable lesson on that ideal in art in which the true artists of
every age have given the measure of their own genius and the
pledge of their artistic immortality.

              ----

  The Illustrated Catholic Family Almanac,
  for the United States, for the Year of our Lord 1869.
  New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1869.

This is the first attempt by any Catholic publisher in this
country to get up an Almanac suitable for Catholic families. It
contains a complete calendar for the year 1869, with a variety of
other matter both useful and entertaining. The illustrations,
nineteen in number, are excellent. We are glad to be able to
state that it is the intention of the Society to issue such an
almanac every year, and we hope that this first attempt may meet
with the success which it so well deserves.

It should be found in every Catholic household in the United
States. Almanacs have become almost a necessity, and are looked
for as regularly as the new year. It is, then, highly important
that an almanac, to say the least, should contain nothing
objectionable to morals, and this cannot be said of too many
frequently met with, which are only mere advertising mediums for
quack medicines, etc. We hope _The Catholic Family Almanac_
will henceforth supersede all such trashy productions--which no
father of a family should allow to endanger the faith and
morality of his children. The excuse heretofore urged for their
presence in the house, that there was no Catholic family almanac
to be had, is no longer valid.

----

{573}

  Criminal Abortion: Its Nature, its Evidence, and its Law.
  By Horatio R. Storer, M.D., LL.B., and Franklin Fiske Heard.
  Boston: Little, Brown & Company. 1868.

This subject is here brought before the public in a manner
proportioned to its importance; and Dr. Storer, for his
indefatigable efforts in ferreting out the statistics of this
crime, and his outspoken honest opinions, deserves the thanks of
the American people. The evidence adduced in support of the
author's assertions is so conclusive that the question suggests
itself, Whither are we drifting? In a note on page 74, the moral
effect of the Catholic religion is shown in preventing this
"slaughter of the innocents," but the author fails to suggest the
general dissemination of the religion throughout the country as a
means of checking this rapidly growing evil.

Book II. gives ample extracts from the Common and State Laws on
the subject, as well as quotations "from English reports, which
are not generally accessible even to the legal profession in this
country," making the work an indispensable addition to the
library of every lawyer and physician in the country.

              ----

  The Knowledge And Love Of Jesus Christ.
  By the Rev. Father St. Jure, S.J.
  New York: P. O'Shea, 39 Barclay street.

St. Jure was one of the best spiritual writers in France of the
early part of the seventeenth century, and this is one of his
best works. It is full of solid thought and learning, as well as
of the purest and warmest piety. I cannot, therefore, be too
highly recommended as a book for spiritual reading, well adapted
to the wants of the most intelligent and highly educated persons,
and approved by the judgment of the most enlightened men in the
church for two centuries. The translation was made by the
accomplished authoress of the _Life of Catharine Macaulay_,
and the publisher has issued it in a very good style.

             ----

  O'Shea's Popular Juvenile Library.
  Second Series. 12vols. Illustrated.
  New York: P. O'Shea. 1868.

This series is an acceptable addition to our rapidly increasing
list of Catholic "juveniles." The titles of the volumes it
contains are as follows:
  The Generous Enemy, and other stories;
  Anna's Vacation, and other stories;
  The Beggar's Will, and other stories;
  Bertrand du Guesclin;
  Kasem the Miser, and other stories;
  The Blind Grandfather, and other stories;
  Trifles;
  The True Son, and other stories;
  Marian's History;
  Patience Removes Mountains, and other tales;
  The Best Dowry, and other tales.

             ----

  Rural Poems,
  by William Barnes.
  Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1869.

These poems have received unqualified praise by English critics
in the principal literary reviews. It is said of them that they
are "in a high degree pleasant and novel;" "invested with a
simple beauty," "clothed in homely, healthy language," etc. We
might, and do, say the same of the renowned Melodies of Mother
Goose, whose "Poems" the greater part of the present collection
very much resembles. Who will not be forcibly reminded of "Ride a
cock-horse to Banbury Cross" by the following verses?

  "Bright was the morning and bright was the moon,
   Bright was the forenoon and bright was the noon,
   Bright was the road down the sunshiny ridge,
   Bright was the water and bright was the bridge:
   Bright in the light were two eyes in my sight,
   On the road that I took up to Brenbury tower.
   The eyes at my side were my Fanny's, my bride,
   The day of my wedding, my wedding's gay hour.

{574}

We think that if the author had been an American, the English
critics would have laughed at him. The book is elegantly
published, with good illustrations, and would make a nice holiday
present for children.

              ----

  Beginning German.
  Lessons introductory to the Study of the German
  Language. With a Vocabulary, Select
  Phrases for German Conversation, and
  Reading Lessons.
  By Dr. Emil Otto, Professor of Modern Languages and
  Lecturer at the University of Heidelberg.
  First American Edition. With additional reading
  matter and notes, arranged by L. Pylodet.
  New York: Leypoldt & Holt. 1869.

Dr. Otto deserves a great deal of praise for the attention that
he has shown to the wants of the student. In the above work he
has carefully collected all the necessary matter for the
commencement of a systematic study of the German.

The book has been prepared for young persons; but contrary to the
usual method, Dr. Otto does not overtask the memory of the
learner with endless vocabularies, which serve only to hide the
important parts. He first explains the alphabet, and also German
accentuation and punctuation. Next he gives a thorough
_drill_ upon each of the parts of speech, and by the aid of
foot-notes, gradually places before the student the salient
points of the German grammar. After which comes select phrases
and reading lessons.

The vocabularies in nearly all French and German grammars are
made up of the most foolish and impracticable sentences that
could possibly be invented; and Dr. Otto cannot put forth the
claim of originality for his selection of sentences.

The "partitive sense" and the possessive case create an immense
amount of confusion in the minds of those who plan German
methods, and they accordingly attempt to perpetuate their trouble
by filling their exercises with childish and improbable examples.
Dr. Otto forms no exception to the general custom. The rules
given at the bottom of the pages in regard to declensions, are
spread over so many pages that they will not be of much
assistance, and the student will be obliged to turn at once to
the synopsis of German Grammar, which the book also contains, if
he desires to thoroughly understand this part of the German.

The reading lessons are simple and well selected; but there is no
necessity for the abundant notes which are appended.

On the whole, this is a very excellent work: being far in advance
of the German text-books that are so much used in the schools of
this city, by serving to impress upon the minds of the learner a
true regard for the grammatical formation of their own language.

             ----

  The Little Gypsy.
  By Elie Sauvage.
  Illustrated by Lorenz Frölich.
  Translated from the French by I. M. Lyster.
  Boston: Roberts Brothers. Pp. 133. 1868.

This is a charming little story--one that we can heartily
recommend, both from its intrinsic merits and the beautiful
manner in which it is got up, as a suitable Christmas present.

              ----

  Verses On Various Occasions.
  Boston. Published by Patrick Donahoe. 1868.

On the reception of the English edition of this exquisite volume,
we called the attention of our readers to the true Catholic
beauty and fervor of the poems which it contains. The edition by
Mr. Donahoe is elegantly printed on toned paper, and faultlessly
bound. We can think of no more appropriate book for a Christmas
gift than this.

               ----

  The Calamities And Quarrels Of Authors:
  with some Inquiries respecting
  their Moral and Literary Characters,
  and Memoirs for our Literary History.
  By Isaac Disraeli.
  Edited by his Son, the Right Hon. B. Disraeli.
  New York: W. J. Widdleton. 2 vols. pp. 349, 411. 1868.

{575}

These two volumes complete an edition in nine volumes of the
writings of the elder Disraeli. His works are too well known to
need, even if the limited space at our disposal this month
permitted, an extended notice.

              ----

  Twentieth Annual Report Of The Regents Of The University Of
  The State Of New York, On The Condition Of The State Cabinet
  Of Natural History, And The Historical And Antiquarian
  Collection Annexed Thereto.
  Albany: Van Benthuysen and Sons' Printing House. 1868.

The study of Natural History is in its infancy in the United
States, yet it is encouraging to know that there are a few
earnest men who continue their investigations in spite of the
almost universal indifference upon the subject. It is not so much
because there are no men of science to determine the species of
our fauna, as that there is a general lack of attention to these
questions. Perhaps one of the most gratifying features of the
present Report is the indication of a newly-awakened interest
among our citizens. A large number of types have been presented
to the Museum by private collectors; among the more interesting
of these is the skeleton of a Mastodon found recently at Cohoes.
This animal has been imbedded in such an unusual stratum of rock,
and in such a peculiar manner, that the learned Curator of the
Cabinet believes it will afford a valuable guide in determining
its natural history and geological relations. The Smithsonian
Institute has generously presented more than two thousand
specimens to the collection of shells. These, as will be seen
from the catalogues given, are of great value, because they
embrace almost exclusively species from distant quarters of the
globe, and which consequently can only be obtained through some
State institution.

However, the zealous efforts of the Curator and Regents seem to
be much impeded by the want of proper cases for the display and
arrangement of specimens. A similar difficulty was experienced by
the Society of Natural History in this city; they at one time
possessed a large and interesting collection of insects, which
were packed in boxes and stored in the basement of the Medical
College of the New York University. The destruction of that
building by fire has relieved the officers of the society from
any further trouble concerning them. It is to be hoped that a
similar fate does not await the State Collection, but that the
modest request of the trustees for a small appropriation will be
granted at the present session of the Legislature. The catalogue
of books scarcely numbers a hundred volumes, and does not merit
the name of a library. This is a serious obstacle in the way of
those who are charged with the duty of classifying the specimens
sent to them, but one which the Regents of the Cabinet anticipate
to see gradually removed.

The statement of the necessities and financial condition of the
State Cabinet is followed by an essay of Prof. W. D. Wilson, of
Hobart College, on Local Climatology. This is chiefly interesting
because of a new theory accounting for the cold weather of
winter. Of course, one of the principal reasons why the
temperature is lower in winter than in summer is because the days
of winter are several hours shorter. But the sun's heating power
is also determined by its altitude. Herschel and Pouillet have
demonstrated that a large proportion of the sun's rays are
absorbed by passing through the atmosphere, or rather by the
moisture in the atmosphere, so that only about seventy-five per
cent of its heat reaches the earth. Hence, it is evident that the
temperature will vary, not only for places of different
latitudes, but also at the same place at different seasons of the
year, and during the different hours of the day. Still, the mere
fact of the absorption of heat does not explain the difference of
temperature. Heat absorbed always increases the temperature of
the absorbing body, except when the heat becomes latent by
passing from a solid to a fluid, or from a fluid to a gaseous
state.
{576}
As an atmosphere does not change the form of the heat, it would
itself be increased in temperature, and consequently the
influence of the heat would be felt in precisely the same degree
as if it were conducted directly to the earth. But this
difficulty is removed by Prof. Wilson, who claims that the
atmosphere has the same power of reflecting as of absorbing heat;
hence the heat is never transmitted beyond the outer boundary of
our atmosphere, but is immediately reflected into space, and
loses its influence upon anything within the power of our
observation. The decrease of heat has long been known to depend
greatly upon the sun's altitude. It varies with what is commonly
termed the sine of the sun's altitude. It is worthy to be
remarked, therefore, that on this theory the decrease of heat
will depend upon the angle at which the sun's rays strike the
atmosphere, and hence it must always, as in fact it does,
coincide with the sun's height.

The result of Prof. Hall's labor for the year is seen in several
elaborate notices upon the Palaeontology of the State. Those who
feel interested in this enticing department of Natural History
will take pleasure in the clear analysis of certain families and
genera described in the Report. The effort to aid beginners in
this study, as seen in the monogram upon the Graptolites, is
particularly commendable. These sciences cannot make any
substantial progress until they are brought down to the capacity
of learned men engaged in other pursuits, because they all depend
upon the careful observation of phenomena which require the
united attention of many individuals. Hence, all domestic
contributions to the determining of the species of our own fauna
should be sufficiently elementary to be understood by amateurs in
the science. And to the want of such works as these may fairly be
attributed the fact, that many young men begin to investigate the
various branches of natural science, but very few persevere.

The volume is increased in value by a number of well-executed
plates, which appear to be accurate copies of the specimens in
Prof. Hall's collection. It shows, at least, that he recognizes
their importance in conveying scientific knowledge. A figure
skilfully drawn will frequently determine a species in a moment's
comparison, which would have cost many hours' careful study of
the descriptions of even the most accurate and painstaking
observer.

              ----

  Beginner's French Reader.
  Short and Easy Pieces in Prose and Verse,
  with a complete Vocabulary.
  Arranged by L. Pylodet.
  New York: Leypoldt & Holt.

This little book seems to be very well adapted to fully carry out
the end indicated by its title-page.

              ----

MESSRS. JOHN MURPHY & Co. have just published a small volume
containing the life of _John M. Costelloe, or The Beauty of
Virtue, exemplified in an American Youth_. The author simply
proposes to lay before the reader "the virtues of a young man who
passed seventeen years of his short life in the peaceful
seclusion of his home, and the remaining two and a half in the
quiet routine of a college, and who, therefore, could have
practised only what St. Francis of Sales calls 'little virtues.'"

              ----

         Books Received.

From CHARLES SCRIBNER & Co., New York:

  Madame Thérèse; or, The Volunteers of '98.
  By MM. Erckman-Chatrian.
  Translated from the thirteenth edition,
  with ten full-page illustrations.


From PATRICK DONAHOE, Boston:

  Le Petit Catéchisme de Quebec.

  The Farleyes of Farleye: or, Faithful and True.
  By Rev. Thomas J. Potter,
  All Hallows College, Dublin.


From LEE & SHEPARD, Boston:

  Dr. Howell's Family.
  By Mrs. H. B. Goodwin.

  Hillsboro Farms.
  By Sophia Dickinson Cobb.

  The Mimic Stage.
  A series of Dramas, Comedies, Burlesques, and
  Farces, for Public Exhibitions and Private Theatricals.
  By George M. Baker.


From LEYPOLDT & HOLT, New York:

  Madame de Beaupré.
  By Mrs. C. Jenkin.


From JOHN MURPHY & Co., Baltimore:

  The Purgatorian Consoler.
  A manual of prayers, containing a selection of devotional
  exercises originally prepared for the use of the members of the
  Purgatorian Archconfraternity; enlarged and adapted to general
  use by a Redemptorist Father. Published with the approbation of
  the Most Reverend the Archbishop of Baltimore.

  The Visitation Manual:
  A collection of prayers and instructions, compiled according to
  the Spiritual Directory and Spirit of St. Francis de Sales,
  founder of the Religious Order of the Visitation of B. V. Mary.
  Published with the approbation of the Most Reverend Archbishop
  of Baltimore. 1869.

                   ----------
{577}

               THE CATHOLIC WORLD,

        Vol. VIII, No. 47. February, 1869.


                Cardinal Ximenes.

The greatness of Cardinal Ximenes has weathered the storms of
time. It has spread far beyond the people by whom it was first
recognized and proclaimed. All Europe has done it homage, and the
whole civilized world hails it with gratitude and joy. It is a
small thing in comparison to excel as a prelate, a statesman, a
general, or a man of letters; but to shine foremost in each and
all of these capacities, as did Ximenes, to make a lasting
impression on the age in a fourfold character, and to mould anew
the destinies of a nation in virtue of it, have been the lot of
few, and scarcely the ambition of any. Ximenes de Cisneros is
part of the Spaniard's nationality. They admire, they love him,
they boast of him; and so lately as April, 1857, they assembled
in vast numbers in the city of Alcalá to deposit his remains in
the Iglesia Magistral, just 340 years after his decease. The
precious memoirs left by Gomez have never been employed with
greater effect than by Dr. Von Hefele, who, from these--the
basis of all lives of Ximenes--and from a variety of collateral
sources, has produced a complete and most valuable history of the
illustrious cardinal.

Like many eminent prelates in the Catholic Church, Ximenes was a
self-made man. He was born at Tordelaguna--a small town--in
1436. His father, though of noble descent, was comparatively
poor, and collected tithes for the king. His mother likewise came
of a valiant stock decayed in fortune; so that Ximenes enjoyed on
both sides the advantage of gentle blood. From an early age he
was destined for the Church; at Alcalá he was well schooled, and
at Salamanca he studied canon and civil law, theology, and the
Scriptures. It was here that his love of biblical lore first
displayed itself, and gave promise of that abundant growth which
afterward made the name of Ximenes famous in the literary world.
Poverty was his good angel. It urged him to exertion, and he
supported himself at the university by giving lessons. Then,
having taken his bachelor's degree in canon and civil law, he
boldly turned his face toward Rome, and resolved to better his
fortune, if possible, in the heart of Christendom.
{578}
Twice on the way he was plundered by robbers, and but for the
kindness of a former school-fellow would have been stopped at
Aix, in Provence, and compelled to return, _minus_ money,
clothes, and horse. To Rome, however, he came, and worked
steadily in the ecclesiastical courts during six years, till his
father died, and he was recalled to Spain to perform a parent's
part to his bereaved family. Happily he carried in his pocket an
_expectative_ letter, by which the pope granted him the
first vacant benefice in the diocese of Toledo. The right of
bestowing benefices in this manner had often been questioned,
often resisted; but with such controversies Ximenes had nothing
to do. It was not till the Council of Trent that _Gratia
Expectativae_ were finally suppressed; [Footnote 166] and it
was clearly his interest to obtain a living from the holy father,
if he could, according to established precedent. Uzeda soon fell
vacant, and though Ximenes laid claim to it immediately, Carillo,
the archbishop, was in no degree inclined to yield it to him. The
more Ximenes pressed his claim, the more stoutly Carillo
resisted, and the result was that the claimant, though backed by
papal authority, soon found himself a prisoner in the very parish
of which he sought to be pastor. Nothing could break his iron
resolution, and being removed to the fortress of Santorcaz, he
there spent six years in confinement, till the archbishop,
wearied by his firm and constant refusal to forego his claim, at
length yielding the point, restored him to liberty, and confirmed
him in possession of the benefice.

    [Footnote 166: Sess. xxiv. cap. 19.]

His constant study of the Scriptures could not escape
observation, and he was often referred to as an authority in
Hebrew and Chaldee. Being made vicar of the diocese of Sigüenza,
and agent for the estates of a nobleman who had been taken
prisoner by the Moors, Ximenes sighed for retirement, and entered
as a novice a convent of the Franciscan order. But his interior
life was still disturbed. Numbers resorted to him for counsel and
instruction. He prayed to be sent to some more lonely retreat,
and accordingly found his home in a small convent near Toledo,
called after our Lady of Castañar. It stood in the midst of a
forest of chestnuts, and here, like an anchorite of old, he built
a hermitage and supported life on herbs and roots, with water
from the neighboring rill. Though a scourge was in his hand and a
hair-shirt on his body, the Bible he so prized was before him,
angels surrounded him, and the Holy Ghost established within him
a reign of serenity and light.

According to the rule of the Franciscans, he was, ere long, again
removed. He became guardian of the convent of Salzeda, and it was
here, in his fifty-sixth year, that his career, so far as it
concerns history, began. A confessor was required for the devout
and beautiful Queen Isabella, and Cardinal Mendoza, who had been
Bishop of Sigüenza, and knew Ximenes well, recommended him as the
fitting person to guide her conscience. Being summoned to court
on pretence of business, the Franciscan recluse was introduced,
as it were by accident, into the royal presence. Isabella was
charmed by his candor, his modesty, and native dignity. In vain
he declined the office for which he was designed. The queen would
take no refusal, but consented to his residing still in his
monastery, away from the splendor and temptations of a court. He
strove to avoid interference in politics, but Isabella so much
the more applied for his advice in the affairs of state.
{579}
Thus influence over others is often given to those whose only aim
is to acquire the mastery over themselves. Not long after being
made confessor to the queen, Ximenes was elected Provincial of
the Franciscan order for Old and New Castile. He made his
visitations on foot, begged his way like any other of his
brethren, and often lived on raw roots. The order had relaxed its
original strictness, and was divided into _Conventuals_ and
_Observantines_, of whom the latter only adhered to the
letter and spirit of their founder's laws. The report, therefore,
which the provincial had to make to his royal mistress was
anything but favorable, and he consequently became himself an
object of calumny and dislike to those whose vices he sought to
correct. Many of the _Conventuals_ who would not reform were
ejected from their sanctuaries by his order, and his conflict
with evil was silently and surely preparing him for the high post
of Archbishop of Toledo, Primate of Spain, and Chancellor of
Castile. This see had generally been filled by one of noble
birth, and Ferdinand was anxious to bestow it on his natural son,
Alfonso, Bishop of Saragossa. But Isabella was strong in her
resolve to promote Ximenes. On Good Friday, 1495, she sent for
her confessor, and placed a paper in his hands. It was addressed
by his holiness Alexander VI., "To our venerable brother,
Francisco Ximenes de Cisneros, Archbishop-elect of Toledo." As he
read this the friar turned pale. "It cannot be meant for me," he
said, and abruptly left the apartment, dropping the packet.
"Come, brother," he exclaimed to his companion, "we must be gone
in haste." But the royal messengers overtook him on the road to
Ocaña, trudging along bravely in the noontide heat. He was flying
from an archbishopric with 80,000 ducats a year, from power and
influence second only to that of the king, and from towns and
fortresses with numerous vassals. No arguments could induce him
to accept these earthly goods. During six months he persisted in
refusing them, and yielded at last only in obedience to a command
from the sovereign pontiff.

He was now in his sixtieth year. In October, 1495, he was
solemnly consecrated in presence of the two sovereigns, and when,
after the ceremony, he came to do them homage, he said: "I come
to kiss the hands of your majesties, not because they have raised
me to the first see in Spain, but because I hope they will assist
me in supporting the burden which they have placed on my
shoulders." Ximenes was, on the whole, the model of a prelate;
and accordingly we see in him modesty and self-confidence
singularly combined. In the well-balanced mind they react upon
each other and produce each other. Hence, humility is the source
of moral power. No silver adorned Ximenes's table, no ornaments
hung on his walls. His garment was the habit of St. Francis, his
food was coarse, his journeys were made on foot or on a mule's
back, and his palace was turned into a cloister. But many persons
cavilled at this austerity and ascribed it to spiritual pride.
The pope thought it undesirable in the case of a primate of
Spain, and exhorted Ximenes, by letter, to "conform outwardly to
the dignity of his state of life in his dress, attendants, and
everything else relating to the promotion of that respect due to
his authority."

{580}

In private, however, Ximenes continued as mortified as before.
The hair-shirt was next his skin, and he mended with his own hand
the coarse garments concealed by the silks and furs of office.
The sumptuous bed, adorned with ivory, purple, and gold, which
stood in the palace, was never used by him; he slept, though, his
attendants knew it not, on the bare floor, and thus, by night and
day, he kept up in his own person a ceaseless protest against the
prevailing luxury of the times. He feared the seduction of
wealth, and was ever on his guard against the temptations of his
princely domain, consisting of fifteen cities, besides many
villages and towns. But if any presumed on his unworldly habits,
and thought that he must be pliant because he was devout, they
were soon disabused of their mistake. He refused, at the outset
of his primacy, to make any appointments at the instance of great
men, and declared that he was willing at any time to return to
his convent and his beads; but that "no personal considerations
should ever operate with him in distributing the honors of the
Church." Even the brother of Cardinal Mendoza was unable to
obtain from Ximenes the confirmation of his appointment to the
governorship of Cazorla, and his relations, highly incensed,
could gain no redress from the queen. Having thus established his
own independence and freed himself from importunate suitors,
Ximenes saluted Don Pedro de Mendoza one day by the title of
_Adelantado_ of Cazorla, saying that, as no suspicion of
sinister influence could now attach to him, he was happy to
restore Don Pedro to a post for which he knew him to be
qualified.

In the biographies of Gomez and Quintanilla, of Oviedo and
Robles, Marsollier, Fléchier, Baudier, Von Hefele, and Barrett, a
number of such anecdotes may be found, illustrating the diocesan
life of Ximenes, his wonderful penetration, piety, and zeal. But
these, for the most part, we must pass over, and dwell rather on
those events in his career with which the history of his country
is concerned. Several years had passed since the last Moorish
king in Spain had been defeated and stripped of his dominions.
The genius of Washington Irving, the research of Prescott, and
the fancy of Southey and Bulwer have found full scope in
detailing the history of the war of Granada, the surprise of
Zahara, the exploits of the Marquis of Cadiz, the fierce
resistance of the Moors, and the capture of Alhama. But the
Moors, though conquered, had reason to be satisfied with the
terms of the victors. They were allowed by treaty to retain their
mosques and mode of worship, their property, laws, commerce, and
civil tribunals. They had some privileges of which even the
Spaniards were deprived; and if, during the governorship of
Tendilla and the archbishopric of Talavera, the Moors of Granada
were brought under various Catholic influences, they could not
complain of any force or severity being employed by those who
sought to convert them. Talavera, indeed, whom Ximenes had
succeeded as confessor to the queen, was ceaseless in his efforts
for their salvation. He learned Arabic at an advanced age, and
required his clergy also to do the same. He caused portions of
the Scriptures, Liturgy, and Catechism to be translated, and so
recommended the religion he professed by his consistent life and
amiable temper that Mohammedanism in Granada melted away before
the genial light of the gospel, and the Moors themselves came to
love and revere the Christian bishop, whom they called "The Great
Alfaqui," or Doctor.

{581}

Thus far all was progressing hopefully, when, in 1499, Ximenes
was invited by the Catholic sovereigns to assist Talavera in his
important mission. In addition to the means already employed,
Ximenes resorted to a large distribution of presents. "In order,"
says Von Hefele, "that his instructions might make some
impression on their sensual minds, he did not hesitate to make
the Moorish priests and doctors agreeable presents, consisting
chiefly of costly articles of dress and silks. For this object he
encumbered the revenues of his see for many years." [Footnote
167] Conversions followed in great numbers, and Ximenes baptized
in one day 4000 persons. Many of the mosques were converted into
churches, and the sound of bells for Mass and vespers was heard
continually in the midst of a Moslem population. But this success
produced a reaction. The Moors who were zealous for the false
prophet raised a clamor against the archbishop and the
government. The most noisy were arrested by Ximenes's order, but
"in the height of his zeal he overstepped the bounds of the
treaty which the government had made with the Moors, by trying to
impose on the prisoners the obligation of receiving instruction
from his chaplains in the Christian religion. Those who refused
he even punished very severely." [Footnote 168]

    [Footnote 167: Von Hefele, translated by Canon Dalton, p. 62.]

    [Footnote 168: _Id_. p. 64.]

Among those who were thus imprisoned was a noble Moor named
Zegri, who had distinguished himself in the recent wars. Being
obliged to fast several days and wear heavy irons, he suddenly
declared that Allah had appeared to him in a vision and commanded
him to embrace the Christian faith. Certain it is that during the
remainder of his life he attached himself to Ximenes with
constant fidelity, and gave undeniable proofs of the sincerity of
his conversion.

Encouraged by this signal success, Ximenes became more and more
averse to dilatory measures. He believed that Providence designed
the extinction of Islamism in Spain, and that he should best
co-operate with the divine will by prompt and energetic steps.
Some thousand copies of the Koran and other religious books were
delivered up to him by the Moorish _alfaquis_, and committed
to the flames in the public square. Works on medicine only
escaped, and these were afterward placed in the library of the
university which he founded at Alcalá. The children of those
Christians who had become renegades were taken from their parents
and received into the Church, for Ximenes would not suffer a
treaty, which he perhaps considered too temporizing, to stand in
the way of rescuing souls from error and converting an entire
people.

About the end of the year 1499, a terrible outbreak checked for a
time the progress of evangelization. Salzedo, the archbishop's
major-domo, was sent by his master into the city with another
servant and an officer of justice to seize the daughter of an
apostate from Christianity. The young woman, however, raised a
cry against the violation of the treaty; the Moors rushed to her
aid; the officer of justice was killed by a stone; and the
major-domo escaped a like fate only by secreting himself under
the bed of an old Moorish woman who offered him assistance. The
Albaycin, or Moslem quarter of the city, containing 5,000
dwellings, rose in arms. The palace of Ximenes was the object of
their attack, and they cried for the blood of him whom a few days
before they had extolled with praises.

{582}

The archbishop's friends urged him to fly to the fortress by a
secret passage. But they knew not the temper of the man whom they
counselled. He would never, he said, desert his servants in the
hour of danger. All night he was engaged with them in repelling
the Moors' assaults, and in the morning the Count of Tendilla
arrived from the Alhambra with an armed force, and rescued
Ximenes from imminent peril. The outbreak, however, was not so
easily subdued. The herald sent by the count to the rebels was
murdered, and his staff of office was broken in contempt. Nine
days this frantic resistance continued, though without even a
remote prospect of ultimate success. Ximenes tried in vain to
soothe the raging multitude; but the milder archbishop, Talavera,
going forth with his cross and a single chaplain, like Pope Leo
when he encountered Attila, the crowd of rebels became appeased,
and pressed round him to kiss his garment's hem. The governor
Tendilla then appeared before them in a civil attire, threw his
scarlet bonnet among the crowd, promised his influence to obtain
the royal pardon, and left his wife and two children as hostages
in the Albaycin.

Meanwhile, Ximenes, on the third day of the revolt, sent to the
sovereigns at Seville an account of what had happened. His
messenger was an Ethiopian slave--one of the telegraphic wires of
those days--who could run fifty leagues in forty-eight hours. But
the slave got drunk on the way, and arrived in Seville five days
after he was despatched, instead of two. Reports frightfully
exaggerated had reached the king and queen. The court was in a
panic. Ximenes was blamed for his indiscretion; and Ferdinand,
who had not forgotten the preference given to Ximenes over
Alfonso of Aragon, his natural son, bitterly reproached Isabella
for having raised an incompetent monk to the see of Toledo. But
the archbishop soon appeared to plead his own cause. The king and
queen were not only satisfied with his explanations, but thanked
him for his services, and assented to his proposal that the
inhabitants of the Albaycin should be punished for high treason,
unless they purchased their pardon by being baptized. The treaty
made with the Moors was thought to be annulled by the violence of
the Moslems themselves. Those who persisted in their errors
retired to the mountains or crossed over into Barbary; but by far
the greater part of the Moors embraced Christianity, and the
number of the converts is computed at about 60,000. Ximenes and
Talavera together catechised the people, working in perfect
harmony, except in reference to the translation of the Bible into
Arabic. Talavera wished to make the version complete, while
Ximenes, on the contrary, was of opinion that the Scriptures
should be preserved in the ancient languages hallowed by being
used in the inscriptions on the cross. To place the Bible in the
vulgar tongue in the hands of neophytes and ignorant persons was,
he believed, to cast pearls before swine, and would certainly
issue in spiritual revolt. But the friendship of the two prelates
remained unbroken, and Talavera declared that the triumphs of
Ximenes exceeded those of Ferdinand and Isabella, since they had
conquered only the soil, while he had won the souls of Granada.
There can be no doubt that in the mass of converts there were
many unworthy persons who afterward disgraced their profession.
It will always be thus when worldly advantages are held out to
proselytes; but Ximenes knew that this would be the case, and was
prepared to meet the evil with appropriate remedies. He believed
that good on the whole would result from his decisive measures;
that many, to say the least, of the conversions would be sincere,
and that the children of the converts in general would be
educated in the true religion.
{583}
We do not criticise his conduct, neither do we altogether set it
up as exemplary. It was more suitable to his time and country
than it would be to ours; and having recorded it faithfully, our
work is done. By whatever means accomplished, the result has been
a happy one. Islamism, after many spasmodic attempts at revival,
has died out of Spain, and the cause of European morality and
civilization has been saved from its most formidable enemy.

Ximenes was in his sixty-fourth year when extreme activity
brought on a severe illness and endangered his life. Every day
his energies were divided between the sovereigns who required his
counsel and aid, and the converts, chiefs, and others who
listened to his instructions. The king and queen evinced the
greatest concern for him when smitten down with fever, and
removed him from the fortress of the Alhambra, which was exposed
to the wind, to the royal summer-house of Xeneralifa. Isabella in
particular bestowed on the venerable prelate her utmost care. He
was soon able to walk along the banks of the Darro and enjoy its
pure and bracing air, soon able to return to his beloved Alcalá,
where he was founding the university which has made his name
blessed for ever; while the queen, so much younger than himself,
who had raised him so high, and from whose sympathy and
protection he had so much to expect, the queen who was "the
mirror of every virtue, the shield of the innocent, and an
avenging sword to the wicked," [Footnote 169]  was ere long
[Footnote 170] to be called away from her earthly throne, and
leave her aged and faithful servant to fight his way in the midst
of those who understood him less perfectly and prized him less
highly than she had done.

    [Footnote 169: Peter Martyr, _Epist_. 279.]

    [Footnote 170: November 26th, 1504.]

He was engaged, at this time, in a great work. The new
university, founded by him at Alcalá in 1500, became the rival of
Salamanca, and was called by the Spaniards "the eighth wonder of
the world." From the moment he was made Archbishop of Toledo, he
resolved to devote its immense revenues to the construction of
this seat of learning. The spot was pleasant, the air pure, and
the site of the ancient Complutum was hallowed in the eyes of all
whose sympathies were with the past. Gonsalvo Zegri, the
converted Moor, assisted at laying the foundation-stone; and
Ximenes obtained from his royal patrons an annual grant and
sundry privileges for the projected establishment. Thither
Ximenes repaired, as to his fondest occupation, whenever the
duties of state and of his diocese permitted. Often he might be
seen on the ground, with the rule in his hand, taking
measurements of the works, and encouraging the laborers by his
example and by suitable rewards. Pope Julius II. issued a brief
authorizing the endowment, and Leo X. afterward augmented the
liberties of the new foundation. The College of San Ildefonso
stood at its head; in 1508, several students arrived, and 33
professors with 12 priests were installed, who answered in their
numbers to the years of our Lord's life and his college of
apostles. Schools were attached for boarders, lectures and
disputations were set on foot, classes were formed, scholarships
founded, examinations publicly conducted, and diplomas conferred.
The intellect of the students was exercised in every branch of
knowledge--in the ancient languages, including Hebrew, in
theology, canon law, medicine, anatomy, surgery, philosophy,
moral philosophy, mathematics, rhetoric, and grammar.
{584}
The physical sciences were as yet little known and barely
studied. Theology spread its arms widely beneath and around all
attainable knowledge. In 1514, King Ferdinand visited the
university, attended some of the lectures, and expressed his
admiration of the grandeur and beauty of the buildings. They were
but a feeble sign of the mental fabrics which Ximenes was raising
to the honor of Spain and for her service. Patriotism blended in
him with religion, and helped to make him what he was.

Some years after the death of Ximenes, Francis I., of France, on
visiting Alcalá, is reported to have said: "Your cardinal has
undertaken and accomplished a work I myself could not attempt.
The University of Paris, which is the pride of my kingdom, is the
work of many sovereigns. But Ximenes alone has founded one like
it."

It was by a ruthless decree that this grand and famous seat of
learning was finally broken up, in 1850, by the creation of a
central university and the sale of the buildings to the Count de
Quinto. [Footnote 171] The inhabitants resolved at least to save
the rich tomb of the illustrious cardinal, and the translation of
his remains was effected with great solemnity on the 27th of
April, 1857.

    [Footnote 171: _L'Univers_, June 6th, 1857.]

It was in this university that Ximenes published that noble
Polyglot by which he earned the praise and gratitude of all
biblical students. The text of the sacred Scriptures had become
deplorably corrupt at the commencement of the fifteenth century,
owing to the inattention or ignorance of copyists. But the
invention of printing gave a new impetus to every branch of
learning, and promised biblical scholars great advantages in
their study of the Bible. From the year 1462 to 1500 no less than
eighty editions of the Vulgate appeared; and the zeal of Jews in
amending the Hebrew text became an invaluable assistance to the
labors of Christians in the same field. The constant perversion
of the meaning of Scripture by those who were aliens to the
Church made it increasingly necessary to study the Bible in its
original languages, so as to be able to refute the impudent
assertions of upstart divines. Hence Ximenes, whose designs were
naturally grand, formed the intention not only of raising a new
university, but of publishing a new edition of the Scriptures in
their original tongues, and of thus restoring in some measure the
lost _Hexapla_ of Origen. No translation, he held, could
perfectly represent the original, and the MSS. of the Latin
Vulgate were painfully discrepant. It was needful, therefore, to
go back to the prime sources, and "correct the books of the Old
Testament by the Hebrew text, and those of the New Testament by
the Greek text." [Footnote 172]

    [Footnote 172: Prolegomena to the Polyglot.]

Having thus resolved to revive the dormant study of Holy Writ,
Ximenes's next step was to procure assistance from learned men,
and access to the most ancient MSS. Several Jewish converts were
enlisted, and, besides other professors, a Greek named Demetrius
Ducas. They were all handsomely paid and stimulated to the utmost
exertion. "Make haste, my friends," Ximenes would say; "for, as
all things in this world are transient, you may lose me or I may
lose you. Let us work together while we can." Enormous sums were
spent by him in the purchase of MSS., and some were lent to him
by Pope Leo X., who honored him as sincerely as he loved the fine
arts.
{585}
To these loans Ximenes refers in the introduction to the
Polyglot. It is calculated by Gomez that nearly £25,000 sterling
(50,000 ducats=$125,000) were spent in bringing the work to a
conclusion. The sale bore no proportion to the publishing
expenses, as 600 copies only were struck off, and these, though
consisting of six folios, were sold at six and a half ducats
each. The price of the copies still in existence varies according
to the state in which they have been preserved; but it ranges
from £40 to ^£75. The Polyglot occupied fifteen years in its
completion, and the New Testament, which forms the sixth volume
of the work, appeared first in order of time. The Greek, being
without the accents, has a strange appearance, but the editors
excuse themselves on the ground of the accents not having been
used by the ancient Greeks, nor by the original writers of the
New Testament. The volume, on the whole, is beautifully printed,
while the grammar and lexicon which accompanies it made it a
valuable means of promoting the study of Greek. The Pentateuch
appeared in Hebrew, Chaldee, and Greek, together with three Latin
translations. The roots of difficult words in the Hebrew and
Chaldaic texts are given in the margin, and this is no mean
assistance to beginners in studying these languages, in which the
radical meaning pervades all the derivatives in so marked a
degree. Altogether, it was a boon to mankind, munificent in its
cost, noble in its design, beautiful in execution, and as
profound in scholarship as it could be in the age in which it saw
the light. When John Brocario, the printer's son, brought the
last sheets to the cardinal in his best attire, Ximenes raised
his eyes to heaven with great joy, and exclaimed: "I give thee
thanks, O God most high! that thou hast brought to a
long-wished-for end the work I undertook in thy name." Only four
months later his eyes were closed in death. The Complutensian
Polyglot became very useful in preparing subsequent editions of
the Scriptures; and though the labors of Griesbach, Buxtorf,
Michaelis, and other critics have thrown its authority into the
shade, it was an important link in the chain which has issued in
the present comparative purity of sacred texts. All real scholars
award it cheerfully their meed of praise, and the charges brought
against it by Wetstein and Semler have been amply refuted. It is
an astonishing production, considering the disadvantages under
which its compilers lay, that they had not access to the best and
most ancient MSS., and that the _Codex Vaticanus_ was not
within their reach. What MSS. were really used we shall never
know; for, besides that many were returned to their owners after
the Polyglot was completed, others, which had been purchased,
were sold in 1749 as waste-paper to a rocket-maker named Torzo!

As the reform of the Franciscan order was the first glory of the
hermit of Castañar, and the foundation of a great university the
second, so the Bible of Alcalá will ever be regarded as the third
durable monument of Ximenes's vast and varied powers.

But his literary labors were not confined to Holy Writ. He set on
foot a complete edition of the works of Aristotle; and though his
death interrupted the design, he was able to bring out many other
useful books, in Latin and Spanish, for the use of the learned
and the instruction of the people. The demand for such works was
then steadily increasing, and the supply not being equal to it,
there was difficulty in finding on sale, fifty years later, a
single copy of the volumes Ximenes had edited.
{586}
Ecclesiastical music-books also, which had hitherto been in
manuscript, were published by him, and distributed through the
churches of his diocese, so that the Gregorian chant, to which he
was strongly attached, might be better known and practised. Nor
did he forget works on agriculture, being desirous of promoting
in every way the welfare of his kind.

Finding among the MSS. in the library of Toledo a number of
liturgies in old Gothic characters, he conceived a design of
rescuing from destruction the Mozarabic or Mixt-Arabic rite. Its
use was long confined to Toledo and to some parishes where
Christians lived under Moorish dominion. Then, in course of time,
the Mozarabic families having died out, and the reign of the
Moors being at an end, the Gregorian rite superseded the old
Gothic one, and the memory of it was kept alive only by
occasional use on certain festivals. It was evidently desirable,
for the sake of history and literature, to collate the MSS. of
this ancient liturgy, and preserve it in a printed form for
future generations. This task Ximenes accomplished in a manner
worthy of his comprehensive genius. He printed a number of
Mozarabic missals and breviaries, changing the Gothic characters
into Castilian, and erected a chapel in his cathedral where the
Mozarabic Mass might be said daily. He founded a college of
thirteen priests, who should recite the canonical hours, and
perform other functions according to this liturgy. Robles
himself, Ximenes's biographer, was one of these chaplains. This
foundation gave rise to others of the same kind in Salamanca and
Valladolid. They have fully answered the purpose of the founder,
and Mozarabic missals can easily be purchased at the present day.

The obstacles which Ximenes had to overcome in reforming his
diocese were very serious, but he encountered them with the
utmost firmness. The bishops enjoyed at that period immense
revenues, the benefices of priests were richly endowed, and the
clergy were too numerous, lax in morals, and often extremely
ignorant. The corruption of the Castilian court was scandalous,
and the natural children of kings and princes were constantly
elevated to episcopal sees. The monasteries were changed into
abodes of luxury, and it needed a queen like Isabella, and a
primate like Ximenes, to stem the tide of licentiousness. His
first effort was to reform the lives and habits of his chapter,
and in this attempt he was opposed by a canon named Albornoz,
whom he caused to be arrested on his way to Rome and cast into
prison. Severe measures were indispensable in the state of
society then existing. His own life as a bishop was strict in the
extreme. He shunned all intercourse with women, and sitting
always with a Bible open before him, he had no time for idle and
intrusive visitors. His charities made him beloved by the poor,
and all the decrees issued by the synods under his presidency
tended to revive the spirit and the forms of true religion. The
strict rule of the Observantines was introduced into the
Franciscan order, and those who would not conform to it were
expelled [from] the country. The valiant reformer raised up
enemies enough by his courage and zeal; but honest intentions
such as his and force of character only triumph the more signally
by being opposed. His friends pointed to his works of mercy as
the best answer to the calumnies of petty foes.
{587}
He raised twelve churches; he founded four hospitals and eight
monasteries; he fed thirty poor persons daily at his palace,
visited the hospitals, and pensioned desolate widows. Would his
enemies, even if they had possessed the means, have done the
like?

When Isabella died, Ximenes, holding in one hand the archbishop's
cross, grasped in the other the sceptre of state. Joanna, the
consort of Philip the Fair, who inherited the crown of Castile,
had become the prey of a disordered imagination. Her husband
would not reside in Spain, and she would not consent to live
there without him. Isabella had foreseen her incompetency and
probable absence. She had appointed Ferdinand of Aragon, her own
husband, Regent of Castile, till her grandson Charles should have
attained his twentieth year. The nobles of Castile factiously
resisted this wise provision; and though Ferdinand acted with
prudence and moderation, though he caused his daughter Joanna,
with Philip her husband, to be proclaimed sovereigns, and
contented himself with administering the affairs of state in
their absence, a struggle ensued in which Ximenes sided
constantly with Ferdinand, and adhered closely to the terms of
Isabella's will. Philip prepared an army to drive his
father-in-law from Castile, while Joanna wrote to him requesting
that he would not resign the government, and surrendering her
rights to him in the most earnest and affectionate terms.

By the wisdom and resolution of Ximenes, the rupture between
Philip and Ferdinand was partially healed. He mediated between
them with admirable _finesse_, and his success was the more
remarkable because he found in Philip a faithless, wrong-headed,
and vindictive man, the slave of passion and the dupe of evil
counsellors; while the confidence reposed in him by Ferdinand was
not always complete, nor equal at any time to that placed in him
by the virtuous and noble Isabella. With his consent Philip was
allowed to have his own way, and to govern Castile without the
assistance of Ferdinand. But Philip was removed from this world
in the flower of his age, and thus the path was opened for
Ximenes becoming Regent of Castile. He was by this time
thoroughly conversant with the affairs of state. Every Thursday
he gave an audience to the king's chief ministers, and heard from
them the most important matters which were next day to be brought
before the council. On Friday he gave these matters again his
careful consideration, and then handed in a report respecting
them to the king.

It was in September, 1506, that Philip died after a short
illness, and Ximenes, with several others, was chosen provisional
administrator of the kingdom. His powers were soon increased, and
exalted above those of his colleagues. He had a difficult part to
play, for the Castilian nobles were passionate and intriguing,
and the disconsolate widow Joanna refused to endorse his
authority as regent. She sat nearly all day long in a dark
chamber, with her face resting on her hand, silent, bitter, and
sorrowful, listening only at intervals to sweet music which
nursed her melancholy. These eccentricities ended in total
derangement. She disinterred her husband's corpse at Miraflorés,
contrary to the laws of the church and to Philip's will, and
ordered it to be conveyed before her by torch-light to the town
of Torquemada. Endless funereal ceremonies were performed, and
fantastic images of death and grief were multiplied in virtue of
her diseased imagination.
{588}
She insisted on residing in a little town where her court and
attendants could scarcely find a cabin-roof to screen them from
sun and storm.

In August, 1507, the unhappy queen, wild and haggard in
appearance, attended by the corpse of her royal husband, met her
father Ferdinand at Tortolés. With her consent he assumed the
reins of government, and Ximenes resigned his powers into the
hands of the king. His services had been great, and Ferdinand was
too noble to leave them unrewarded. The archbishop was named
Cardinal and Grand-Inquisitor of Castile and Leon. Never was a
cardinal's hat bestowed at Rome with greater satisfaction; and
the important office of grand-inquisitor, which was attached to
the higher dignity, will be estimated more correctly after a few
observations.

It was the opinion of St. Augustine, who herein followed that of
St. Ambrose and St. Leo, that persons ought not to be put to
death for heresy, but the great doctor did not disapprove of
force being employed to restrain and correct heresy. This opinion
became the basis of the civil laws of Theodosius II. and
Valentinian III.; but in the middle ages the alliance between
church and state was much closer than it had been in earlier
years, and it was usual to punish obstinate heresy as a twofold
crime worthy of death. St. Thomas Aquinas defends this as
reasonable, but St. Bernard was in favor of a more lenient
policy. Ecclesiastical tribunals were established in which cases
of heresy were tried, and the civil magistrates were required by
law to carry into effect the judgment of bishops. Papal legates
also, like Peter de Castelnau, were often entrusted with
inquisitorial powers. The Council of Toulouse, in 1229, issued
various decrees relative to the suppression of heresy, [Footnote
173] and may thus be considered as founding the first
inquisition.  [Footnote 174] The Dominicans especially were
employed in the work of extirpating heresy, and but for the
exertions of such men the nations of Europe would have been
overrun with Manichaeism and various other forms of pestilent
error. The Jews settled in Spain, penetrated in disguise every
branch of society, and strove in every age to Judaize the people.
The inquisition was directed in a particular manner against this
subtle influence, and the peculiar nature of the evil required
peculiar remedies and antidotes. It was Judaism in the church
that it labored to extirpate, and not the race of Israel dwelling
in the Peninsula.

    [Footnote 173: Harduin, tome vii. pp. 173-178.]

    [Footnote 174: Von Hefele, p. 286.]

The inquisitors of Seville took office in 1481, and were
appointed by the sovereigns Ferdinand and Isabella. Nothing was
more natural than that they should seek to rid the body politic
of a gangrene so fatal as secret Judaism. Yet Sixtus IV. had
occasion to rebuke the royal inquisitors for their needless
severity and to take measures for the mitigation of their
sentences. But the tribunal was placed more and more under the
control of the state, and whether clergymen or laymen were
employed, they were alike subservient to the Spanish government.
In 1492, when, by a memorable edict, the Jews were ordered to
quit Spain, unless they submitted to be baptized, the sphere of
the inquisition's labors became greatly enlarged in consequence
of the increased number of Jews who professed Christianity from
worldly motives alone. The Moriscos also, or baptized Moors, came
within the sphere of its action; and it was introduced into
Granada by the advice of the second grand-inquisitor, Deza, in
order to prevent their relapsing into Islamism.

{589}

The sovereigns of Castile and Aragon promoted the inquisition for
other motives besides those here alluded to. They used it as an
instrument for consolidating their own power and breaking that of
the clergy and nobles. Piombal, at a later period, did the same
in Portugal. Hence it was popular with the lower classes,
detested by the aristocracy, and often censured by popes. To
these facts Ranke and Balmez abundantly testify, and their
evidence is confirmed by that of Henry Leo, Guizot, Havemann,
Lenormant, De Maistre, and Spittler. The falsehoods of Llorente
respecting the inquisition have been fully exposed, and those who
sift the matter thoroughly will find that it was latterly more a
political than a religious institution; that the cruelties it
exercised have been enormously exaggerated; that it was in
accordance with principles universally recognized in its day;
that its punishments, however severe, were in keeping with the
ordinary penal laws; that the popes constantly endeavored to
mitigate its decrees; that Gregory XIII., Paul III., Pius IV.,
and Innocent XII., in particular, reclaimed against its rigors;
that its intentions were good on the whole; its proceedings
tempered with mercy; and that Ximenes, the third
grand-inquisitor, conducted himself in that office with
moderation and humanity, provided for the instruction of Jewish
and Moorish converts, and "adopted every expedient to diminish
the number of judicial cases reserved for the tribunal of the
inquisition." [Footnote 175]

    [Footnote 175: Von Hefele, p. 387.]

He caused Lucero, the cruel inquisitor of Cordova, to be
arrested, tried, and deposed from his high functions. He
protected Lebrija, Vergara, and other learned men from envious
aspersions, and kept a strict watch over the officers of the
inquisition, lest they should exceed their instructions or abuse
their power. He endeavored, but without success in Ferdinand's
lifetime, to exclude laymen from the council, and thus free the
tribunal as far as possible from state influence. The number of
those who suffered punishment under his _régime_ has been
greatly exaggerated by Llorente; and if he introduced the
inquisition into Oran, America, and the Canary Isles, it must be
remembered that its jurisdiction extended over the old Christians
settled there, and not over the natives.

In reviewing Ximenes's conduct in such matters, we must never
lose sight of the fact that absolute unity of religion was then
the aim of all Catholic governments, whereas circumstances are
now altered, and the question of religious liberty, though the
same in the abstract, is wholly changed in its practical
application. But the scene now changes. We have seen the hermit
of Castañar doff his cowl to wear a mitre, found the University
of Alcalá, edit the famous Polyglot, and rule as regent the
kingdom of Castile. We shall now behold him mount a war-charger,
place himself at the head of an army, and lead it to victory on
the coasts of Africa. We shall admire and wonder at the
versatility of his genius, and the resolution and activity which
no difficulties could break nor advancing years slacken. It would
be easy to point out resemblances between Ximenes and the fiery
Chatham, nor can we wonder that the latter statesman admired the
former more than any other character in history. [Footnote 176]

    [Footnote 176: Horace Walpole's _George II_. p. iii. 19.]

{590}

The cardinal had a double reason for advising Ferdinand to employ
the troops which Gonsalvo de Cordova had led to victory in Italy,
in the conquest of some stronghold on the African coast.
Mazarquivir was taken in 1505, and Ximenes, expanding his designs
as usual, conceived a vaster project for a new crusade and the
recovery of the Holy Sepulchre. It had been for ages the favorite
and oft-baffled scheme of popes and Christian princes. It seemed
to realize every hope of Catholic domination in Europe, and to
involve the downfall of Islamism. The idea was as glorious as the
accomplishment would be useful to humanity. It was the cause of
civilization against barbarism, and of truth against error. But
the strife between Philip and Ferdinand, already referred to,
completely frustrated it, and the loss of Mazarquivir, in 1507,
supplied Ximenes with an opportunity of opposing Mohammedanism
nearer home and under more urgent circumstances. At his earnest
request a fleet was fitted out for the conquest of Oran. That
city was strongly fortified, rich and powerful, and in its
harbors were a multitude of cruisers, ever ready to sweep the
shores of the Mediterranean and carry off their victims to be
sold as slaves. Though in his seventy-second year, though
hampered by the infirmities common at such an age, Ximenes
resolved to march in person to the conquest of this place, and to
furnish the means required for the expedition out of his own
revenues. He would thus, he thought, be able to pursue his own
plans with greater freedom, and exempt the king from
responsibility and loss which he might not be able or willing to
incur. There were those who sneered at the cardinal's girding on
his sword, and murmured that he had better tell his beads, but
Ferdinand knew well the temper of his mind. He willingly placed
at his disposal all the forces that could be raised, and gave him
a large number of blank papers, signed only with the royal
manual, to be filled up as the great cardinal might think proper.
Fourteen thousand men were soon under arms, and Count Pedro
Navarro was appointed by Ximenes commander of the forces. A
titular bishop was at the head of one division, and all the
generals were distinguished for their valor. During some years
Ximenes had been husbanding his resources for some such
enterprise, and subsidies flowed in from other churches and
dioceses.

Intrigues and jealousies delayed for awhile the sailing of the
expedition. Navarro strove to obtain the sole command. Ferdinand
was often wavering. A mutiny broke out in the army. The soldiers
demanded their pay in advance. But the voice of the cardinal
calmed the storm, and the soldiers, being promised a part of
their pay as soon as they had embarked, hastened to the ships
with the merry sound of trumpets. On the 16th of May, 1509, the
fleet weighed anchor. Ten galleys, eighty large transports, and
many smaller vessels traversed the straits, and on the following
day--the Feast of the Ascension--Ximenes with his fleet and army
anchored in the port of Mazarquivir. He passed the night in
giving his instructions; and though his health and strength were
impaired by age, toil, and study, his energy filled the troops
with confidence and enthusiasm. He summoned Navarro before him,
and entrusted the conduct of the army to him alone, yet the
relative positions of the cardinal and the commander were not,
after all, clearly defined

{591}

The lines were formed in order of battle, when a striking scene
presented itself. Oran was to be attacked by sea and land. A
mendicant friar was transformed into a chieftain and a hero.
Forth he rode, mounted on a mule, with a sword belted over his
pontifical robes. Many ecclesiastics surrounded him. Canons and
priests were his body-guard. Swords and scimitars hung from their
girdles, and before them rode a giant Franciscan on a white
charger, bearing the primate's silver cross and the arms of the
house of Cisneros. The hymn _Vexilla regis prodeunt_ rose to
heaven as the cavalcade advanced; and the cardinal, riding along
the ranks, imposed silence and harangued the troops. His words
were few, but full of fire. The mothers of Spain, he said, whose
children had been dragged into slavery, were prostrate at that
moment before the altar of God, praying for success to his
soldiers' arms. He desired to share their danger, remembering how
many bishops who had preceded him in the see of Toledo had died
gloriously on the battle-field.

Officers and men were excited to the utmost by Ximenes's address,
but when he was about to place himself at their head, they
entreated him with one voice not to expose so precious a life. He
retired, therefore, within the fortress of Mazarquivir, and
there, in the oratory of St. Michael, implored the God of battles
to crown his troops with victory. Scarcely had he entered the
fort, when the folly of Navarro compelled the cardinal to
interfere. The commander had ordered the cavalry to remain
inactive, because the country was so hilly, and if Ximenes had
not resolutely insisted on their supporting the foot-soldiers,
the day would probably have been lost. With like energy Ximenes
condemned any delay as criminal, and prevented Navarro from
deferring the combat, as he proposed, to the next day, when the
arrival of the chief-vizier of Tremesen with strong
re-enforcements would have been dangerous, if not fatal, to the
Spaniards' prospect of success.

The infantry, therefore, in four battalions, advanced immediately
up the sides of the sierra, shouting, "Santiago, Santiago!" A
shower of stones and arrows was hurled on them by the Moors, and
the position was obstinately disputed. But a battery of guns
playing on the enemy's flank, they wavered and fled, while the
Spaniards, in spite of contrary orders, pursued and slaughtered
them with great havoc. The fleet, meanwhile, bombarded the city,
and, though ill provided with ladders, the Christian troops
scaled the walls, planted their colors, and with loud cries of
"Santiago y Ximenes!" opened the gates to their comrades. In vain
did their general call them off from the work of carnage. No age
or sex was spared; till at last, weary with plunder and butchery,
they sank down in the streets, and slept beside the corpses of
their foes. Four thousand Moors were said to have fallen, and
only thirty Spaniards. The booty was counted at half a million of
gold ducats.

The cardinal spent the night in praising God, and the next day,
proceeding by sea to Oran, made a solemn entry. The troops hailed
him as the conqueror, but he was heard to say aloud, "_Non
nobis, Domine, sed nomini tuo da gloriam_." He set at liberty
three hundred Christian captives; and when the entire spoil of
the city was presented to him, he reserved nothing for himself,
but set apart a portion for the king, and divided the rest among
his troops. Sixty pieces of cannon fell into his hands, and it
seemed little less than a miracle that a place so defended should
have been taken in a few hours.
{592}
Others affirmed that there had been traitors among the
inhabitants, and that Ximenes had gained over to his side some
persons who acted as spies and gave him secret intelligence. The
mosques were soon converted into churches, and a branch of the
inquisition was established, lest convert Jews should hasten from
Spain to Oran and renounce the Christian religion with impunity.

It now became a question whether the war should be pushed further
into Africa. The people of Tremesen, stung to madness by the fall
of Oran, had massacred the Christian merchants and slaughtered
even the Jews. But Navarro had grown jealous of Ximenes, and
scorned to obey orders issued by a monk. He informed the cardinal
that his power expired with the siege of Oran, and that, if he
remained with the army any longer, he would be treated as a
private individual. To this indignity Ximenes would not submit,
yet he had no desire to continue in Africa. A letter of
Ferdinand's, which he saw by chance, instructed Navarro to detain
him there as long as might be needful; and he suspected that the
king wished him to languish and die on a foreign shore. He knew
that Ferdinand could ill bear to see the glory of Gonsalvo de
Cordova, "the great captain," and his special friend, to be
obscured by that of a general in a monk's cowl, but he was not
disposed to gratify his royal master by dying before his time.

Just a week after he had landed, the cardinal set sail on his
return. He remained seven days at Carthagena; established a line
of transports to run between it and Oran, and then departed for
Alcalá, where he made his entry with a sort of military triumph.
A part of the walls had been broken down for him to pass through,
but this honor he declined, and contented himself with entering
through the usual gate, preceded by Moorish slaves leading camels
laden with booty. The keys of Oran, chandeliers from the mosques,
banners, and Arabic MSS. on medicine and astrology were presented
to the university; and a tablet was placed in the Mozarabic
chapel of the cathedral of Toledo, with an inscription recording
the success of the expedition. Some of these curiosities are
still shown to visitors in the cathedral; but the fame of Ximenes
has little need of such memorials. As a martial expedition was an
enterprise least to be expected of him, so it is that which marks
him most prominently on the page of history.

The capture of Oran led to further conquests on the coasts of
Africa; yet, after all, the declining power of Spain made it
difficult to retain what she had acquired, and impossible to
extend her dominions. In 1790, after a dreadful earthquake, Oran
fell into the hands of the Dey of Algiers. Since then, it has
been annexed to the French empire, under conditions more
favorable to civilization than it enjoyed under Spanish rule.

One of the conditions attached by Ximenes to the conquest of Oran
had been that it should either be annexed to the archbishopric of
Toledo, or that the expenses he might incur should be refunded
from the treasury. Cabals, however, were raised against him. He
was charged with having enriched himself, and the promised
conditions seemed likely to stay unfulfilled. He persisted in his
claim, wrote to Ferdinand on the subject, and was mortified by
seeing a commission appointed to examine his private apartments,
in order to ascertain what part of the spoils he had reserved for
himself.
{593}
The account-book, which he handed to the commissioner, was the
only reply he made to this indignity. Not long after, the king
proposed that he should exchange the archbishopric of Toledo for
that of Zaragoza, and yield the primacy to Ferdinand's natural
son, a brave warrior and able politician, but a worldly prelate.
To this unworthy proposal Ximenes made answer that he would never
exchange his see for any other. He was willing to return to the
poverty of a cloister, but if he held any see at all it should be
that one over which Providence had appointed him to rule.

Cold and capricious as Ferdinand was sometimes toward the
cardinal, he treated him with the same respect as ever when his
own interests or those of the state seemed to require it. When he
had espoused the cause of Julius II. against the King of France,
he sent for Ximenes to meet him at Seville and aid him with his
counsels. It was in the depth of winter, but the cardinal
promptly obeyed the summons. He admired the bold attitude assumed
by the pope, and heartily sympathized with his efforts to recover
the territories which had been torn from the Church, to extend
the temporal sovereignty of the successor of St. Peter, to compel
his vassals to obey him, and to humble the power of Venice, then
mistress of almost all his seaports. He saw with satisfaction the
blows inflicted on the pride and insolence of the Baglionis and
Bentivoglios, and he approved of the League of Cambray, by which
Julius II., Louis XII., the Emperor of Germany, and the King of
Spain bound themselves to enfeeble Venice and avenge the injuries
she had done to the domains of the Church. But Ximenes, though he
concurred in the papal policy as regards Venice, shared also the
fears of the sovereign pontiff lest France should extend her
possessions in the north of Italy. He justified Julius II. in
withdrawing from the League into which he had entered, and was
prepared to afford him every assistance in resisting the
arrogance of Louis XII. when he seized on Bologna and convened a
council at Pisa, in defiance of the Holy See. The adhesion of
Ferdinand and Ximenes encouraged Pope Julius to form an alliance
with Venice, and thus to oppose the united forces of the Emperor
Maximilian and Louis XII. Under the auspices of these princes a
schismatical council dared to assemble at Pisa, and afterward at
Milan. Seven insubordinate cardinals and twenty bishops, chiefly
French, were present at the opening, and in the eighth and ninth
sessions they audaciously declared Julius II. deposed. But a
general council, convened by the pope, met in the Lateran in
1512, condemned these schismatical proceedings, and restored the
wavering to obedience. Even Maximilian deserted the King of
France, and Henry VIII. of England sided with Ferdinand against
the pope's enemies.

It may here be mentioned that Ximenes was averse to the
distribution of indulgences under Julius II. and Leo X. for the
completion of St. Peter's in Rome. The ground on which he
disapproved of it was, that the relaxation of temporal punishment
which these indulgences conferred might weaken and disturb
ecclesiastical discipline. Devoutly submissive as he was to the
Holy See, he nevertheless, as Gomez relates, advised Ferdinand to
enact a law by which all papal bulls should, before publication,
be submitted to a minister of state. His object was to guard
against abuses, since dispensations were often obtained too
easily from Rome.

{594}

During Ferdinand's last illness, Ximenes occupied a prominent
post in the affairs of state; and on one occasion, when the
sovereign was absent from Castile, the government was entrusted
to him, in concert with the royal council. It was, therefore,
natural that, when the king died, he should be appointed regent
during the minority of Charles V. Ferdinand had, it is true,
objected to him as too austere, but he yielded to the advice of
others, and consented to the appointment immediately before
receiving the last sacraments. It was, he thought, an advantage
in his case not to have been born of a noble family, since he
could on that account conduct the administration with greater
impartiality. Thus, on the 23d of January, 1516, Ximenes became
once more the ruler of a nation daily rising in importance.

Another claimant of supreme power appeared on the scene. This was
Dean Hadrian, afterward pope, who had been tutor to Prince
Charles, and who produced a document signed by the prince,
authorizing him to assume the regency of Castile in the event of
Ferdinand's demise. The legal decision on the question was
unfavorable to Hadrian's claim; but Ximenes, wishing to avoid
disputes, consented to rule conjointly with his rival until
Charles himself should decide by which of the two he would be
represented. Nothing could exceed the promptitude and energy of
the cardinal's measures. If an insurrection broke out, troops
were despatched instantly to suppress it. Madrid was in the
neighborhood of his own vassals, and he therefore chose it as the
seat of government, lest he might in some other place be exposed
to the violence of interfering grandees.

The authority given in the first instance to Ximenes was fully
confirmed by Charles, and in a letter which he addressed to the
cardinal he declared that "the most excellent clause he had found
in his grandfather's will was that by which Ximenes was invested
with the government of the kingdom and the administration of
justice." The fame of the consummate wisdom, experience, and
eminent virtues of the cardinal had reached, he said, even
Flanders; and he therefore enjoined on all the members of his
family, the nobles and prelates, to recognize him as regent. To
Hadrian the prince assigned a subordinate post, and every
arrangement was made with due regard to the rights of the unhappy
Queen Joanna, whose derangement made her practically a cipher,
though nominally supreme ruler. Her name preceded that of her son
Charles in all public documents; but the prince was proclaimed
King of Castile by order of Ximenes. It was not until Charles
arrived in Spain that the Cortes of Aragon consented to recognize
his title as king of that country also.

The height of power is generally the height of discomfort. Many
of the nobles combined to harass Ximenes, and incite the people
to rebel against "a monk of base extraction." They questioned his
authority, and decided on sending messengers to Flanders to
demand his dismissal. The cardinal, however, was fully apprised
of all their plans; and it is said by Gomez that, when some of
them waited on him to ask for the documents in virtue of which he
held the regency, he took them to the window, and showing them a
park of artillery, said, "These are the powers by which I govern
Castile according to the king's will and command."

{595}

He took, indeed, if Peter Martyr can be credited, great interest
and pleasure in military affairs. He had heard Ferdinand
expatiate on the advantages of a militia as opposed to an army
recruited from different countries; and now that he was wielding
dictatorial power, he resolved to put the scheme in execution. He
conferred with the senate, and issued a proclamation inviting the
enlistment of volunteers. They were, with the exception of
officers and musicians, to serve without pay, but in return they
were exempted from taxes, socages, and all other charges.
Immediate success attended this measure. Thirty thousand citizens
were speedily enrolled, and were daily drilled in public. The
compliments paid to Ximenes by ambassadors, and the envious
cavillings of foreign princes, sufficiently proved the wisdom of
this organization. It encountered great opposition from the
nobles, but, being endorsed by the special approval of Charles,
it triumphed ultimately over every obstacle.

Ximenes's attention, at the same time, was turned to the maritime
power of the kingdom. He added twenty trireme galleys to the
navy, and put the entire fleet in movement against the Moors and
pirates who infested the Spanish coasts. The seas were thus
cleared of "Red Rovers," and Pope Leo X. congratulated the
cardinal on the success of his marine administration. His
government was assailed on all sides, but the great churchman was
never at a loss. Whether he had to meet invading forces on the
frontier, or suppress rebellion in the interior, he was in the
highest degree prompt and resolute; he struck terror into his
foes, and earned the absent sovereign's warmest gratitude. He was
equally attentive to the details of government and to its general
aims. He caused exact accounts to be drawn up of the revenues,
finances, and laws of the three military orders; and was
preparing similar documents relative to the kingdom at large when
arrested in his labors by the hand of death. To relieve the royal
treasury he suppressed numerous sinecures, beginning with those
held by his own friends, and remonstrated with Charles on his
lavish expenditure.

Successful as Ximenes had been in the capture of Oran, it was his
misfortune afterward to be foiled and worsted by a robber. The
name of Horac Barbarossa was feared throughout the Mediterranean.
He was scarcely twenty years of age when a pirate-fleet of forty
galleys sailed under his command. Though a cannon-ball carried
off his left arm in an attack on Bugia in 1515, he returned to
the assault, took the citadel, and put the entire Christian
garrison to death. He roused the fanaticism of the Moslems, and
excited them to throw off the Spanish yoke. The King of Algiers
sought his aid against the Spaniards; but the treacherous pirate
murdered his friend in a bath, seized the throne, and refused to
pay tribute to Spain. He also took the King of Tunis prisoner,
and put him to death. A talkative and bragging general, named
Vera, was sent by Ximenes with 8000 men to reduce this brigand
and usurper to subjection. But he was too strong and skilful for
the blundering Vera. The Spanish expedition utterly failed, and
the two-armed general who could not beat the one-armed buccaneer
was an object of ridicule and scorn to women and children when he
returned to Spain.

{596}

The conquest of Granada had been the means of bringing into
public notice two of the greatest men of that or any other age.
The appointment of Talavera to the see of Granada led to Ximenes
being summoned to court to fill his place as confessor to the
queen; and in the joy felt by Isabella at the final victory over
the Moors in Spain she granted Columbus the vessels he had
solicited during many years. In March, 1493, the glorious
adventurer returned from the far West, and brought with him
numerous proofs of the extent and importance of his distant
discoveries. The natives whom he had on board his ships increased
the desire of Ferdinand and Isabella to impart the blessings of
Christianity to their new subjects; and Ximenes, then occupied
with the conversion of the Spanish Moors, was anxious to
co-operate with the sovereigns for the repression of crime and
cruelty in the American colonies, and in the instruction of the
caciques and the Indian tribes in the faith of the gospel. It is
well known how long and how miserably these pious designs were
frustrated by the barbarity of Spanish governors, the rapacity
and license of Spanish sailors, convicts, and settlers. It is not
surprising that the cacique Hatuey vowed he would rather not go
to heaven if the Spaniards were there.

The royal decrees respecting slavery had been hesitating and
contradictory; nor were the religious orders in the New World
agreed as to the practice that should be pursued. Some of the
governors allowed the natives to be treated as slaves, while
others received orders from the home government to limit slavery
to the case of cannibals. When Ximenes became regent, he
carefully investigated the matter, heard a number of witnesses,
and formed his own resolution independently of other counsellors.
The principal caciques were to be called together, and informed,
in the name of Queen Isabella and her son Charles, that they were
free subjects, and that, though the tribes would be required to
pay a certain tribute, their rights, liberties, and interests
would be protected. The caciques would rule in the several
territories and villages in conjunction with a priest and royal
administrator; religion would be taught, civilization promoted,
merciful laws introduced, and traffic in slaves, whether Indian
or negro, strictly forbidden. It was found by subsequent
experience that these wise and merciful regulations were too good
for the purpose required; that it would be dangerous to
emancipate the Indians suddenly; and that it could only be done
after a sufficient number of negro slaves had been imported from
Africa.

The authority of Ximenes during the latter part of his regency
was disputed, not merely by factious nobles, but also by Dean
Hadrian and the Seigneur de la Chaux. They sought to establish a
triumvirate, and reduce Ximenes to a second-rate power. But the
cardinal receiving some papers to which they had first affixed
their signatures, he immediately ordered fresh copies to be made,
and signed them himself only. From that time neither La Chaux nor
Hadrian was ever allowed to sign a decree. They complained,
indeed, to the king, but with little effect. Ximenes paid no
attention to the remonstrance of the royal ambassador, and the
affair ended by his exclusive authority being recognized and
approved.

{597}

The machinations of his enemies ceased only with his life. To the
last, intrigues, jealousies, and calumnies hedged in his path
with thorns. In August, 1517, it is said, an attempt was made to
poison him; and it would have succeeded had not his servant,
according to custom, first tasted every dish set before him, and
fallen seriously ill at Bozeguillas. His health was failing fast
when Charles arrived from Flanders, and the courtiers used every
artifice to prevent his having an interview with the young
prince. They feared the influence of his genius and experience,
and hoped that death might speedily rid them of his presence.
Issuing vigorous orders daily for the government of the state, he
calmly awaited the arrival of the king, and of his own
approaching end, in the monastery of Aguilera. There he renewed
and corrected the will by which he left the bulk of his vast
property to the University of Alcalá. He often blessed God for
enabling him to say that he had never knowingly injured any man,
but had administered justice even-handed. The peace of his own
conscience did not preserve him from the persecution and insults
of his enemies. They even indulged their spite by the paltry
annoyance of quartering his servants in a neighboring village,
instead of their being under the same roof with their master,
when, wrapped in furs, he took his last journey to meet Charles,
and welcome him to his kingdom and throne. From the sovereign
himself he received a heartless letter, thanking him for all his
great services, and expressing a hope that they should meet at
Mojados; but after their meeting, he suggested that the cardinal
should be relieved of his arduous duties; in other words, that he
should share no longer in the conduct of public affairs. This
cruel letter is thought by many writers to have hastened
Ximenes's death, while others are of opinion that it was never
delivered to him, and that he was thus spared a wanton addition
to the pangs of dying. Ximenes died in all respects the death of
the righteous. The language of contrition and praise was on his
lips, and the crucifix in his hand. He recommended the University
of Alcalá to the king in his last moments, together with the
monasteries he had founded. He expired, exclaiming, "_In te,
Domine, speravi_" on Sunday, the 8th of November, 1517, in the
eighty-second year of his age. All the surrounding country
hastened to kiss his hands while his body lay in state. The
corpse was embalmed, and conveyed by slow stages, and amid the
blaze of numberless torches, to Torrelaguna, his birthplace, and
afterward to Alcalá, the city of his adoption. Arriving there on
the Feast of St. Eugene, the first Archbishop of Toledo, the day
was celebrated yearly from that time by a funeral service and
panegyric in honor of Ximenes. Fifty-eight years after the
university was founded, his monument was enclosed in bronze
tablets, on which the chief events in his career were
represented. Thus, by sermons, by external images, by tradition,
and by history, the memory of this remarkable man was kept alive.
Posterity became indulgent to his defects. They were specks in a
blaze of light. Heroism and saintdom encircled his memory with
effulgent halos. His person became familiar to the Spaniard's
eye: his tall, thin frame, his aquiline nose, his high forehead,
his piercing, deep-set eyes, and those two prominent eye-teeth
which gained him the nickname of "the elephant." According to the
custom of the time, he kept a jester, and his dwarf's jokes
diverted him when depressed with violent headaches, or worn with
the affairs of state and opposition of factious men. Study was
his delight. He never felt too old to learn, and he frequently
assisted at public disputations.
{598}
Prayer lay at the root of his greatness; it regulated his
ambition, tamed his impetuosity, and filled him with the love of
justice. It made him severe toward himself, firm and fearless,
equally capable of wielding a sceptre of iron and a pastoral
crook. You may search as you will for historical parallels, but
Ximenes is the only prime-minister in the world who was held to
be a saint by the people he ruled, and the only primate who has
acquired lasting renown in such varied characters as ascetic,
soldier, chieftain, scholar, man of letters, statesman, reformer,
and regent.

              ----------

    From La Revue Du Monde Catholique.

     The Ignorance Of The Middle Ages.


A recent and famous circular respecting the education of women
has called attention to the public schools of France, and the
revolutionary journals have unanimously profited by the
opportunity to load past ages with sarcasm and irony. It is
because there is a question of religion in this case, as in all
the principal incidents of the time. The antichristian press is
but little interested in the degree of knowledge diffused in the
middle ages, or in the pretended degradation of the people of
Rome; [Footnote 177] but under these deceitful pretexts is
concealed a design, persistently and ardently pursued--the
annihilation of Christianity. Christianity must be put down
because it is now the only force that strongly resists unruly
passions, and because modern barbarians, eager to possess the
goods they covet, wish to submit no longer to any obstacle or
delay.

    [Footnote 177: The degradation of which an editor of the
    _Journal des Débats_ (M. J. Janin) wrote in 1836: "Talk
    to me of the enslaved country of the Holy Father as free!"]

Let not Christians be deceived by the hypocritical protestations
of respect uttered by this enemy, to whom falsehood is a jest.
Let them not grow weary of countermining the subterranean attacks
carried on against the city. For each assault let there be a
sortie; for each new battery, a new bastion! Resources are not
wanting; we possess facts, works, men, the testimony of history,
and even the admission of our enemies, and we are sure victory
will be ours in the end.

A former essay [Footnote 178] depicted the savage brutality of
the barbarous nations converted to Christianity, their passions,
their vices, their ferocity, and their excesses. We will now show
what the church did in one particular to subdue, civilize, and
elevate them, by diffusing with unparalleled munificence the most
extended, the most general and complete course of instruction
ever given to the world; how, in the most troublous times--in the
tenth century, for example--the church was the inviolable
guardian of the productions of the human mind; what ardor for
knowledge it excited in these men, but recently so violent and so
material; and besides its saints, what learned men, it
formed--what great men, full of talent and genius!

    [Footnote 178: "Les Barbares et le Moyen Age," _Revue du
    Monde Cath_., of Aug. 10 and Sept. 10, 1867.]

{599}

                   I.

          Christian Antiquity.

Some writers, having lost the spirit of Christianity, have denied
that Christian antiquity had a taste for science and literature,
and have stigmatized the middle ages as _dark_. If they had
been Christians, they would have known that this accusation is as
erroneous as it is injurious--was contrary to the very
principles of Christianity.

Pagan society, established, with a view to this life, for the
well-being of a few, kept the people in ignorance in order to
keep them in servitude. Ignorance, by rendering men material,
disposes them to servility and strengthens tyranny. It had
academies for the free-born, but not for the slave. Why trouble
themselves about the minds of those miserable creatures who were
"incapable of good, of evil, and of virtue," who were called
speaking instruments and chattels? It had philosophers, poets,
and learned men, but no popular schools; for it loved science and
not man.

The first principle of Christianity, on the contrary, is love.
Love is without narrowness: it does not repel, it attracts: it is
not exclusive, it is all-embracing: it seeketh not its own, it is
generously and openly diffusive, it searches out and summons the
whole world: _Venite ad me omnes_. Christianity knows only
one race of men who are all equal. Its other name is
_Catholicism, universality_. It has but one object, which is
supernatural--to lead men to God.

In order that man may aspire to this sublime end, he must be made
free--_cui liber, est liber_--must be enlightened, that he
may comprehend the Supreme Intelligence that created him.
Christianity breathes into man "that ardent love of knowledge"
[Footnote 179] which buoys up his wings: it lights up before him
a perspective extending to the very confines of heaven. "The more
fully man comprehends in what way God has established everything
in number, weight, and measure, the more ardent is his love for
him," says a simple nun [Footnote 180] of the middle ages,
beautifully expressing the idea of the church. This is the reason
why Christianity has patronized science, and diffused and
cultivated it.

    [Footnote 179: J. de Maistre, _Du Pape_, iv. 3.]

    [Footnote 180: Roswitha, _Paphnuce_.]

As soon as Christianity had a foothold in the world, instead of
turning toward a few, like the philosophers, it addresses
all--the poor who had been despised, the lowly who had been made
use of, and the slaves who had not been counted. The door of
knowledge was opened wide to plebeians. "We teach philosophy to
fullers and shoemakers," says St. Chrysostom. From the depths of
the catacombs, where they were obliged to conceal themselves, the
first pontiffs, whose lives for three centuries terminated by
martyrdom, founded schools in every parish of Rome, and ordered
the priests to assemble the children of the country in order to
instruct them. What, then, was the result when Christianity,
issuing from the bowels of the earth, bloomed forth in freedom?
There were schools everywhere, monastic schools, schools in the
priests' houses, [Footnote 181] episcopal schools, established by
Gregory the Great, and schools at the entrance of churches, (as
in the portico of the cathedral of Lucca, in the eighth century.)

    [Footnote 181: A council of the sixteenth century
    speaks of schools in the priests' houses.]

{600}

The decrees of councils, the decretals of popes, attest the
desire of distributing to all the food of the mind, and of
multiplying schools. [Footnote 182] And who were their first
masters? The priests, bishops, and doctors of the church. "It is
our duty," (it is a pope who speaks,) "to endeavor to dispel
ignorance." [Footnote 183] Ulphidas, a bishop of the fifth
century, translated the Bible into the language of the Goths, for
the instruction of the barbarians; and at a later period,
Albertus Magnus and St. Bonaventura composed abridgments of the
Scriptures for the poor, called the _Bible of the Poor, Biblia
Pauperum_. "If the important knowledge of reading and writing
was spread among the people, it was owing to the church," says
St. Simon the Reformer. [Footnote 184]

    [Footnote 182: Report of the Minister of Public Instruction,
    M. Duruy, 1865.]

    [Footnote 183: Innocent III. at the Council of 1215.]

    [Footnote 184: _La Science de l'Histoire_.]

And how did the church bestow it? Gratuitously, "to all who could
not pay for it." The church is truly democratic, according to the
modern expression, or rather, it is an institution of charity;
gratuitous instruction is its conception which it put into
execution. (Ventura.) Listen to its councils: "Every cathedral
and every church that has the means is obliged to found a
professorship of theology for ecclesiastics, and provide a master
for the gratuitous instruction of the poor, _according to the
ancient customs_. [Footnote 185] It is thus it understood
obligatory instruction, not imposed on those who received it,
which would be tyranny, but exacted from those who gave it, which
was an act of virtue.

    [Footnote 185: The Council of Constantinople in 680; then the
    Councils of Lateran in 1179 and 1215, and the Council of
    Lyons in 1245. In the eighth century Theodolphus, Bishop of
    Orleans, wrote to his priests: "Exact no pay for the
    instruction of children, and receive nothing, except what is
    offered voluntarily and through affection, by the parents."]

But was it elementary knowledge alone? Does the church disdain
literature, which a father calls the ornament and consolation of
the wretchedness of man--polite literature, the humanities _par
excellence_, because they sustain humanity in the combat of
life? Certainly not; the church found the pagan world powerful
and renowned for its attainments in literature, the sciences, and
the arts; it would not leave to that world its superiority; it
would also become the patron of knowledge, because that would aid
in the progress of truth. "We ought," says St. Basil, "to study
the profane sciences before penetrating the mysteries of sacred
knowledge, that we may become accustomed to their radiance."
[Footnote 186] The church exhorted its children to the
acquirement of knowledge; nay, it even wished itself to excel
therein, and it succeeded so as to terrify its enemies, as in the
case of Julian the Apostate, who, to crush the church, undertook
to prohibit it from studying the sciences. Where shall we find
men more learned than Clement of Alexandria, who fathomed and
explained the origin of pagan mythology; St. Basil and the two
Gregorys, who, pupils of the Athenian school, acquired there the
eloquence in which they equalled Demosthenes; St. Augustine,
whose work, _De Civitate Dei,_ is the compendium of all
knowledge, philosophy, literature, science, and the entire
history of the world; and Origen, before whom the most celebrated
masters of the East rose up and ceased to teach, intimidated by
his presence? "We are not afraid," says St. Jerome, "of any kind
of comparison!"

    [Footnote 186: _Discourse on the Utility of reading Profane
    Literature_. See also St. Gregory of Nazianzen,
    _Discourse at the Funeral of St. Basil_.]

{601}

The church thus continues: "Study," wrote Cassiodorus, in the
fifth century, to his monks--"study Galen, Hippocrates,
Dioscorides, and the other authors you find in the library." The
course of study at Salernum was pursued by a great number of
clerics, priests, and bishops: [Footnote 187] priests learned
history, grammar, Greek, and geometry at the school in the
basilica of Lateran. [Footnote 188]

    [Footnote 187: Daremberg, _Cours de 1866 sur l'Histoire de
    la Medecine_.]

    [Footnote 188: And in the Benedictine monasteries.]

Where did the Greek artists, driven out by iconoclasts, take
refuge? In Rome, under the protection of the popes. Who were the
first historians of the West? Priests and bishops: Gregory of
Tours, Fredegarius, Eginhard, Odo, and Flodoard. There is an
ecclesiastical tone throughout the entire Merovingian
literature--the legends, hymns, and chronicles. [Footnote 189]
Even the poets, Fortunatus and Sidonius Apollinaris, are priests
familiar with the works of antiquity. "I am engaged," wrote
Alcuin to Charlemagne, "in giving instruction to some by drawing
from the fount of Holy Writ, and intoxicating others with the old
wine of the ancient schools." And for what purpose? He continues:
"In order that the church may profit by the increase of
knowledge." Finally, when a pope, great through his genius and
his sanctity--Gregory VII.--was inspired with the noble ambition
of christianizing the world, he called science to his aid,
revived the ancient canons that instituted schools for the
liberal arts in the vicinity of cathedrals; [Footnote 190]
"desiring a saintly clergy, he wished them also learned."
[Footnote 191]

    [Footnote 189: D'Espinay, _Influence of Canon Law on French
    Legislation_.]

    [Footnote 190: Innocent III. continued the work; he extended
    the obligation of acquiring knowledge among the priests. "The
    bishop will ascertain," says he, "the capacity of those on
    whom he confers holy orders. It is better to have a few who
    are learned to serve the altar than many who are ignorant."
    And in our own day the Roman College gives gratuitous
    instruction in the classics and in the higher sciences,
    theology, philosophy, law, medicine, astronomy, etc., which
    does not prevent the revolutionary journals from declaring
    the pontifical government an enemy of progress and of light.]

    [Footnote 191: Ozanam, _Le Christianisme chez les Barbares_.]

And it is so truly the spirit of Christianity that schools are
multiplied in proportion to its diffusion. Clovis hardly received
baptism when schools were established even in his palace;
[Footnote 192] the more fully kings were imbued with a Christian
spirit, the more letters were protected and honored. Theodosius,
who almost attained to sanctity by his penitence, decreed that
masters, after teaching twenty years, should be ennobled with the
title of count, and be on an equality with the lieutenants of the
prefect of the pretorian guards; and Charlemagne, the great
Christian emperor, established under his eye an academy, which,
we are told, was called the Palatial School: the palace was
consecrated to science, and its true name would have been the
Scholastic Palace. [Footnote 193]

  [Footnote 192: Dom Pitra, _Rapport sur une Mission
  scientifique_, 1850.]

  [Footnote 193: Dom Pitra, _Histoire de St. Léger_, ix.]


                   II.

            The Tenth Century.

We are not contradicted. Yes, in the first centuries the church
favored knowledge; but there is an exception: from the ninth to
the eleventh century, letters almost entirely disappeared, the
light of knowledge was obscured, and this epoch is justly called
_the night of the middle ages_.

It is not so; a multitude of witnesses prove how unfounded is
this prejudice. [Footnote 194]

    [Footnote 194: That is to say, the erudite men who have
    carefully studied this confused epoch and have arrived at the
    same conclusion, whatever their philosophical opinions:
    Littré and Ozanam, Daremberg and Villemain, Renan and
    Dantier, Hallam and Berrington, etc,]

{602}

Letters never perished. In the sanguinary tumult, the royal
offspring of intelligence was saved by a pious hand, and
protected that it might be restored some day to the world--
great, powerful, and fit to reign. [Footnote 195]

    [Footnote 195: In the tenth century, we include the end of
    the ninth and the beginning of the eleventh, as men who lived
    at the end of the seventeenth century and the commencement of
    the nineteenth are considered as belonging to the eighteenth;
    Fontenelle and Delille, for example.]

Charlemagne was hardly laid in his tomb at Aix-la-Chapelle, when
his lords, barons, counts, dukes, and the inferior leaders
dispersed and established in a thousand places their divided
rule; furious and devastating wars overwhelmed the people and
spread terror in every heart through the country; there was no
longer peace, security, or leisure. Were intellectual pursuits
suspended during that time? No. Throughout Europe, then a field
of battle, sheltered in the valleys and intrenched on the summits
of the mountains, were fortresses, which became the asylum of
knowledge, with an army resolved to defend it--monks in their
convents. Italy was like a camp with a reserve corps of
instruction: there soldiers were formed and organized and drilled
in the use of all kinds of arms; the Benedictines of Monte
Casino, "where ancient literature was constantly studied,"
[Footnote 196] the ecclesiastical schools of Modena, the
episcopal schools of Milan, the school of jurisprudence at Lucca,
of rhetoric at Ravenna, of literature at Verona, of the seven
arts at Parma, of grammar at Pavia, and, in the midst, Rome,
guardian of the heritage of ancient traditions and the seat of
the papacy, "which has always surpassed all other nations in
learning." [Footnote 197]

    [Footnote 196: And a great number of other religious houses;
    as late as the seventeenth century there were more than three
    hundred.]

    [Footnote 197: Villemain, _Histoire de la. Littérature au
    Moyen Age_, lesson xx.]

Beyond the Alps, traverse Provence, almost Italian, Languedoc,
also half Roman in learning and in language, on the banks of the
Loire you will find these abbeys, famous as seats of learning:
Fleury, St. Benoit, and Ligugé, (near Poitiers;) and proceeding
to the north, Ferrière, Saint Wandrille, Luxeuil, Corbie, and Le
Bec, (in the eleventh century.) From Lyons you could see, far
away on the mountain-heights of Switzerland, Reichnau, whose
garrison was re-enforced by foreigners who crossed the water,
(Irish monks,) and St. Gall, whose monks quote the _Iliad_.
In Spain, Christians did not strive in valor alone with the
Moors; they vied in learning with the Arabs, and studied and
translated their works. The _mélée_ was universal.
Luitprand, an Englishman, who took part in it, as well as
Gerbert, a Frenchman, heard ten languages spoken there; among
others, Hebrew, Arabic, Greek, and Latin. [Footnote 198]

    [Footnote 198: Greek by merchants, Hebrew by the Jews, Arabic
     everywhere, while Latin is the foundation of the national tongue.]

Cross the Channel: in England at every step are colleges and
seminaries: that far-off murmur comes from the seven thousand
students of Armagh, in Ireland. And if you penetrate the wilds of
Germany, among the Saxons but just converted, you will discover
the advanced posts--the school of Fulden, founded by St.
Boniface; New Corbie on the Weser, where, at a later day, were
found the five books of the _Annals_ of Tacitus; and what is
more, a convent of learned nuns--the Monastery of Roswitha.

This is the main army, and it is not without support. The leaders
of the people and the directors of souls do not abandon these
valiant troops. Kings, when they have the power and the leisure,
send them reenforcements: there are the schools of Eugene II. for
the study of the liberal arts; of grammar under Lothaire in
France  of jurisprudence at Angers; of Edward the Confessor in
England. It is not till the time of Henry of Germany that princes
are unmindful of them. He would not listen to the petition of a
poet for schools of _belles-lettres_ and law. These are the
scattered forts that support and bind together the main army.

{603}

But perhaps they are destitute of arms and have no arsenals and
ammunition? What, then, are all these books of medicine dating
from the seventh to the tenth century, "accumulated in all the
convents"? [Footnote 199]--the celebrated libraries of Ferrière
and Bobbio, which owned Aristotle and Demosthenes; of Reichnau,
which in 850 possessed four hundred volumes catalogued; the Greek
manuscripts of the tenth and eleventh centuries discovered at
Rome, Verona, Monte Casino, [Footnote 200] and at
Tournay:[Footnote 201] the copies of ancient authors, made in the
ninth and tenth centuries by the monks of St. Gall? [Footnote
202] Do you not hear resounding the most illustrious names--of
poets, historians, philosophers, and orators--Homer, Seneca,
Ovid, Sallust, and Pliny? [Footnote 203] This one, like a
watchman who calls for help from the mountain-heights, (Lupus,
abbot of Ferrière to Pope Benedict III.,) requests the loan of
the _Orator_ of Cicero, the _Institutions_ of
Quintilian, and a commentary of Terence; another (see _Life of
St. Columba_) quotes Titus Livius; others (see _Acts of the
Saints_) quote Horace; treaties are fortified with passages
from Cicero; [Footnote 204] and there is not a barbarous
chronicle in which there are not lightning-like flashes from the
inspired lines of Virgil. [Footnote 205]

    [Footnote 199: Dander, _Missions scientifiques_.]

    [Footnote 200: Renan, _Missions scientifiques_.]

    [Footnote 201: Dom Pitra, _ibid_.]

    [Footnote 202: Dander, _ibid_.]

    [Footnote 203: There are proofs, says Daremberg, that the
    Franks of the age of Charlemagne read Pliny. These books were
    not lost, but preserved in the convents.]

    [Footnote 204: Dom Pitra, _Missions scientifiques_.]

    [Footnote 205: See Villemain, _Histoire de la Littérature
    du Moyen Age_, lesson x.]

They do not lack arms, and they make use of them. They have
captains--leaders who are capable, learned, and indefatigable.
They are well known: Abbo, abbot of Fleury-sur-Loire, who is
called the "Alcuin of the tenth century," who wrote a history of
the popes, on philosophy, physics, and astronomy, and the
commander of a numerous corps of more than five thousand
students, among whom is one who translated Euclid; [Footnote 206]
Flodoard, author of _La Chronique de France_; the thirty-two
professors of _belles-lettres_ at Salernum; St. Fulbert and
Henry of Auxerre, in France; Elphege at Monte Casino; in Spain,
Petrus Alphonsus, who compares the literature of France with that
of his own country; [Footnote 207] in England, Odo and St.
Dunstan, a geometrician, musician, painter, and
sculptor;[Footnote 208] and finally, that wonderful man, who made
the tour of the world of learning and was familiar with every
part of it--mathematics, mechanics, astronomy, literature, and
philosophy--at once a prince of the church and of science--
Gerbert. [Footnote 209]

    [Footnote 206: There is a second Abbo in the tenth century--
    a monk also, and a poet.]

    [Footnote 207: In his book _De Disciplina Cleri_. See
    Dom Pitria, _Histoire de St. Léger_.]

    [Footnote 208: Berrington, _History of Literature in the
    Ninth and Tenth Centuries_.]

    [Footnote 209: Gaillard, in his _Histoire de
    Charlemagne_, gives a list of masters who succeeded each
    other without interruption from Alcuin till the twelfth
    century.]

But, blockaded in their fortresses by barbarism, brigandage, and
tyranny, what important deeds could they achieve, what feats of
arms, what expeditions? In the first place, they held their
position by keeping the ramparts in constant repair.
{604}
In the scriptorium of every abbey, a numerous detachment of
patient copyists, bending all day over manuscripts, transcribed
the holy books and the masterpieces of antiquity, and rendered
eminent service to the arts, to letters, and to history by
preserving and keeping in order the store of munitions which
otherwise would have been squandered and for ever lost. At the
same time, watchful sentinels on the walls observed all that was
passing in the world without, and made an exact report of it;
that is to say, they drew up those chronicles, charters, and
cartularies in which were recorded facts, names, contracts,
donations, and the changes in the countries in which they lived,
among the people they directed, in the lands they cultivated, the
sovereigns who ruled over them, and the conquerors who despoiled
them. [Footnote 210]

    [Footnote 210: It is sufficient to mention the
    _Polyptique_ of the abbot Irminon, (tenth century,) and
    the numerous cartularies that have been published within half
    a century.]

And that the descriptions might be complete, painters illuminated
the margins of the vellum manuscripts, supplying by delicate and
faithful miniatures in the brightest colors what was wanting in
the text, general details respecting the splendor of the
vestments, the sculptures on the walls and the ornaments of the
houses, thus bequeathing to posterity a lively and true portrayal
of their time. And the whole makes up the immense and
inexhaustible treasure where we find depicted the manners,
customs, classes of society, the nature of the soil, and facts
respecting the tillers of the earth, their lords, and the church,
forming the moral, industrial, and agricultural history of all
Christendom. These transcripts, chronicles, and paintings are the
magazines, casemates, and bastions without which the citadel of
letters and science would have been dismantled and rendered
uninhabitable for generations to come!

They did not confine themselves to this; nothing was neglected
that should occupy a well-organized army; first, regular
exercise, which makes the soldier active, robust, and ready for
any duty; the study of the liberal arts, divided into two classes
for the recruits and the veterans: the _quadrivium_,
(arithmetic, geometry, music, and astronomy,) and the
_trivium_ (grammar, rhetoric, and dialectics. [Footnote 211]
) These labors were carried on in the interior of the fortress.
They also made expeditions and sallies to keep the ways of access
clear--commentaries upon authors, variations of texts, (as the
commentaries on the _Fasti_ of Ovid, [Footnote 212] the
treatise _De Senectute_, with different readings of the same
text, [Footnote 213] and numerous manuscripts with Greek
annotations.[Footnote 214]) They undertook sieges, for a
translation may be called a siege; everywhere you could find real
workshops for translating Greek authors into Latin, such as books
of medicine, (Galen, Hippocrates, and Oribasus,) the fathers,
(the _Homilies_ of St. John Chrysostom,) and the principal
ancient authors, [Footnote 215] (the _Logic_ of Aristotle.)
Under the guidance of the leaders already named, they went forth
to daily combat and even to fight great battles; in the schools,
colleges, monasteries, and public lectures, professors, doctors,
and students [Footnote 216] stimulated the public mind; they
touched on every science, and treated, under the names of
nominalism and realism, of all those questions about which man is
continually agitated--his nature, his origin, his relations with
God, and his destiny;

    [Footnote 211: Mentioned by Roswitha in the tenth century.]

    [Footnote 212: Found at Reichnau by M. Dantier.]

    [Footnote 213: At Mr. Philipps's in England, by Dom Pitra.]

    [Footnote 214: At Monte Casino, by M. Renan.]

    [Footnote 215: See Daremberg, _ibid_. A proof, says M.
    Littré, in _Les Barbares et le Moyen Age_, that during
    the Merovingian and Carlovingian periods the Greek filiation
    of the sciences was preserved. As to medical science, he
    adds, it is evidently not a simple question of medicine.]

    [Footnote 216: Béranger, Lanfranc, Roscelin, etc.]

{605}

struggles constantly renewed, in which they fought furiously and
displayed all their strength by quotations from authors,
allusions to celebrated events and to sayings of antiquity, (for
example, the sarcasm of Julian to the Christians, mentioned by
Roswitha; [Footnote 217] the veil given by a king of England to
the Abbey of Croyland, on which was embroidered the Ruin of Troy;
[Footnote 218] the Latin war hymn chanted at Modena, which
alludes to the devotedness of Codrus; [Footnote 219]) brilliant
tournaments in which, like knights of prowess, some endeavored to
distinguish themselves by a display of erudition better suited,
it might seem, to the refined age of the sixteenth century than
to the tenth. They signed acts written in Greek; [Footnote 220]
in Latin verse; [Footnote 221] they wrote the lives of the saints
in French verse; [Footnote 222] the kings of England prided
themselves on the name of [Greek text]; they spoke Greek in
ordinary intercourse. [Footnote 223] These knights of science,
like the paladins in the combats with giants, displayed wondrous
feats. "I am over shoes in Cicero's _Rhetoric,_" writes
Ingulphus, Abbot of Croyland. [Footnote 224]

    [Footnote 217: Christians should congratulate themselves on
    being deprived of their riches, for Christ said: "Every one
    of you that doth not renounce all that he possesseth cannot
    be my disciple." See the _Gallicanus_.]

    [Footnote 218: See Darboy, _Life of St. Thomas of
    Canterbury_.]

    [Footnote 219: A Latin hymn was also chanted at Pisa, in the
    eleventh century, to celebrate a victory over the Saracens.]

    [Footnote 220: At Poitiers, at the end of the ninth century.]

    [Footnote 221: At Sienna.]

    [Footnote 222: In 1050, Thibaud de Vernon, canon at Rouen.]

    [Footnote 223: The monks of England and Ireland.]

    [Footnote 224: Tenth century.]

They did not confine themselves to the defensive. In studying the
ancient writers they were inspired to imitate them, and they went
forth into the open field and vied in a thousand works of the
imagination--fiction, poetry--(hymns, poems of the eleventh
century, and history.) What is more, they undertook fatiguing and
dangerous expeditions into far-off and almost unknown countries--
archaeology, which had not then a name, (see "the valuable
manuscripts of the tenth century, discovered by Mabillon at
Einsiedeln, which treat of Roman inscriptions;") cosmography, in
which they divined truths of the highest importance. The Irish
monk Virgilius taught in Bohemia the antipodes, and consequently
that the earth is round. He was not comprehended: they supposed
him to believe there were other lands under our earth, with
another sun, another moon, and inhabitants for whom Christ did
not die, and he was excommunicated. He went to Rome, where he was
permitted to explain his theory; the pope withdrew his anathema
and elevated him to the episcopacy. [Footnote 225] Finally, the
drama, into which was infused a new and original character.
Whilst the monk Virgilius taught the true form of the earth, the
nun Roswitha composed her tragedies, the first specimens of the
Christian drama, at once full of the reminiscences of antiquity
and the spirit of the gospel.

    [Footnote 225: Quatrefages, _Peuplement de l'Amérique_,
    which proves:
    1. The geographical knowledge of the times.
    2. The perpetuity of tradition.
    3. The intercourse of different nations.
    4. The tolerance of the church.
    Bouillet, in his _Dictionnaire universelle d'Histoire
    et de Géographie_, is deceived on this point.]

You will see by all this activity, this animation, and these
names, "that the tenth century has been unjustly accused of
barbarism" (Magnin)--that age in which there was such a taste
for classical studies that "many Christians," says Roswitha,
"preferred the vanity of pagan books to the utility of the Holy
Scriptures, on account of the elegance of their style," and that,
far from meriting the appellation of the Iron Age, it should
rather be called "a great centre of light." [Footnote 226]

    [Footnote 226: Dom Pitra, _Rapport sur une Mission
    scientifique._ To all these works add the memoir of
    Ozanam, _Des Ecoles et de l'Instruction publique en Italie
    au Temps barbares_, in which he clearly demonstrates that
    letters never ceased to be cultivated.]

{606}

When we look down from the lofty elevation of the nineteenth
century, which is called the age of progress, into this deep gulf
of the middle ages--the ninth, tenth, and eleventh centuries--we
are not astonished at its darkness, but by the brilliant rays
that issue from it. It is not an abyss. At the first glance there
seem to be only a few points of light; but the eye is soon
attracted by a multitude of peaks everywhere rising up with
brilliant summits and resplendent glaciers sparkling with radiant
light. We are astonished and give ourselves up to admiration, in
the words of the poet who, perceiving the Alps afar off, thinks
that

                                "Ces monts glacés
  Ne sont qu'affreux déserts, rochers, torrents, abîmes,"

but who, when he reaches them,

                       "Y trouve, ravi,
  De l'ombre, des rayons, des solitudes vertes,
  Des vergers pleins de dons, des chaumières ouvertes
                        A l'hospitalité. ...
  Des coteaux aux flancs d'or, de limpides vallées,
  Et des lacs étoilés des feux du firmament" [Footnote 227]

--finds the hospitality of the church, the solitude of
monasteries, and the firmament of Christianity!

    [Footnote 227: Lamartine.]


                   III.

          Intercourse Of Nations.

Doubt is still displayed. There are other objections. Noblemen
did not know how to read, women lived in ignorance; how could
knowledge be diffused when people within fortified walls and the
narrow limits of their territories could with so much difficulty
hold communication with each other?

There is a false idea of the middle ages. It is imagined that
men, so independent and so wilful, remained stationary and shut
up in their fortresses without endeavoring to see and know each
other. It is precisely the contrary. There was a constant and
ardent desire for intercourse which caused nations to mingle and
exchange languages, ideas, and customs. What was the consequence
of the incessant wars, if not to lead men of the North to the
South, those of the East to the West, the people of Normandy to
Naples and to England, the Britons of Armorica into Great
Britain, and _vice versa_, (from the fifth to the eleventh
century;) [Footnote 228] the Burgundians into Lusitania, where
they founded the kingdom of Portugal, (Henry of Burgundy, in the
eleventh century, accompanied by knights and troubadours)? And
then the varied and extensive commerce of the great cities of
France and of the rich and industrious Flemish cities, whose
ports, filled with vessels from every land, resounded, as we are
told by the chroniclers, with the sounds of all languages? And
the celebrated fairs, Beaucaire, Novgorod, and the Landit, (at
St. Denis,) rallying-points for the merchants of Europe, Egypt,
Asia, and the islands of the Levant--and which were the universal
expositions of the productions of the middle ages? The bold
enterprises of the Italian republics, powerful through commerce,
which owned vessels enough to transport the entire army of the
crusaders, and which owned a part of the East--the Genoese, the
faubourgs of Constantinople; the Pisans, several ports in Syria;
the Venetians, the Morea and Crete, the Archipelago; which
trafficked not only with the rest of Europe, but with the coast
of Barbary, Tunis, and Morocco, [Footnote 229] in fact, with the
interior of Asia, into which its adventurous citizens penetrated,
(as in the case of Marco Polo and several others,) and with the
extreme East, which the nineteenth century has only just
discovered, if we may dare say so, and allied with the rest of
the world. [Footnote 230]

  [Footnote 228: La Villemarqué, _Discours au Congrès celtigue
  de Saint-Brieuc_, 1867.]

  [Footnote 229: Malastrie, _Missions scientifiques_.]

  [Footnote 230: The Venetian Sanuto penetrated as far as
  Cambodia; a goldsmith of Paris settled in China; merchants from
  Breslau and Poland met Genoese, Pisan, and Venetian merchants
  in the interior of Tartary, etc. See Le Bas, _Précis de
  l'Histoire du Moyen Age_.]

{607}

The love of knowledge also drew nations together. Learned men did
not hesitate to undertake long journeys, to cross the Alps, the
Pyrenees, and the sea, that they might pursue their studies in
Italy, (as Fortunatus at Ravenna in the sixth century,) obtain
books on medicine, (Richer in the eleventh century,) [Footnote
231] meet English students in Spain, (Peter the Venerable in the
twelfth century,) hold converse with some doctor at Bologna, or
some monk in a monastery of the Apennines. How could there be no
intercourse between the universities of Salamanca, of Pavia, of
Oxford, and of Paris, when the same questions were discussed at
them all; when the metaphysical heresies which sprang from one
were refuted in another five hundred leagues distant; [Footnote
232] when the masters and pupils of Germany, England, Spain,
France, and Italy flocked to these schools; from France to Padua,
from England to Valencia, and from all countries to Paris, where,
almost at the same time, disputations were carried on by
Englishmen, Italians, Irishmen, and Germans, who were to be known
as Dante, Duns Scotus, Roger Bacon, Brunetto Latini, Albertus
Magnus, Alexander of Hales, and St. Thomas Aquinas?

    [Footnote 231: Daremberg, _ibid_.]

    [Footnote 232: And there were such close relations between
    the factions in France and those of England, that, in the
    fourteenth century, the revolutionary movements in Paris
    coincided with those in London. See Naudet, _Conjuration d
    Etienne Marcel_.]

It has been said that for literature to flourish, a nation must
be invigorated by powerful and varied deeds: [Footnote 233] at
what epoch was there a more stirring and varied life than in the
middle ages?

    [Footnote 233: Madame de Staël.]

Follow the continued journeys of the poet-historian Froissart to
and fro in every direction, in France and without, now at the
foot of the Pyrenees at the Chateau de Foix, and now in Italy,
where, at Milan, he meets another poet, Chaucer of England, who
had come to visit Genoa, Padua, etc. From Brittany he goes to
Flanders, and even to Zealand, where he forms a friendship with a
Portuguese lord. He thinks nothing of crossing the water; he goes
to England repeatedly, dwells there, and penetrates even to
Scotland, then "an unknown land." He traverses France from one
end to the other; is in Spain to-day and to-morrow in Germany.
Would you not think you were reading the life of a modern
individual? He is called a chronicler: a chronicler indeed, and
after the manner of the men of our own time; like them,
chronicler and tourist, traversing earth and sea to participate
in festivities, witness battles, and mingle in courts. [Footnote
234]

    [Footnote 234: But with this difference: he did not travel in
    a cushioned car going at the rate of forty miles an hour, but
    on horseback, at a good round trot, with spurs on his heels
    and his luggage behind.]

Yes, kings, conquerors, and those in pursuit of adventures took
long journeys with their armed followers, their vehicles,
machines, and engines of war; princes, nobles, and warriors
traversed Europe, escorted by brilliant cavalcades, upon their
steeds and palfreys; merchants landed on foreign shores, the
winds swelling the sails of their vessels; even learned men
crossed the water and the mountains to add to their knowledge;
conquerors to found empires, princes to strengthen their power by
alliances, and merchants to gain wealth. But there were men who
surpassed all these who were borne by chariots, vessels, and
noble horses--the pilgrims who went on foot.

{608}

Crowds, in constant succession, of men, women, and children, from
all countries, undertook these pilgrimages to hundreds of holy
places in Flanders, Spain, Rome, (where, says Villani, the
jubilee of 1300 led more than two hundred thousand pilgrims,)
and, above all, to the Holy Land, which led to the wonderful
outpouring of all Europe into Asia and Africa for three
centuries--the crusades, during which the West was brought into
contact with Egypt, and through Egypt with India; through
Constantinople, where the Latins founded an empire that lasted
more than fifty years, with the Greeks, and through them with the
_chefs-d'oeuvre_ of pagan and Christian antiquity, and from
whom they obtained books, manuscripts, agricultural implements,
and a knowledge of industrial pursuits literature, and the arts.
[Footnote 235]

    [Footnote 235: They brought back, among other books,
    Aristotle's works on metaphysics, and cane, millet,
    camel's-hair stuffs, etc.]

And the monks, what long journeys they made in the world! Carried
away by zeal for religion, they dispersed in every direction to
preach the gospel; some to Prussia, Poland, and the extremities
of Europe--to Norway; others from Greece, Egypt, and Syria to
Ireland; others still (in the time of St. Louis) into Tartary,
and even into China, where they found traces of Christianity left
there by other monks who had preceded them. They went still
farther beyond Ireland and Norway into Iceland, and from Iceland
(St. Brandan in the eighth century) into an unknown land, peopled
by strange men, clad with the skins of marine animals, where they
built monasteries and churches, whence they penetrated still
farther into the interior, even as far as Mexico perhaps, leaving
behind them an ineffaceable remembrance, thus being the first to
discover [Footnote 236] and inhabit the country to which they did
not give its present name, but which was really the southern
extremity of the New World which, four centuries after, Columbus
discovered, and which is called America.

    [Footnote 236: "When, in the eleventh century, the
    Scandinavians landed in Greenland, the Esquimaux told them
    that at the south there were white men clad in long black
    robes, who walked chanting and carrying banners before them;
    they were the monks who, in the eighth century, had set sail
    for Iceland, and had been thrown by the wind on the American
    coast." (Ozanam, _Le Christianisme chez les Barbares_.)
    Dom Pitra (_Histoire de St. Léger_) mentions a book of
    the sixteenth century on the voyages of the Benedictines into
    America--doubtless these monks lost among the savages, who
    left those signs of Christianity, crosses, a kind of baptism,
    etc., which were afterward found, and which otherwise would
    be inexplicable.]

It was neither thirst for riches, nor love of conquest, nor
longing for power, nor even enthusiasm for knowledge, that
induced them to undertake these extensive, dangerous, and
fruitful enterprises; they were inspired by a more sublime
sentiment--the love of God and of souls--the desire of devoting
themselves to God, and of leading to him new followers out of
strange nations.


                    IV.

                   Woman

There is no mark more distinctive of the character of individuals
or nations than the treatment of woman. Christianity emancipated
woman; it brought her forth from the obscurity to which she had
been banished, and taking her by the hand, introduced her into
the social world, and gave her a place beside man, that she might
receive the spiritual aliment which would develop her mind, as
well as elevate her soul. Taught by the example of Christ, the
most eloquent and learned of the fathers--those philosophers of
no sect--Jerome, Gregory of Nazianzen, Augustine, Paulinus, and
Basil, address numerous letters to women--to women, so disdained
by paganism that not a single letter to a woman is to be found in
all the correspondence of Cicero. [Footnote 237]

    [Footnote 237: And of Pliny. If Seneca composed two
    treatises, _De Consolatione_, for Marcia and Helvia it
    was because his ideas were modified by contact with
    Christianity. And I see herein a proof, which has not been
    sufficiently noticed, of his knowledge of the Christian
    doctrine or of his acquaintance with St. Paul.]

{609}

But it may be said that these women who showed themselves worthy
of holding converse with such great men read and wrote Greek,
Latin, and Hebrew, and belonged to the highest Roman society.
There are no women who are not noble. The church opened schools
for women where they received the same instructions as men.
[Footnote 238]

    [Footnote 238: Dom Pitra, _Histoire de St. Léger_, vi.]

There is, from the time of the illustrious patrician ladies who
followed St. Jerome into the desert, St. Paula, St. Eustochium,
etc., [Footnote 239:] an uninterrupted list of nuns, of abbesses,
whom the church reveres as saints, and who might be claimed by
the literary world on account of their attainments. For example,
St. Radegonde, (in the sixth century,) who introduced into the
monastery of St. Croix, at Poitiers, the rule of St. Caesarius,
which obliged all the nuns to the study of letters, that is to
say, Latin, the fathers, canonical law, history, cosmography,
etc., to devote two hours a day to reading besides that which
they listened to during labor and their meals, and to the
transcribing of books, etc. etc.; Lioba, at Bischofsheim, in
Germany, the mistress of a school in a barbarous country who only
left her books to pray; [Footnote 240]

    [Footnote 239: And Marcella, Blezilla, Paulina. Fabiola, (of
    the family of Fabii,) Furia, (of the family of Camillus,
    Melania, Marcellina, etc.)]

    [Footnote 240: See Dom Pitra, _ib_. He mentions St.
    Aldegondes, St. Anstrude, etc. The monastery of Lioba, he
    says, was like a normal school with respect to the other
    schools springing up in Germany.]

St. Bertille, at Chelles; St. Gertrude, in Belgium, (seventh
century,) who sent to Ireland and to Italy for books; and those
poor women who studied theology under St. Boniface, (eighth
century;) and Roswitha, whose dramatic works display not only the
inventive imagination of the poet, but a learning rare among
women of any age, shown by her quotations from the ancient poets,
the historical facts she mentions, her knowledge of foreign
languages, etc. [Footnote 241] A Gerbert and a Roswitha are
sufficient to redeem a whole century from the charge of ignorance
and barbarism; and if nuns in the heart of Germany made such
attainments in literature, what must have been the women of the
age of Charlemagne, of St. Bernard, and of St. Louis? Then the
daughters and nieces of the emperor took lessons of Alcuin: a
queen sang the sweet serenity of the cloister in graceful Latin
verse; [Footnote 242] a young girl of Paris had for her teacher
one of the most celebrated professors of her time; [Footnote 243]
and then was drawn up a course of studies in which were
prescribed, such as these: [Footnote 244]

    [Footnote 241: Spanish particularly, proved by the
    _Hispanismes_ in her style, pointed out by her learned
    editor, Magnin.]

    [Footnote 242: Richarde, wife of Charles le Gros.]

    [Footnote 243: Heloïse, and doubtless she was not the only
    one among the bourgeoisie of Paris. Recall also the learned
    nun mentioned in the beginning of Du Guesclin's life, who, in
    predicting his success, removed, as it were, the obstacles to
    his glorious career.]

    [Footnote 244: Boutaric, _Vie et OEuvres de Pierre du
    Bois_, in the memoirs of the Academy of Inscriptions,
    1864.]

"Children of both sexes, from five to twelve years of age:
_reading_, (in the Psalter,) _singing, grammar, moral
distichs_, (of Cato,) and, a little later, Latin, which they
will learn to speak. Young girls: _natural history, surgery,
medicine, logic, Latin, and the oriental languages_"--a plan
drawn up in the dark and ignorant middle ages, which could not be
easily pursued even in this age, distinguished and enlightened by
the romances of so many women of genius!

{610}

We need not wait till the time of Clemence Isaure (fourteenth
century) to find a woman whom Christianity had imbued with taste
and a delicate poetical nature. History, chronicles, and ballads
have opened to us the chateaux where, whilst the mail-clad baron
and his armed followers fought without, his wife, seated in some
deep embrasure, would cast a glance from time to time through the
narrow window upon the varied landscape, and then resume, in the
large, open volume before her, the fabulous and heroic exploits
of knights and brave men among the paynim and giants; where, at
nightfall, in the midst of her servants and followers, she
listened smilingly and thoughtfully to some wandering troubadour
singing of war, of love, and of tournaments, and relating his
adventures--a charming picture which allies the romantic
chatelaine--passing by the elegant and trifling ladies of the
court of the Restoration--with the strong-minded women of the
seventeenth century, so captivating and so learned, who read
philosophical treatises, spoke several languages, studied the
doctors and fathers of the church, and who are considered by the
world as models of wit, taste, elegance, and grace: Longueville,
Montausier, Lafayette, Rambouillet, Jacqueline Pascal, Maintenon,
and Sévigné!


                   V.

             The Nobility.

But it is necessary to make a painful avowal. In the midst of the
general diffusion of knowledge in monasteries, schools,
universities, towns, boroughs, and villages, and even among the
poor and lowly, there is one class of society which remained
during all the middle ages in shameful ignorance--the nobility.

The kings, however, who issued from its ranks, and who in all
ages prided themselves on the name of gentleman, were an
exception. The sons of Clovis were the first pupils of the school
established in his palace and directed by his chaplain. This
example was perpetuated. The princes of the Merovingian dynasty
pursued their studies in the monasteries, and literary habits
became so congenial to them that, in some instances, they were
carried to excess and became a kind of mania, as in the case of
the prince called the _Clerc couronné_. (Chilperic.) As to
Charlemagne, who spoke the Latin language, understood Greek, made
astronomical calculations, brought professors from Italy, (Peter
of Pisa and Paul the Hellenist deacon,) and founded the first
academy and the first university, it is useless to insist on him,
for he is universally acknowledged to be at once a hero, a
learned man, and a saint. Nor are the literary tastes of the most
eminent sovereigns denied, as Alfred the Great, the translator of
AEsop and commentator of Bede; Charles le Chauve, who had
Aristotle and Plato explained to him by masters from
Constantinople; Alfonso the Wise, astronomer, legislator, and
historian; Robert the Pious; Otto II., who appointed Gerbert, the
wisest man of the age, tutor to his son; Frederick II., who spoke
German, French, Arabic, Latin, and Greek; and Philip Augustus,
the patron of literature and the arts, "who, for that age, was as
magnificent as Louis XIV." [Footnote 245]

    [Footnote 245: Villemain, _ibid_.]

{611}

And later than the twelfth century, is it astonishing that St.
Louis admitted St. Thomas of Aquin to his table, where, in his
presence, were discussed the highest questions of philosophy?
That the rule of study drawn up for John, son of Philip of
Valois, included Latin and several languages? [Footnote 246] That
Charles V. collected at the Louvre a library of considerable
size, and that his brothers, the dukes of Burgundy and Berri,
carried away by love for the arts, ordered miniatures, which are
admirable paintings, from the celebrated painters, Memling, Van
Eyck, and Jean Fouquet? But we are approaching the time of the
Restoration, and consequently all these facts prove nothing.

    [Footnote 246: In a memoir addressed to the queen in 1334 and
    composed of one hundred and six articles, the unknown author
    gives the king's daily rule of life as follows: "Rise at six
    all the year round--Mass at seven--business till ten--supper
    at six--to bed at ten--to have his son taught several
    languages, even Latin, to fit him to travel."]

But were these enlightened, well-informed, and even learned
monarchs satisfied with their own attainments, and did they live
in their courts among brutal, ignorant, and coarse warriors who
could only talk of combats and gallantry? No; it is well known
that their principal vassals, the minor sovereigns, especially
those of Southern France, where the learning of Rome was
diffused, were not wholly unlettered. In the ninth century, there
was the son of a Count (Maguelonne) St. Benedict of Amiane, who
was at the head of all the monasteries in France, and who
compared, modified, and wrote commentaries on the rules of the
various religious orders--Greek as well as Latin; Foulques, Count
of Anjou, in the tenth century--yes, in the tenth century, that
darkest period of the middle ages--understood Aristotle and
Cicero, as has been proved, and in the following century, when
the leaders of the crusades assembled at Jerusalem to draw up a
code of laws--a civil and political code--charter of
citizenship, etc., they evidently understood not only the general
customs, but Roman law; and several of them (Iselin, etc.) were
no less proficients in the law than valiant knights; [Footnote
247] finally, if the muse of France would trace its ancestry back
to former times, it would find two princes, William of Poitiers
and Thibaut of Champagne. It is right, then, to leave out the
testimony of sovereigns.

    [Footnote 247: Robertson, in his introduction to the
    _History of Charles V._, is mistaken when he says the
    middle ages were ignorant of Roman law until the twelfth
    century. Roman law was not revived by the discovery of a copy
    of the Pandects at Amalfi: it was always known and practised:
    it was cited at the tribunals, and generally known during all
    the middle ages, as demonstrated by Savigny, _Histoire du
    Droit romain au Moyen Age._ See also Fauriel, _Histoire
    des Populations méridionales_.]

History also certifies a very singular fact: the leaders, the
_leudes_, under the Merovingians, sent their children to the
school at the palace "to be initiated in palatial learning."
There they underwent examinations, studied the fathers, history,
law, religious dogmas, received degrees, etc. This fact is thus
explained: these young men were hostages that the king kept at
court to insure the fealty of their fathers, no doubt; and the
consequence of this truly barbarous idea was to convert a prison
into a school and an academy! There was another custom almost as
singular: these young men are represented as travelling, even in
the earliest ages, in the various countries of Europe--France,
Spain, and Italy--and in the East. Yes, notwithstanding the
insecurity of the routes, it was the fashion in the seventh
century to send young Englishmen to France to be reared, and even
in many cases across the Alps to Rome, Padua, etc. Some went to
complete their education in Greece, and, after the establishment
of the Latin Empire, at Constantinople. These young men
apparently belonged to wealthy and noble families.
{612}
And we would recall the fact that in the schools directed by
Clement, a Scotchman, Charlemagne assembled--strange idea!--"a
great number of children of all classes from the highest to the
lowest rank;" [Footnote 248] that among the pupils of Lanfranc,
at the abbey of Bec, were a great number of the children of lords
and barons, and, among others, William, Duke of Normandy, and
that son of an Italian nobleman who, later, was known as Pope
Alexander II. It would appear that these young men did not allow
the faculties they had developed to remain unproductive and
useless, from the fact that the earliest poets were princes and
nobles. But then, poetry is the offspring of the imagination and
of genius, and the French race, particularly in the South, are so
richly gifted therewith!

    [Footnote 248: The monk of St. Gall, mentioned by Phil. le
    Bas, _ibid_.]

What is more surprising, the first French historians were two
lords: Villehardoin in the twelfth century, and Joinville in the
thirteenth--historians not without culture. There are in their
language elegance, distinction, and Attic wit. They mention,
_en passant_, and without affectation, names and facts that
attest varied knowledge, and their style is so perfect that
competent writers have concluded that the nobility moulded the
French language to history and poetry--the ideal and the
practical! [Footnote 249] It is probably to these studious habits
and this inclination for intellectual pursuits, perpetuated for
ages like a tradition, is due the delicate and correct taste
peculiar to the French nobility of the last two centuries, and
the noble ambition of the great lords who have not been satisfied
with protecting the arts, but have deemed it an honor to have
their historical names inscribed on the list of the academies,
have striven to acquire a knowledge of letters, to excel in it,
and to add to the lustre of their descent brilliancy of talent
and the glory reserved for intellectual labors.

   [Footnote 249: Villemain, _ibid_., Léop. Delisle, A. de
   la Borderie, Marchegay. See also Audé, Mémoires de la Société
   d'Emulation de la Vendée, and the works already mentioned of
   Boutaric, Littré, Pierre Clémnent, etc.]

Finally--for we must collect testimony for the acquittal of the
accused--since the judgment has been so severe, the most
conscientious and erudite men of modern times, having traversed
the middle ages and returned laden with documents, declare that,
among the numberless titles that passed through their hands, they
never met this formula, so often mentioned: this one, being a
nobleman, attests his inability to sign his name.

Yet in spite of these proofs, these attestations, and the
authority of the witnesses, there is one fact beyond doubt,
_the absolute ignorance of the nobility of the middle ages_,
and we are forced, to our great regret, to conclude that this
opinion must be accepted as a historical fact of the same class,
and as clearly proved, as the so well authenticated facts of
Sixtus V. throwing away his crutches as soon as he was elected
Pope, Gilles de Raiz slaughtering his wives like Bluebeard,
Charles V. participating in his own funeral rites at St. Just,
Marie de Medicis dying of hunger in a garret at Cologne, and
Galileo imprisoned in a dungeon of the Inquisition!

{613}

                   VI.

  Character Of The Knowledge Of The Middle Ages.


The language of a people is One of the Signs that mark its
progress Or decay. If the genius of a language is fully
developed, the nation is in its apogee; if it is not developed,
or if it is losing its purity, the nation is progressing or
declining. This is a truth remarked by one of the most active
minds of the last century. "In the thirteenth century," says
Rivarol, "the French language had more nearly attained a certain
perfection than in the sixteenth." [Footnote 250] He is
astonished: he finds the fact "very extraordinary," but he does
not explain it. The explanation is easy. The French language was
much nearer perfection in the thirteenth than in the sixteenth
century, because society was more firmly established. The
sixteenth century was an age of transition, the dawn of a great
era--an avenue leading to a large city which we pass through, but
in which we do not linger. The men of that time, without being
aware of it, were preparing for the future. They collected
materials for building from the remains of antiquity and the
attempts of foreigners; they imitated and did not invent.
Consequently their language was obscure and loaded with foreign
idioms and antiquated expressions; it was neither bold, nor
expressive, nor clear; it was ornamented, rich, and redundant; it
was overladen like a tree not pruned; the fruit was hidden by an
excess of foliage. A great wind--the agitation of civil war--
shook off this exuberant foliage and the fruit appeared; the sun
of the seventeenth century warmed and colored it with its rays;
then it ripened, and the French language attained its definite
form and became immortal.

    [Footnote 250: In his _Discours sur l'Universalité de la
    Langue Française_, always to the point, and often
    profound, a writer of our time goes still further: "The
    language was fully developed and equal to our own," says M.
    Villemain, _Histoire de la Litérature du Moyen Age_,
    lesson x.]

The language of the thirteenth century was as complete and
perfect as it could be. At that period were laid the foundations
of Christian science. [Footnote 251] Doubtless, each age adding
to the knowledge of mankind, that science was not as extended as
now, but it had the essential qualities of true science: it was
analytical; it constantly applied this axiom, which is the
condition of progress: _Multùm, non multa_. Everything
corresponds: the science of the Egyptians was on a level with
their arts; their philosophy was as complex as their religion was
mysterious. It was the same in the middle ages. They possessed
the true religion, had right views of philosophy, attained to
eminence in the arts, and made accurate scientific observations.
And late researches have shown that they greatly extended the
knowledge they inherited from antiquity. [Footnote 252] Their
alchemists and physicians were not charlatans. The general
principles of Albertus Magnus and the Jewish and Arabian
physicians of Spain and Asia harmonize with those of modern
science. They were ignorant of certain phenomena, as a certain
skill was wanting to the artists of the time; but this ignorance
can no more be raised as an objection than against the learned
men of our time for not knowing the scientific discoveries of a
thousand years hence. It is not extent of knowledge that stamps
an epoch as great, but the use it makes of it, and the logical
conclusions it draws from its principles.

    [Footnote 251: _La Raison Catholique et la Raison
    philosophe_, ii., by Ventura.]

    [Footnote 252: Littré, _ibid_.]

{614}

The science of the middle ages was eminently logical, for it had
its source in a mountain whose summit rises to heaven--in
theology--whence it flows in streams upon all minds. Theology,
it has been said, [Footnote 253] is only the expression of an
idea: it is much more, it is the sublime end of thought--the
first of all sciences, the science _par excellence_--the
science of God. The sceptre of science belongs to Europe only
because it had its source in theology, [Footnote 254] which
occupied every mind in the middle ages--the greatest as well as
the narrowest minds--"which, dwelling on great things, became
great." It prompted them to other attainments. To climb to the
heights of knowledge, they had to lay hold of the asperities of
the mountain and of all the branches of science one after
another; of jurisprudence, civil law--the branch nearest the
surface of the earth; then of the physical sciences; afterward of
geometry, algebra, astronomy, and the still higher branches,
canon law and philosophy! [Footnote 255]

    [Footnote 253: Villemain, _Histoire de la Littérature da
    Moyen Age_, lesson xviii. He evidently does not comprehend
    the influence of theology, for he adds, "As in another age
    the public mind is expressed by politics, the theology of one
    epoch is the philosophy of another."]

    [Footnote 254: J. de Maistre.]

    [Footnote 255: The Oxford students and those of other
    universities studied at the same time civil and canon law.]



And above all, and mingled with all, literature; for letters are
the expression of the mind itself--the universal mind--whilst
"the sciences require only a partial application of it."
[Footnote 256] In the literature of a people are embodied its
ideas, manners, arts, industrial pursuits, worship, and its whole
life. By it man traverses countries and ages, imbibes their
spirit, and strengthens his mind more than by any other study.
Thence the incessant study of ancient literature, which, in the
thirteenth century, was more generally diffused than ever. Latin,
the language of tradition and of the church, the original
language of the present dominant nations of France, Italy, Spain,
and even England, (Latin was spoken in England until the
fourteenth century, and a great number of words in the English
language is derived from the Latin,) was understood by all
classes; discussions in Latin were carried on in universities,
and grammar and Latin were taught in the village schools.
[Footnote 257] They were constantly making researches; Villani at
Rome read Lucan, Virgil, Valerius Maximus; the scholars of
Cambridge wrote commentaries on Cicero. In France, Sallust and
Titus Livius were translated, soon followed by Caesar, Ovid, and
Suetonius, (under Charles V.) Greek became more universally known
after the taking of Constantinople by the crusaders; Aristotle
was translated into Latin by Michael Scott, and bishops in Italy
wrote homilies in the language of Chrysostom. [Footnote 258]
Theologians, philosophers, and poets were nourished by the
valuable and concise remains of antiquity; Dante, Petrarch,
Boccaccio, as well as the Franciscan lyrics and the _Romance of
the Rose_. All the works of that time are full of ancient
reminiscences.

    [Footnote 256: Expression of Napoleon I.]

    [Footnote 257: Léop. Delisle, _Les Classes agricoles en
    Normandie au treizième siècle_.]

    [Footnote 258: Manuscripts seen by M. Renan, in the Vatican.
    _Missions scientifiques_.]

{615}

Nevertheless, they did not neglect other languages. In the great
intercourse of nations there was an exchange of idioms. How much
is proved respecting that intercourse and the knowledge of
languages, by the single fact that the Archbishop of Toledo, at
the Council of Lateran in 1215, delivered a discourse in Latin,
and then repeated it for the laity in Spanish, French, and
German. But they did not restrict themselves to the European
languages. Why should not the learned men who went to seek
knowledge from the Jews and the Moors, and studied Aristotle as
often from the Arabian commentators as from the original works,
endeavor to acquire the language of those they so often came in
contact with? and the adventurers who crossed the deserts into
the heart of Asia; and the Italian republics that traded with
Africa; the ambassadors that kings sent to the Khan of Tartary;
the merchants who daily saw, landing in their ports and mingling
in their fairs, the turbans, pelisses, and caftans of merchants
from Cairo, Aleppo, Bagdad, Novgorod, and Sarmacand? Besides, the
oriental languages had never been neglected. In the sixth
century, King Gontran, at his entrance into Orleans, was
addressed in Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Arabic, and Syriac. [Footnote
259] In the crowded schools of the eighth century were studied
all languages, even the oriental, says Dom Pitra. From the tenth
century the pilgrimages to the Holy Land and the crusades made
the language of the Saracens (Arabic) familiar to a great number.
But there was a still stronger reason which led to the
acquisition of the Eastern languages--the conversion of the
infidels.

    [Footnote 259: See Gregory of Tours.]

The course of study already mentioned was inspired by a great
idea--Christian in its nature--the conquest of the East by the
infusion of Christianity; regeneration by civilization, to use
the modern expression. The noble mind that conceived it wished to
continue the work of the crusades by diffusing the doctrines,
opinions, and arts of Christendom: after arms, the sciences.
France, in its enthusiasm for proselyting, wished to send on a
mission of priests, artisans, physicians, women, entire families,
in fact, a whole colony. These people would establish themselves
in the Holy Land, colonize it, found a Christian race, and from
that sacred spot--from Mount Zion--diverge on every side, into
Africa as well as Asia, into Egypt, Mesopotamia, Persia, and
Arabia; mingle among the people enveloped in darkness, (the term
is just in this case,) influence them by their actions, morals,
intelligence and good deeds, and accomplish in that age--the
thirteenth century--the providential work that Europe, without
entirely knowing what it is effecting, is realizing in our
day--the transformation of the rest of the world, the union of
savage, barbarous, and brutal people into a universal nation who
will be guided by the spirit of the gospel. [Footnote 260]

    [Footnote 260: Abel de Rémusat, _Mémoire sur les Relations
    des Princes Chrétiens avec les Empereurs Moguls_, quoted
    by M. Guizot, _Histoire de la Civilization en Europe_.]

It was in order to prepare laborers for this sublime enterprise
that this plan of studies, as varied as extended, was prepared.
Do you not see all it supposes--the comprehension of the authors,
schools, and men capable of applying the plan? And it did not
remain a mere project; it began to be executed. The University of
Paris proposed to establish a professorship of the Tartar
language. It was not done till a later day, because the
university only acts with a view to science; but the church did
not delay, prompted by a more noble motive. At Rome it taught the
oriental languages in its colleges; at Paris, the monks of St.
Père de-Chartres, at the annual expense of one thousand francs,
opened, for the space of three years, a school for young men from
the East, who returned to their country carrying with them the
acquirements of the West and the eternal truths of religion.
[Footnote 261]

    [Footnote 261: Cartulary of St. Père de Chartres.]

{616}

The councils (that of Vienna in 1311) decreed that the oriental
languages. should be taught at Paris, Salamanca, Bologna, Oxford,
and all the great universities. The church wishes to diffuse
knowledge in order to evangelize the world; it arms men with
science that they may be more powerful, and it pushes them
forward in the career of learning, that, at the end, they may
find God.


                    VII.

            Ardor For Learning.


And the church has always found disciples eager to listen to its
instructions. The very barbarians, it has been remarked, were not
averse to study; they had, on the contrary, that innate taste for
letters which distinguishes the Germanic race. The Franks were
easily instructed; they mingled among the Gauls of the South in
the course of rhetoric and poetry, (at Bordeaux in the fifth and
sixth centuries;) St. Medard, Bede, and Mici counted them by
thousands in their schools. When the twelfth century opened more
numerous schools, an immense crowd hastened to them. It was an
invasion of recruits, who wished to learn the use of the arms of
knowledge, in England, Germany, and Italy; at Milan there were
eighty masters who were laymen; France above all, displayed its
characteristic ardor. At Paris, colleges were founded one after
another; two at the end of the twelfth century, fifteen in the
thirteenth and fourteenth; one half of Paris was transformed into
schools. That of the Canons of Notre Dame extended from the
church to the Petit-Pont; then it passed over the left bank and
ascended the mountain [Footnote 262] --the mountain that has
preserved the name of _Quartier Latin_--the true realm of
science imagined by the poets, where lived, in close proximity,
turbulent bands of students from every land, in groups, according
to their nations and languages.

    [Footnote 262: Vict. le Clerc, _Histoire de la Litterature
    au treizième siècle_.]

Foreigners [Footnote 263] proclaimed Paris the centre of
knowledge, and, in a right and elevated sense, the leader of
Europe. There was then some merit in the pursuit of knowledge.
The name of one of the streets of Paris, the Rue du Fouare,
so-called from the straw and hay upon which they seated
themselves, bears witness to the ardor of these students of the
dark ages, less anxious for their ease than to obtain knowledge.
They rewarded their own masters, and valued no expense to obtain
those most renowned; they sent to all parts of Europe for them,
and gave them a position often ten times more valuable than that
of the professors of our time. [Footnote 264]

    [Footnote 263: John of Salisbury, Dante, Brunetto Latini,
    etc.]

    [Footnote 264: Le Play, _Réforme sociale_, (47,) and
    Mateucci, _Les Universites d'Italie, (Revue des Cours
    scientifiques_, 1867.)]

It was difficult for many to contribute their share in all this
expense, in addition to the cost of living in a large city; but
in the hope of acquiring the knowledge, the poorer subjected
themselves to the most painful sacrifices. The romance of _Gil
Blas_ depicts the young men of the University of Salamanca as
valets and students. What existed in Spain in the eighteenth
century was the condition of many students of the middle ages.
Yes, they reduced themselves to servitude to obtain degrees, and
made themselves valets to gain their daily bread--a noble
servitude for which they did not blush, which put the body in
subjection, and left the mind free, showing the superiority of
mind over matter; it was a voluntary humiliation, which, for a
time, put the indigent scholar beneath the rich, but aided him to
attain in the world the place due to intelligence and knowledge,
to rise to the level of the most powerful, and often to the most
eminent dignities of the church and state--to the councils of
kings and the purple of cardinals.

{617}

And what ardent scholars! It was the age of the schoolmen.
Scholastic learning, afterward so disdained by forgetfulness or
ignorance, was the animated, living, and natural form which gave
expression to the passionate love of those young men for study.
Those descendants of the Franks rushed forward with the same
eagerness as to battle to share in the close reasoning, the logic
that contended so fiercely, that made every effort and climbed
tooth and nail to obtain a position strongly contested. What
valiant armies! what soldiers in "these tournaments that are like
combats!" [Footnote 265] But what captains also! what leaders!
what masters! St. Thomas Aquinas, St. Bonaventura, Albertus
Magnus--at once theologians, philosophers, moralists,
politicians, writers on political economy, and savants! What a
trio in one century and at the same period!

    [Footnote 265: Bonald.]

But do you know what took place in the thirteenth century at the
course of Albertus Magnus? Not hundreds but thousands of pupils
hastened to his lessons. [Footnote 266]

    [Footnote 266: It was the same throughout the middle ages. At
    Bologna there were, in the thirteenth century, ten thousand
    pupils at the law school; in the eleventh century, they came
    from every land to attend the instructions of Abelard; he
    counted several thousand auditors, and among them twenty
    cardinals and fifty bishops. We could multiply these examples
    indefinitely.]

It was not ardor that animated them, but enthusiasm; an apartment
was not required to contain them, but a square! No enclosure
would have sufficed for such a multitude. A great commotion
forced the master to leave his chair--a commotion such as is
rarely seen in our days, in which the crowd cried to their
teacher, "Away from here!" "_Exi! Foras!_"--a respectful
uprising in which the master is proud to obey; he descends from
his chair into the midst of the crowd, which is roaring like the
sea, and is borne away by a thousand arms to a large square,
where, on an elevation of stone, he can overlook the countless
human heads which extend back to the houses and fill up the
openings of the streets, but which are now motionless, attentive,
and mute before the sound of a single voice that enchains them. O
barbarous generation! O age of darkness in which a master
required the open air of heaven and the paved square for a
classroom! Compare the literary dilettantism of a few hundred
young men enclosed within the walls of an amphitheatre of a
hundred feet, with the ardent thirst of this crowd, which
required not a jar, but a whole river, to satisfy its thirst for
knowledge, and which has left a proof of its eager desire in the
capital and in the language, the name of the square into which so
many students crowded to hear their master--the Place Maubert,
Magni Alberti--the Square of the great Albert!

We see how erroneous is the opinion that attributes to the epoch
between the middle of the fifteenth and the middle of the
seventeenth centuries the revival of letters and the arts.
Letters were not revived; they still existed and enlightened the
world. "The great agitation of the Reformation is often
represented as having contributed to literary and scientific
development," says M. A. Maury, a writer not suspected of
partiality to the middle ages. "This is not absolutely true.
{618}
The contests to which it gave rise retarded for a time the
diffusion of knowledge; many monasteries, libraries, and schools
were suppressed, which had been, up to that time, the _great
sources of light_." Christian historians were the first to
become suspicious of error and to point it out. Hurter, the great
German historian, says: "Only superficial minds that disdain the
study of documents and are blinded by the pretended superiority
of our epoch, or by systematic hatred, dare accuse the church of
having favored ignorance." [Footnote 267] All truly learned men
soon became of the same mind. One of them, who has made the
middle ages his study for twenty years, cannot restrain his
indignation: "Our historians, even those who are considered the
best, dwelling on the grossest conjectures and influenced by
obsolete prejudices, without thinking of verifying, still less of
rectifying, old assertions, have summed up the whole history of
the first part of the middle ages in these two words,
_ignorance and superstition_; but it is to themselves," he
adds severely, "and not to the ages they have misunderstood and
calumniated, that these two words should be applied." [Footnote
268] "The idea of progress is not a pagan idea," says Ozanam.
[Footnote 269]

    [Footnote 267: _History of Innocent III_., book xxi.]

    [Footnote 268: Daremberg, _Cours of 1867_; and to the
    support of his opinions he brings Guizot, Dom Pitra, Ozanam,
    Heeren, etc.]

    [Footnote 269: _Histoire de la Civilisation an cinquième
    siècle_, chap. iv.]

The doctrine of progress is as old as the gospel; and the author
of _Les Etudes sur les Barbares et le Moyen Age_ confirms
this: "The people of the middle ages felt the necessity of
knowledge; they studied and labored conscientiously and
energetically, and marked each age by important developments."
The more carefully we examine those ages, the better shall we
understand the extent of knowledge in the church. The most
eminent men of those times--who does not know them?--are bishops,
monks, and popes: Gerbert, St. Bernard, Innocent III., and St.
Thomas Aquinas, who can only be compared to Aristotle; the most
original writers--who does not forget it?--are priests:
Froissart, Petrarch, and later, Calderon, Lope de Vega, and Tirso
de Molina; the greatest poet of the middle ages, Dante, was he
not a theologian? Cimabue, who revived the art of painting, was
he not reared among the Dominicans of Florence? Was not the first
press in Paris set up at the Sorbonne? The best informed class of
men were so incontestably the clergy that the names of priest and
savant were confounded. The word _clergie_ in the middle
ages signified learned. [Footnote 270] The church takes the
highest rank in the world of science. It does not acquire
knowledge for itself alone, but to diffuse everywhere, that the
whole earth may be enlightened. Like the sun, it is a great
centre diffusing the light it derives from God--its eternal
source!

    [Footnote 270: J. de Maistre, _Du Pape_, ii. 16.]

                    ----------

{619}

      From The French Of Erckmann And Chatrian.

         The Invasion; Or, Yegof The Fool.


                   Chapter XVII.

At the end of a dark passage through the house was the farmyard,
to which five or six well-worn steps descended. To the left were
the barn and the press; and to the right, the stables and the
dove-cote, the dark shape of the last standing sharply outlined
against the gray, misty sky. Opposite the door was the
wash-house.

Not a sound was heard. Hullin, after the wild and stormy day, was
impressed with the deep silence. He gazed at the tufts of straw
hanging between the rafters of the barn, the harrows, the
ploughs, the carts, half hidden in the gloom of the sheds, with
an indefinable feeling of calmness and satisfaction. Fowl were
roosting along the wall, and a cat fled by like a flash, and
disappeared in the cellar. Hullin seemed waking from a dream.

After a few moments of silent reverie, he turned slowly toward
the wash-house, the three windows of which shone through the
darkness. The kitchen of the farm-house was not large enough to
prepare food for three or four hundred men, and the work had been
carried thither.

Master Jean-Claude heard the childish voice of Louise giving
orders in a tone so resolute that it astonished him.

"Come, come, Katel, hurry. It is nearly time for supper, and the
poor fellows must be hungry. Just to think--fighting since seven
this morning, and not eating a morsel! Here, Lessele, move
yourself. Salt! pepper!"

Jean-Claude's heart beat at that voice. He could not avoid
peering through the glass before entering. The kitchen was large
but low, and with white-washed walls. A huge fire of beech-logs
crackled and blazed upon the hearth, in the midst of which
appeared the black sides of an immense pot. The chimney, high and
narrow, was scarcely large enough to carry off the billows of
smoke that arose. Near the fire was the graceful figure of
Louise, lit up by the brightest tints that flashed from the
hearth, bustling, active, coming, going, tasting sauces, trying
the meat, approving, and criticising.

The two daughters of the Anabaptist, one tall, dried up, and
pale, with large, flat feet, cased in great shoes, hair bound
with black ribbons into a little knot, and a long gown of blue
stuff hanging down to her heels; the other, chubby, and waddling
along much like a goose, formed a strange contrast with her.

The good Anabaptist himself, seated at the end of the room upon a
wooden chair, with feet crossed, cotton cap pulled well down upon
his head, and hands plunged into the depths of the pockets of his
blouse, gazed on all that passed with an air of wonderment, and
from time to time ejaculated sententiously:

"Lessele, Katel, do as you are told, my children. Let this be for
your instruction; you have yet seen nothing of the world. Walk
quicker."

{620}

"Yes, yes, you must move," added Louise. "What would become of us
if we meditated days and weeks about putting a little seasoning
in a sauce? You, Lessele, are the tallest; unhook that bundle of
onions from the ceiling."

And the tall girl obeyed.

Hullin was proud and happy as a prince.

"How she makes them mind!" he chuckled. "What a little dragoon
she is! a very puss-in-boots! Ha, ha, ha!"

And he waited full five minutes before entering."

Louise flung down the spoon she held, and rushed to him, crying:

"Father Jean-Claude! papa Jean-Claude! You are not hurt? you are
not wounded?"

Poor Hullin could not speak for a moment. He folded her tenderly
in his arms, and at length replied, in a voice whose tremor he
could not repress:

"No, Louise, no; I am well and happy."

" Sit down, Jean-Claude," said the Anabaptist, seeing how his
emotion affected him. "Here, take my chair."

Hullin seated himself, and Louise, placing her hands upon his
shoulders, burst into tears.

"What is the matter, my child?" asked the old man in wonder. "A
moment ago you were brave enough."

"Yes, I made believe, but I was very frightened. I thought--I
thought, 'Why does he not come?'"

Then a sudden whim seemed to enter her little head; she seized
her father's hand, and cried, laughing through her tears:

"Let us dance, papa Jean-Claude! Come, dance!"

And she pulled him around the room.

Hullin, smiling in spite of himself, turned to the Anabaptist,
who saw all that passed without a change in his grave visage, and
said:

"We are somewhat foolish, Louise and I; but don't let that
astonish you, Pelsly."

"It does not, Master Hullin. Did not King David dance when he had
smitten the Philistines hip and thigh?"

Jean-Claude, rather astounded at his resemblance to King David,
made no reply.

"Well, Louise," said he, "you were frightened during the battle,
were you?"

"Yes, at first; the cannon-shots and the din were fearful! But
afterward I only thought of you and mother Lefevre."

Then she took him by the hand, and, leading him to a regiment of
pots, kettles, and pans, ranged around the fire, enumerated her
forces with the air of a conqueror:

"Here is the beef; here is General Jean-Claude's supper; and here
is broth for the wounded. But that is not all. Here is our
bread," she added, showing him a long pile of loaves on the
table, and she was dragging him to the oven, when Catherine
Lefevre entered.

"It is time to set the table," cried the old woman. "Everybody is
waiting. Come, Katel, spread the cloth."

The stout girl departed, running; all followed to the great hall,
where Doctors Lorquin and Despois, Marc-Dives, and Materne and
his two sons, impatiently awaited the meal.

"How are the wounded, doctor?" cried Hullin.

"Rest easy, Master Jean-Claude; all are cared for. You have given
us a hard day's work; but the weather is favorable, and fever or
mortification need not be feared. Everything looks well."

{621}

Katel, Lessele, and Louise soon entered, bearing an enormous
soup-dish, and two magnificent rounds of beef, which they placed
upon the table. Sharp appetites left scant room for ceremony, and
soon the rattling of knives and opening of bottles alone were
heard. Without, the broad flames from the bivouac-fires flashed
on the window-panes, and showed the mountaineers doing full
justice to Louise's cheer.

At nine o'clock Marc-Dives started for Falkenstein with his
prisoners. At ten, all in the house, or around the fires, were
sleeping, and no sound broke the stillness save the passage of
the rounds and the challenge of the sentries.

So ended the first day in which the mountaineers proved that the
spirit of their fathers had not degenerated in them.

But other and not less stern trials were soon to follow those
already past; for throughout man's life one obstacle is overcome
only to make way for another. The world is like a stormy sea:
wave follows wave, from age to age, in a flow that eternity alone
may stay.



              Chapter XVIII.

During the entire battle, until nightfall, the people of
Grandfontaine saw the fool, Yegof, standing on the summit of
Little Donon, his crown upon his head, his sceptre waving in his
hand. There he stood, like a Merovingian king, issuing his orders
to his imaginary armies. What feelings shook him as he saw the
Germans beaten back, routed, no man may say. At the last echo of
the cannon he disappeared. Whither had he gone? This is what the
people of Tiefenbach say:

At the time of which I speak, two strange beings--sisters--lived
on the Bocksberg. One was called Little Kateline; the other Tall
Berbel. These two ragged creatures made their home in the cavern
of Luitprand, so named, as old chronicles aver, from the fact
that the King of the Germani, before descending into Alsace,
buried beneath its immense vault of red stone the barbarian
chiefs who had fallen at Blutfeld. The hot spring, which always
bubbles and streams from the middle of the cave, secured the
sisters from the fierce cold of mountain winters, and Daniel
Horn, of Tiefenbach, the wood-cutter, had the charity to close
the main entrance from without with great heaps of broom and
brushwood. At the side of the hot spring was another spring, cold
as ice and clear as crystal.

Kateline always drank at this spring, and was not more than four
feet in height; but what she lacked in length she made up in
rotund breadth; and her wondering look, round eyes, and enormous
throat, gave her the appearance of a meditative matronly hen.
Every Sunday she bore an osier basket to the village of
Tiefenbach, and the good people there filled it with cooked
potatoes, loaves of bread, and sometimes, on holidays, with cakes
and other remnants of their festivities. Then the poor creature
would make her way back to the cave, breathless, laughing,
chattering, rejoicing.

But Tall Berbel was ever careful not to drink at the cold spring.
She was bony, fleshless as a bat, and had lost an eye; her nose
was flat, her ears large, and her single orb sparkled like a
coal; she lived upon the fruits of her sister's sallies. She
never left Bocksberg. But in July, when the heat was greatest,
standing upon the height, she shook a withered thistle over the
grain of those who had not regularly filled Kateline's basket;
and fearful tempests, or hail, or swarms of rats or field-mice,
ruined the budding harvest. The spells of Berbel were feared like
pestilence; she was everywhere known as the _Wetterhexe_, or
storm-witch, while little Kateline was esteemed the good fairy of
Tiefenbach. In this way Berbel lived in idleness, and Kateline
begged food for both.

{622}

Unfortunately for the two sisters, Yegof had for some years
previously established his winter residence in the cavern of
Luitprand. Thence he departed in the spring, to visit his
numberless castles and to count his feudatories, as far as
Geierstein in the Hundsruck. Every year, toward the end of
November, after the first snows, he arrived with his raven--an
event which the storm-witch always bitterly bemoaned.

"Again thy plaints," he was wont to say, as he tranquilly
installed himself in the most comfortable spot the cave afforded;
"do you not both live upon my domains? I am very good to suffer
two _valkyrs_ [Footnote 271] useless in the Valhalla of my
fathers, to remain here."

    [Footnote 271: Maidens of Odin, whom he sends to every
    battlefield to decide who shall fall and who shall be
    victorious. They also wait upon the heroes in Valhalla.]

Then would Berbel, aroused to fury, overwhelm him with reproach
and insult, and Kateline look offended; but he, careless of the
storm he raised, would only light his old boxwood pipe, and
relate his far-off wanderings among the souls of the German
warriors, who, for sixteen centuries, lay buried in the cavern,
calling them by name, and speaking to them as to men yet living.
You may imagine with what delight Berbel and Kateline looked
forward to the coming of the fool with his dismal tales.

But this year, Yegof had not come, and the sisters believed him
dead, and duly rejoiced over the prospect of seeing him no more.
Nevertheless, the Wetterhexe had observed the agitation in the
valleys, the crowds of men, musket on shoulder, leaving
Falkenstein and Donon. Surely, something strange had happened;
and the sorceress, calling to mind that the preceding year Yegof
had related to the spirits of his warriors how his countless
armies would soon invade the land, felt a vague uneasiness. She
would fain have learned the cause of the movement around her; but
Kateline having made her tour the Sunday before, would not again
budge from her home for an empire, and no one ever climbed to the
cavern.

In this frame of mind Berbel came and went, wandered restlessly
about the cave, growing hourly more uneasy and irritable. But
during Saturday she had enough to think on. From nine o'clock in
the morning, heavy and deep peals rang like thunder over the
mountain side, and awoke the thousand echoes of the valleys; far
away toward Donon rapid flashes crossed what sky appeared between
the peaks; and as night approached, yet louder sounds rolled
through every gorge, and the hollow voices of Hengst, of
Gantzlée, Giromani and Grossmann replied.

"What can all this be?" asked Berbel of herself, "can the day of
doom have come?"

Then returning to the cavern and finding Kateline huddled in a
corner munching a potato, she shook her rudely and hissed:

"Idiot! hearest thou nothing? Fearest thou nothing? Carest thou
for nothing but eating and drinking?"

She dashed the potato furiously to the ground, and sat herself
trembling by the hot spring, which sent its grey vapors to the
roof. Half an hour later, the darkness growing deeper, and the
cold intense, she lighted a fire of brushwood, which threw its
pale flashes over the vault of red stone, and pierced to the end
of the cavern, where Kateline slept with her feet buried in a
heap of straw, and her chin resting on her knees.
{623}
Without, all noise had ceased. The storm-witch pulled aside the
briars at the entrance, and gazed down the mountain side; then
she returned to her post by the fire, her thin lips set tightly
together, and her eyelids closed; she drew an old woolen coverlet
over her knees, and seemed to sleep. No sound broke the stillness
but the dripping of the condensed steam falling from the vault
back to its source with a melancholy plash.

So lasted the silence for hours. Midnight was nearing, when
suddenly the sound of footsteps, mingled with discordant noises,
started Berbel from her slumber. She listened, and heard the cry
of a human voice. She arose trembling, and, armed with a huge
thorn branch, glided to the opening; there, pushing aside the
briars, she saw in the moonlight the fool Yegof advancing alone,
but writhing as if in agony, and beating the air with his
sceptre, as if thousands of invisible beings surrounded him.

"To the rescue, Roug, Bléd, Adelrick!" he shouted in tones that
pierced the cold air like the clangor of an iron bell, his matted
beard and hair waving the while, and his dog-skin cloak folded
like a buckler around his left arm; "to the rescue! Follow me to
the death! See you not who are coming, cleaving the skies like
eagles? On, men of the red beards! Crush this race of dogs! Ah!
Minan, Rochart, are ye here?"

And then he called with savage shouts, upon all the dead of
Donon, defying them as if they were really there; then he
recoiled step by step, still striking the air, hurling curses,
urging unseen armies to the fight, and struggling as if
surrounded by foes. A cold sweat poured from Berbel's brow, she
felt her hair rise upon her head, and she would have fled; but at
the moment a strange murmuring arose within the cave, and, to her
horror, she saw the hot spring boiling fiercely, and masses of
vapor rising from it and advancing to the entrance of the cave.

Like phantoms the thick clouds came slowly on, and suddenly Yegof
appeared, crying in a husky voice,

"At last ye have heard me! ye are come!"

With a bound he darted to the opening. The icy air filled the
vault, and the vapors pouring forth, twisted and wreathed beneath
the vast vault of heaven, as if the dead of to-day and those of
long gone centuries had begun a never-ending conflict.

The pale moonbeams shed a weird light over Yegof's face and form,
as he stood with flashing eyes and sceptre outstretched, and
beard falling over his breast, saluting each phantom and calling
it by name.

"All hail, Bléd! Hail to thee, Roug! and to ye all, brave
warriors! The hour which for centuries you have awaited is at
hand; the eagles are whetting their beaks; the earth thirsts for
blood! Remember Blutfeld!"

Berbel's senses had almost left her; fear alone kept her
standing; but soon the last clouds escaped from the cavern and
melted in the limitless blue.

Yegof entered the vault and sat upon the ground near the hot
spring, his head resting upon his hands, and his elbows on his
knees, gazing with haggard eyes on the bubbling waters.

Kateline awoke sobbing, and the storm-witch, more dead than
alive, observed the fool from the darkest nook of the cave.

{624}

"They have all arisen from their graves," cried he suddenly;
"all! all! not one remains behind. They will give life to the
hearts of my young warriors, and teach them to despise death!"

He raised his face. A crushing sorrow seemed settled there.

"O woman!" he said, fixing his eyes upon the Wetterhexe with a
wolfish glare, "O thou descendant of the Valkyrs, but who at the
festal board hast never filled the deep cups of the warriors with
mead, nor placed before them the smoking flesh of the boar
Serimar, what canst thou do? Canst spin winding-sheets? To thy
task then! Spin night and day, for thousands of bold warriors are
stretched upon the snow. They fought valiantly. They did their
work well, but the hour had not yet come. Now the ravens feed
upon their flesh!"

Then in ungovernable fury, seizing his crown with both hands, and
tearing it from his head, although with it came away handfuls of
hair, he shouted:

"Accursed tribe! Will ye ever bar our way! But for ye we had long
since conquered Europe; ay, we of the red beards had been masters
of the world. And I humbled myself before this race of dogs! I
asked his daughter of one of them, instead of bearing her off as
the wolf does the lamb! Ah Huldrix! Huldrix! Listen, Valkyr," he
suddenly added in a low tone, "listen!"

He raised his finger solemnly. The Wetterhexe listened; a blast
arose without, and shook the old frost-laden forest. How often
had the sorceress heard that sound before, during the long winter
nights, without giving it a thought. Now, she was afraid.

And while she stood trembling, a hoarse cry smote her ear, and
the raven Hans, sweeping beneath the rock, flew in circles round
and round the cavern, flapping his wings as if in terror, and
croaking mournfully.

Yegof became pale as death.

"Vod! Vod!" he cried in despairing tones, "what has thy son
Luitprand done to thee? Why choose him rather than another?"

And for some seconds he seemed to have swooned; but soon, as if
carried away by a savage enthusiasm, brandishing his sceptre, he
darted from the cavern.

Wetterhexe, standing in the opening, followed him with an anxious
eye.

He strode straight onward, with outstretched neck, like a wild
beast rushing at its prey. Hans flew before, and they disappeared
in the gorge of Blutfeld.


              Chapter XIX.

Toward two o'clock that night the snow began to fall, and at
daybreak it rested inches deep upon the men at the bivouacs.

The Germans had left Grandfontaine, Framont, and even Schirmeck,
and black spots far away on the plains of Alsace showed where
their battalions were in full retreat.

Hullin, roused at early dawn, inspected the bivouacs; he stopped
for a few minutes to gaze at the plateau--the scene of Dives's
charge at the cannon pointed down the mountain side, the
partisans stretched around the fires, and the pacing sentries;
then satisfied that all was well, he returned to the farm-house
where Catherine and Louise were yet sleeping.

The gray morning was entering at the windows. A few wounded, whom
the fires of fever had already seized, shrieked loudly for their
wives and children. Then the hum of many voices arose, and at
last Catherine and Louise appeared, and saw Jean-Claude seated in
a corner of a window; ashamed to be thought more devoted to
slumber than he, they hastened to bid him good morning.

{625}

"Well!" said Catherine inquiringly.

"They are gone, and we are masters of the road."

This assurance did not seem sufficient for the old woman. She
gazed through the windows, and saw the Austrians far off in
Alsace. Still her face bore the impress of an indefinable
uneasiness.

Between eight and nine o'clock, Father Saumaize, the priest of
the village of Charmes, arrived. A few mountaineers then
descended to the foot of the slope, and collected the dead who
lay there so thick. Then a long trench was dug, to the right of
the farm-house, in which partisans and Kaiserliks, in their
blouses, their slouched hats, their shakos, and their uniforms,
were ranged side by side. The good priest, a tall old man, with
locks white as snow, read the ancient prayers for the dead in
that rapid and mysterious voice which pierces the very depths of
the soul, and seems to summon long-past generations to greet the
new-comers to their realms--which calls so vividly to the hearts
of the living thoughts of the darkness and terrors of the grave,
and of the light and mercy beyond.

All day wagons and sleds kept carrying the wounded to their
villages; for Doctor Lorquin, fearing to increase their
excitement, was forced to yield to their cries and prayers that
they might again see their homes. Toward evening Catherine and
Hullin found themselves alone in the great hall; Louise had gone
to prepare supper. Great flakes of snow still continued to fall
without, and from time to time a sled departed silently bearing
its wounded owner buried in straw, sometimes a man, sometimes a
woman, leading a horse by the bridle. Catherine, seated at the
table, folded bandages with an absent air.

"What ails you, Mother Lefevre?" asked Jean-Claude. "Ever since
morning you have been sad and thoughtful. Is this your rejoicing
over victory?"

The old woman looked up, and slowly pushing the linen from her,
replied:

"True, Jean-Claude; I am anxious."

"Anxious? About what? The enemy is in full retreat, and Frantz
Materne, whom I sent to watch them, and all Pivrette's and
Jerome's and Labarbe's couriers report that they are returning to
Mutzig. Old Materne and Kasper, after having buried the dead,
learned at Grandfontaine that not a white coat is to be seen
toward Saint Blaize-la-Roche. All this proves that our dragoons
of the Spanish wars gave them a warm reception on the Senones
road, and they fear to be turned by way of Schirmeck. I see no
reason for uneasiness, Catherine."

And Hullin gazed at her with a look of inquiry.

"You will laugh at me again, Jean-Claude," said she; "I have had
a dream."

"A dream!"

"Yes; the same that I dreamed at Bois-de-Chênes."

Her voice grew louder, and, before Hullin could interrupt, she
continued half angrily:

{626}

"Say what you will, Jean-Claude, a great peril hangs over us.
Yes, yes, all this seems senseless, and is only a dream, but it
was not a dream; it was what had passed and what I saw again and
recognized in my sleep. Listen! We were as we were to-day--after
a great victory--where I know not--in a sort of huge wooden hut,
crossed by strong beams and defended by palisades. We were secure
and careless. All whom I saw around me I knew. There were you,
Marc Dives, Old Duchêne, and many others--old men long since
dead--my father and old Hugo Rochart of Harberg, the uncle of him
who has just died, all in gray blouses, and with long beards and
bare necks. We were rejoicing and drinking from great vessels of
red earth, when a cry arose, 'The enemy are returning!' And Yegof
on horseback, his beard streaming in the wind, his crown
surrounded with spikes, an axe in his hand, and his eyes
glittering like a wolfs, appeared before me. I rushed at him with
a stake; he awaited me, and I saw no more. But I felt a sharp
pain at my throat; a cold blast struck my face, and it seemed as
if my head were swinging at the end of a cord. Yegof had hung it
to his saddle and was galloping away." The old woman ended her
story in such a tone of belief that brave Jean-Claude shuddered.

There were a few moments of silence; then Hullin, rousing
himself, replied:

"It was but a dream. I, too, often have horrible ones. It was the
noise, the shrieks, the terror of yesterday tormenting you,
Catherine."

"No!" she answered firmly, as she resumed her work; "it was not
that. In good truth, during the whole of the battle--even when
the cannon thundered upon us--I feared nothing; I was sure we
would be victorious, for that too I had seen. But now I fear!"

"But the Austrians have evacuated Schirmeck; all the line of the
Vosges is defended; we have more men than we need, and still more
are arriving every moment."

"No matter!"

Hullin shrugged his shoulders.

"Come, come, Catherine! You are feverish. Try to calm yourself
and dispel such gloomy thoughts. I laugh at all these dreams as I
would at the Grand Turk with his pipe and blue stockings. We have
men, munitions, and defences, and these are better than the
rosiest-colored dreams."

"You mock me, Jean-Claude."

"No; but to hear a woman of sound sense, of courage and
determination, talk as you do, makes one indeed think of Yegof,
who boasts that he has been living sixteen hundred years."

"Who knows?" said the old woman obstinately. "He may remember
what others have forgotten."

Hullin proceeded to relate his conversation of the day before
with Yegof, at the bivouac, thinking thus to disperse her gloom;
but seeing that she was inclined to agree with the fool on the
score of the sixteen centuries, the good man at length ceased,
and paced the room with bowed head and anxious brow. "She is
becoming mad," he thought; "another shock, and her mind is gone."

Catherine, after a silence, seemed about again to speak, when
Louise tripped into the room, crying:

"Mamma Lefevre, Mamma Lefevre, a letter from Gaspard!"

Then the old woman, whose lips had been pressed tight together in
her indignation at Hullin's ridicule, lifted her head, and the
sharp lines of her face softened.

She took the letter and gazing at the red seal, said to the young
girl:

"Kiss me, Louise; it bears good tidings."

{627}

Hullin drew near, glad that something had happened to distract
Catherine's thoughts, and Brainstein, the postman, his heavy
shoes covered with snow and his hands resting upon his staff,
stood with a weary and careworn air at the door.

Catherine put on her spectacles, opened the letter slowly,
notwithstanding the impatient glances of Jean-Claude and Louise,
and read aloud:

"This, my dear mother, is to inform you that all goes well, and I
arrived Tuesday evening at Phalsbourg, just as they were closing
the gates. The Cossacks were already on the Saverne side, and
skirmishing was kept up all night with their advance. The next
day a flag of truce summoned us to surrender the place. The
commandant Meunier told the bearer to go and hang himself, and,
three days after, a storm of shell and canister began to hail
upon the city. The Russians have three batteries; but the hot
shot do the most harm. They set fire to the houses and when the
flames appear, showers of canister prevent our putting them out.
The women and children keep within the blockhouse; the citizens
fight with us on the ramparts. They are brave men, and among them
are some veterans of the Sambre-and-Meuse, of Italy and Egypt,
who have not forgotten how to work the guns. It makes me sad to
see their grey moustaches falling on the cannon as they aim. I
will answer for it, they waste no powder; but it is hard to see
men, who have made the world tremble, forced in their old age to
defend their own homes and hearths."

"Hard indeed," said Catherine, drying her eyes. "It makes my
heart bleed to think of it."

She continued:

"The day before yesterday the governor decided to attack the
tile-kiln. You must know that these Russians break the ice to
bathe in platoons of twenty or thirty, and afterward dry
themselves there at the fire. About four in the afternoon, as
evening was coming on, we made a sally through the arsenal
postern, passing through the covered ways and filing along the
path leading to the kiln. Ten minutes after, we began a rolling
fire on it, and the Russians had scarcely time to seize their
muskets and cartridge-boxes, and, half-dressed, to form ranks
upon the snow. Nevertheless, they were ten times more numerous
than we, and began a movement to the right, on the little chapel
of Saint John, so as to surround us, when the guns of the arsenal
opened a fire upon them, the like of which I never saw before,
sweeping them down in long lanes. In less than a quarter of an
hour they were in full flight to Quatre-Vents, without waiting to
pick up their coats, their officers at their head, and round-shot
from the town acting as file-closers. Father Jean-Claude would
have laughed at their predicament. At night-fall we returned to
the city, after destroying the kiln, and throwing two
eight-pounders we captured into its well. So ended our first
sortie. I write you from Bois-de-Chênes, which we have reached on
a foraging expedition. The siege may last months.

"I should have told you that the Allies are passing through the
valley of Dosenheim to Weschem, and flooding the roads to Paris
by thousands. Ah! if God would only give the emperor the victory
in Lorraine or Champagne, not one of them would return. But the
trumpets are sounding the recall, and we have gathered a goodly
number of oxen and cows and goats. We may have to fight our way
back. Farewell, my dear mother, and Louise, and Father
Jean-Claude. You are ever in my thoughts and my heart."

{628}

Catherine's eyes grew moist as she finished.

"What a brave fellow he is!" she murmured; "he knows only his
duty. Well! well! Do you hear, Louise, how he remembers you?"

Louise threw herself into the old woman's arms, and Mother
Catherine, despite the firmness of her character, could not
restrain two great tears, which coursed down her furrowed cheeks;
but she was soon herself again. "Come, come!" said she; "all is
well. Come Brainstein, eat a morsel of bread and take a glass of
wine, and here is a crown for your trouble; I wish I could give
as much every week for such a letter."

The postman, well pleased at her bounty, followed her, and
Jean-Claude hastened to question him as to the enemy's movements;
but he learned nothing new, except that the Allies were besieging
Bitche, and Lutzelstein, and that they had lost some hundreds of
men in attempting to force the defile of Graufthal.


               Chapter XX.

About ten o'clock that night Catherine Lefevre and Louise, after
having bid Hullin good-night, retired to their chamber, which was
situated over the great hall. In this room were two huge feather
beds, with red and blue striped curtains rising to the ceiling.

"Sleep-well, my child," said the old woman. "I can no longer bear
up against my weariness."

She threw herself upon her bed, and in a few minutes was in a
deep slumber. Louise did not delay following her example.

This lasted mayhap two hours, when a fearful tumult broke upon
them.

"To arms! to arms!" shouted fifty voices. "They are on us! To
arms!"

Shots resounded, and the tramp of hurrying feet mingled with
cries of alarm; but above all was heard Hullin's voice giving
orders in short, resolute, ringing tones, and to the left of the
farm, from the gorges of Grosmann rose a deep heavy murmur like
that of an approaching storm.

"Louise! hearest thou, Louise?" cried Catherine.

"Yes, yes. Great Heaven! it is terrible?"

Catherine sprang from her bed.

"Arise, my child," she cried; "dress quickly."

The shots redoubled and the windows were lit up as if by constant
flashes of lightning.

"Attention!" shouted the voice of Materne.

They heard the neighing of a horse without, and the rush of many
feet below in the passage, the yard, and in front of the house,
which shook to its foundations.

Suddenly shots were fired from the hall on the ground floor. A
heavy step sounded on the stairs; the door opened, and Hullin,
pale, his hair disordered and his lips quivering, appeared,
bearing a lantern.

"Hasten," he cried, "we have not a moment to lose."

"What has happened?" asked Catherine.

The firing became louder and louder.

"Is this a time to explain?" he shouted. "Come on!"

The old woman covered her head with her hood and descended the
stairs with Louise. By the fitful light of the shots, they saw
Materne, bare-necked, and his son Kasper, firing from the doorway
on the abatis, while ten others behind them loaded and passed the
muskets to them. Three or four corpses, lying against the broken
wall, added to the horrors of the fight, and thick smoke hung
among the rafters.

{629}

As he reached the stairs, Hullin cried:

"Here they are, Heaven be thanked!"

And the brave fellows below shouted:

"Courage! courage, Mother Lefevre!"

Then the poor old woman, whose stout heart seemed at last broken,
burst into tears. She leaned heavily on Jean-Claude's shoulder;
but he lifted her like a feather and ran from the house, skirting
the wall to the right. Louise followed, sobbing.

They could hear nothing but the whistling of bullets, or their
dull thud as they flattened themselves on the rough east wall,
scattering the plaster in showers, or as they hurled the tiles
from the roof. In front, not three hundred paces distant, they
saw a line of white uniforms, lighted up by their own fire in the
black darkness. These the mountaineers on the other side of the
ravine of Minières were assailing in flank.

Hullin turned the corner of the house; there all was darkness,
and they could scarcely distinguish Doctor Lorquin, on horseback,
before a sledge, swinging a long cavalry sabre in his hand and
bearing two horse-pistols in his belt, and Frantz Materne, with a
dozen men, the butt of his rifle resting on his foot and his lips
foaming with rage. Hullin seated Catherine in the sledge and
Louise by her side.

"Here at last!" cried the doctor, "God be thanked!"

And Frantz Materne added:

"If it were not for you, Mother Lefevre, you may be sure that not
one of us would quit the plateau tonight; but for you--"

At this moment, a tall gaunt fellow, passed at full speed,
shrieking as he ran:

"They are upon us! Every one for himself."

Hullin grew pale.

"It is the miller of Harberg," he muttered, grinding his teeth.
"Traitor!"

Frantz said nothing, but brought his rifle to his shoulder, aimed
and fired.

Louise saw the coward fling his arms in the air and fall face
downward on the snow.

Frantz, with a strange smile, reloaded his piece.

"Comrades!" said Hullin; "here is your mother; she who gave you
powder and food that you might defend your homes; and here is my
child. Save them!"

And all answered:

"We will save them or die with them."

"And remember to warn Dives to remain at Falkenstein until
further orders."

"We shall not fail."

"Then forward, doctor, forward," cried the brave old man.

"And you, Hullins?" asked Catherine.

"My place is here. Our position must be defended to the death."

"Father Jean-Claude!" cried Louise, stretching her arms toward
him.

But he had, already turned the corner; the doctor whipped up his
horse; the sledge crunched the snow, and behind it Frantz Materne
and his men, their rifles on their shoulders, strode on, while
the roll and clatter of the musketry continued. The old mistress
of Bois-de-Chênes, remembering her dream, was silent. Louise
dried her tears and threw a last long gaze on the plateau, which
was lighted up as if by a fire. The horse galloped beneath the
blows of the doctor, so that the mountaineers of the escort could
scarcely keep up with it; but it was long ere the tumult, the
shouts of battle, the clatter and crash of the shots, and the
whistling of the balls, cutting through the branches of the
trees, and growing more and more indistinct, were heard no more;
then all seemed vanished like a dream.

{630}

The sledge had reached the other slope of the mountain and darted
like an arrow through the darkness. The tramp of the horse's
hoofs, the hard-drawn breath of the escort, and from time to time
the call of the doctor, "Ho, Bruno, old fellow!" alone broke the
deep stillness.

A rush of ice-cold air, rolling up from the valley of the Sarre,
bore from afar, like a sigh, the never-ending plaint of the
torrents and woods. The moon broke through a cloud and looked
down on the dark forests of Blanru, with their tall, snow-laden
firs. A few moments after, the sledge reached a corner of the
woods, and Doctor Lorquin, turning in his saddle, cried:

"Now, Frantz, what are we to do? The path turns to the hills of
Saint-Quirin, and here is another going down to Blanru. Which
shall we take?"

Frantz and the men of the escort drew near. As they were then on
the western side of the Donon, they began to catch glimpses once
more of the German fusilade, and occasionally they heard the
crash of a cannon-shot echo through the abysses. "The path to the
hills of Saint-Quirin," replied Frantz, "is shorter if we wish to
stop at Bois-de-Chênes; we shall gain at least three quarters of
an hour by it."

"Yes," said the doctor, "but we risk being taken by the
Kaiserliks who now hold the defile of the Sarre. They are already
masters of the heights, and they have doubtless sent detachments
to the Sarre-Ridge in order to turn Donon."

"Let us, take the Blanru path then," answered Frantz; "it is
longer, but safer."

The sledge descended the mountain side to the left, along the
skirts of the wood. The partisans in single file, their rifles
slung on their backs, marched upon the top of the slope, and the
doctor, on horseback, in the narrow way, broke through the
snowdrifts. Above hung the long fir branches, burying road and
travellers in deep shadow, beyond which streamed the pale
moonlight. The scene was picturesque and majestic, and under
other circumstances Catherine would have wondered at its weird
beauty, and Louise would not have failed to admire the long
icicles glittering like spars of crystal where the moonbeams
fell; but now their hearts were full of unrest and fear, and soon
the sledge entered the deep gorge, whence they could see no light
but that which flooded the mountain peaks. Thus they pushed on in
silence until at length Catherine, rousing herself from the
gloomy thoughts in which she seemed plunged, spoke.

"Doctor Lorquin, now that you have us at the bottom of Blanru,
will you explain why we have thus been carried off? Jean-Claude
seized me, threw me on this truss of straw, and here I am."

"Ho, Bruno!" cried the doctor.

Then he answered gravely:

"To-night, Mother Catherine, the greatest of evils has befallen
us. It cannot be laid to Jean-Claude; for by the fault of another
we have lost the fruit of all our blood and toil."

"By whose fault?"

"Labarbe's, who did not guard the defile of Blutfeld. He died
afterward doing his duty like a man; but his death could not
repair his fault; and if Pivrette does not arrive in time to
support Hullin, all is lost. We must then abandon the road and
retreat."

{631}

"What! Blutfeld in possession of the enemy."

"Yes, Mother Catherine. But who would have thought that the
Germans would have entered it? A defile almost impracticable for
infantry, surrounded by pointed rocks, where the herdsmen
themselves can scarcely descend with their flocks and goats?
Well, they passed through it, two by two, turned Roche-Creuse,
crushed Labarbe, and then fell upon Jerome, who defended himself
like a lion until nine at night, but finally had to take to the
woods and leave the road to the Kaiserliks. That is the whole
story, and it is fearful enough. Some one must have been cowardly
and treacherous enough to have guided the enemy to our rear--to
have delivered us over bound hand and foot. O the wretch!" cried
the doctor in a trembling voice; "I am not revengeful, but if
ever he falls under my hand, how I will dissect him! Ho, Bruno!
Ho, boy!"

The partisans still maintained their steady shadowy march, and no
word was spoken.

The horse again began a gallop, but soon slackened his pace and
breathed heavily.

Mother Lefevre was once more buried in thought.

"I begin to understand," said she at length; "we were attacked
tonight in front and flank."

"Just so, Catherine; and, by good fortune, ten minutes before the
attack, one of Marc-Dives's men--the smuggler Zimmer, an old
dragoon--arrived at full speed to warn us. If he had not come,
we were lost. He fell among our outposts after having passed
through a detachment of Cossacks on the plateau of Grosmann. The
poor fellow had received a terrible sabre-thrust, and the blood
was pouring from his wound."

"And what did he say?" asked the old woman.

"He had only time to cry, 'To arms! We are turned! Jerome sent
me--Labarbe is dead--the Germans passed through Blutfeld!'"

"He was a brave man!" murmured Catherine.

"Yes, a brave man!" replied Frantz, drooping his head.

All became silent, and thus for a long time the sledge kept on
through the narrow, winding valley. From time to time they were
forced to stop, so deep was the snow, and then three or four
mountaineers took the horse by the bridle and pulled him on.

"No matter," exclaimed Catherine, emerging from her reverie,
"Hullin might have told me--"

"But if he had told you of the two attacks," interrupted the
doctor, "you would not have come away."

"And who dare hinder my doing as I wish? If it pleased me to
descend from this sledge, am I not free to do so? I had forgiven
Jean-Claude--I repent having done so!"

"O Mother Lefevre!" cried Louise; "if he should be killed, while
you speak thus!"

"She is right, poor child!" thought Catherine--

And she continued:

"I said I repent of forgiving him; but he is a brave man, to whom
I can wish no ill. I forgive him with all my heart. In his place
I would have done as he has done."

{632}

Two or three hundred yards further on, they entered the defile of
the Rocks. The snow had ceased falling and the moon shone
brilliantly from between two great black and white clouds. The
narrow gorge, bordered by pointed rocks, seemed to unroll its
length to their view, and on its sides high firs rose, until lost
in distance. Nothing broke the deep quiet of the woods; human
turmoil seemed indeed far away. So profound was the silence that
they heard every step of the horse in the soft snow, and even his
weary breathing. Frantz Materne halted from time to time, cast a
glance over the dark mountain sides, and then hastened to
overtake the others.

And valleys succeeded valleys; the sled ascended, descended,
turned to right and to left, and the partisans, with their cold
blue bayonets fixed, followed steadily after.

Thus toward three in the morning they had reached the field of
Brimbelles, where even yet may be seen an old oak standing in a
turn of the valley. On the other side, to the left, in the midst
of bushes white with snow, behind its little wall of loose stones
and the palings of its little garden, the lodge of Cuny, the
forester, began to outline itself against the mountain side, with
its three bee-hives in a row on a plank, its old knotty vine
climbing to the roof, and its little branch of fir hung over the
door by way of sign; for in that solitude Cuny joined to his
avocation of forester that of innkeeper.

Here, as the road runs along the edge of a bank several feet
above the field, and the moon was obscured by a thick cloud, the
doctor, fearing lest the sledge should be overset, halted beneath
the oak.

"Another hour will see us to the end of our journey, Mother
Lefevre," said he; "so be of good cheer--we have now plenty of
time."

"Ay," said Frantz; "the worst is over, and we can breathe the
horse."

The whole party gathered around the sledge, and the doctor
dismounted. A few produced flint and steel to light their pipes,
but nothing was said; all were thinking of Donon. Could
Jean-Claude hold his own until the arrival of Pivrette? So many
painful thoughts weighed upon the mind of each that no one cared
to speak.

They were some five minutes under the old oak when the cloud
slowly passed away and the pale moonlight streamed down the
gorge. But what is that yonder, between the two firs? A beam of
light falls upon it--upon a tall dark figure on horseback; it is
a Cossack with his lambskin cap, and long lance hanging backward
under his arm, slowly advancing; Frantz had already aimed, when
behind appeared another lance, and another, and in the depths of
the forest, under the deep blue sky, the little group saw only
swallow-tailed pennons waving, lances flashing, and Cossacks
advancing straight on toward the sledge, but without hurry, some
looking around, others leaning forward in their saddles like
people seeking something. They numbered more than thirty.

Catherine and Louise gazed upon each other. Another minute and
the savages would be upon them. The mountaineers seemed
stupefied. They could not turn the sledge in the narrow way, and
on one side was the steep slope to the field, on the other, the
steep mountain side. The old woman, in an agony of fear, seized
Louise's arm and whispered in trembling tones:

"Let us fly to the woods!"

She tried to spring from the sled, but her shoe came off in the
straw.

Suddenly, one of the Cossacks uttered a guttural exclamation
which ran all along their line.

"We are discovered!" cried Doctor Lorquin, drawing his sabre.

Scarcely had he spoken, when twelve shots lit up the path. Wild
yells replied. The Cossacks left the road and dashed with loose
rein over the field, fleeing like deer, to the forest lodge.

{633}

"There they go," cried the doctor; "we are safe!"

But the brave surgeon was too hasty in his conclusion; the
Cossacks, describing a circle in their career, massed their
force, and then, with lance in rest, bending over their horses'
necks, came right on the partisans, shouting "Hurrah! hurrah!"

Frantz and the others threw themselves before the sledge.

It was a terrible moment. Lance grated against bayonet; cries of
rage replied to curses. Beneath the old oak, through the branches
of which only a few scattered moonbeams fell, rearing horses,
with manes erect, struggled up from the field to the path,
bearing barbarous riders with blazing eyes and uplifted arms,
striking furiously, advancing, recoiling, uttering yells that,
might chill the stoutest hearts.

Louise and the old mistress of Bois-de-Chênes stood erect in the
sledge, pale as death. Doctor Lorquin, before them, parried,
lunged, and struck, crying the while:

"Down, down! Morbleu! Lie down!"

But they heard him not.

Louise, in the midst of the tumult, thought only of protecting
Catherine, and Catherine--imagine her horror when she saw Yegof,
on a tall, bony horse, among the assailants--Yegof, his crown
upon his head, his unkempt beard and dogskin mantle floating on
the wind, and a lance in his hand. She saw him there plainly, as
if it were broad day, flourishing his long weapon not ten paces
from her, and she saw his gleaming eyes fixed on hers.

The most resolute souls seem often utterly broken by the pursuit
of a relentless and inflexible fate. What was to be done?
Submit--yield to that fate. The old woman believed herself
doomed; she saw the mingled combat--men striking and falling in
the clear moonlight; she saw riderless horses dashing over the
field; she saw the attic window of the forester's lodge open, and
old Cuny aim without daring to fire into the mass. She saw all
these things with strange distinctness, but she kept repeating to
herself, "The fool has returned; whatever may happen, he will
hang my head to his saddle-bow. My dream is true--true!"

And indeed, everything seemed to justify her fears. The
mountaineers, too feeble in numbers, began to give way. Soon,
like a whirlwind, the Cossacks burst upon the road, and a lance's
point passed through the old woman's hair, so that she felt the
cold steel pass across her neck.

"O wretches! wretches!" she cried, as she fell to the bottom of
the sledge, still holding, however, the reins in both hands.

Doctor Lorquin, too, had fallen upon the sledge. Frantz and the
others, surrounded by twenty Cossacks, could render no
assistance. Louise felt a hand grasp her shoulder--the hand of
the fool, mounted on his tall steed.

At this supreme moment, the poor girl, crazed with fear, uttered
a shriek of distress; then she saw something flash in the
darkness; it was the barrels of Lorquin's pistols, and, quick as
lightning, she had torn them from the doctor's belt. Both flashed
at once, burning Yegof's beard, and sending their bullets
crashing through the skull of a Cossack who was bending toward
her. She seized Catherine's whip, and standing erect, pale as a
corpse, struck the horse's flanks with all her might. The animal
bounded from the blow, and the sledge dashed through the bushes;
it bent to the right--to the left; then there was a shock;
Catherine, Louise, sledge and straw, rolled clown the steep
road-side in the snow. The horse stopped short, flung back on his
haunches and his mouth full of bloody foam. He had struck against
an oak.
{634}
Swift as was their fall, Louise had seen some shadows pass like
the wind behind the copse. She heard a terrible voice--the voice
of Dives--shout,

"Forward! Point! point!"

It seemed but an illusion--a mingled vision, such as at our
latest hour passes before our glazing eyes; but as she rose, the
poor girl doubted it not; sabres were clashing twenty paces from
her, behind a curtain of trees, and Marc's voice still rang on
the night:

"Bravely, boys, bravely! No quarter!"

Then she saw a dozen Cossacks climbing the slope opposite, in the
midst of the bushes, like hares, and through an opening beneath,
Yegof flying across the valley, in the clear moonlight like a
frightened bird. Several shots resounded, but they did not reach
the fool; and standing erect in his stirrups while his horse kept
on at his utmost speed, he turned in the saddle, shook his lance
defiantly, and shouted a "Hurrah!" in a voice like that of a
heron escaping the eagle's talons. Two more shots flashed from
the forester's lodge; a rag flew from the fool's waist, but he
still held on his course, again and again hoarsely shouting his
"Hurrah!" as he followed the path his comrades had taken.

And then the vision vanished.

When Louise again became conscious, Catherine was standing beside
her. They gazed for a moment at each other, and then embraced in
an ecstasy of joy.

"Saved! saved!" murmured Catherine, and they wept in each other's
arms.

"You bore yourself well and bravely," said the old woman.
"Jean-Claude, Gaspard, and I may well be proud of you."

Louise trembled from head to foot. The danger passed, her gentle
nature asserted itself, and she could not understand her courage
of a few moments before.

Then, finding themselves more composed, they tried to reach the
road, when they saw the doctor and five or six partisans coming
to meet them.

"Ah! you needn't cry, Louise," said Lorquin; "you are a dragoon,
a little Amazon. Your heart seems now in your throat, but we saw
all. And, by the by, where are my pistols?"

As he spoke, the thicket separated, and tall Marc-Dives, his
sabre hanging from his wrist, appeared, crying,

"Ha! Mother Catherine! What a time? What luck that I happened to
be on hand! How those beggars would have plundered you!"

"Yes," returned the old woman, pushing her gray hair beneath her
hood, "it was indeed fortunate."

"I believe you. Not more than ten minutes ago I reached Father
Cuny's with my wagon. 'Do not go to Donon,' said he; 'for the
last hour the sky above it has been red; they are fighting
there!' 'Do you think so?' said I. '_Ma foi_! yes,' he
replied. 'Then Joson will go ahead as a scout, and we will empty
a glass while we wait for his return.' Scarcely had Joson
started, when I heard shouts as if the fiends had broken loose.
'What is the matter, Cuny?' I cried. He did not know, so we
pushed open the door and there saw the fight. Ha! we did not wait
long. I was on Fox at a bound, and then, 'Forward!' was the word.
What luck!"

{635}

"Ah!" said Catherine, "if we were only sure that matters were
going as well on Donon, we might indeed rejoice."

"Yes; Frantz told me all about it; something is always going
wrong," answered Marc. "But here we are standing in the snow. Let
us hope that Pivrette will not let his comrades be crushed, and
let us empty our glasses which are yet half full."

Four other smugglers came up, saying that the villain Yegof was
likely to return with a swarm of thieves like himself.

"Very true," replied Dives. "We will return to Falkenstein, since
Jean-Claude so orders; but we cannot bring our wagon with us; it
would hinder our crossing the country, and in an hour all those
wretches will be upon us. But let us go to Cuny's. Catherine and
Louise will not object to a cup of wine, nor will the others. It
will put back your hearts in the right place. Ho! Bruno!"

He took his horse by the bridle. Two wounded men were placed on
the sledge. Two others killed, with seven or eight Cossacks, lay
stretched upon the snow. They left them as they were, and all
entered the old forester's house. Frantz was beginning to console
himself for not being on Donon. He had run two Cossacks through
the body, and the sight of the lodge put him in good humor.
Before the door stood the wagon, laden with cartridges. Cuny came
out crying,

"Welcome, Mother Lefevre. What a night for women to be out! Be
seated. What is going on yonder?"

While they hastily emptied a bottle, everything had to be again
explained. The good old man, dressed in a simple jacket and green
knee-breeches, his face wrinkled and his head bald, listened with
staring eyes, ever and anon clasping his hands as he cried,

"Great God! good God! in what days do we live! We cannot travel
the high roads without fear of being attacked. It is worse than
the old stories of the Swedes!"

And he shook his head.

"Come," said Dives, "time presses; forward!"

All went out; the smugglers drove the wagon, which contained
several thousands of cartridges and two little casks of brandy,
three hundred paces off, to the middle of the valley, and there
unharnessed the horses.

"Forward, forward!" cried Marc; "we will overtake you in a few
minutes."

"But what are you going to do with the wagon?" asked Frantz.
"Since we have not time to bring it to Falkenstein, we had better
leave it under Cuny's shed than to abandon it in the middle of
the road."

"Yes, and have the poor old man hung when the Cossacks return, as
they will in less than an hour," replied Dives. "Do not trouble
yourself; I have a notion in my head."

Frantz rejoined the party around the sledge, who had gone on some
distance. Soon they passed the sawmill of Marquis, and struck
straight to the right, to reach the farm-house of Bois-de-Chênes,
the high chimney of which appeared over the plateau, three
quarters of a league away. When they were on the crest of the
hill, Marc-Dives and his men came up, shouting,

"Halt! Stop a moment. Look yonder!"

And all, turning their eyes to the bottom of the gorge, saw the
Cossacks caracoling about the wagon to the number of two or three
hundred.

"They are coming! Let us fly!" cried Louise.

"Wait a moment," replied the smuggler; "we have nothing to fear."

{636}

He was yet speaking, when a sheet of flame spread its purple
wings from one mountain to the other, lighting the woods to their
topmost branches, and the rocks, and the forester's lodge fifteen
hundred feet below; then followed a crash that shook the earth.

And while with dazzled eyes they gazed at each other, mute with
horror, Marc's peal of laughter mingled in the sound that yet
rang in their ears.

"Ha, ha, ha!" he shouted; "I knew the beggars would gather round
the wagon to drink my brandy, and that the match would have time
to reach the powder. Do you think they will follow us further?
Their limbs adorn the firs. So perish all of their kind who have
crossed the Rhine!"

The entire party, partisans, the doctor, everyone, had become
silent. So many fearful scenes, scenes which common life knows
not, gave all food for endless thought. Each one murmured to
himself, "Why must men thus torture, tear, ruin one another? Why
should they thus hate each other? And what ferocious spirit urges
them to such deeds, if not the spirit of evil, the archdemon
himself?"

Dives alone and his men were unmoved, and galloped on laughing
and applauding what had been done.

"Ha, ha, ha!" cried the tall smuggler; "I never saw such a joke!
I could laugh a thousand years at it."

Then he became gloomy, and said,

"Yegof is at the bottom of all this. One must be blind not to see
that it was he who guided the Germans to Blutfeld. I would be
sorry if he were finished by a piece of my wagon; I have
something better in store for him. All that I wish is, that he
may remain sound and healthy until I meet him some day in a
corner of the woods. Let it be one, ten, or twenty years--only
let it come! The longer I wait, the keener will be my appetite;
good morsels are best cold, like wild-boar's cheek in white
wine."

He said all this with a good-humored air; but those who knew him
knew that beneath that lay danger for Yegof.

Half an hour after, all reached the field of Bois-de-Chênes.

             ----------

       Inscription On A Door.

      Written By Theodulphus,
      Bishop Of Orleans, A.D. 820.


  Pauperibus pateat, Praesul, tua janua semper,
    Cum miseris Christus intrat et ipse simul.
  Deque tuis epulis pascatur pauper egenus,
    Ut conviva queas lectus adesse Deo.


              Translation.

  Set wide thy portals ever to the poor,
    So Christ shall enter with them at thy door.
  And let the poor be feasted from thy board,
    So mayest thou, blessed, banquet with thy Lord.

                                          C. E. B.

               ----------

{637}

              "Poor Mara!"


The celebrated Rosenthal, in Germany, was the retreat where
Goethe passed so many hours of leisure when a student. It was
indeed a valley of roses, especially in early summer, when
flowers are most abundant, and the tender green of the rich
foliage is freshest and brightest. It was a lovely afternoon, but
not sultry; a large awning was spread for temporary use; and just
in the shade of a group of trees was set out a table with
refreshments. A dozen seats were arranged round it, evidently for
a small and select company. Ere long, carriages drove up, and
some ladies alighted, and began to arrange the collation. Two of
them were the wife and daughter of Doles, the musician; they
brought flowers which they had gathered, and decorated the table,
placing a wreath of roses and laurels over the seat destined to
be occupied by their honored guest, no less a person than Mozart,
who had come to give his last concert in Leipsic. The rest of the
company soon joined them; and it would be interesting, had we
space, to relate the conversation that formed the most delightful
part of their entertainment. They were a few choice spirits, met
to enjoy the society of Mozart in an hour sacred to friendship.
There was no lack of humor and mirth; indeed, the composer would
have acted at variance with his character had he not beguiled
even the gravest by his amusing sallies; but the themes of their
discourse were the musical masters of the world, and the state
and prospect of their art.

"Oh! could we only entice you to live here," said one of the
company to the great composer.

"No; the atmosphere does not suit me," replied Mozart; "the
reserve would chill my efforts, for I live upon the love of those
who suffer me to do as I please. Some other time, perhaps, I may
come to Leipsic; just now Vienna is the place for me. By the way,
what think you of Bonn?"

"You cannot think of Bonn for a residence?"

"Not I. Had you asked me where art had the least chance of
spreading her wings for a bold flight--where she was most
securely chained down and forbidden to soar, I should have
answered, 'Bonn.' But that unpromising city has produced one of
the greatest geniuses of our day."

"Who? who?" eagerly demanded several among the company.

"A lad, a mere lad, who has been under the tutelage of the
elector's masters, and shocked them all by his musical
eccentricities. They were ready to give him up in disgust. He
came to me just before I left Vienna; modest, abashed, doubting
his own genius, but eager to learn his fate from my lips. I gave
him one of my most difficult pieces; he executed it in a manner
so spirited, so admirable--carried away by the music, which
entered his very soul, forgetful of his faint-heartedness--full
of inspiration! 'Twas an artist, I assure you; a true and noble
one, and I told him so."

"His name?"

"Louis von Beethoven."

"I know his father well," said Hiller.

{638}

"Then you know one who has given the world a treasure! For, mark
me, railed at as he may be for refusing to follow in the beaten
path, decried for his contempt of ordinary rules, the lad
Beethoven will rise to a splendid fame! But his _forte_ will
be sacred music."

The conversation turned to the works of Bach and Handel.

As the sun declined westward, the company rose and returned to
the city. When they had left the grounds, a figure came forward
from the concealment of the foliage, and walked pensively to and
fro. He had heard most of the conversation unobserved. It was the
artist Mara, a violoncellist of great merit--famous, indeed--but
ruined by dissipation. His wife had left him in despair of
reforming his intemperate habits; his friends had deserted him;
all was gone but his love of art; and that had brought him to see
the great Mozart.

"Well, well," he said to himself, "I have heard and know him now.
His taste is the same with mine; he glories in Handel and old
Sebastian. Ah! that music in my dream." He struck his forehead.
"But I can keep nothing in my head; Mara-- Mara--_non e pen com
era prima!_ If 'twere not for this vertigo, this throbbing
that I feel whenever I strive to collect my thoughts and fix them
on an idea; if I could but grasp the conception, oh! 'twould be
glorious!"

The spirit of art had not yet left the degraded being it had once
inspired; but how sad were the struggles of the soul against her
painful and contaminating bonds!

"Why," resumed the soliloquist--"why was I not invited to make
one among the company assembled here to welcome the great
chapel-master? I, too, am a famous artist; I can appreciate
music; the public have pronounced me entitled to rank among the
first. But nobody will associate with Mara in the day-time!

It is only at night, at the midnight revels, where such grave
ones as the director scorn to appear, that Mara, like a bird of
evil omen, is permitted to show his face. Then they shout and
clap for me, and call me a merry fellow; and I _am_ the
merriest of them all! But I do not like such welcome. I would
rather be reasonable if I could, and the wine would let me. The
wine! Am I a slave to that? Ha, a slave! Alas! it is so; wine is
my master; and he is jealous of every other, and beats me when I
rebel, till I cry mercy, and crouch at his feet again. Oh! if I
had a friend strong enough to get me out of his clutches. But I
have no friends--none, not even Gertrude. She has left me; and
there is no one at home now even to reproach me when I come back
drunk, or make a noise in the house over the table with a
companion or two. Heinrich--no; he laughs and makes game of me
like the rest. I am sick of this miserable life; I am tired of
being laughed at and shunned; I will put an end to it all, and
then they will say once again, 'Poor Mara!'"

With a sudden start the wretched man rushed away, and was
presently hid among the branches of the trees. A whistle was
heard just then, and a lad, walking briskly, followed, hallooing
after him. He came just in time. A stream, a branch of the
Pleysse, watered the bottom of the valley; Mara was about to
throw himself into it in the deepest spot, when his arm was
caught by his pursuer.

"What the mischief are you about?"

"Let me alone!" cried Mara, struggling.

"Do you mean to be drowned?"

{639}

"Yes; that is just what I want. I came here for that purpose; and
what have you to say against it, Friedrich?"

"Nothing, if your fancy runs that way," replied the lad,
laughing; "only you have plenty of leisure for it hereafter, and
just now you are wanted."

"Wanted?"

"Yes; I came to look for you."

"Who wants the poor drunkard Mara?"

"They want you at Breithoff's, tonight, at the supper given to
Mozart after the concert; and you must bring your instrument; we
are to have some rare fun. Come, if you are obedient, you shall
go with me to the concert."

Mozart's concert! Surprised and pleased that some of his
acquaintances had remembered him, Mara suffered himself to be led
away by his companion.



The concert was a splendid one, and attended by all the taste and
fashion of Leipsic. The orchestra was admirable, the singers were
full of spirit and good humor, the audience delighted, the
composer gratified and thankful. Mozart thanked the performers in
a brief speech, and as soon as the concert was at an end was led
off in triumph by the connoisseurs, his friends.

Magnificent beyond expectation was the entertainment prepared,
and attended by many among the wealthy and the noble, as well as
the most distinguished artists. The revelry was prolonged beyond
midnight, and, as the guests became warmed with good cheer, we
are bound to record that the conversation lost its rational tone,
and that comical sallies and uproarious laughter began to usurp
the place of critical discourse. They had songs from all who were
musical; Mara, among the rest, was brought in, dressed in a
fantastic but slovenly manner, and made to play for the amusement
of the company. When he had played several pieces, the younger
guests began to put their practical jokes upon him, and provoke
him to imitate the noises of different animals on his
violoncello. Mara entered into all their fun, convulsing them
with his grotesque speeches and gestures, drinking glass after
glass, till, at last, he fell back quite overpowered and
insensible. Then his juvenile tormentors painted his face and
clipped his mustaches, and tricked him out in finery that gave
him the look of a candidate for Bedlam, and had him carried to
his own house, laughing to imagine what his sensations would be,
next morning, when he should discover how ludicrously he had been
disfigured. In short, the whole party were considerably beyond
the bounds of propriety and sound judgment, Mozart included.



It was considerably after noon, the next day, that poor Mara, the
victim of those merciless revellers, might be seen sitting
disconsolately in his deserted home. He had no heart even to be
enraged at the cruelties practised on him. Pale as death, his
eyes sunken and bloodshot, his limbs shivering, sat this
miserable wretch, dressed in the same mockery of finery which had
been heaped upon him in wicked sport.

The door soon opened, and Mozart entered. At sight of the
composer, Mara rose and mechanically returned his salutation.
Mozart looked grave and sad.

"You are much the worse for last night's dissipation, my good
fellow," said he.

"Ah Master Mozart!" said the violoncellist, with a faint smile,
"it is too good of you to visit such a dog as poor Mara."

{640}

"I have something to say to you, friend," answered the composer,
in a voice of emotion. "In the first place, let me thank you for
your music, last night."

The bewildered artist passed his hand across his forehead.

"I say, let me thank you. It is long since I have heard such
music."

"You were pleased with it?" asked Mara, looking up, while a beam
of joy shot into the darkness of his soul.

"Pleased? It was noble--heart-stirring! I must own I did not
expect such from you. I expected to be shocked, but I was
charmed. And when you played the air from _Idomenio--sacré!_
but it went to my soul. I have _never_ had my music so
thoroughly appreciated--so admirably executed. Mara, you are a
master of your art! I reverence you!"

"You?" repeated the artist, drawing his breath quickly.

"Yes; I own you for my brother, and so I told them all, last
night."

The poor man gave a leap and seized the master by both hands;
rapture had penetrated his inmost heart.

"Oh! you make me very happy," faltered he.

"I am glad of it, for now I am going to say something painful."

Mara hung his head.

"Nay, I reproach myself as much as you. We both behaved ill, last
night; we both forgot the dignity of the artist and the man."

Again the poor violoncellist looked bewildered.

"We forgot that such as we are set up for an example to the
uninitiated, and yielded to the tempter wine! Art--our
mother--has reason to blush for us."

"For me," cried Mara, deeply moved; "but not for you."

"Yes, for me," repeated Mozart, "and for all who were there. It
was a shameful scene. What," he continued, with rising
indignation--"what would the true friends of art have thought of
such beastly orgies, celebrated in her name? Why, they would have
said, perhaps, 'These men are wild fellows, but we must let them
have their way; we owe the fine music they give us to their free
living; they must have stimulants to compose or play well.' No,
no, no! it is base to malign the holy science we love. Such
excesses but unfit us for work. I have never owed a good thought
to the bottle. I tell you, I hate myself for last night's
foolery."

"Ah master, you who are so far above me?" sighed Mara.

"And lo, here the wreck of a noble being!" said the composer, in
a low voice and with much bitterness; then resuming: "Listen to
me, Mara. You have been your own enemy, but your fall is not
wholly your own work. You are wondrously gifted; you can be, you
shall be, snatched from ruin. You can, you shall, rise above
those who would trample on you now; become renowned and beloved,
and leave an honored name to posterity. You have given me a
lesson, Mara--a lesson which I shall remember my life
long--which I shall teach to others. You have done me good--I
will do something for you. Come with me to Vienna."

The poor violoncellist had eagerly listened to the words of him
he so venerated--whom he looked on as a superior being. While he
talked to him as an equal, while he acknowledged his genius,
lamented his faults, and gave him hope that all was not yet lost,
the spirit of the degraded creature revived within him. It was
the waking of his mind's energies; the struggle of the soul for
life against the lethargy of a mortal malady. Life triumphed!
Mara was once more a man; but overcome by the conflict and by the
last generous offer, he sank back, bowed his face upon his hands,
and wept aloud.

{641}

"Come," cried Mozart, after a pause, during which his own eyes
moistened--"come, we have no time to lose. I go out to-night by
the evening post for Vienna; you must accompany me. Take this
purse, put your dress in order, and make haste. I will call for
you at eight. Be ready then. Not a word more." And forcing a
well-filled purse into his trembling hands, the master hastened
away too quickly to hear a word of thanks from the man he had
saved from worse than death.

The great composer was early summoned from this and many other
works of mercy and benevolence. But if this noble design was
unaccomplished, at least good seed was sown, and Mara placed once
more within view of the goal of virtuous hope. Rescued from the
mire of degradation, he might, by perseverance, have won the
prize; if he did not, the fault was wholly his own. Whatever the
termination of his career, the moral lesson is for us the same.

              ----------

              Discipline.


  A block of marble caught the glance
    Of Buonarotti's eyes,
  Which brightened in their solemn deeps,
    Like meteor-lighted skies.

  And one who stood beside him listened,
    Smiling as he heard;
  For, "I will make an angel of it!"
    Was the sculptor's word.

  And soon mallet and chisel sharp
    The stubborn block assailed,
  And blow by blow, and pang by pang,
    The prisoner unveiled.

  A brow was lifted, high and pure;
    The wak'ning eyes outshone;
  And as the master sharply wrought,
    A smile broke through the stone!

{642}

  Beneath the chisel's edge, the hair
    Escaped in floating rings;
  And, plume by plume, was slowly freed
    The sweep of half-furled wings.

  The stately bust and graceful limbs
    Their marble fetters shed,
  And where the shapeless block had been,
    An angel stood instead!

  O blows that smite! O hurts that pierce
    This shrinking heart of mine!
  What are ye but the Master's tools
    Forming a work divine?

  O hope that crumbles to my feet!
    O joy that mocks, and flies!
  What are ye but the clogs that bind
    My spirit from the skies?

  Sculptor of souls! I lift to thee
    Encumbered heart and hands:
  Spare not the chisel! set me free,
    However dear the bands.

  How blest, if all these seeming ills
    Which draw my thoughts to thee
  Should only prove that thou wilt make
     An angel out of me!

              ----------

{643}

  From The German Of Dr. B. Werneke.

  The Teachings Of Statistics Concerning
  The Freedom Of The Human Will.


The enemies of Christianity are, in our days, making war upon its
dogmas more fiercely and more generally than at any previous
period. Materialism--the teachings of which may be summed up in
the following propositions: There exists no God as a spiritual,
immaterial personality; there exists no spirit as a
supersensible, self-existent, immortal substance--is finding its
way into every rank of society. By clothing it in a popular garb,
its advocates are meeting with no small degree of success in
making converts to its errors, even among the working classes and
the deluded _prolétaires_ who have a dread of labor.
Materialism no longer goes to the trouble of exhibiting itself in
the guise of a well-connected philosophical system: it prefers
the more insidious method of appearing only occasionally, in
writings and speeches whose theme is of quite another nature. It
puts on an appearance of science and of devotion to genuine
progress; and herein consists its principal danger. When
doctrines, opposed to faith, are secreted in works on natural
science, and placed side by side with evident facts, there must
necessarily result a strong temptation for the unwary to look
upon them all as undeniable truths.

The science of _moral statistics_ is one of those that have
been most recently perverted to the purposes of materialism. The
founder of this science is Quetelet, the celebrated Belgian
astronomer and statistician. He first observed that, by
considering large masses of men during a long period, a certain
uniformity in the manner of their accomplishment could be traced,
in such voluntary acts as come under the observation of
statisticians, more especially in marriages, suicides, and
crimes. He even reached the conclusion that acts elicited under
the influence of free-will occur with a greater degree of
regularity than events which depend exclusively on the influence
of physical causes. This discovery was pursued still further.
Observations were made upon different nationalities, the results
were compared, and upon their evidence it was thought justifiable
to speak of a law of nature by which all human acts were supposed
to be controlled. This new law could not but be hailed with
pleasure by the disciples of materialism. They immediately took
it up and adduced it as evidence in favor of their doctrines. It
requires but a small amount of perception to see that, if all
human acts are controlled by a law of nature, there cannot be any
free-will. The denial of free-will implies the elimination of one
of the essential faculties of the human soul, and it, at the same
time, shakes Christianity to its foundation.. For, if everything
is subjected to an immutable necessity, sin and grace, redemption
and sanctification, need no longer be mentioned.

{644}

It is well worth our while to subject the new doctrine, founded
on the evidence of moral statistics, to an examination and to
test its tenability. We propose to do this in the following
pages. Before entering, however, into the assertions and
inferences of the materialists, it will be expedient to state a
few of the principal results of the science of moral statistics,
so that the reader may see the method by which such unexpected
and surprising conclusions have been reached, and may thus be
enabled to form a judgment for himself.

A glance at the statistical tables which record the sum-total of
marriages contracted in a single country reveals in reality that
their number is nearly the same, year after year. Even in
so-called anomalous marriages, that is, marriages in which a
young man allies himself to a woman much older than himself and
_vice versa_, as well as in marriages between widows and
widowers, there seems to be a certain uniformity. Thus, if we
take Belgium, with a population of about four and a half
millions, we find the total number of marriages, from the year
1844 to the year 1853, running as follows: 29,326,
  29,210,
  25,670,
  24,145,
  28,656,
  31,788,
  33,762,
  33,169,
  31,251,
  30,636.
During the same years, the number of marriages between men of 30
years and under, with women of 30 years and under, stands thus:
  13,024,
  13,157,
  11,578,
  10,749,
  12,642,
  13,933,
  14,440,
  14,337,
  13,488,
  13,161.
Anomalous marriages, between men of 30 years and less, and women
of from 45 to 60 years, likewise evince a perceptible regularity
during the same years:
  129,
  102,
  118,
   98,
  101,
  140,
  130,
  128,
  104,
  115.
On the other hand, marriages between men of 60 years and over,
and women of 30 years and under, during the same series of years:
  41,
  36,
  33,
  42,
  44,
  47,
  49,
  42,
  39,
  32.
These figures are sufficient for an illustration. The result is
similar in the case of other countries.

If we consider, the age at which marriage is contracted, we
discover considerable uniformity in a single country, but wide
differences in different countries. The following table exhibits
what percentage of men and women contract marriages in the
different countries, at the different ages indicated:

              Under 20  20-25  25-30  30-35  35-40  40-80

  In England
    Men           2%     46%    26%    11%      5%    10%
    Women        12%     50%    20%     8%      4%     6%

  In France
    Men           2%     27%    33%    18%      9%    11%
    Women        19%     38%    22%    10%      5%     6%

  In Norway
    Men           1%     23%    39%    20%      8%     9%
    Women         5%     35%    33%    14%      6%     7%

  In Bavaria
    Men           0%     12%    32%    38%     38%    18%
    Women         4%     25%    32%    29%     29%    10%

These figures show that in England 72 per cent of the men marry
between the ages of 20 and 30 years; in France, 60 per cent; in
Norway, 62 per cent; in Bavaria, however, only 44 per cent. In
England, 82 per cent of the women contract marriage at and under
the age of 30 years, whilst in Bavaria the percentage is only 61.
It is hardly to be supposed that what Quetelet calls _la
tendance an mariage_ (the tendency toward marriage) is less
strong in Bavaria than in England: we may only infer that the
conditions which render marriage practicable are more easily
realized in England than in Bavaria, and a single glance at both
these countries will show that such is really the case.

We shall now give a few figures from the statistics of suicide.
The following table contains the annual aggregate of suicides,
during a period of twenty years:

{645}

        France  Belgium  Denmark  Austria  Prussia  Saxony
  1836   2340     189      241               1436     214
  1837   2443     165      269      534      1502     264
  1838   2586     167      292               1453     261
  1839   2747     192      297      486      1474     246
  1840   2752     204      261      550      1480     336
  1841   2814     240      337               1630     290
  1842   2866     220      317      587      1598     328
  1843   3020     242      301      588      1720     420
  1844   2973     255      285               1575     335
  1845   3082     216      290      596      1700     338
  1846   3012     247      376      611      1707     373
  1847   3047     251      345               1852     377
  1848   3301     278      305               1649     398
  1849   3583     275      337      452      1527     328
  1850   3596              340      454      1743     390
  1851   3598     165      401      552      1816     402
  1852   3676     150      426      637      2073     530
  1853   3415     161      419      705      1942     431
  1854   3700     189      363      770      2198     547
  1855   3810     166      399               2351     568

Making all possible allowance for increased population in each of
these countries throughout the space of twenty years, and for
greater accuracy in the later records than in the earlier ones,
it still remains incontestable that in civilized countries
suicide is on the increase, and that this increase exceeds that
of the population.

By taking the annual proportion to a million of inhabitants, we
shall perceive that this crime is more frequent in some countries
than in others. The following figures comprise the period from
1856 to 1866:

  In France, to one million of inhabitants, there
  occurred yearly      111 suicides;
  in Belgium,           47;
  in Denmark,          276;
  in Austria,           64;
  in Prussia,          122;
  in Saxony,           245;
  in Bavaria,           72;
  in Hanover,          137;
  in Würtemberg,        85;
  in Baden,            108;
  in Hesse,            134;
  in Mecklenburg,      162;
  in Nassau,           102;
  in Portugal,           7;
  in England and Wales, 65;
  in Hungary,           30;
  in Dalmatia,          11;
  in Europe generally,  84.

Very notable differences may be observed in these figures. The
degree of intellectual culture and social refinement is about the
same in Saxony as in Belgium, yet these two countries stand
widely apart on the record of suicides, even if it be allowed
that the estimate for Belgium is somewhat too low. There can be
no doubt that religion exercises a decided influence in this
matter. Saxony is a Protestant country, whilst Belgium is
Catholic. Similar divergences exist in favor of Austria when
compared with Prussia, and of Bavaria compared with Hanover.

Suicides are far more frequent amongst Protestants than amongst
Catholics. The latter possess in their faith far more remedies
against temptation to suicide than the former are able to obtain
from theirs. A Protestant despairs more readily than a Catholic.

These remarks apply only to countries at large. The great
metropolises, which may properly be designated hot-beds of
suicide, must be taken as exceptions, because in them practical
religion easily dies out and cannot exercise its usual influence.
In the year 1865, when Paris had a population of 1,863,000
inhabitants, there were 706 cases of suicide, that is, one to
every 2638; in Vienna, with a population of 550,000 inhabitants,
there were 110 cases, that is, one for every 5000; in London,
with 3,000,000 inhabitants, there were 267, that is, one for
every 11,715; and in New York, population 1,095,000, 36 cases of
suicide, one to every 28,000 inhabitants. Accordingly, the
greatest number of suicides is committed in Paris, where reign
the highest degree of social culture and the most rigorous police
surveillance, and the smallest number occurs in New York, the
seat of the greatest social and political liberty.

We may here state, as a general rule, that high intellectual
culture is not a preventive of suicide. Observation shows, on the
contrary, that it is comparatively most frequent in countries
where the enlightenment of the population has attained the
highest point, and that it occurs far oftener in cities than in
rural districts.
{646}
This fact is unmistakable evidence that moral improvement is not
keeping pace with intellectual progress, and that governments,
whilst furthering the latter with increasing zeal, are not
bestowing sufficient care on the former. From the year 1826 to
the year 1860, suicides increased 130 per cent in France, whilst
the population increased but 13 per cent. This astounding
circumstance has been looked upon as attributable to the
advancement of industry and the progress of science and popular
education; and no doubt justly, if we consider how much more
frequently suicide is committed in the enlightened northern and
eastern departments of France than in the less progressive
southern and western.

Something similar is noticeable in Germany. Saxony and its
neighboring provinces rank undeniably as high in general
education as any state in Germany; but it is also to be remarked
that they furnish the largest number of cases of suicide; whilst
in the Tyrol, Old Bavaria, and other provinces of a lower grade
of general education, the number is considerably less. And if, in
the Catholic parts of the Rhenish provinces and in Westphalia,
which are not behind Saxony in general culture, suicides are of
less frequent occurrence, we are only justified in attributing
the difference to the happy influence of the Catholic religion.

Quite a peculiar discovery from statistics, and one that at first
thought is rather astonishing, is the fact that the number of
suicides increases with the advance of age, and that the
proportion appears to be equal in the two sexes. It seems that
indifference about life and recklessness about the dread future
become greater as the years of life pass by. This, however, may
be psychologically accounted for without inventing for the
purpose a _general law_, according to which suicides are
supposed to be apportioned to the various ages of human life.

We will now cast a glance at the statistics of crimes. Accurate
records upon this subject, published in England, Belgium, and
France during a series of years, afford us ample material for
this investigation. Similar records, commenced at a later period,
have been kept in the Netherlands, in Bavaria, in Baden and other
states; and since 1854, the Prussian Ministry of Justice has,
every second or third year, published a thorough report of the
proceedings of the criminal courts of that kingdom. It is
impracticable, however, to establish a comparison between
different countries on this point, as very notable differences
exist between them with respect to their laws and their
administration of justice. We are consequently compelled to
confine our observations to one country. We choose Prussia as it
was before 1866, because its various provinces present a variety
of forms of religion, nationalities, degrees of education,
industry, and commerce, which affords an excellent opportunity
for instituting comparisons. Moreover, the same code is
everywhere in use, excepting in the Rhenish provinces, where the
Napoleonic is established.

The following table exhibits the number of criminals, with their
religious professions, as arraigned before the criminal courts of
Prussia from 1855 to 1862:

        Accused.  Evangelicals.  Catholics.  Jews.
  1855    8089       4743            3245      84
  1856    8722       5116            3509      87
  1857    6260       3658            2493     105
  1858    4995       3038            1870      81
  1859    5192       3083            2024      82
  1860    5283       3164            2028      85
  1861    5720       3308            2319      88
  1862    5690       3382            2327      76

 Average  6244       3686            2477      86

{647}

On an average, from eighteen to nineteen per cent of the accused
were every year pronounced not guilty. It might naturally be
expected that, in the case of special crimes, the ratio of those
acquitted to those condemned would vary greatly. Thus, of 100
accused of theft, an average of 6 was acquitted; of serious
injury done to the person, an average of 25; of murder, about 16;
of violation of official obligations, about 36; of perjury,
upward of 41.

By calculating what proportion of the accused from 1859 to 1862
belonged to each of the above-mentioned religious denominations,
we find that of the Jews there was one accused for every 2978
inhabitants; one Catholic for every 3087, and one Protestant for
every 3415. Hence, the accused were most numerous amongst the
Jews; least numerous amongst the Protestants. The unfavorable
position here assigned to the Catholics is accounted for by the
fact that large figures refer to the eastern provinces of
Prussia, which are inhabited in a great measure by Catholic
Sclaves, with little culture and very much impoverished. A
considerable difference is observable in the provinces. The
average of a period of four years (1859-1862) counts 1 accused
for every 2345 in Silesia, 2503 in Posen, 2853 in Brandenburg,
3101 in Prussia proper, 4056 in Pomerania, 4436 in Saxony, 4863
in Westphalia, 5095 in the Rhenish province.

The eastern provinces present a sadder condition than the
western. Unfortunately the statistical tables give us no
information concerning the nationality of the accused. But, if we
confine our investigation to Rhineland and Westphalia, where the
population is purely German, the result will be found altogether
in favor of Catholicity. The census of these two provinces,
including Hohenzollern, amounted in 1861 to 1,474,520 Protestants
and 3,313,709 Catholics. During a term of five years,
(1858-1862,) 1463 Evangelicals and 3138 Catholics appeared before
the tribunals, making 1 for 5035 Evangelicals and 1 for 5280
Catholics. Whence we infer that nationality, want of education,
and poverty produce effects in the eastern provinces which cannot
be found where Catholics and Protestants are on an equality in
those respects.

The comparison seems to be specially favorable to the Catholic
provinces when the infliction of punishment upon the guilty is
considered. For great offences, the punishment is penitentiary;
for less offences, imprisonment. Now, although in 1855 the number
of accused was much greater amongst the Catholics than amongst
the Protestants, nevertheless there was but one penitentiary
culprit for 8430 inhabitants in Rhineland and Westphalia, whilst
in the Protestant provinces there was 1 for 4179. Hence, the
number of penitentiary culprits in these latter being double
argues likewise greater crimes.

The foregoing statistics of criminals, considered with respect to
creed, enable us to form a conclusion in regard to the influence
of the particular form of religion upon the dispositions of men.
Amongst Catholics, the crimes peculiar to youth seem to
predominate, whilst amongst Protestants they are the crimes of
mature and of advanced age.

The former appear to decrease with the advance of intellectual
culture and improvement in temporal welfare, whilst the latter,
on the contrary, appear to become more numerous.

{648}

Further figures might be given showing that the majority of
criminals belong to the laboring classes, and that the incentives
to crime are want and absence of training amongst the working
people, and dissipation and luxury in higher ranks of society. We
will, however, content ourselves with what has been stated, and
proceed to discuss the conclusions which materialists draw from
such data.

At the present day, materialists conclude, from such facts and
figures as these, that the volition of man is not free. They
pretend that it is impossible to explain the regularity with
which acts, seemingly voluntary and deliberate, are elicited,
unless we accept the conclusion that free will is a mere fiction
of the imagination, and that science inevitably forces us to the
conviction that all human acts depend on what they designate a
law of nature. They say that such a degree of order in the
occurrence of human acts could not possibly result from the
unbiased power of self-determination. They reject the distinction
between nature and man as a being partly spiritual, and consider
him as a purely material product of nature, subjected, like
animals, plants, and minerals, to general laws, without the power
of exercising the slightest influence on his own destiny. And
this outcry against free-will is raised by men in every
department of science, by naturalists, philosophers, historians,
physicians, and jurists. Says Buckle, in his _History of
English Civilization_, speaking of the evidences of moral
statistics:

  "In certain conditions of society a large proportion of men
  _must_ put an end to their own existence. Such is the
  general law. The special inquiry as to who is to commit the
  crime depends, of course, upon particular laws, which, in their
  united energies, must obey the general law to which they are
  subordinate. And the force of the higher law is so irresistible
  that neither the attachment to life nor the dread of the future
  can to any degree hinder its execution."

Dankwart declares boldly:

  "Man is not a free agent. He is just as little responsible for
  any of his deeds as a stone which, in obedience to the law of
  gravitation, falls upon one's head. The criminal act was the
  necessary development of a law of nature."

What are we to say in reply to these attacks? Are the facts of
statistics really so decisive and convincing as to compel us to
abandon the time-honored dogma of Free-Will, to which the noblest
and loftiest minds of all ages have so tenaciously adhered? Can
those imposing arrays of figures operate in us to the conviction
that, when a man contracts marriage, commits a crime, puts an end
to his own life, or performs any other act, he necessarily
follows a universal law of nature, and cannot, therefore, be held
responsible for his deed? Do the acts of men enter into the
economy of nature like ebb and flow of tide, day and night,
summer and winter? It is not our purpose to enter into deep
philosophical disquisitions on free-will. Its materialist
adversaries ignore all philosophical speculation. They occupy
themselves exclusively with _facts_--visible, palpable
facts--and upon this vantage-ground we intend to oppose them. Our
task, then, in the present instance, is to demonstrate that the
conclusions drawn from the given premises are unwarranted and
erroneous; that the _regularity_ in the recurrence of
certain acts can be satisfactorily accounted for by _other_
causes, without having recourse to a mysterious _law_ of
_nature_; and lastly, that there are many facts which, even
without free-will, are problems not less difficult to solve.

{649}

In examining the method by which our adversaries draw inferences
from facts, we shall find that their logic is in contradiction to
all the laws of correct thinking. "Not all acts are free,
therefore some acts are not free," is a proper conclusion; "but
some acts are not free, therefore all acts are not free;" who
would admit such a conclusion? As an illustration, let us take
another example from statistics. According to the testimony of
statistics, of 908,000 families in Belgium, only 89,630 were in
good circumstances in the year 1857. 373,000 were in a very
straitened condition; 446,000 were in downright misery. In all
probability, the same relative situation may be found existing
through a series of years. Now, what would the enemies of
free-will say to the following reasoning: "In Belgium, the masses
are in poverty, therefore all Belgians are poor; affluence does
not exist at all in Belgium"? Is not the following reasoning of
theirs identically the same: "In marriages, suicides, crimes, and
other human acts, the influence of free-will is imperceptible, as
shown by statistics; therefore, these acts are _not_ free;
therefore, the influence of free-will is impossible in _all_
acts; there is no free-will at all"? We might even, for
argument's sake, grant--which, of course, we do not--that the
above-mentioned acts are not free, without thereby doing away
with free-will in numberless other human acts.

But this is not the only logical blunder made by our opponents.
They infer from the _deed_ to the _volition_. "The deed
is not free, therefore neither is the volition." Do the deed and
the volition always correspond so perfectly that we may, under
all circumstances, infer from the former to the latter? The very
fact that in trials before courts extenuating circumstances are
so strongly insisted upon, is proof positive that the deed and
the volition are not always identical. It is a long way from
deliberation to decision, and from decision to execution. We may
not more infer from the deed to the volition than from the
volition to the deed. How absurd to infer from the volition to
the deed! And should the reverse be more logical?

What does experience show--in trials, for example? A man is
murdered, for instance. In one case, the evidence shows that the
murderer had harbored his dark design for years, until finally a
favorable moment presented itself for the execution. In another
case, it will appear that, in a casual quarrel, a man dealt a
mortal blow to another, perhaps even to his friend, _without
intending to do it!_ The criminal courts of all countries
present multitudes of such instances. It is the statistician's
province to note the deed, but not the volition; and hence, sound
logic will never permit inferences in regard to the volition to
be drawn from statistical facts.

Let us now examine the foundation on which arguments against the
freedom of man's will are based. This foundation is the
_regularity_ with which the aforesaid acts have been
observed to recur, as if within the range of a higher and wider
law. How have statisticians discovered this regularity? Evidently
only by summing up facts as they took place within a period of
some duration, and over an extensive range of territory, a
process by which the actual differences were entirely put out of
sight. We learned above that, from 1855 to 1862, a yearly average
of 6244 criminals was arraigned before the criminal courts of
Prussia. But particular years fall wide of this average figure.
Thus, in 1856, the number was 8722, that is, 2500 more than the
average; in 1858, the number was 4995, that is, more than 1300
less than the average; and the total of the difference of these
years, 3800.
{650}
It would seem that this might as truthfully be called
_irregularity_ as _regularity_. If, in Prussia, crimes
are merely the necessary consequences of a natural law, and of
political and social circumstances, can it be reasonably believed
that these underwent so great a change in the space of two years
that the number of crimes was diminished by one half? It is
impossible to draw from such premises conclusions strong enough
to uproot convictions planted as deeply in the human breast as is
that of the freedom of man's will. External circumstances may
indeed have undergone changes within two years, still these
changes are not sufficient of themselves to account for such
variations in statistical figures as we have above quoted. These
can be accounted for only by taking into consideration the
freedom of the human will, which may be influenced, in a measure,
by external circumstances, but not _necessarily_ controlled.

But grant that a certain regularity is perceptible in human acts.
Undoubtedly 8722 and 4995 come nearer to the average figure,
6244, than would 1200 and 500. Still the regularity may be
explained without subjecting all human acts to the influence of a
law of necessity. It is on account of the point of view from
which statisticians examine facts that their _regularity_
appears so remarkably great, and their differences so
immaterially small. We will illustrate what we mean by a
comparison. By standing on the brink of a river, we hear the
plashing and perceive the motion of its waters. By going to a
mountain-top, at a distance from the stream, we neither hear a
sound nor observe a motion. Now, could we, whilst standing on the
mountain-top, reasonably say, "Before, as we stood on the brink
of the stream, we _imagined_ that the water was in motion
and produced a sound but in this elevated position, from which we
see the stream for miles, we discover that we were mistaken; the
stream is evidently silent and without motion"? Where lies the
mistake in this instance? and where the truth? Is not the case of
the statistician the same? If, viewing things from his elevated
stand-point, he fails to recognize the free-will of the
individual, is the cause to be found in the absence of all free
volition, or is it not rather owing to his having taken too high
a stand-point? In order to obtain correct information concerning
the material creation, we must enter into details, and carefully
examine single specimens; hence the importance of the microscope
in natural sciences. And why shall we pass by the individual
altogether, and generalize our observations, when we undertake
the study of moral phenomena? Surely, there can be no reason for
proceeding thus. No man looking from a high tower upon a flock of
sheep can expect to obtain accurate knowledge of their animal
nature and conformation.

Quetelet, the founder of the science of moral statistics, and its
most talented representative, expresses himself as follows upon
the question at issue: "I do not believe that, in view of such
evidences, the freedom of the human will can be denied. I only
think that it is greatly limited, and, in social affairs, plays
the _rôle_ of an accidental cause. Accordingly, by not
considering individual cases, and by taking things summarily and
in bulk, it will appear that the influences of accidental causes
neutralize each other in such a manner as to let none but real
causes, in virtue of which society exists, appear.
{651}
The Supreme Being has wisely put limits to our moral powers, as
well as to the physical, in order to hinder man from encroaching
upon his eternal laws. The possibility of founding a science of
moral statistics, and of drawing useful inferences from it,
depends mainly on the fact that, as soon as observations are made
upon a _large number of individuals_, the human will retires
and manifests no perceptible influence."

The action of the free-will of man is, in reality, confined
within very narrow limits. The less a man knows, the fewer must
be the objects of his volition and of his desire. Most men have,
in this respect, but a very narrow range. It is the poor and the
illiterate who everywhere compose the bulk of the population, and
it is this bulk precisely that the statistician is obliged to
consider. The _power of execution_ is still more limited.
For executing, ability and means are required, which, however, in
innumerable instances, are found insufficient. But even though
the will and the power to execute be limited, freedom of volition
may still exist. For we speak of the freedom of a merely
_human_ will, and man is by nature a _limited_, not an
infinite, being. The freedom of man's will can be made available
only within the limits placed about the individual. The
individual can _will_ only that which he has knowledge of,
and do that which he has the means to do. Nero once wished that
the whole Roman people had but one head, that at a single blow he
might strike it off. It was simply the wish of a tyrant gone
crazy. It is pretty nearly the same with free-will as with
unencumbered bodily motion. We have it in our power to wander in
every direction upon the globe, but the globe itself we cannot
leave. It revolves about the centre of the planetary system, and
carries us with it in its career. In the same manner can we
possess freedom of volition and of _doing_; but step beyond
the limits of our nature we cannot, and for this very reason,
says Quetelet, does the influence of free-will disappear when
larger groups become the object of observation.

The transition from the will to the deed depends on the objective
possibility of accomplishing the deed. External circumstances
must be considered; at times they are favorable, at times again
they are unfavorable. Any man can elevate his thoughts to God.
The will becomes the deed forthwith. But raising his hands in
prayer is quite another thing. This can be done only by a man who
has the free use of his members. We may infer from a glance at
the statistics of marriages and crimes, how much the execution of
the will depends upon external circumstances. We quoted above
that, among every 10,000 inhabitants, there are usually 87
marriages in Prussia, 82 in Saxony, and only 66 in Bavaria. Now
the question arises, Is there less inclination to marriage
amongst young people in Saxony and Bavaria than in Prussia, or
does the law of necessity, supposed to control such events, cease
to be in force when it reaches the boundaries of Bavaria? Not at
all. The difference is simply this. In Prussia it only requires
two parties, a bride and a groom, for a marriage contract, whilst
in Bavaria it requires three, a bride, a groom, and a functionary
of the police department, and, as everybody knows, it is harder
for three to come to an agreement than for two. Besides these
legal hinderances, there are many others that oppose the will to
marry. We have only to look about to notice them.
{652}
One man may have the will to marry, but cannot find a suitable
match; another may not be able to obtain the consent of his
parents; a third may not have a sufficient livelihood; a fourth
may be prevented from marriage by war, by sickness or any other
cause. They all may have the will to get married, but external
circumstances do not permit it.

External circumstances exert a similar influence upon crimes.
Statistics show that five times more men than women are arraigned
for crimes. Are we to suppose hence that women are so much better
than men? Hardly. The number of women criminally disposed cannot
surely be much less than that of men; but women want the ability,
the means, and the adventurous spirit necessary to carry out
their evil designs. In years of famine, as the number of
marriages decreases, that of theft increases. In France, in 1846,
a year of plenty, 31,768 persons were convicted of larceny. In
1847, a year of scarcity, the figure rose to 41,626, and the year
after, it fell again to 30,000. Similar facts might be quoted for
England. What becomes of the _law_ of _nature_ in
presence of such evidences? Starvation is something exceedingly
_natural_, if you will; but if a man prefers starving to
stealing, he will not be dragged before the tribunals. In 1836
and 1837, there was great distress in England, during which many
died of starvation. Many had not the _will_ to prolong their
lives by stealing, many others had not the chance. No statistical
record can acquaint us with the ratio of those who had not the
will, to those who had not the chance; whence we are authorized
to argue that no inference can be drawn from such records
regarding the _will_ of men.

It is incontestable that the individual is greatly influenced by
the social, moral, religious, domestic, and intellectual
circumstances in which he happens to be placed. Still it cannot
be conceded that these circumstances do away with the freedom of
man's will. True enough, men permit themselves to be controlled,
in a great measure, by the circumscribed relations of private
life, but they do so for the very purpose of remaining in those
relations. There are many cases in which men see no motive for
withdrawing from under the influence of existing circumstances.
Sacrifices are even made to existing circumstances in order that
they may continue the same. As for instance, in the case of
tax-paying. We may complain loudly of the burden of taxes, still
we pay them. Should we have a mind not to pay them, we leave the
country for another less oppressed. The man that remains pays his
taxes _unwillingly_ indeed, yet of _his own free-will_.
Unwillingness does not preclude free-will.

The narrower the circumstances, the more limited the education,
the lower the rank of a man, the greater are his efforts to
accommodate himself to circumstances; and _vice versa_, the
greater his wealth and the higher his education, the more
independent is he.

In European countries, a son usually adopts the profession of his
father. The son of a farmer becomes a farmer, and the son of a
mechanic becomes a mechanic. Statisticians might easily adduce
imposing columns of figures to prove this, and the enemies of
free-will might call it a law of necessity. Yet what multitudes
of exceptions are there not? Thousands submit to the
circumstances that surround them at their birth, nevertheless
there will always be a few who will not submit. These will
struggle and push their way into the highest positions of life.

{653}

When nature and natural laws are alone in operation, and there is
no interference on the part of man, natural circumstances
continue the same during centuries. At the present time the
Amazon river presents about the same appearance as when the first
white men paddled their frail canoe along its luxuriant banks.
The hand of man has made but few changes. But within the same
space of time the Mississippi and its tributaries have undergone
the most astonishing changes. Flourishing towns now occupy the
former pasture-ground of the buffalo, and where the alligator
once held undisturbed possession, are now to be seen golden acres
of corn and snowy fields of cotton. It would be hard to recognize
in the Germania of Tacitus the Germany of the present day. Soil
and climate have both undergone changes. Were men controlled by
laws of necessity like the rest of creatures, they never would
have been able to effect these modifications of physical nature.
There is a principle in man which other creatures want. Together
with understanding, he is endowed with a free-will whose action
is always perceptible where man engages in an unusual struggle
with nature.

Much ado is made about the influence of the social, domestic, and
religious condition of the masses upon the individual. It is said
that his action is necessarily directed and controlled by this
influence. But we would know who creates these particular
conditions--who brings them about--and who changes them?
Everybody knows that elephants are very sagacious animals. But
the elephants employed nowadays in India for the chase and other
purposes are not a whit more sagacious nor a whit less stupid
than those which King Porus employed in the war against Alexander
the Great, 2000 years ago. Had elephants been endowed with
understanding and free-will, they would, in all probability, have
made some little progress within 2000 years. We never speak of
intellect, morals, and religion when animals are the subject of
consideration; we only speak of their natural condition, and this
circumstance alone shows that we must not look upon man as a mere
part of material nature, under the same necessary laws. So far as
the body is concerned, he belongs to material nature, and
undergoes its influence; but, as to the spirit, he rises above
nature, and for this very reason, enters into a contest with
nature, and triumphs. The fertile marshes of Holland and
Friesland are not a gift from the ocean, but man has wrested them
from the ocean; they are the creation of his mind and invincible
strength of will.

We several times before made mention of the happy influence of
Catholicity upon its adherents. Most Catholics, it is true,
belong to the communion by virtue of their descent from Catholic
parents, and, thus far, this may be called a natural
circumstance. But this same circumstance is brought about by the
deliberate and free will of thousands of persons who in England,
Germany, and America are annually returning to the old church.
Somebody might perhaps imagine a "conversion-law," according to
which a certain number of Protestants must inevitably become
Catholics every year.

It seems to us that the science of moral statistics has been
turned against the dogma of free-will, chiefly because
statisticians have directed their attention to such facts only as
are most immediately under the control of external circumstances.
Had they selected other facts, the result would not have led men
so easily to form conclusions opposed to the freedom of the human
will.
{654}
We will give an example. France is a Catholic country. There are
35,000,000 of Catholics in France. It is customary amongst
Catholics to go to confession. We suppose it would not be putting
the figure too high if we said that about 100,000,000 confessions
are heard annually in France. Every statistician will readily
grant that in France, and in every Catholic country, the
aggregate of the confessions will be nearly alike for different
years--and that the proportions of men and women, and the
variances for the different seasons, months, days, etc., will
present a decided appearance of regularity. Now, would Buckle be
ready to say: "In the present condition of France, one hundred
millions of confessions must take place every year. This is the
general law. The particular inquiry as to who is to go to
confession depends, of course, on special laws whose united
forces must, however, obey the general laws to which they are
subordinate. And the force of the general law is so irresistible,
that neither fear of the priest nor the impenitence of man can
exert the slightest influence for the hinderance of its action"?
We are inclined to think the materialistic historian would have
hesitated a while before ranging confession under the _economy
of nature_.

Before concluding, there are two more facts which we beg
permission simply to state. Materialists believe in facts. They
say that there is no effect without a cause, and that the effect
corresponds with the cause. Now, it is an undeniable fact, that
every man that has attained the use of reason believes his
_will_ to be free. How will materialists account for this
fact? The belief in the freedom of the will is an effect--the
effect of what?--of real necessity? We thought the effect should
correspond with the cause. For centuries men have believed their
will free, and for centuries criminals have been held responsible
for their deeds, and have been punished--and lo! now the
statistician does away with free-will altogether! It is plain
that this mode of blotting out free-will is merely a cunning but
erroneous piece of calculation.

The second fact is this: As often as a reaction follows upon a
period of greater political and social freedom in a state, it has
been remarked that at once the number of births decreases and
that of deaths increases. It was the case in France in 1854, and
in Prussia in 1855. From this fact we infer that liberty is the
atmosphere that suits the nature of populations best, and
furthers their increase most. If this is the case, can we, in
consequence of the mistaken evidences of statistics, refuse
individual man the faculty of free-will, which must be the basis
and condition of every other kind of liberty? Certainly not.

One more observation. The free-will of man is one of the
fundamental dogmas of Christian, and in particular, of Catholic
faith. We have seen what can be advanced against it on the
evidence of moral statistics. But the case of statistics is like
that of many other sciences. Its results, at first, appear
opposed to Catholic faith, and the enemies of the church begin to
shout with joy at the victory of "Science over Superstition." But
when more closely inspected, the new facts and developments are
not only nowhere in contradiction to faith, but are often found
to agree with and even to aid in substantiating it.

           ----------

{655}

    From The French Of Marie Jenna.

     The Volunteers For Pius IX.


  Both from Rome and France these men have earned a radiant crown of merit;
  As they drew their sword of fire, all hell, with trembling, saw its flashings.
  What their name? One--Christians! Fear no more when such have come to guard thee,
      Throne and home of Pius!

  On they came, those boasters, fed by Rapine, armed by drivelling Folly,
  Eager to profane with blood-stained hands the apostolic altar.
  They were met. And now, as ever, at thy gates, O holy City!
      Hate by Love is conquered.

  At thy pure and sacred majesty they dared, O holy Pontiff!
  Dared to mock with cries defiant; and like wolves for blood were thirsting--
  Thine! No, never! Thou hast drunk enough of Suffering's bitter chalice.
      Father! look--thy children!

  These for thee have gladly quitted wives and mothers, home and country:
  When the clamorous dastards cried, "Down with the Pope!" then these, uprising,
  Clutched their arms, and shoulder unto shoulder marched. "Fear not!" they shouted,
      "We will come and save thee!"

  In their faces gleamed the sacred fire that burns in breasts of Frenchmen!
  If but one of them should fall--for thee the boon of life disdaining--
  From their country's borders there would rise upon the morrow morning
      Thousands to avenge them.

  Only that one day, at least, the Christian phalanx--serried closely,
  So that heart may beat to heart--could know that thou hast gazed upon them;
  Only that the Holy Church in prayer their names will once remember,
      Death they gladly welcome.

  Holy Father, keep thy double sceptre and thy stainless glory!
  Rome is spared to thee and thou to Rome. Not yet, O sacred exile!
  Heaven will claim thee soon enough, and then, bereaved of thy dear presence,
      We shall be the exiles.

{656}

  Yes; the Christian world has sworn that thou from Rome shalt not be driven,
  As a gage it sends these dauntless heroes forward to thy rescue.
  Look upon them. Mark that steady tread, those eyes that flash forth victory.
      Raise thy hand and bless them!

  On to triumph, cavaliers of Christ! Yea, Lord, for thee they conquer,
  When they overcome the enemies of him who represents thee.
  Count _this_ faithful band, O Thou who in thine hour of dereliction
      Saw all thine desert thee!

  You whose dear and sacred memory is upon our hearts engraven--
  You, who were the elder brethren of this youthful band of heroes--
  You, who bore the white cross banner till the hands of all fell lifeless
      At Castelfidardo--

  You were there! And more than one of these beheld your glorious spirits
  Hovering o'er them as they proudly fell and yielded up their life-blood,
  Waiting with the crowns and palms prepared for such as should be honored
      So to die and conquer.

  Happy ye, O chosen ones! your death is fruitful. Ever passing
  Through the world the Church broadcasts her seed in sadness;
  Harvesting in turn with overflowing hands upon the places
      Sown with blood of martyrs.

  Mothers, wives, they come not back, the nearest, dearest that have left you!
  Weep! _He_ also wept. But ponder well the words that He has spoken:
  "Greater love no man may show for him he loves than dying for him."
      Even thus they loved Him!

  Weep! but sing a song of triumph as the bitter tears are flowing.
  Blest are ye who, in his temple, humbly kneeling at the altar,
  There can offer him a sacrificial incense of such sorrow
      With such glory mingled!

                   ----------

{657}

            Catholicity And Pantheism.


                   Number Four.

  The Blessed Trinity, Or Multiplicity In The Infinite.


   General Idea Of The Blessed Trinity.

Catholic doctrine admits that the most pure, simple, and
undivided unity of the Godhead lies in its nature; but that this
most simple nature is terminated by three real, distinct
subsistences or persons, who form the only true and living
Infinite. How this answer affords the solution of the problem
will be seen in the course of this treatise, in which we shall
endeavor to develop the idea of the church in a scientific form.
But, before we proceed to analyze it, we feel obliged to develop
it in a cursory manner, in order to enable the reader to follow
us in the analysis to which it will be subjected.

We say, then, that the essence of God, absolutely simple, is
terminated by three real, distinct, opposite subsistences, which
are a primary unbegotten activity, a begotten intelligibility, an
aspired goodness; all three in a state of personality. For this
primary, unborn activity in the state of personality, in whom the
whole Godhead resides, by understanding himself, begets a most
faithful conception of himself, an intellectual utterance, a word
or _logos_. Now, the nature or essence of intellectual
conception or logos, consists in being the object conceived in
the state of intelligibility. It follows, then, that the
conception of the primary activity, in whom the fulness of the
Godhead resides, is, in consequence, the Godhead itself in the
state of intelligibility, whilst the conceiver is the Godhead
itself, in the state of intelligent activity. Under this last
respect, to wit, of intelligent activity and of intelligibility,
the conceiver and the conception are necessarily related to each
other; a relation which arises from an opposition of origin,
since the conceiver, as such, originating the conception, is
necessarily opposed to it, and the conception, as such, by being
conceived, is necessarily opposed to the conceiver. In this sense
they are necessarily distinct from each other. It follows from
this that each one has a concreteness of his own, a termination
or a state, by whatever name it may be called; which concreteness
is incommunicable to the other, and hence each one has the
ownership of himself, and therefore is a person. For the first is
the whole Godhead under the termination of unborn intellectual
activity, which termination is strictly his own and
incommunicable. The second is the fulness of the Godhead, under
the termination of intelligibility or conception, which belongs
to him alone, and is likewise incommunicable. But because in both
resides the whole identical Godhead, though under a distinct,
opposite, and relative termination, they are both one and the
same God.

God conceiver and God conceived are, then, in nature and essence,
one and the same; whilst as the conceiver and the conceived, they
are two distinct persons; and in this sense, there is a necessary
duality in the infinite.
{658}
This duality is brought into harmony and unity by the production
of a third termination, the Holy Ghost. The conceiver and the
conceived necessarily love each other. This is the result of a
metaphysical law of the act of intelligence, including subject
and object; since to intelligence an object produces an
inclination or attraction in the subject toward it. Now the two
persons in the Godhead intelligence each other; therefore they
love each other. It is, again, the nature of love that the object
loved should abide in the subject loving, in a state of feeling
or an actively attractive state, a state which human language
cannot utter. The best expression we can find is, that the object
should abide in the subject in the capacity of beatifying it. The
Godhead, under the termination of conceiver, loves the Godhead
under the termination of conceived; and, _vice versa_, the
Godhead, under the termination of conceived, loves the Godhead
under the termination of conceiver. The result of this operation
is a third termination of the Godhead--the Godhead under the
termination of love, goodness, or bliss, proceeding from the
other two terminations, the conceiver and the conceived. This new
termination being distinct from the two former, and opposed to
them, inasmuch as it originates from them, is consequently its
own, incommunicable to the others, and hence a person. But as it
is the same identical Godhead, under the termination of love, the
three are but one and the same God. Without these terminations or
triplicity in the Infinite, the God cannot exist or live. For
what is a being without the knowledge of himself and without
love? What is life but action? and action without a term
originated is a contradiction in terms. The Godhead must, then,
intelligence and love himself. The result of this are three
terminations in the Godhead; a primary, unbegotten activity, a
begotten intelligibility, an aspired goodness. That these three
terminations do not break the unity of the Infinite will be
manifest from the analysis to which we shall subject them.

We shall now proceed to vindicate the personality of the three
terminations against a class of disguised pantheists--disguised
even to themselves--that is, the Unitarians.

Why should these three terminations in the Godhead be persons?
Could not the Godhead understand and love itself without
supposing three personalities?

We answer that without the admission of three persons in the
Godhead, we should necessarily fall into the pantheistic theory
concerning God.

The Unitarians will concede to us that God must understand and
love himself. Without this he were inconceivable. Now, we beg the
Unitarians to tell us what this intelligence and love are? Are
they only passing and transient acts or modifications, or are
they faculties and attributes? What are they?

Besides essence and nature, which includes substance, our minds
cannot conceive any other categories than the following:

  1st. Attributes or perfections.

  2d. Faculties.

  3d. Acts of the faculties or modifications.

  4th. Subsistence and personality.

Now, excluding subsistence and personality, the understanding and
love of the Godhead must be either an attribute or faculty, or a
transient act, or both of these together.

{659}

The Unitarians may demur at so many distinctions; but we would
beg them to observe that when we see the most sacred dogmas, nay,
the very pivot of knowledge, attacked by a flimsy and proud
philosophy, we have a right to descend into the depths of
science, and ask of the flimsy and boastful philosophy what it
means when it attacks so sweepingly and so confidently. This
remark has been forced from us by reading the following words of
Channing: "We believe in the doctrine of God's unity, or that
there is one God, one only. To this truth we give infinite
importance, and we feel ourselves bound to take heed lest any man
spoil us of it by vain (?) philosophy. This proposition, that
there is one God, seems to us exceedingly plain. We understand by
it that there is one being, one mind, one person, one intelligent
agent, and one only, to whom underived and infinite perfections
and dominion belong. We conceive that these words could have
conveyed no other meaning to the simple and uncultivated people,
who were set apart to be the depositories of this great truth,
and who were utterly incapable of understanding those
hair-breadth distinctions between being and person, which the
sagacity of other ages has discovered."

We have read very few passages of other authors in which we find
as much magisterial tone, sweeping assertion, profound ignorance
of true philosophy, confusion worse confounded, as in these few
lines of Channing.

Is it possible that Dr. Channing should call a hair-breadth
distinction, that which lies between essence and nature, and
personality? We suspect that the distinction between these terms
being so nice, Dr. Channing never apprehended it; and without
this elementary apprehension of the most fundamental notions of
ontology, Dr. Channing should have kept his peace, and never have
written a book touching mysteries, held and defended even unto
death by thousands of the sublimest, the profoundest, and the
most universal geniuses of Christianity; such men as S.
Athanasius, S. Justin, S. Irenaeus, S. Hilary, S. Augustine, S.
Ambrose, S. Chrysostom, S. Jerome, S. Fulgentius, S. Thomas,
Bossuet, Fénélon, Pascal, Leibnitz, etc. Before the testimony of
such intellects, even the self-assurance of Dr. Channing should
have hesitated. Dr. Channing, then, along with all those who hold
his opinion, will be kind enough to tell us what they mean by God
being one mind, one person, one intelligent agent. Are these
things attributes, faculties, or acts? Let us define the terms,
that the distinction which exists between them may be more
manifest. An attribute or perfection is a partial conception of
our minds, of a certain nature, and more particularly of the
Infinite. The idea of the infinite implies all perfections. But
as our limited minds cannot apprehend all that is contained in
that idea at one intellectual glance, we are forced to apprehend
it partially, and to divide it mentally, and to consider each
side apart. The ideas or notions corresponding to all these
apprehensions of the infinite, we call perfections or attributes.
But let it be distinctly understood; ontologically, that is, in
the order of reality, they do not exist out of, and are not
distinct from, the essence of the Infinite. A faculty is the
capacity of development in a being. An act is the transition from
capacity into movement. Now, before we close with the Unitarians,
we shall give the definition of individuality and personality as
carefully and intelligibly as we can.

{660}

That last termination or complement of a being, which makes it a
unit, _in se_, separated or at least distinct from all other
beings, which makes it _sui juris_ and incommunicable to all
others, constitutes what ontology calls individuality. To
illustrate this definition, let us suppose our body in the two
different states to which it is subject, when it is united to our
soul, and when it is separated from it. It is evident that when
my body is yet united to the soul, it is a corporal substance,
but not an individuality, because it has none of those elements
necessary to constitute individuality. It is not a unit _in
se_, neither is it separated from any other being, because it
is united to the soul, and hence it is communicable; and above
all, it is not _sui juris_, since the soul possesses it as
its most intimate and most subordinate organ and instrument. Let
us take the other state of our body, when the soul has left it.

By this very fact, the body becomes an individuality, that is to
say, a unit _in se_, distinct and separated from any other
being, _sui juris_, and incommunicable. So true is this,
that should that body in such a state, undergo any change, or do
what we might improperly call an action, that change or action
would be attributed to it, and to it alone.

For instance, suppose that body should fall and crush by its
weight some living creature, we should say that body has killed
that creature, because it _is_ an individuality; whereas,
suppose that same body, possessed of the soul, falling at night
out of bed, should kill by its weight that living creature, we
could no longer say that body has killed, but we should say that
man fell last night out of his bed, and killed, for instance, his
child; because the union of the body with the soul as its most
intimate organ, deprives it of its individuality, and
consequently of solidarity.

Personality adds to individuality the element of intelligence,
and consequently of self-consciousness.

A person, therefore, is a substance, possessed of intelligence
and self-consciousness, forming a unit _in se_, and hence
being distinct from all others, having the ownership of himself,
_sui juris_, and being the principle of imputability for all
his actions.

If these notions, on which depend the whole field of ontology,
which are the foundation of morality, of all social and political
rights of man, on which the very bliss and ultimate perfection of
man rest--if such notions are hair-breadth distinctions, we thank
God that we are endowed with intelligence enough to apprehend
them; else, were a man to-morrow to force us into slavery, on the
plea that we are only things, and not persons, we should be at a
loss how to stop him, not being able, like Channing, to apprehend
our own personality, that supreme gift which makes us feel master
and owner of ourselves and accountable for our actions.

Having premised these notions, we say the Unitarians, who grant
that the Infinite is endowed with intelligence and will, must
admit one of these three things: either the intelligence and will
are perfections or attributes, or they are faculties, or they are
persons. If they admit them to be perfections, they divide the
Infinite; if they admit them to be faculties, they fall into
pantheism.

This is what we are going to prove in the following propositions.

First proposition: If intelligence and will were admitted to be
mere perfections in God, the admission would imply a division in
God and a breaking up of the Infinite.

{661}

Before we proceed to prove this proposition, we premise that in
the argument we take intelligence and will in action, and not in
potentiality; in other words, we take them as acts, and not as
faculties.

The reason is because, as we shall prove, there can be no
faculties or potentiality in the Infinite. This premised, we lay
down the undoubted ontological truth that between intelligence in
act and the conception or interior _logos_, the result of
intelligencing, there is and must be a real distinction. In other
words, the intellect in act and the conception of the intellect
necessarily imply a duality.

The reason of this is evident. First, because between the
intellect in action and conception there is necessarily an
opposition. The intellect in act, is such, inasmuch as it is not
conception, and _vice versa_. Now, a real opposition
implies, necessarily, a real distinction. Again, the conception
or interior _logos_ is to the intellect in action as the
effect is to its cause, or, better, as the consequence is to its
principle.

If, therefore, there were no real distinction between the
intellect and the conception, there would be no real distinction
between the effect and its cause, the principle and its
consequence. Hence, thinking and thought are necessarily
distinct. What is true of the act of thinking and of thought is
true of the will and its _volition_, for the same reason.
Hence it is evident that the intellect in action, thought or the
conception, the will in action and its volition, are necessarily
distinct by their very ontological nature and relation. It
follows, then, that if we admit them to be mere perfections of
the Infinite, we would imply a real distinction in the essence of
the Infinite, in other words, a duality of essence; because a
perfection in the Infinite is identical with essence, since we
have said that perfections have no real existence _in re_,
and are only partial conceptions of our minds, which cannot take
in the Infinite at one intellectual glance.

Intelligence in action and conception, therefore, being
considered as perfections, would be identical with the essence;
and they requiring, in force of their metaphysical nature, a real
distinction, the distinction would fall upon the essence of the
Infinite. Any one versed in ontology will perceive this truth at
a glance. Hence, Unitarians cannot say that the intelligence and
the conception of the intelligence, the will and love in the
Infinite, are mere perfections, without admitting a real
distinction in the essence of the Infinite, and thus admitting a
multiplicity of Infinites, which is absurd.

Second proposition: If Unitarians rank the intellect and thought,
the will and its volition, of the infinite among faculties, they
then fall into pantheism.

Ontology, as we have said, defines a faculty to be a force of
development by union with its object.

Its notion implies three elements:

1. A force residing dormant in a being.

2. An object.

3. A union of the force with the object, to render the
development actual.

Applying this idea to the subject in question, every one can see
at a glance that a faculty cannot be predicated of the Infinite
without falling into pantheism.

For it would be to admit in God a force of development, a
capacity of unfolding, of actualizing himself.

{662}

Now, every faculty of development necessarily begins, from the
minimum degree of actuality, to travel by progressive stages of
unfolding to an indefinite maximum of progression. Hence, in the
supposition, we should be forced to admit that God started from
the minimum of life and action, and that he travelled through
numberless stages of development, and will travel indefinitely
through higher stages in the direction of a maximum of progress
never to be attained. Now, this is almost verbatim the
pantheistic theory of Hegel.

Every one who has read Hegel will have observed that his idea of
the Infinite coincides perfectly with the above. For he starts
from a minimum of reality, the _Being, Idea,_ which, through
a necessary interior movement, becomes matter, organism,
animality, intelligence, etc.

It would not do for Unitarians to say that the argument does not
apply to their system, since they admit a substance already
existing and perfect as to being, only endowed with faculties.
For, in the supposition, they would admit a finite, not an
infinite being.

In a finite being we can conceive one already perfect in the
order of existence, with faculties or force of accidental
development. But we cannot say the same of the Infinite. The
positive infinite, so to speak, is essentially actuality itself;
hence, perfection itself, all terms which exclude and eliminate
every possibility of development. If it be not that it must be
the Infinite of pantheism, a mere abstraction and unreality.

From what we have said, we conclude:

First, that the mystery of the Trinity is essentially necessary
to the idea of God; that there can be no conception of Infinite
actuality but through the supposition of three distinct
terminations of the same essence.

Secondly, that Unitarians are absolutely powerless before
pantheism; nay, that their system is disguised pantheism; and
that by holding fast only to the unity of God, they sap the very
foundation of the reality of the Infinite.

The Infinite is essentially living. A living God is essentially
conceiving himself by intellect. A subjective conception
necessarily implies an objective conception. These two are
absolutely and necessarily opposed to each other, and hence,
really distinct. Again, a living God, who necessarily conceives
himself, necessarily loves himself through his conception. Again,
subjective love necessarily implies an objective love, and the
two are essentially opposed, and hence distinct.

Thus we have three real distinct relations in the Infinite, a
conceiver, a conception, and love.

On the one hand, these three relations cannot be either
perfections or faculties; on the other, they cannot be denied of
the Infinite without destroying the very idea of the Infinite. It
follows, then, that they should be three terminations of the same
essence.

The act of intelligence in God is so actual and perfect as to be
in the very same state of personality intelligence itself. The
production of this act is also so actual and perfect as to be
conception itself, a personality distinct from the first. Love,
the necessary production of both the intelligence and the
conception, is also so actual and perfect, as to be love itself
in a state of personality, three distinct subsistences of the
same one infinite essence.

                ----------
{663}

    Heremore-Brandon; Or, The Fortunes Of A Newsboy.


               Chapter IV.

In the beautiful dawn Dick awoke, hardly remembering where he
was, and almost frightened at the wonderful absence of many
noises which had never before failed to greet his waking. Not
knowing whether it were very late or very early, Dick took the
safest view of the subject, and hurriedly dressed himself; then,
cautiously opening his door, he looked out to see if there was
any sign to guide his further movements: All was silent around
him; but the hall door stood wide open, letting in a square of
golden sunshine at the foot of the stairs. He went carefully and
noiselessly down, and found himself, when he reached the porch,
in a flood of glorious light. The flowers that hung above the
porch were sparkling in it, for the dew was yet fresh on all the
world; a thousand birds were carolling songs of exultation from
every tree, while the cool, fragrant morning air came to him in
the freshest, purest breezes that ever were known.

Even the pebbles, from which the sun had not yet kissed away a
single dew-drop, were sparkling like jewels as Dick approached
them on his way to the little rustic gate under the evergreen
arch. He stood leaning over it a long time, looking down the
cool, shadowy lane, his heart joining in the joyous morning hymn
of nature, for the first time heard.

He was standing by the gate, enjoying all, when new voices
reached his ears--human voices--and the children all at once came
rushing from the garden at the back of the house, in a tumult of
delight, surrounding him almost before they were aware of his
presence, so intent were they upon their mission to the village.

"Me doing to the 'tore!" exclaimed little Trot, rubbing her
hands. "Me dot a pocket."

Which double hint Dick took at once by putting pennies in the
"pocket," much to her delight and the older ones' annoyance.

"For shame, Trot!" said Will, "that's as bad as asking; and you
can't go to the store either; you'll get wet, the grass is all
wet. 'Tan't no good for girls; you stay home."

Whereupon Trot rubbed her brown little fists in her eyes, and
loudly bewailed her misery in being only a girl, showing also
that she had a will of her own that by no means acknowledged this
big boy as its lord and master. Dick attempted to show him that
whereas Trot's dress was already a finger deep with wet from the
long grass through which she had been tramping all the morning so
far, it couldn't make much difference if it got a little wetter.
But Will was firm, and Trot inappeasable, until, much to our
hero's relief, the noise brought out Rose, who was greatly
ashamed of Trot for making "such a time before the strange
gentleman," and very firmly decided for Will. In some magic way
she sent the boy portion unencumbered by any of the weaker sex,
on their way rejoicing, found something for the girls to do, and
took Trot's hand so resolutely that not a sob was ventured by
that small maiden, so that there was again peace in the land.

{664}

Then came breakfast, with a further display of clean calico, a
great deal of laughing and merry talk, but in a less leisurely
way than at tea, for the day's work was before not behind them.
Breakfast finished, the children, our hero, Rose, and Rose's
bosom friend, Clara Hays, were sent off to pick berries in the
woods. Half the morning they were in getting started; for
everybody spoke at once, and everybody hurried and detained
everybody else. There were at least a dozen false starts. As soon
as seven got to the gate, Trot and Minnie were reported missing;
no sooner were Trot and Minnie secured, than some one else was
out of the way. But at last they got fairly off, and went down
the lane in great glee; the children swinging their pails and
baskets in advance, and running back every two minutes to give
some valuable information about the road or the woods or the
berries, or something equally important. Rose, Clara, and Dick
brought up the rear in a manner that showed they had a becoming
sense of the responsibility thrown upon them as the elders of the
party.

What they did all day in the woods, how many brooks they crossed,
who fell in and was fished out with much laughter; how little
Trot got in everybody's way, and ate the others' berries as fast
as they were picked; how the children met other children on the
road; how often all parties rested, and teased each other, and
compared the quantity each had picked; and whether Dick, who had
soon got over his awkwardness, put his berries into Clara's pail
or into Rose's basket, I am not able to relate. I only know they
returned at evening very noisy and very tired; and that Rose had
a larger stock than any other one of the whole party; and that as
she took off her broad-brimmed straw hat, and pushed back the
moist curls from her face, this young lady did not go up at once
to wash off the purple berry stains from her hands, and to put on
the pretty blue muslin with its tiny bit of lace around the neck,
but lingered to hear the children, each interrupting the other,
until they were nearly all talking at once, tell Mr. and Mrs.
Stoffs and Mrs. Alaine the day's adventures. Dick, too, had
somewhat to relate, and glanced at Rose while he told it,
although it was only what the children had told twice over
already, how Mr. Dick--it had come to that with the
children--didn't know a turkey from a goose, and had called
things by their wrong names all day; whereat Rose laughed with
the rest, and then ran up to bathe her glowing cheeks in time to
help get tea.

When she came down, she found the children in the same eager
excitement, following the two women from kitchen to cellar, from
the closet to the table, still telling about the big snake they
were sure they had seen run across the path just before them, and
the rabbits, and what Minnie had said, and Will had done, and
Charley had thought; to all which the listeners gave an attentive
ear, laughing when there was need, and surprised at the proper
moment. At tea, the day in the woods continued to furnish food
for animated discussion, and neither Rose nor Dick looked as if
the subject were a tiresome one.

"And how did my little Trot get along?" asked Uncle Carl; but
Trot, who was tired, and cross, and impatient for her piece of
cake, made no answer.

"Trot tumbled into the water," said Will; "she always tumbles
in."

{665}

Then Trot who couldn't bear to be teased, looked as if she were
about to cry, but was appeased by a word or two from Rose, and
Carl asked who pulled her out.

"Oh! I did," answered Will readily; "I and Mr. Dick."

"I see that Mr. Dick is very good to you," said Mrs. Stoffs, with
a kind smile toward our hero, who colored and looked his delight.

"I don't think we can get along without Mr. Dick any more, can
we?"

The children declared they could not, and Dick was as pleased as
if he had just taken a degree; but Rose said nothing about the
matter.

Well, that was a merry, merry week; there were so many things
needed, and such long walks were required through the woods, and
over the hills, and even down to the beach, in order to procure
them, while every errand took all day to perform, that Dick
learned to walk on the soft grass without stumbling; even to
loiter slowly along by Rose's side, not often looking to see
where he placed his feet; and the children were such good tutors
that he learned the names of the birds and animals and insects
that came in his way, and knew where there had been the best
cherries in the spring, where there would be the best place for
nutting in the fall, and when the grapes would be ripe, "If only
he could be here!"

If only he could be here! But a week is only a week, and it will
end, if it has a life-time in its seven days. The last day had
come, and they all knew it; there had been a better dinner. "Mr.
Dick's last dinner with us, you know," they had said to each
other; and something more than sweet-cakes and peaches for tea,
for "to-morrow Mr. Dick will not be here." But, for all their
consideration, Mr. Dick hardly knew that night if he were eating
sweet-cakes or bitter bread.

It was a very quiet evening that followed the last tea at
Carlton. The children were more silent than usual; even Trot was
not proof against the indescribable feeling that settles over a
group from which one is about to take his departure. She climbed
into Dick's lap, and--an uncommon thing with that restless
maiden--did not offer to leave her position all those long
twilight hours. When Miss Brandon rode by--as I forgot to state
she did at twilight every evening--her beautiful pony, her long
dress, her hat with its drooping feather, her veil fluttering in
the evening breeze, her buff gauntlets, and her silver-handled
riding-whip--things which had set the whole flock in commotion
before--were hardly commented upon. When Mr. Irving, so tall and
princely, left her side for a moment, and, coming close to the
gate, called after Will, it was found Rose had forgotten the
usual bouquet of flowers for the ladies, and had to beg the
gentleman to wait. Rose felt very guilty; but Dick endeavored to
console her by saying that, without doubt, Mr. Irving was glad to
have a little more time with such a beautiful young lady as Miss
Brandon; and then fell to praising Miss Mary vehemently--how
beautiful she was, how gracious and pleasant to all, and yet
always remembering she was a grand young lady. Rose thought it
very easy to be good and pleasant when people are rich and
beautiful; and then Dick tried to comfort her again, and perhaps
with better success than before; for her only answer was a silent
act of contrition for the envious thought that had flitted across
her mind. Then, still in silence, she cut the flowers that she
could hardly more than guess at in the gathering twilight.
{666}
Dick was silent, too; and yet there was a great deal he would
like to have said, even though he little suspected that all he
had so far made clear to her was that Miss Brandon was to him
like an angel in a picture, or a heroine in some old romance, and
that, beside her silent act of contrition, poor little Rose's
heart had given one great throb, and had then made an act of
resignation beside. But Dick found voice to ask for a good-by
flower, which Rose gave; and it may be there were spoken then a
few words of more solemn meaning, such as will come when two
people, young and fresh, find their skies suddenly glowing above
them, and their hearts full of grateful praise to God, who has
made life so sweet. And it may be that little Rose, who said her
prayers so regularly for all sinners and for all who are tempted,
said a few broken, bashful words, exhorting Dick to goodness even
in the midst of the "snares of the great city," and that he
eagerly caught the words as they fell, promised her never to
forget them, and inwardly made a quick cry for God's grace to let
him die then rather than do aught to offend him who had showered
such blessings upon him. It may be, too, that Rose--the
simple-hearted maiden--was sure he would never break the
promise, and that their good-by there was a request and a promise
each to pray for the other. But if so, it was not said in long
paragraphs, with flowing periods; for Rose was too conscientious
to detain Mr. Irving a moment longer than needful.

But I am afraid Rose had to make another act of contrition that
night; for when Will brought her the money for the flowers--the
garden was her own--she would not take it, but told him to divide
it among the children, himself, of course, included. Dick thought
it very generous of her; but I have my own opinion about that.
Too soon for all the last "good-nights" were said, and Dick knew
he had spent out his last evening in Carlton for who could tell
how long? Yet his dreams were not sad. If he did not actually
believe he was riding on a splendid great horse, by the side of a
fair damsel on a white pony, down the shadowy lane, into the
broad road of the future; that he had given Carl a home for life,
and a load of toys to the children, with, perhaps, an uplifting
of his heart, and a readiness to bear, whatever life should bring
him worthy of a faithful Christian, I think it was something
"very like it."

The next morning there was a hurried breakfast, after which they
all went to the little yellow station-house to see him off, and
waved their hats and handkerchiefs until the train was out of
sight. A little longer, and they had returned in a rambling
procession home, each with some remembrance of him to tell the
other, while he was in the city at work once more, but as a
different Dick Heremore from the one who had said goodby, not
without emotion, to his slovenly landlady.

{667}

                Chapter v.

When Christmas came around again, and made the first break in the
routine of his life after his ever-memorable visit to the
country, Dick, now no longer a follower at a distance of that
Sunday morning crowd, but a devout and well-instructed Catholic,
to whom all the glory and grandeur of the Christmas lights and
flowers, the music and the bells, were no longer mysteries; after
hearing the grand high mass--not the only one he had heard that
day--turned down Fourteenth street, according to the custom of
many years, in order that he might pass the Brandons' house,
which had ever held a charm for him, since on its broad steps he
had first seen the beauty and loveliness of charity. But he was
not thinking just then of Miss Brandon, nor of his newsboy days,
nor yet of the fast approaching hour when he should present
himself at Carl Stoffs's table, in a quarter of the city very
different from this, where he was to eat his piece of Christmas
turkey. His thoughts, I am afraid, will seem wild ones; but he
was young, it was Christmas-day, he had just come from that
glorious mass, and the world seemed so small and easy to conquer
to one who had heard the "glad tidings," so that he may be
forgiven for dreaming, in a less prosaic and unspiritual manner
than I can tell you, of a time when he would eat his Christmas
dinner neither at a boarding-house nor at another man's board,
but would carve his own Christmas turkey, at his own table. Of
whatever he was thinking, he did not fail to notice the house,
and to glance upward when he came to the stoop where he--was it
really he, that rough, shaggy, ragged little newsboy, ignorant
and dirty?--where he had, for the first time in his hard young
life, heard a voice address him kindly; and his glance changed to
a steady gaze of surprise when his eye caught a name on the
door-plate that was not Brandon. He looked at the number--that
was all right, but the old name was gone. He was perplexed, and
walked absently backward and forward for several moments.

"Then Mr. Stoffs was right," he said, "and he" (meaning Mr.
Brandon) "has had to come down a peg or two, or he would not have
given up his house at this season. I wonder where they have gone
now."

He remembered, at this moment, that none of the family had been
at Ames & Harden's during the whole fall, and that he had not
seen Miss Brandon since she and Mr. Irving had ridden down the
lane for the flowers that Rose had forgotten to have ready at the
usual hour. It so happened that, remembering the neglected
flowers, why they had been forgotten, and how the negligence had
been repaired, Dick's thoughts strayed from the graceful figure
of the beautiful lady, who had seemed to him more magnificent and
gentle than a vision, and turned to another figure, not tall nor
stately--to another face, not grand nor graciously sweet.

But when he met Mr. and Mrs. Stoffs, almost the first words he
said were,

"I went by the house on Fourteenth street to-day, and Mr.
Brandon's name was off the door. I had not heard of their going
away."

"It's long ago, though," said Mr. Stoffs.

"Is it any difficulty made them leave their old house?" asked
Dick.

"There's been no end of difficulties," answered the German,
puffing out great clouds of smoke between every sentence. "Things
were bad enough last summer, and when Mrs. Brandon died--"

"Mrs. Brandon dead!" exclaimed Dick.

"Oh! I forgot that was after you left; it was quite an
excitement. The horses ran away one night--those same stylish
bays of which she was so proud--when she and her daughter were
returning from some party, and she was dead before morning."

"And Miss Brandon?" Dick could hardly ask, his terror of the
answer was so great.

{668}

"Miss Brandon," answered Mr. Stoffs in a formal way, and puffing
out greater clouds of smoke than ever, "Miss Brandon was ill for
some days, and they were afraid would never get over the shock;
your fine ladies are so nervous!"

"Miss Brandon is not that kind," said Dick hastily, vexed by the
contemptuous tone of his friend's remark. "And I don't believe
fine ladies are any more--more--fussy than others."

"I suppose you know them well enough to be a certain judge," said
Carl, who seemed in a very ugly humor.

"Of course I don't know one in the world," answered Dick, with
considerable animation and a deeper color in his face. "But I
can't see the good of always running down people, just because
they happen to be richer than ourselves."

"Hush! now," interposed Mrs. Stoffs, as her husband was about
answering, "or no dinner shall you have this day. I will not let
you two quarrel."

"You were going to tell me about Mr. Brandon's difficulties,"
suggested Dick very gently, after both he and Mr. Stoffs had
assured their peacemaker that they were never in better humor
toward each other. "You were going to tell me about Mr. Brandon's
difficulties."

"Yes. His wife she died, and it was found he had used all her
money and had lost it, as he had his own; there was a failure and
everything was sold out, and so--there's an end of him."

"Did he leave New-York?"

"I don't know. Who asks what has become of a one-time rich man
after the bubble has burst?"

"I think I heard he wanted some situation to start life again,"
said Mrs. Stoffs. "Poor man!"

Mrs. Stoffs was right. Mr. Brandon had tried to start again; but
he had been a hard man in his days of prosperity, and an
unfaithful man, or he would not be as he was now; and so, many
who heartily pitied him and his family for their fall, and who
would willingly have given them assistance out of their own
pockets, did not feel justified in giving him a position that
could be better filled by some man in whom they could trust. Thus
among all his rich friends, not one of whom felt unkindly toward
him, there was none to push him a plank with which to save
himself from drowning.

Dick had learned all that his hosts could tell, and knowing well
how fearfully rapid is a man's fall when once he is over the
precipice of failure, his heart was heavier than it had ever been
for troubles of his own. He sought to sustain his part in the
conversation, feeling that a silent guest seems selfish and
ungrateful, and tried to laugh as heartily at his friend's jokes
as ever; but it was not without an effort, and his friends were
keen and saw that he was troubled.

"I do not like it," Carl grunted in his deepest tones, that
Christmas night after Dick had gone and the children were asleep;
"I do not like it."

"You must not think too hardly of him," answered Mrs. Stoffs,
who, with that sort of perception women obtain when they become
wives, knew her husband referred to Dick's troubled manner, the
anxious way in which he had asked about Miss Brandon, and his hot
resenting of Carl's careless words. "You are too hard on him,"
said Mrs. Stoffs, not because she did not equally dislike it all,
but because there would be no conversation between them if old
married folks were always to agree.

{669}

"Fine ladies, indeed!" muttered Mr. Stoffs, puffing away harder
than ever. "Miss Brandon--what for should he care if Miss Brandon
was hurt, more than for any other lady?"

"She is poor enough now," said Mrs. Stoffs musingly. "It would
not be so strange now;" and under her breath she sighed, "Poor
Rose!"

"Not that he has one thought of such a thing," Carl went on
consistently; "you women always get such ideas into your heads."

Mrs. Stoffs, being an experienced wife, raised no question about
the ownership of the "ideas," whatever they were, but sat looking
into the fire for a long time before she spoke again, and then it
was to say, "After all, I am glad we were too poor to have Rose
come up for Christmas."

"If she would not be satisfied with what we had, so am I,"
grumbled Mr. Stoffs.

"I was not thinking of that," answered his wife mildly.

"I know Heremore's never such a fool as to be thinking of one so
much above him as Miss Brandon," remarked Mr. Stoffs.

"She is not above him now that they are poor," answered his wife.

"It isn't the money that made the difference," said Carl rather
impatiently, "it's the habits that money gives. That's what is
the matter. Miss Brandon may not be half worthy of him, and yet
he would be mad to think of her; it is misery when people marry
out of their rank, misery to both."

"But if they love each other?" suggested his wife.

"That only makes the matter worse; he knows not her ways. She has
a language that is not his; if they did not care, they could go
their own ways, and seek their own. I think Heremore is a great
fool; I do!"

"I don't believe he has a thought of such a thing," said Mrs.
Stoffs; but there was a manifest question in her voice.

"If he has, he'll rue the day he thought of it first," said her
husband emphatically; and there the conversation ended; but when
Mrs. Stoffs wrote again to Mrs. Alaine, which she did not do for
some time--for to write a letter was an event in the honest
woman's life--she thought proper to give her sister a hint of
that which they had observed; and Mrs. Alaine, in her turn,
thought proper to convey the hint, in the form of information, to
Rose, who, however, answered readily,

"Love Miss Brandon? Well, mamma, and why shouldn't he?"

"Because Miss Brandon is not in the same class of life that he
is, dear."

"I am sure Mr. Heremore is better off than her father is now,"
urged Rose; "for he has a regular salary, and Mr. Brandon has
nothing left, and nobody will give him any place."

"No doubt, my child; but it is not money that makes the
difference. Miss Brandon has her ideas of life now just as she
had them when she was rich; and Mr. Heremore is what he is, and
would not be different if he were suddenly made a millionaire."

So Rose said no more.

While Mr. and Mrs. Stoffs were thus disturbed about him, Dick,
unconscious of any cause he had given for their disquietude, was
walking slowly and thoughtfully home. "Where was that little Mary
with her fair hair and gentle smile this cold Christmas night?"
was the question he kept putting to himself. It was a clear,
bright night, with the moon shining on the pavements and the
frozen earth, not at all such a night as that during which he had
slept by her father's steps, and there was no fear that her fair
head was shelterless; but still it was very sad to think of her,
whose Christmas days had been such pleasant ones, in mourning for
her mother, and perhaps in troubles such as those which men hear,
but shudder to see, clouding the girlish youth that is so short,
and should be so sunny.

{670}

"With God's help I'll find them out before to-morrow night if
they are in this city," said Dick to himself, and then walked on
more rapidly.

And he kept his word, though not without much trouble; and within
twenty-four hours he stood in front of the wretched
boarding-house to which poverty and sickness had already reduced
the family that, a few months before, had never dreamed of the
meaning of want.

But though he had found them out and stood before their door,
Dick had done and could do nothing to lessen their trouble. Mr.
Brandon had not seemed more unapproachable when, a rich man, he
scowled and said hard words to the ill-dressed errand-boy--than
he now did to the simple clerk, though Dick himself was richer
now than was the once rich merchant. Miss Brandon was, in his
eyes, now no less a lady, belonging to a sphere far above him,
than she had been when, in all the glory of wealth, youth, and
beauty, he had seen her ride down to the Stoffs's cottage to buy
flowers for her hair. It seemed to him greater presumption for
him to think of approaching her now than it would have been then,
so he passed and repassed her door, grieved for her trouble, but
more grieved, if possible, that he, with his youth and strength,
should be powerless to give her one grain of comfort. How often
and often, as he had watched her--she all unconscious of him and
his grateful reverence--in her days of prosperity, had he dreamed
of her as like some damsel of olden romance in sore distress, and
thought that never had knight rushed more joyously or more
potently to the rescue than he would to hers. Now his dream had
come to pass--she was a damsel in sore distress; but where was
his prancing steed, his burnished armor, his ready lance? Then,
as he smiled in remembrance of his boyish fancy, he suddenly
thought of Mr. Irving, the gentleman--just a boy's ideal of a
gallant knight--whom he had seen so often with Miss Brandon in
the country. He recollected well the manly bearing of that
"perfect gentleman," whom he and Rose had looked upon as a
veritable Sir Launcelot; he had seen many an act of "gentle
courtesy" shown in a grave, tender way, to the fair lady by whose
side he always rode; and where was he now that that fair lady
needed her knight as never before?

There was nothing morbid or bitter about Dick. When he asked
himself that question, it was with no thought of the common
judgment pronounced upon "summer friends." He recognized Mr.
Irving's right to aid and comfort the family of his former host.
He knew that he had wealth, position, character, and, of course,
ample influence, and not for an instant doubted that he would use
every means in his power to befriend Mr. Brandon, if only for the
sake of that beautiful daughter whom he so evidently admired.
Where, then, was Mr. Irving? If he had been here, all this could
not have happened. But as Dick asked himself this, it did not
occur to him that Mary thought as he thought: if Mr. Irving had
been here, all this would not have happened.

{671}

At last Dick, fully convinced that he would be guilty of no
presumption in speaking his mind to Mr. Irving on this subject,
cheerfully turned his steps homeward, and resolved that the first
moment he had of his own should be spent in seeking Mr. Irving,
and informing him of what he could not now be aware of, the
downfall of the Brandons. For the fall of the Brandons, as he
heard from one or two who knew, had been very great, very rapid,
and, it was feared, was not yet completed. Mr. Brandon had never
held his head up since his failure, but dragged around, shabbily
dressed, querulous and half-sick, dejected and clearly miserable.
His two sons had been given very poor situations, on very
niggardly pay, by a relative in another city, who, having always
been odiously cringing to Mr. Brandon when he had money, seemed
to delight now in heaping humiliations upon his sons. So great a
crime it was in his eyes to be better bred, better educated, and
more kindly cared for than were his own rude, blustering,
ignorant boys. If only Fred and Joe had been taught whence come
adversity and prosperity, doubtless these humiliations would have
been crowns of glory for them; but theirs had been only a vague,
dreamy sort of faith, which they never suspected had any
application to their real life. I dare say they were very idle,
useless, self-conceited and aggravating boys; but I can't help
feeling sorry for them in their troubles. Miss Brandon, Dick was
told, had not recovered her strength since the accident, and
however well she might have been, with all her accomplishments,
could not have done more than she was now doing: giving
music-lessons to a few persons residing near her new home.

But all hope of seeing Mr. Irving faded the first thing the next
day; for Dick's questions brought the unwelcome information that
he had left home in October for two years' travel in Europe, and
Dick, of course, could not presume to write to him.

                   ----------

      Porter's Human Intellect. [Footnote 272]

    [Footnote 272: _The Human Intellect; with an Introduction
    upon Psychology and the Soul_. By Noah Porter, D.D., Clark
    Professor of Moral Philosophy and Metaphysics in Yale
    College. New-York: Scribner & Co. 1868. 8vo, pp. 673.]

This formidable volume is, unless we except Professor Hickok's
work on _Rational Psychology_, the most considerable attempt
that has been made among us to construct a philosophy of the
human understanding. Professor Porter is able, patient,
industrious, and learned. He knows the literature of his subject,
and has no little facility and fairness in seizing and setting
forth the commanding points in the views and theories of others;
but, while he shows great familiarity with metaphysical and
psychological questions, and some justness and delicacy as an
analyzer of facts, he seems to us to lack the true philosophical
instinct, and that synthetic grasp of thought which seizes facts
in their principles and genetic relations, and reduces them to a
dialectic whole, without which one cannot be a philosopher.

{672}

The professor's book is a hard, book for us to read, and still
harder for us to understand. Its mechanical aspect, with three or
four different sizes of type on the same page, is repulsive to
us, and prejudices us against it. It is not absolutely dull, but
it is rather heavy, and it requires resolution to read it. It has
nothing attractive or enlivening, and it deals so much with
particulars and details that it is difficult for the reader to
carry what he reads along in his memory. Even when we have in our
minds what the author actually says, it is not easy to understand
it, or determine which of several possible meanings he adopts.
Not that his language, though seldom exact or precise, and
disfigured occasionally by needless barbarisms, and a terminology
which we hope is not yet in good usage, is not clear enough for
any one accustomed to philosophical studies, nor is it that his
sentences are involved and hard to be construed, or that his
statements, taken as isolated statements, are not intelligible;
but it is hard to determine their meaning and value from his
point of view, and in relation to his system as a whole. His book
is composed of particulars, of minute and not seldom commonplace
observations, without any perceptible scientific reduction to the
principle which generates, co-ordinates, and explains them.

It is but fair to the professor to say, in the outset, that his
book belongs to a class of books which we seldom read and
heartily detest. It is not a work of philosophy, or an attempt
even to give us a science of things in their principles and
causes, their progress and destiny, but merely a
_Wissenschaftslehre_, or science of knowing. Its problem is
not what is or what exists; but what is knowing, how do I know,
and how do I know that I know? With all deference to the
Fichteans, we venture to assert that there is and can be no
science of knowing separate from the science of things, distinct
from and independent of the subject knowing. We know, says all
that, we know that we know, says. He who knows, knows that he
knows; and if one were to doubt that knowing is knowing, we must
let him doubt, for we have only knowing with which to prove that
knowing is knowing.

We can by no possible anatomical dissection of the eye, or
physiological description of its functions, explain the secret of
external vision. We are told that we see not external objects
themselves, but their pictures painted by the light on the
retina, and it is only by them that we apprehend visible objects.
But suppose it so, it brings us no nearer to the secret of
vision. How do we see the picture? How by means of the picture
apprehend the external object? Yet the man who sees knows he
sees, and all that can be said is, that to elicit the visual act
there must be the visible subject, the visible object, and the
light which mediates between them and illuminates them both. So
is it with intellectual vision. We may ascertain some of the
conditions under which we know, but the knowing itself is to us
an inexplicable mystery. No dissection or possible inspection of
the soul can explain it, or throw the least light on it. All that
can be said is, that to the fact of knowledge, whatever its
degree or its region, there must be the intellective subject, the
intelligible object, and the intellectual light which places them
in mutual relation and illumines alike both subject and object.
Having said this, we have said all that can be said. Hence works
intended to construct the science of science, or knowledge, are
not only useless, but worse than useless; for, dealing with
abstractions which have no existence in nature, and treating them
as if real, they mislead and perplex the student, and render
obscure and doubtful what without them is clear and certain.

{673}

Professor Porter is a psychologist, and places all the activity
in the fact of knowledge on the side of the soul, even in the
intuition of principles, without which the soul can neither
exist, nor think, nor feel. His purpose in his Introduction is to
establish the unity and immateriality--spirituality, he says, of
the soul against the materialists--and to vindicate psychology
not only as a science, but as an inductive science. With regard
to the unity and immateriality of the soul, we hold with the
professor, though they are not provable or demonstrable by his
method; and we recognize great truth and force in his criticisms
on materialism, of which we have to deplore in the scientific
world, and even in popular literature, the recrudescence. That
psychology is, in a secondary sense, a science, we do not deny;
but we do deny that it is either "the _prima philosophia_"
as the professor asserts, or an inductive science, as he
endeavors to prove.

All the inductive sciences are secondary sciences, and presuppose
a first science, which is strictly the science of the sciences.
Induction, the professor himself maintains, has need of certain
first principles, or _a priori_ assumptions, which precede
and validate it. How can psychology be the _prima
philosophia_, or first philosophy, when it can be constructed
only by borrowing its principles from a higher or prior science?
Or how can it be the first philosophy, when that would suppose
that the principles which the inductive sciences demand to
validate the inductive process are contained in and derived from
the soul? Is the professor prepared to maintain that the soul is
the first principle of all the sciences? That would imply that
she is the first principle of things, of reality itself; for
science is of the real, not of the unreal. But this were pure
Fichteism, and would put the soul in the place of God. The
professor would shrink from this. He, then, must have made the
assertion that psychology is the _prima philosophia_
somewhat hastily, and without due reflection; unless indeed he
distinguishes between the first principles of science and the
first principles of things.

The inductive sciences are constructed by induction from the
observation and analysis of facts which the soul has the
appropriate organs for observing. But psychology is the science
of the soul, its nature, powers or faculties, and operations; and
if an inductive science, it must be constructed by induction from
psychical facts observed and analyzed in the soul by the soul
herself. The theory is very simple. The soul, by the external
senses, observes and analyzes the facts of the external world,
and constructs by induction the physical sciences; by her
internal sense, called consciousness, she observes and analyzes
the world within herself, and by way of induction from the facts
or phenomena she observes, constructs psychology, or the science
of herself. Unhappily for the psychologue, things do not go so
simply. To this theory there are two grave objections: First, the
soul has no internal sense by which she can observe herself, her
acts or states in herself; and second, there are no purely
psychical facts to be observed.

{674}

The professor finds the soul's faculty of observing the facts of
the internal world in consciousness, which he defines to be "the
power by which the soul knows its own acts and states." But
consciousness is not a power or faculty, but an act of knowing,
and is simply the recognition of the soul by the soul herself as
the subject acting. We perceive always, and all that is before us
within the range of our percipient powers; but we do not always
distinguish and note each object perceived, or recognize the fact
that it is we who are the subject perceiving. The fact of
consciousness is precisely in the simple perception being so
intensified and prolonged that the soul not only apprehends the
object, but recognizes itself as the subject apprehending it. It
is not, as the professor maintains at great length in Part I., a
presentative power; for it is always a reflex act, and demands
something of memory. But the recognition by the soul in her acts
as the subject acting is something very different from the soul
observing and analyzing in herself her own powers and faculties.

The soul never knows herself in herself; she only recognizes
herself under the relation of subject in her acts. Recognizing
herself only as subject, she can never cognize herself as object,
and stand, as it were, face to face with herself. She is never
her own object in the act of knowing; for she is all on the side
of the subject. She cannot be on one side subject, and on the
other object. Only God can be his own object; and his
contemplating of himself as object, theologians show us, is the
Eternal Generation of the Son, or the Word. Man, St. Thomas tells
us, is not intelligible in himself; for he is not
_intelligens_ in himself. If the soul could know herself in
herself, she could be her own object; if her own object, she
would suffice for herself; then she would be real, necessary,
self-existent, independent being; that is to say, the soul would
be God.

We deny not that the soul can know herself as manifested in her
acts, but that she can know herself in herself, and be the object
of her own thought. I can not look into my own eyes, yet I can
see my face as reflected in the glass. So the soul knows herself,
and her powers and faculties; but only as reflected from, or
mirrored in, the objects in conjunction with which she acts.
Hence the powers and faculties are not learned by any observation
of the soul herself, but from the object. The soul is a unit, and
acts always as a unit; but, though acting always in her unity,
she can act in different directions, and in relation to different
objects, and it is in this fact that originates the distinction
of powers and faculties. The distinction is not in the soul
herself, for she is a unit, but in the object, and hence the
schoolmen teach us that it is the object that determines the
faculty.

It is not the soul in herself that we must study in order to
ascertain the faculties, but the soul in her operations, or the
objects in relation with which she acts. We know the soul has the
power to know, by knowing, to will, by willing, to feel, by
feeling. While, then, the soul has power to know herself so far
as mirrored by the objects, she has no power to observe and
analyze herself in herself, and therefore no power of direct
observation and analysis of the facts from which psychology, as
an inductive science, must be constructed.

But there are no such facts as is assumed to be observed and
analyzed. The author speaks of objects which are purely
psychical, which have no existence out of the soul herself; but
there are and can be no facts, or acts, produced by the soul's
own energy alone. The soul, for the best of all possible reasons,
never acts alone, for she does not exist alone.
{675}
"Thought," says Cousin, "is a fact that is composed of three
simultaneous and indissoluble elements, the subject, the object,
and the form. The subject is always the soul, [_le Moi_,]
the object is something not the soul, [_le non-Moi_,] and
the form is always the relation of the two." The object is
inseparable from the subject as an element of the thought, but it
exists distinct from and independent of the soul, and when it is
not thought as well as when it is; otherwise it could not be
object, since the soul is all on the side of the subject. The
soul acts only in conjunction with the object, because she is not
sufficient for herself, and therefore cannot suffice for her own
activity. The object, if passive, is as if it were not, and can
afford no aid to the fact of thought. It must, therefore, be
active, and then the thought will be the joint product of the two
activities. It is a grave mistake, then, to suppose that the
activity in thought is all on the side of the soul. The soul
cannot think without the concurrent activity of that which is not
the soul. There is no product possible in any order without two
factors placed in relation with each other. God, from the
plenitude of his being, contains both factors in his own essence;
but in creatures they are distinct from and independent of each
other.

We do not forget the _intellectus agens_ of St. Thomas, but
it is not quite certain what he meant by it. The holy doctor does
not assert it as a faculty of the soul, and represent its
activity as purely psychical. Or if it be insisted that he does,
he at least nowhere asserts, implies, or intimates that it is
active without the concurrence of the object: for he even goes so
far as to maintain that the lower acts only as put in motion by
the higher, and the terrestrial by the celestial. Hence the
_praemotio physica_ of the Thomists, and the necessity in
conversion of praevenient grace--_gratia praeveniens_.

But even granting that there is the class of facts alleged, and
that we have the power to observe and analyze them, as, in the
language of Cousin, "they pass over the field of consciousness,"
we cannot by induction attain to their principle and causes; for
induction itself, without the first principles of all science,
not supplied by it, can give us only a classification,
generalization, an hypothesis, or an abstract theory, void of all
reality. The universal cannot be concluded, by way of induction,
from particulars, any more than particulars can be concluded, by
way of deduction, from the universal. Till validated in the
_prima philosophia_, or referred to the first principles,
without which the soul can neither act nor exist, the
classifications and generalizations attained to by induction are
only facts, only particulars, from which no general conclusion
can be drawn. Science is knowledge indeed; but the term is
generally used in English to express the reduction of facts and
particulars to their principles and causes. But in all the
secondary sciences the principles and causes are themselves only
facts, till carried up to the first principles and causes of all
the real and all the knowable. Not without reason, then, has
theology been called the queen of the sciences, nor without
warrant that men, who do not hold that all change is progress,
maintain that the displacement, in modern times, of this queen
from her throne has had a deleterious effect on science, and
tended to dissipate and enfeeble the human mind itself.
{676}
We have no philosophers nowadays of the nerve of Plato and
Aristotle, the great Christian fathers, or the mediaeval doctors,
none of whom ever dreamed of separating theology and philosophy.
Even the men of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries had a
grasp of thought, a robust vigor of mind, and a philosophic
insight into the truth of things and their higher relations that
you look in vain for in the philosophers of the eighteenth
century and of our own. But this by the way. When things are at
the worst, they sometimes mend.

Psychology, not psychologism, is a science, though not an
inductive science, nor a science that can be attained to by the
study of the soul and her phenomena in the bosom of
consciousness. The psychologists--those, we mean, who adopt the
psychological method, a method seldom adopted before the famous
_cogito, ergo sum_ of Descartes--seem incapable of
comprehending that only the real is cognizable, and that
abstractions are not real but unreal; and therefore that the
first principles of science must be real, not abstract, and the
first principles of things. Thus Professor Porter appears to see
no real connection between them. True, he says, (p. 64,)
"Knowledge and being are correlatives. There must be being in
order that there may be knowledge. There can be no knowledge
which is not the knowledge of being. Subjectively viewed, to know
implies certainty; objectively, it requires reality. An act of
knowing in which there is no certainty in the agent, and no
reality in the object, is impossible in conception and in fact."
This would seem to assert that only being can be known, or that
whatever is known is real being, which is going too far and
falling into ontologism. Only being is intelligible _per
se_; but existences which are from being and participate of
being, though not intelligible in or by themselves, since they do
not exist in and by themselves, may yet be really known by the
light of being which creates them. We know _by_ being, as
well as being itself.

But be not alarmed. The professor's being, the only object of
knowledge, his reality without which there is no cognizable
object, is nothing very formidable; for he tells us, in smaller
type, on the same page, that "we must distinguish different kinds
of objects and different kinds of reality. They may be _formed
by the mind, and exist_ [only] _for the mind that forms
them_, or they may exist in fact and space for all minds, and
yet in each case they are equally objects. Their reality may be
mental and internal, or material and external, but in each case
it is equally a reality. The thought that darts into the fancy
and is gone as soon, the illusion that crosses the brain of the
lunatic, the vision that frightens the ghost-seer, the spectrum
which the camera paints on the screen, the reddened landscape
seen through a colored lens, the yellow objects which the
jaundiced eye cannot avoid beholding, _each as really
exists_ as does the matter of the solid earth, or the eternal
forces of the cosmical system." The "eternal forces" of the
cosmical system can be only God, who only is eternal. So the
illusions of fancy, the hallucinations of the lunatic, and the
eternal, self-existent, necessary being whom we call God, and who
names himself I AM THAT AM, SUM QUI SUM, are alike being, and
equally real!

The learned author tells us elsewhere that we call by the name
being beings of very different kinds and sorts, owing to the
poverty of our language, which supplies but one name for them. He
will permit us to say that we suspect the poverty is not in the
language.
{677}
We have in the language two words which serve us to mark the
precise difference between that which is in, from, and by itself
alone, and that which exists in, from, and by being. The first is
_being_, the other is _existence_. Being is properly
applied only to God, who is, not Supreme Being, as is often said,
but the one only being, the only one that can say, I AM THAT AM,
or QUI EST; and it shows how strictly language represents the
real order that in no tongue can we make an assertion without the
verb TO BE, that is, only by being, that is, again, only by God
himself. Existence explains itself. Existences are not being,
but, as the _ex_ implies, are _from_ being, that is,
from him in whom is their being, as Saint Paul says, "For in him
we live, and move, and are," "_vivimus, et movemur, et
sumus_." Reality includes being and all that is from and by
being, or simply being and existences. Nothing else is real or
conceivable; for, apart from God and what he creates, or besides
God and his creatures, there is nothing, and nothing is nothing,
and nothing is not intelligible or cognizable.

Dr. Porter understands by reality or being only what is an object
of knowledge, or of the mind in knowing, though it may have no
existence out of the mind, or, as say the schoolmen, _a parte
rei_. Hence, though the soul is certain that the object exists
relatively to her act of knowing, she is not certain that it is
something existing in nature. How, then, prove that there is
anything to correspond to the mental object, idea, or conception?
In his Second Part, which treats of the representative power, he
tells us that the objects represented and cognized in the
representation are purely psychical, and exist only in the soul
and for the soul alone. These, then, do not exist in nature; they
are, in the ordinary use of the term, unreal, illusory, and
chimerical, as the author himself confesses. If the object of
knowledge can be in any instance unreal, chimerical, illusory, or
with no existence except in and for the soul itself, why may it
not be so in every instance, and all our knowledge be an
illusion? How prove that in any fact of knowledge there is
cognition of an object that exists distinct from and independent
of the subject? Here is the _pons asinorum_ of exclusive
psychologists. There is no crossing the bridge from the
subjective to the objective, for there is no bridge there, and
subject and object must both be given simultaneously in one and
the same act, or neither is given.

Dr. Porter, indeed, gives the subjective and what he calls the
objective, together, in one and the same thought; but he leaves
the way open for the question, whether the object does or does
not exist distinct from and independent of the subject. This is
the difficulty one has with Locke's _Essay on the
Understanding_. Locke makes ideas the immediate object of the
cognitive act; for he defines them to be "that with which the
mind is immediately conversant." If the soul can elicit the
cognitive act with these ideas, which it is not pretended are
things, how prove that there is any real world beyond them? It
has never been done, and never can be done; for we have only the
soul, for whose activity the _idea_ or concept suffices,
with which to do it, and hence the importance to psychologists of
the question, How do we know that we know? and which they can
answer only by a paralogism, or assuming the reality of knowledge
with which to prove knowledge real.

For the philosopher there is no such question, and nothing
detracts so much from the philosophical genius of the illustrious
Balmes as his assertion that all philosophy turns on the question
of certainty.
{678}
The philosopher, holding that to know is to know, has, after
knowing, or having thought the object, no question of certainty
to ask or to answer. The certainty that the object exists in
nature is in the fact that the soul thinks it. The object is
always a force or activity distinct from and independent of the
subject, and since it is an activity it must be either real being
or real existence.

The error of the author, as of all psychologers, is not in
assuming that the soul cannot think without the concurrence of
the object, or that the object is not really object in relation
to the soul's cognitive power, but in supposing that the soul can
find the object in that which has no real existence. He assumes
that abstractions or mental conceptions, which have no real
existence aside from the concrete or reality from which the mind
forms them, may be real objects of the soul in the fact of
knowledge. But no abstractions or conceptions exist _a parte
rei_. There are white things and round things, but no such
existence as whiteness or roundness. These and other abstractions
are formed by the mind operating on the concretes, and taking
them under one aspect, or generalizing a quality they have in
common with all concretes of their class, and paying no heed to
anything else in the concrete object. But these abstractions or
general conceptions are cognizable and apprehended by the mind
only in the apprehension of their concretes, white or round
things. They are, as abstracted from white things or round
things, no more objects of thought or of thought-knowledge than
of sensible perception. We speak of abstractions which are simply
nullities, not of genera and species, or universals proper, which
are not abstractions but real; yet even these do not exist apart
from the individual. They and their individuals subsist always
together in a synthetic relation, and though distinguishable are
never separable. The species is not a mere name, a mere mental
conception or generalization; it is real, but exists and is known
only as individualized.

The unreal is unintelligible, and, like all negation, is
intelligible only in the reality denied. The soul, then, can
think or know only the real, only real being, or real existences
by the light of real being. If the soul can know only the real,
she can know things only in their real order, and consequently
the order of the real and of the knowable is the same, and the
principles of the real are the principles of science. The soul is
an intelligent existence, and the principles, causes, and
conditions of her existence are the principles, causes, and
conditions of her intelligence, and therefore of her actual
knowledge. We have, then, only to ascertain the principles of the
real to determine the principles of science. The principles of
the real are given us in the first verse of Genesis: "In the
beginning God created heaven and earth," and in the first article
of the Creed, "I believe in one God, maker of heaven and earth,
and all things visible and invisible." Or, as stated in strictly
scientific terms, as affirmed in intuition, Being creates
existences. The real and necessary being given in the scientific
formula or intuition is indeed God; but this is not intuitively
known, and can be known only discursively or by contemplation and
reflection. We must not, then, in stating the first principles of
the real, and of knowledge as given in intuition, use the term
God, but being. We know by intuition being, but do not by
intuition know that being is God. Hence the mistake of those who
say we have intuition of God, or know by intuition that God is.
{679}
We have intuition of that which is God, but not that what is
given is God. Ontology is a most essential part of philosophy;
but exclusive ontologists are as much sophists as are exclusive
psychologists.

The first principles of reality are being, existence, and the
creative act of being, whence the ideal formula or judgment,
Being creates existences. This is the _primum_ in the real
order. All that is real and not necessary and self-sufficing
being must be from being; for without real uncreated being there
can be nothing, and existences are something only in so far as
they participate of being. Things can exist from being, or hold
from it, only by virtue of its creative act, which produces them
by its own energy from nothing, and sustains them as existent.
There is only the creative act by which existences can proceed
from being. Emanation, generation, evolution, which have been
asserted as the mode of procession of existences, give nothing
really or substantially distinguishable from being. Existences,
then, can really proceed from being only by the creative act,
and, indeed, only by the free creative act of being; for
necessary creation is no creation at all, and can be only a
development or evolution of being itself. In theological
language, then, God and creation include all the real; what is
not God is creature or existence, and what is not creature or
existence is God. There is no reality which is neither God nor
creature, no _tertium quid_ between being and existence, or
between existence and nothing. The _primum_ of the real is,
then, the ideal formula or divine judgment, _Ens creat
existentias_, for it affirms in their principle and their real
relation all that is and all that exists. This formula is a
proper judgment, for it has all the terms and relations of a
judgment, subject, predicate, and copula. Being is the subject,
existences is the predicate, and the creative act the copula,
which at once unites the predicate to the subject and
distinguishes it from it. It is divine, because it is _a
priori_, the _primum_ of the real; and as only the real
is intelligible or knowable, it must precede as its principle,
type, and condition, every judgment that can be formed by an
existence or creature, and therefore can be only the judgment of
God affirming his own being and creating the universe and all
things, visible and invisible, therein.

Now, as the soul can only know the real, this divine judgment
must be not only the _primum_ of the real, but of the
knowable; and since the soul can know only as she exists, in the
real relations in which she stands, and knows only by the aid of
the object on which she depends for her existence and activity,
it follows that this judgment is the _primum scientificum_,
or the principle of all real or possible science.

Is it asked, How is this known or proved, if not by psychological
observation and analysis? The answer is, by the analysis of
thought, which discloses the divine judgment as its idea, or
necessary and apodictic element. This is not psychologism nor the
adoption of the psychological method. Psychologism starts from
the assumption that thought, as to the activity that produces it,
whatever may or may not be its object, is purely psychical, and
that the ontological, if obtainable at all, is so by an induction
from psychological facts. The first assumption is disproved by
the fact just shown, that thought is not produced or producible
by the psychical activity alone, but by the joint action of the
two factors subject and object, in which both are affirmed.
{680}
The other assumption is disposed of by the fact that what is
found in the analysis of thought is not particular facts or
phenomena from which the first principles are concluded by way of
induction, which could give us only a generalization or
abstraction, but the first principles themselves intuitively
given.

Philosophers generally assert that certain conditions precedent,
or certain ideas _a priori_, are necessary to every fact of
experience or actual cognition. Kant, in his masterly _Critik
der reinen Vernunft_, calls them sometimes cognitions,
sometimes synthetic judgments, _a priori_, but fails to
identify them with the divine judgment, and holds them to be
necessary forms of the subject. Cousin asserts them and calls
them necessary and absolute ideas, but fails to identify them
with the real, and even denies that they can be so identified.
Reid recognized them, and called them the first principles of
human belief, sometimes the principles of common sense, after
Father Bouffier, which all our actual knowledge presupposes and
must take for granted. Professor Porter also recognizes them,
holds them to be intuitively given, calls them certain necessary
assumptions, first truths or principles without which no science
is possible, but fails to identify them with the divine judgment,
and seems to regard them as abstract principles or ideas, as if
abstractions could subsist without their concretes, or principles
ever be abstract. We deny that they are abstract ideas, necessary
assumptions, or necessary forms of the understanding or cognitive
faculty, and hold them to be the principles of things, alike of
the real and the knowable, without which no fact exists and no
act of knowledge is possible. They cannot be created by the mind,
nor formed by the mind operating on the concrete objects of
existence, nor in any manner obtained by our own mental activity;
for without them there is no mind, no mental activity, no
experience. Dr. Porter, after Reid, Kant, Cousin, and others, has
clearly seen this, and conclusively proved it--no philosopher
more conclusively--and it is one of the merits of his book. He
therefore justly calls them intuitions, or principles intuitively
given; yet either we do not understand him, or he regards them as
abstract truths or abstract principles. But truths and principles
are never abstract, and only the concrete or real can be
intuitively given. Those intuitions, then, must be either real
being or contingent existences; not the latter, for they all bear
the marks of necessity and universality; then they must be the
real and necessary being, and therefore the principles of things,
and not simply principles of science. Dr. Porter makes them real
principles in relation to the mental act; but we do not find that
he identifies them with the principles of the real. He doubtless
holds that they represent independent truths, and truths which
are the principles of things; but that he holds them, as present
to the mind, to be the principles themselves, we do not find.

Dr. Porter's error in his Part IV., in which he discusses and
defines intuitions, and which must be interpreted by the
foregoing parts of his work, appears to us to be precisely in his
taking principle to mean the starting-point of the soul in the
fact of knowledge, and distinguishing it from the principle of
the real order. He distinguishes between the object _in
mente_ and the object _in re_, and holds that the former
is by no means identical with the latter. He thus supposes a
difference between the scientific order and the real, and
therefore that the principle of the one is not necessarily the
principle of the other.
{681}
This is to leave the question still open, whether there is any
real order to respond to the scientific order, and to cast a
doubt on the objective validity of all our knowledge. The divine
judgment, or ideal formula, we have shown, is alike the _primum
raale_ and the _primum scientificum_, and therefore
asserts that the principles of the two orders are identical, and
that the scientific must follow the real, for only the real is
knowable. Hence science is and must be objectively certain.

The intuitive affirmation of the formula, being creates
existences, creates, places the soul, and constitutes her
intelligent existence. The author rightly says every thought is a
judgment. There is no judgment without the copula, and the only
real copula is the copula of the divine judgment or intuition,
that is, the creative act of being. Being creating the soul is
the principle of her existence; and as we have shown that she can
act only as she exists, the principle of her existence is the
principle of her acts, and therefore of her knowing, or the fact
of knowledge. There is, then, no thought or judgment without the
creative act for its copula. The two orders, then, are united and
made identical in principle by the creative act of being. The
creative act unites the acts of the soul, as the soul itself, to
being.

The difficulty some minds feel in accepting this conclusion grows
out of a misapprehension of the creative act, which they look
upon as a past instead of a present act. The author holds that
what is past has ceased to exist, and that the objects we recall
in memory are "created a second time." He evidently misapprehends
the real character of space and time. These are not existences,
entities, as say the scholastics, but simple relations, with no
existence, no reality, apart from the _relata_, or the
related. Things do not exist in space and time; for space and
time simply mark their relation to one another of coexistence and
succession. Past and future are relations that subsist in or
among creatures, and have their origin in the fact that creatures
as second causes and in relation to their own acts are
progressive. On the side of God, there is no past, no future; for
his act has no progression, and is never in _potentia ad
actum_. It is a complete act, and in it all creatures are
completed, consummated, in their beginning, and hence the past
and the future are as really existent as what we call the
present. The Creator is not a _causa transiens_, that
creates the effect and leaves it standing alone, but a _causa
manens_, ever present in the effect and creating it.

Creation is not in space and time, but originates the relations
so-called. The creative act, therefore, can never be a past or a
future act, an act that has produced or that will produce the
effect, but an act that produces it always here and now. The act
of conservation, as theologians teach, is identically the act of
creation. God preserves or upholds us in existence by creating us
at each instant of our lives. The universe, with all it contains,
is a present creation. In relation to our acts as our acts or our
progressiveness toward our final cause or last end, the universe
_was_ created and will remain as long as the Creator wills;
but in relation to God it is created here and now, and as newly
created at this moment as when the sons of the morning sang
together over its production, by the divine energy alone, from
nothing; and the song ceases not; they are now singing it.
{682}
There is nothing but this present creative act that stands
between existences and nothing. The continuity of our existence
is in the fact that God creates and does not cease to create us.

We have only to eliminate from our minds the conceptions that
transport the relations of space and time to the Creator, or
represent them as relations between Creator and creature, where
the only relation is that of cause and effect, and to regard the
creative act as having no relations of space and time, to be able
to understand how the divine judgment, intuitively affirmed, is
at once the principle of the real and of the scientific, and the
creative act, the copula of being and existence, is the copula of
every judgment or thought, as is proved by the fact already
noted, that in no language can an assertion be made without the
verb _to be_, that is, without God.

Dr. Porter, engaged in constructing not the science of things,
but a science of knowing--a _Wissenschaftslehre_--has
apparently been content with the intuitions as principles or laws
of science, without seeking to identify them with the real. He is
a doctor of divinity, and cannot intend to deny, with Sir William
Hamilton and the Positivists, that ontology can be any part of
human science. The Positivists, with whom, in this respect, Sir
William Hamilton, who has finished the Scottish school, fully
agrees, assert that the whole field of science is restricted to
positive facts and the induction of their laws, and that their
principles and causes, the ontological truths, if such there be,
belong to the unknowable, thus reducing, with Sir William
Hamilton, science to nescience. But though Dr. Porter probably
holds that there is an ontological reality, and knows perfectly
well that it cannot be concluded from psychical phenomena, either
by way of induction or of deduction, he yet seems unable or
unwilling to say that the mind has in intuition direct and
immediate apprehension of it. The first and necessary truths, or
the necessary assumptions, as he calls them, which the mind is
compelled to make in knowing particulars, such as "what is, is,"
"the same thing cannot both be and not be at the same time,"
"whatever begins to exist must have a cause," etc., are, in his
doctrine, abstract ideas, which, though they may represent a
reality beyond themselves--and he tries to prove that they
do--are yet not that reality itself. These ideas he states,
indeed, in an abstract form, in which they are not real; but they
are all identified in the ideal formula, or divine judgment,
which is not an abstract but a real, concrete judgment. He holds
them to be intuitions, indeed; but intuition, in his view, simply
stands opposed to discursion, and he makes it an act of the soul
immediately affirming the object, not the act of the object
immediately affirming itself by its own creative act. Till being,
in its creative act, affirms itself, the soul does not exist; and
the intuitive act is that which creates it, and creates it
intelligent. The intuition cannot, then, be the act of the soul,
unless you suppose the soul can act without existing, or know
without intelligence. If we make intuition the act of the soul,
and suppose the necessary truths intuitively given are
abstractions or representative ideas, how can we know that there
is any reality represented by them? The old question again: How
pass from the subjective to the objective?--from the scientific
to the real?

{683}

The doctrine of representative ideas comes from the scholastics,
and most probably from the misapprehension of their philosophy.
Plato maintained that we know by similitude, which similitude he
called _idea_. No doubt, Plato often means by _idea_
something else; but this is one of the senses in which he uses
the term. This idea, with the peripatetics, becomes in sensibles
the phantasm, in intelligibles the intelligible _species_.
The intelligible _species_ was assumed as something
mediating between the soul and the intelligible object. But
though they asserted it as a medium, they never made it the
object cognized. In their language, it was the objectum
_quo_, not the objectum _quod_; and St. Thomas teaches
expressly that the mind does not terminate in the _species_,
but attains the intelligible object itself. In this magazine for
May, 1867, in an article entitled "An Old Quarrel," we showed
that what the scholastics probably had in mind when they spoke of
the intelligible _species_, is adequately expressed by what
we, after the analogy of external vision, call the light, which
illuminates at once the subject and object, and renders the one
cognitive and the other cognizable. This light is not furnished
by the mind, but by being itself light, and the source of all
light, present in every fact of knowledge in the creative act.

The Scottish school has made away with the phantasms, and proved
that, in what our author calls sense-perception, we perceive not
a phantasm, but the real external object itself; but in the
intelligible or supersensible world, this direct apprehension of
the object Dr. Porter appears not to admit. He consciously or
unconsciously interposes a _mundus logicus_ between the mind
and the _mundus physicus_. The categories are with him
abstract relations, and logic is a mere formal science. This is
evident from Part III., in which he treats of what he calls
"thought-knowledge." But the categories are not abstract forms of
thought, but real relations of things; logic is founded in the
principle and constitution of things, not simply in the
constitution and laws of the human mind. Its type and origin are
in being itself, in the Most Holy Trinity. The creative act is
the copula of every strictly logical judgment. The Creator is
logic, the [Greek text], or, as Plato would say, logic in itself,
and therefore all the works of God are strictly logical, and
form, _mediante_ his creative act, a dialectic whole with
himself. Whatever does not conform to the truth and order of
things is illogical, a sophism; and every sophism sins against
the essence of God, as well as against the constitution of the
human mind. Psychologism is a huge sophism; for it assumes that
the soul is being, and can exist and act independently when it is
only a created, dependent existence; that it is God, when it is
only man. Satan was the first psychologist we read of. Ontologism
is also a sophism of very much the same sort. Psychologism
asserts that man is God; ontologism asserts that God is man. This
is all the difference between them, and they terminate at the
same point. Existences cannot be logically deduced from being,
because being, sufficing for itself, cannot be constrained to
create either by extrinsic or by intrinsic necessity. Existences
are not necessarily involved in the very conception of being, but
are contingent, and dependent on the free-will of the Creator.
God cannot be concluded by induction from psychological facts;
for the universal cannot be concluded from the particular, nor
the necessary from the contingent.

{684}

Both the ontological _primum_ and the psychological must be
given intuitively and in their real synthesis, or no science of
either is possible. The mind must take its starting-point and
principle of science from neither separately, but from the real
synthesis of the two, as in the ideal formula. The attempt to
construct an exclusively ontological or an exclusively
psychological science is as absurd and as sophistical as the
attempt to express a judgment without the copula, or to construct
a syllogism without the middle term. The real copula of the
judgment, the real _medius terminus_ that unites the two
extremes of the syllogism, is the creative act of being.

All Gentile philosophy failed, because it failed to recognize the
creative act. Outside of Judaism, the tradition of creation was
lost in the ancient world. In vain will you seek a recognition of
it in Plato or Aristotle, or in any of the old Gentile
philosophers. In its place you find only emanation, generation,
or formation. The error of the Gentiles reappears in our modern
philosophers, who--since Descartes detached philosophy from
theology, of which it is simply the rational element--are
endeavoring to construct science and the sciences without the
creative act, and if they escape pantheism or atheism, it is by
the strength of their faith in revelation, not by the force of
their logic. Dr. Porter really attempts to construct the
philosophy of the human intellect, unconsciously certainly, on
purely atheistic or nihilistic principles; that is, without any
principles at all. He, of course, believes in God, believes that
God made the world; but most likely he believes he made it as the
watch-maker makes a watch, so that when wound up and started it
will go of itself--till it runs down. This is a very wide-spread
error, and an error that originates with so-called philosophers,
not with the people. Hence we find scientific men in large
numbers who look upon the world God has made as a huge machine;
and now that it is made, as independent of him, capable of going
ahead on its own hook, and even able to bind him by its laws, and
deprive him of his freedom of action, as if it were or could be
anything but what he at each moment makes it. He ought, as a
doctor of divinity, to understand that there can be no science
without the efficacious presence of God, who created the soul,
and none without his presence creating it now, and by his light
rendering it intelligent. To construct science without God in his
creative act as the principle, is to begin in sophism and end in
nihilism.

We need hardly say that, in asserting the divine judgment or
ideal formula as the principle of all science, and as the
necessary and apodictic element of every fact of knowledge, we do
not pretend that the mind is able in the first moment of
intellectual life to say to itself, or to others, God creates
existences. This is the real formula which expresses in principle
the entire real order, but it is the formula to which the
principles given in intuition are reduced by reflection. There
are a large number of minds, and among them our illustrious Yale
Professor of Moral Philosophy and Metaphysics, who do not
recognize the identity of being with God, or are aware that the
intuition is of that which is God. A still larger number do not
distinguish the so-called necessary ideas from the contingent
objects of experience cognizable only by them, and very few, even
among professors of philosophy, ever identify these ideas--the
necessary, the universal, the eternal, and the immutable--with
real being, or reflect that they cannot subsist as abstractions,
and that the universal, the eternal, the immutable, the
necessary, of which we have intuition in all our mental acts, is
and must be real, necessary, universal, eternal, and immutable
being, that is to say, God himself.
{685}
Few reflect far enough to perceive that in intuition the object
is real being; and the number of men who distinctly recognize all
the terms of the formula in their real relation is a very small
minority, and every day growing smaller.

But the intuition is not, as Dr. Porter supposes, of ideas which
lie latent or dormant in the mind till occasion wakes them up and
calls them into action; but they are the first principles, or
rather the principles from which the mind proceeds in all its
intellectual acts. They are intuitively affirmed to the mind in
the creative act, and are ever present and operative; but we
become aware of them, distinguish them, and what they imply or
connote, only by reflection, by contemplating them as they are
held up before the mind, or sensibly represented to it, in
language. Though the formula is really the _primum
philosophicum_, we attain to it, or are masters of what is
really presented in intuition, and are able to say, being is God,
and God creates existences, only at the end of philosophy, or as
its last and highest achievement.

The principles are given in the very constitution of the mind,
and are present to it from its birth, or, if you will, from the
first instant of its conception; but they are by no means what
Descartes and others have called _innate ideas_. Descartes
never understood by _idea_ the intelligible object itself,
but a certain mental representation of it. The idea was held to
be rather the image of the thing than the thing itself. It was a
_tertium quid_ somewhere between real and unreal, and was
regarded as the medium through which the mind attained to the
object. In this sense we recognize no ideas. In the fact of
knowledge, what we know is the object itself, not its mental
representation. We take _idea_ or the ideal in the objective
sense, and understand by it the immediate and the necessary,
permanent, immutable object of intuition, and it is identical
with what we have called the _primum philosophicum_, or
divine judgment, which precedes the mind's own activity. Hence we
call that judgment the "ideal formula." With this view of idea or
the ideal, analogous, at least, to one of the senses of Plato,
from whom we have the word, it is evident that the Cartesian
doctrine of innate ideas, which was afterward changed to that of
innate faculties, cannot find in us an advocate.

The formula is ideal and apodictic, but it is not the entire
object of the cognitive act. It is that which precedes and
renders possible experience, or what Kant calls synthetic
judgments _a posteriori_. We have said the soul can know
only as she exists, and that whatever object she depends on for
her existence must she depend on for her acts, and it enters into
all her thoughts or facts of knowledge. The soul depends for
existence on God, on humanity and nature. In the formula, we have
only the ideal principle of man and nature, and therefore the
ideal formula, while it furnishes the principle and light which
render knowledge possible, does not supersede experience, or
actual knowledge acquired by the exercise of the soul and her
faculties. Here the soul proceeds by analysis and synthesis, by
observation and induction, or deduction, according to the nature
of the subject. We do not quarrel with the inductive sciences,
nor question their utility; we only maintain that they are not
sciences till carried up to the principles of all real science
presented to the mind in intuition. Induction is proper in
constructing the physical sciences, though frequently improperly
applied; but it is inapplicable, as my Lord Bacon held, in the
construction of philosophy; for in that we must start from the
ideal formula, and study things in their principles and in their
real synthesis.

{686}

We have got through only the author's Introduction, yet that has
brought up nearly all the salient points of his entire volume.
Here we might stop, and assuredly should stop, if we had no
higher object in view than to criticise its author, or simply to
refute his psychological method. We believe one of the first
steps toward arresting the atheistical or pantheistical tendency
of the age, and of bringing the mind back to truth and the logic
of things, is to set forth and vindicate sound philosophy, the
philosophy which in substance has always been preserved in the
Christian church. To use up an author or to denounce a false
system is a small affair. The only solid refutation of error is
in presenting the truth it impugns. As there are several
questions of importance raised by the author on which we have
hardly touched, we propose to return to the book and consider
them at our earliest convenience.

                ----------

       The Catholic View Of Public Education
             In The United States.


[We republish the following article from _The American
Educational Monthly_, with the permission of the editor, on
account of the importance of the subject, the intrinsic value of
the article, and to aid in giving it a wide circulation. ED. C.
W.]

{687}

It would be wholly superfluous to address an argument to any
portion of the American people upon the absolute necessity of
popular education. Upon that point there is no diversity of
opinion. The fundamental principles of our social system rest
upon it as a corner-stone; such as, that government derives all
of its authority, under God, from the consent of the governed;
the people possess the sovereignty; public officers are only
public servants; the multitude rules by representation; Congress,
the President, and the Courts are the people--without the people
they have no existence; constitutions and laws are but the
well-ordered expression of the public will, at all times
revocable, in an orderly manner, and binding upon each citizen as
the will of all, unless the popular decree be against the law of
God, when, of course, it bind's no man's conscience. Hereditary
rights, class privileges, ancient social divisions, and
distributions of power have all disappeared, or rather, have
never existed here. Even in Colonial times, the Crown was almost
a myth, and cast but a shadowy reflection into the deep waters of
the Hudson and the Mississippi, as they rolled on to the sea from
the illimitable forests where the moccasined hunter was then as
free as the Red Indian had been for unrecorded centuries. The
Revolution of '76 changed the government, but really left the
cardinal points of our American civilization very much as it
found them. In fact, our political education is traceable back to
the days of Alfred and Edward the Confessor; for the Norman king
gave us no concession in Magna Charta which was unknown to Saxon
liberty. In our Republic we have only drawn out these principles
to their extreme conclusions. We have gone back to the original
hypothesis, that society is an association of equal rights for
mutual protection; and that power, under God, belongs to the
whole body of corporators--that is, the multitude. From this
postulate we are obliged to pass immediately to the axiom that
there can be no fit administration of power without knowledge.
Knowledge may be acquired in several ways. The most direct and
impressive is experience. Alcuin was master of books; but
Charlemagne was master of men. The great emperor could not read,
but he possessed the wisdom to govern. Who shall say that he was
not "educated" in the highest sense of that vague term? And yet,
it is very clear that knowledge gained only by the slow
accretions of experience will not answer the wants and rapid
movements of such a republic as ours in the age of steam and
electricity. Each generation must be trained from the cradle, and
made to possess, enlarge, and transmit to its successor all the
accumulated knowledge of its predecessor. As no atom of matter
perishes, but is for ever recombining and reproducing; so every
true idea and sound moral sentiment must be made the inheritance
of society, and never cease to exert its power for good among
men. Not that moral truth can ever change; for it is now
precisely what it has been from all eternity; nor is it better
understood by the divine to-day, than it was by Moses when he
came down from the mountain; but the multitude may be made more
fully to comprehend and reverence it. Christianity, although
specially revealed and miraculously propagated, did not suddenly
conquer and civilize barbarous peoples. It has been eighteen
hundred years struggling with the powers of darkness and the
corruption of the human heart; and yet, alas! how very, very far
removed are not even the most polished nations from the severe
standard of Christian perfection! See the tyrannies, the
oppressions, the cruelties, the wars, the pride, the luxury, the
folly and deceit which fill the fairest parts of the earth with
mourning, and drag mankind down into the slough of sin and
sorrow! To be sure, there is a certain stereotyped class of
saints and philosophers who cry aloud, "Compare our enlightened
era with the rude times of the crusaders; or place the nineteenth
alongside of the ninth century; and let the celestial light of
our civilization shine down into the abysses of monkish
superstition!" We shall, nevertheless, refuse to close our eyes
to those stupendous sins which have supplanted the violent crimes
of our ancestors. We shall see how their robber-sword has been
put aside for our forger's pen; how their wild foray has given
place to our gigantic stock speculation or bank swindle, which
sweeps widows and orphans, by the ten thousand, into utter
poverty and despair; how their fierce lust has been civilized
into the decorous forms of the divorce courts;
{688}
how their bold grasping of power has been changed into the arts
of the whining demagogue; how their undisguised plunder of the
public treasure in times of civil commotion has been superseded
by the adroit peculation and covert bribery of our times of
peace; how their courageous, rude anger has vanished before the
safer and more efficacious process of concealed hatred, nestling,
like the scorpion, among the roses of adulation. We certainly
shall be obliged to remember these things, to the great reproach
of our times, and in serious dread of the future; and we shall
feel anxious to go to work to find the cause and the remedy. We
are all agreed that education, that is, knowledge and moral
training, cannot be dispensed with for an hour--that no nation
can be governed safely, much less govern itself at all, without a
clear head and a sound heart--that, if governed as a dumb brute,
it will kick against the pricks, fly in the face of its hard
master, and dash out its foolish brains against the stone wall!
It will sing the _Marseillaise_ and cover its garments with
the blood of kings and aristocrats; until, having spent its fury,
it will return to its crust and shout "Vive l'Empereur!" Should
it attempt to govern itself, it will become the prey of the
infamous men who are the spawn of its own passions. Without
knowledge, the nation is either a silent sepulchre, where all
hopes are buried, or a raging sea, where they are quickly
wrecked. Knowledge, then, _it must have_. But _what_
knowledge? Shall we say, knowledge of the arts? Ask Phidias and
Praxiteles if the arts saved Greece! Shall we say, polite
literature? Ah! let the mournful chorus of Sophocles, AEschylus
and Euripides give utterance to the sad cries of those old pagan
hearts for a higher virtue than the sublimest tragedy could teach
them! Shall it be the eloquence of the orator or the wisdom of
the legislator? We shall hear in the Philippics how vainly the
master of orators appealed to a degenerate race, and we shall
read in the closing annals of Athens and Sparta how utterly the
wisdom of Solon and Lycurgus had failed to save polished and
warlike states from the penalty which God has affixed to the
crimes of nations. Shall we take refuge in human philosophy?
Socrates and the divine Plato had cast off the degrading
superstitions of paganism, and had proclaimed to their
intellectual countrymen the eternity and unity of God, and the
immortality of the soul of man. They had most earnestly enjoined
upon them the sanctity of all the natural virtues--temperance,
industry, patience, courage, honesty, benevolence, patriotism,
continence, filial duty, conjugal fidelity; but what did their
philosophy avail? Why did it not save the Grecian states? They
went down into the night upon which no sun ever again shone!
Their Roman conquerors seized upon the rich treasures of their
knowledge. The Senate listened with rapture to the wisdom of the
old Hellenic sages translated by Cicero into the noble Latin
tongue. Virgil and Livy sought to inspire the Roman heart with
grand ideas borrowed from the Greek masters. What did it all
avail? The Roman republic had practised the natural virtues as
fully as unregenerated man is capable of doing by the power of
vigorous and cultivated reason. What did it avail? They, too,
went down into the tomb of dead nations; and a few broken columns
remain to mark the seat of their world-wide empire!
{689}
It is very manifest, then, that intellectual culture, even when
carried to the highest development of which men are capable, can
never subdue their passions, nor enable them to uphold the
civilization to which they may have attained in the freshness of
their national life. If this were not so, then we could not
clearly perceive the necessity of the Christian revelation. If
man was self-sustaining, he would not require the arm of God to
lean upon. The apothegm of the Greek sage, "_Know thyself_,"
was a dead letter. It was precisely to teach a man how to know
himself that our Saviour came. And this is the whole knowledge!
No poetry, oratory, history, philosophy, arts, or sciences could
teach that, else the world would have learned it four thousand
years ago, and the primitive races would not have perished. Even
under the Christian dispensation, and in very modern times, men
and nations have failed to know themselves, because they turned
their backs on Christ and placed their hopes in human science and
natural virtue. And so we have seen an enlightened nation in our
day deify humanity, refuse to adore God, and prostrate itself
before a harlot, as the high-priestess in the apotheosis of
Reason! We have seen an antichristian conspiracy, formed of the
most learned, eloquent, witty, and fascinating men of modern
Europe, exerting the highest arts of genius to repaganize the
world. We have seen science, rudely torn from religion, waging an
insane war against the peace of society. That terrific phase of
blasphemous infidelity has passed from our immediate view; but
has it left nothing more dangerous behind? We think it has. The
mass of mankind shrank with horror from the defiant blasphemy of
Voltaire; and they recoiled with alarm from the ruin caused by
his teachings. We love liberty; but we dread license, anarchy,
chaos. Man is, also, naturally religious. Long after he had
forgotten the traditions of the patriarchs and had lost God in
the night of heathen idolatry, he still clung to

  "The instinct of old reverence!"

and his wretched soul yearned after its Creator.

The false worship of Greece and Rome was the inarticulate cry of
a lost people for that true worship which was promised to the
Gentile at the appointed time. False and hideous as it was, who
will not say that it was far preferable to atheism? It was only
when the Epicurean philosophy had destroyed the faith of those
people, that they cast off all moral restraint, and were swept
away in the torrent of their vices. Man is naturally religious;
and therefore the world will not long patiently tolerate the
presence of blatant infidelity. _The danger is not there_.
He who goes about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may
devour, knows very well that mankind is more easily seduced under
the forms of virtue than by gross sin. His incarnate agents on
earth know this too. Hence we find all the world covered over
with gossamer nets of seduction! The press teems with books and
journals, not confessedly infidel, yet working in the interests
of infidelity; fanning the passions and exciting the morbid
sensibilities of youth; teaching religious indifference under the
pleasing garb of liberality; holding up the discipline of the
church as hostile to personal freedom; depicting the doctrines
and ceremonies of the Christian religion as trammels upon mental
activity and intellectual progress; arraying the laity against
their pastors; insisting that to be a humane man, an honest and
industrious worker, a faithful friend, a good husband and father,
a patriotic citizen, is to be all and to do all that the highest
Christian morality can require or the welfare of the human race
demand; asserting that the specific dogmas of the Christian
faith, with perhaps one or two exceptions, are not essential, and
may be rejected without concern; receiving with indifference and
polite complacency either the divinity or the humanity of Christ;
and accepting him as a God-Saviour, a man-prophet, or a harmless,
self-deluded impostor, as your fancy may please to dictate; in a
word, deifying man, and making this world, with its wealth, its
pleasures, its pride and pomp, its power and magnificence, its
civilization and nationalities, the sole object of his anxiety
and love.
{690}
Such, we say, is the growing evil of this nineteenth century,
which is so scornful of the "dark ages;" an evil infinitely more
subtile and destructive than the rage or gibes of Voltaire. This
poison has gone through the chilled blood of renegade old men,
destroying the religious vitality which had sustained their faith
from the baptismal font to the very edge of the grave; how must
it not, therefore, affect the hot veins of inexperienced youth,
whose generous impulses are their greatest peril! See how, in
those European revolutions gotten up by avowed enemies of
religion, the students of the universities flock to the standards
of infidelity, with the seductive cry of "_Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity!_" They enlist, with enthusiasm, under what they
believe to be the consecrated banner of inalienable human
rights--their young, sympathetic hearts are justly moved by the
sufferings of the toiling millions caused by unequal laws--their
sense of justice and human brotherhood is outraged at the sight
of domineering classes who monopolize the blessings of
government--they see very clearly all the existing wrongs, but
they do not see the practicable and wise remedies; and when they
hear prudent voices counselling patience, and reminding them that
the evil works of centuries, like old forest trees, have deep
roots, and cannot be rudely torn out of the bosom of society
without endangering its life, they cry out in their enthusiasm,
"These are the voices of the enemies of the people, the voices of
priests and aristocrats, away with them to the guillotine!" Only
too late do they experience the retribution which God invariably
visits upon those who presumptuously seek to drive the chariot of
his Providence!

Not one word of what we have said is inapplicable to our own
land. We live, move, and have our whole being in the midst of
these same perils. Steam, electricity, commerce, and emigration
have made us a part of the great European family. Every throb of
their heart is felt in our own bosom. We are of their blood and
civilization. We have their laws and their religion. We are
nurtured by their science and literature. From us they have
received more thorough ideas of democratic freedom, but from them
we have derived all else that constitutes the intellectual life
of man. It would be the height of folly in us to despise the
lessons of their experience. Our children should be carefully
instructed in all of it. They have a difficult task to perform in
perpetuating our institutions as they were shaped by the fathers
of the Republic. They must be well trained in the knowledge
necessary for that purpose. From what has already been said it
will be at once understood that we do not mean human science
alone, _nor principally_. The beginning of wisdom is the
fear of the Lord.

{691}

This brings us to the consideration of the immediate subject of
this article; which can now, we think, be briefly stated;
inasmuch as the foundation has been properly laid, if our views
are correct as to the principles which we have presented.

Enlightened rulers all over Europe have been profoundly impressed
with the lessons of this and the last century. It was once
believed by monarchs that to enlighten their subjects would be to
imperil their thrones. It is now very clearly seen that "the
divinity which doth hedge a king" has long ceased to be an oracle
to the people. The French emperor erects his dynasty upon popular
suffrage. Hereditary right has come down from its ancient
pedestal to accept from the people the confirmation of its
authority. It is now too evident for further doubt that no ruler
can rule modern nations by any appeal to the mausoleum of his
ancestors. The garish light of the sun has penetrated every royal
tomb, and has altogether annihilated the mystery which once
filled the hearts of nations with awe and unquestioning
obedience. Public opinion now rules the ruler. Kings and their
ministers have now to elect between intelligent and virtuous
opinion on the one hand, or revolutionary passions on the other.
The wisest of them, therefore, are hastening to educate the
people; and they are striving above all things to make such
education distinctly _Christian_, and not simply
_moral_; for they well remember the fate of all nations who
have staked their salvation upon the sufficiency of the natural
virtues. While kings are doing this to preserve the shadow of
their royalty from the aggressive spirit of the age, we, in this
chosen land, are doing or aiming to do the same thing, in order
that we may rear successive generations of virtuous and
enlightened heirs to the rich inheritance of our constitutional
democratic freedom. Ours should be much the easier task; as we
labor for no dynasty, but strive only to make a nation capable of
self-preservation. We are no less in earnest than the kings; and
we may surely examine their work and see what is good in it. The
kings tried the pagan idea of intellectual culture adorned with
the glittering generalities of moral philosophy; and they added
to it the maxims of the Christian gospel, whenever that could be
done without getting entangled in the conflicting creeds of the
numerous sects. The school was like Plato's lecture-room, only
that the sacred voice of the evangelist was heard occasionally in
such passages as do not distinctly set forth faith and doctrine,
about which the scholars could differ. Sectarianism, as it is
called, had to be excluded, of course, in a mixed system of
popular education, wherein freedom of conscience was conceded to
be a sacred right and proselytism was disavowed. The result was
twofold: first, tens of thousands of children were deprived of
distinct religious instruction and doctrinal knowledge; and
secondly, in countries where the Roman Catholic population was
large, though in a minority, other tens of thousands were left
without secular education, because their parents would not permit
them to be brought up in habits of indifferentism, which means
practical infidelity, or trained in knowledge hostile to their
religious faith. Prussia, though she is the very embodiment and
representative of Protestant Europe, soon came to the conclusion
that this would not do--that education must be Christian--that it
must be doctrinal and conducive to religious practices--that, as
all could not or would not believe alike, each should have full
opportunity to be reared in his own faith, to learn its doctrines
and to fulfil its duties and discipline--and, therefore, that
enlightened government established the denominational system,
giving to each creed practical equality before the law, a
separate school organization, (wherever numbers made it
practicable,) and a ratable share of the public school-fund;
reserving to the government only a general supervision, so as to
secure a faithful application of the public money, and to enforce
a proper compliance with the educational standard. The public
schools are organized so that every citizen shall obtain the
complete education of his child, in the faith and practice of his
own church. All difficulties have disappeared, and perfect
harmony prevails.

{692}

In France, by the last census, the population was thirty-seven
millions, divided about as follows: 480,000 Calvinists, 267,000
Lutherans, 30,000 of other Protestant sects, and 73,000 Jews; the
remaining thirty-six millions being either practically or
nominally Catholic. Although the dissenters from the national
faith are less than one million, that government has provided for
them, at the public expense, separate primary schools, where each
sect is at full liberty to teach its own doctrines. There are
likewise three seminaries for the higher education of Lutherans
and Calvinists.

Austria also supports schools, colleges, and universities for a
Protestant minority.

The British Government has likewise adopted the same principle of
public education for the Catholics and the Protestant dissenters
of England; while, with her traditional and malignant hatred of
the Irish people, she still denies them the justice which she
extends to all of her other subjects, at home or in the colonies,
even to the Hindoos and Mohammedans of her Indian empire!

And thus the most powerful and enlightened nations have decided
that Christian civilization cannot be maintained upon pagan
ideas; and that the safety of every commonwealth depends upon the
Christian education of the people. They have also clearly seen
that _doctrines, discipline, morals_, and "_the religious
atmosphere_" must be kept united, and made to penetrate and
surround the school at all times; and that, however greatly the
Christian denominations may differ from each other, or even err
in their belief, it is far better for society that their youth
should be instructed in some form of Christian doctrine, than be
left to perish in the dreary and soul-destroying wastes of deism.
Experience has proved to them that moral teaching, with biblical
illustrations, as the piety of Joseph, the heroism of Judith, the
penitence of David, will not suffice to establish the Christian
faith in young hearts, or to quiet the doubts of inquiring minds.
The subtle Gibbon, mocking the cross of Christ, will confront the
testimony of the martyrs with the heroes of pagan history.
Voltaire did the same for the French youth of the last century,
to their destruction. No. The experience of wise governments is
this: that _morals_ must be based upon _faith_, and
faith made efficient in deeds of practical virtue; for faith
worketh by charity. And another experience is this, which is best
given in the very words of the eminent Protestant statesman and
historian, M. Guizot: "_In order to make popular education
truly good and socially useful, it must be fundamentally
religions. I do not simply mean by this, that religious
instruction should hold its place in popular education and that
the practices of religion should enter into it; for a nation is
not religiously educated by such petty and mechanical devices; it
is necessary that national education should be given and received
in the midst of a religious atmosphere, and that religions
impressions and religious observances should penetrate into all
its parts. Religion is not a study or an exercise to be
restricted to a certain place and a certain hour; it is a faith
and a law, which ought to be felt everywhere, and which after
this manner alone can exercise all its beneficial influence upon
our minds and our lives_."
{693}
The meaning of which is, that not a moment of the hours of school
should be left without the religious influence. It is the
constant inhalation of the air which preserves our physical
vitality. It is the "_religious atmosphere_" which supports
the young soul. Religion cannot be made "_a study or an
exercise to be restricted to a certain place and a certain
hour_." It will not do to devote six days in the week to
science, and to depend upon the Sunday-school for the religious
training of the child. M. Guizot is right. The enlightened
governments of Europe have accepted his wisdom and reduced it to
practice in their great national school-systems.

Now, the Catholics of the United States have said no more than
that; have asked no more than that; and yet, a wild cry of anger
has been raised against them at times, as though they were the
avowed enemies of all popular education. They pay their full
quota of the public taxes which create the school-fund, and yet
they possess, to-day, in proportion to their wealth and numbers,
more parochial schools, seminaries, academies, colleges, and
universities, established and sustained exclusively by their own
private resources, than any other denomination of Christians in
this country! Certainly this is no evidence of hostility to
education! And why have they made these wonderful efforts, these
unprecedented sacrifices? It is because they believe in the truth
uttered by M. Guizot. It is because they believe in the truth
established by all history. It is because they believe in the
truth accepted and acted upon by enlightened men and governments
of this age. It is because they know that revealed religion is to
human science what eternity is to time. It is because they know
that the salvation of souls is more precious to Christ than the
knowledge of all the astronomers. It is because they know that
the welfare of nations is impossible without God. And yet, they
fully understand how religion has called science to her side as
an honored handmaid; how learning, chastened by humility,
conduces to Christian advancement; how the knowledge of good and
evil (the fruit of the forbidden tree) may yet be made to honor
God, when the sanctified soul rejects the evil and embraces the
good. Therefore the Catholic people desire denominational
education, as it is called.

That is the general view of the question; but there is a
particular view, not to be overlooked, and which we will now
briefly consider.

The most marked distinction between pagan and Christian society
is to be found in the relations which the state bears to the
family. Scarcely was the Lacedaemonian boy released from his
mother's apron-string, when the state seized him with an iron
hand. The state was thenceforth his father and his mother. The
sanctities and duties of the family were annihilated. Body and
soul, he belonged to the Moloch of Power. Private conscience was
no more than a piece of coin in circulation; it was a part of the
public property. Christ restored the family as it existed in Adam
and Eve. Christian civilization denies that the state can destroy
the family.
{694}
The family is primary; the father the head; the mother the
helpmate; the children in subjection, and for whom the parents
shall give an account to the Father in heaven. The Christian
state has no authority, by divine or human appointment, to invade
this trust. It has, therefore, no mission either to coerce
conscience or to dictate the education of it. It is the duty of
the state in every way to facilitate, but it cannot arbitrarily
control the mental and moral training of the people's children.
That right and that responsibility are domestical, and belong to
the parent.

Now, the Catholic parent is aware that there are between his
creed and all others the widest and most irreconcilable
differences, and that it is impossible to open the New Testament,
at almost any page, without forthwith encountering the prime
difficulty. To read the Bible, without note or comment, to young
children, is to abandon them to dangerous speculation, or to
leave them dry and barren of all Christian knowledge. In mixed
schools there is no other recourse; because it is impossible to
make any comment upon any doctrinal teaching of Christ and his
apostles, without trenching upon the conscientious opinions of
some one or other of the listeners. "The Father and I are one;"
"The Father is greater than I;" here at once we have the
Unitarian and the Trinitarian at a dead-lock!" This is my body;"
"It is the spirit which quickeneth, the flesh profiteth nothing;"
here we have the primitive Lutheran, who believed in the real
presence, (_consubstantially_,) and his Calvinistic
coadjutor in reform squarely at issue! "Unless you be born again
of water and the Holy Ghost," etc.; here we have the Baptist and
the Quaker very seriously divided in opinion. Nevertheless,
widely as they differ the one from the other, there is a
fundamental assimilation between all the Protestant sects, which
may render it possible for them to unite in one educational
organization; and yet, we find many of the most enlightened and
earnest among the Protestant clergy of America now zealously
advocating the denominational system, such as we find in the
European countries above referred to. They believe that education
should be distinctly based upon doctrinal religion; and they are
liberal enough to insist, that, by natural right, as well as by
the constitutional guarantees of our free country, no doctrine
adverse to the faith of a parent may lawfully be forced or
surreptitiously imposed upon his child. It is well known,
however, that, between the Catholic faith and all Protestant
creeds, there is a gulf which cannot be bridged over. It would,
therefore, be simply impossible to adopt any religious teaching
whatever in mixed schools without at once interfering with
Catholic conscience. No such teaching is attempted, as a general
rule, we believe, in the public schools of the United States; and
hence we have only a vague announcement of moral precepts, the
utter futility and barrenness of which we have already alluded
to. Catholics, agreeing with very many enlightened and zealous
Protestants, believe that secular education administered in that
way is not only vain, but eminently pernicious; that it is fast
undermining the Christian faith of this nation; that it is
rapidly filling the land with rationalism; that it is destroying
the authority of the Holy Scriptures; that it is educating men
who prefix "Reverend" and affix "D.D." to their names, the more
effectually to preach covert infidelity to Christian
congregations; that, instead of the saving morality of the gospel
of Christ, which rests upon revealed mysteries and supernatural
gifts, it is offering us that same old array of the natural
virtues or qualities which pierced, like broken reeds, the sides
of all heathen nations.
{695}
And more than this, Catholics know by painful experience, that
history cannot be compiled, travels written, poetry, oratory, or
romance inflicted upon a credulous public, without the
stereotyped assaults upon the doctrines, discipline, and
historical life of their church. From Walter Scott to Peter
Parley, and from Hume, Gibbon, and Macaulay, to the mechanical
compilers of cheap school-literature, it is the same story, told
a thousand times oftener than it is refuted; so that the English
language, for the last two centuries, may be said, without
exaggeration, to have waged war against the Catholic Church.
Indeed, so far as European history is considered, the difficulty
must always be insurmountable; since it would always be
impossible for the Catholic and Protestant to accept the same
history of the Reformation or of the Papal See, or the political,
social, and moral events resulting from or in any degree
connected with those two great centres and controlling causes.
Who could write a political history of Christendom for the last
three hundred years and omit all mention of Luther and the Pope?
And how is any school compendium of such history to be devised
for the use of the Catholic and Protestant child alike? And if
history be philosophy teaching by example, shall we expel it from
our educational plan altogether? Or shall we oblige the
Protestant child to study the Catholic version of history, and
_vice-versa?_ Certainly, it is quite as just and politic to
oblige the one as the other! Shall the "_majority_" control
this? Who gave "_majority_" any such power or right? With
us, the "_majority_" controls the "_state_;" and we
have seen that the "_state_" becomes a usurper when it
attempts this! We are quite sure that, if the Catholics were the
"_majority;_" in the United States, and were to attempt such
an injustice, our Protestant brethren would cry out against it,
and appeal to the wise and liberal examples of Prussia and
England, France and Austria! Now, is it not always as unwise, as
it is unjust, to make a minority taste the bitterness of
oppression? Men governed by the law of divine charity will bear
it meekly, and seek to return good for evil; but all men are not
docile; and majorities change sides rapidly and often in this
fleeting world! Is it not wiser and more politic, even in mere
regard to social interests, that all institutions, intended for
the welfare of the people, should be firmly based upon exact and
equal justice? This would place them under the protection of
_fixed habit_, which in a nation is as strong as nature; and
it would save them from the mutations of society. The strong of
one generation may be the weak of the next; and we see this
occurring with political parties within the brief spaces of
presidential terms. Hence we wisely inculcate moderation and
justice in political majorities, under the law of retribution.

Profoundly impressed with these views, and impelled by this
commanding sense of duty, our Catholic people have created a vast
network of schools over the country, _at a price_ which the
world knows little of--the sacrifice which the poor man makes,
who curtails the wheaten loaf that he may give to his child the
spiritual bread! Ah! how many humble cottages and dreary
tenement-houses could testify to that!
{696}
There are six millions of them here now; and still they come,
from the deserted hearths beyond the seas. They are upright,
industrious, and love the new land like the old! In war, they
shoulder the musket; in peace, they are found filling every
avenue of labor and enterprise. They contribute millions to the
public revenue, and hundreds of millions to the productive
industry of the country. Their own welfare and the highest
interests of the country demand that their children and their
children's children should be well instructed in secular
learning, and thoroughly grounded in moral and religious
knowledge. As we have shown, they cannot avail themselves of the
public school system, as now organized, though they contribute
largely to its support by their taxes. _They do not desire to
interfere with that system_, as it seems at present to meet
the wants, or at least the views, of their Protestant
fellow-citizens; and they are, therefore, _not_ "opposed to
the common schools" in the sense in which they have been
represented to be. They simply ask that they may be allowed to
participate in the only way open to them, that is, by the
apportionment to them of a ratable part of the fund, in aid of
their existing schools, and of such others as their numbers, in
any given locality, may properly enable them to establish,
subject to the limited supervision of the state, as we have
before explained. We need go no further than Canada to witness
this system operating harmoniously and to the best advantage. The
argument generally used against it is, that this would destroy
the unity and efficiency of the whole. Why is it not so in
Prussia, Austria, France, England, and the British Colonies?
Besides, the Catholic populations in this country are very much
aggregated, as in Baltimore, Philadelphia, Boston, New York,
Brooklyn, Cincinnati, St. Louis, Chicago, Milwaukee, and in the
large agricultural settlements throughout the North-Western
States. Certainly, in such localities there could be no
difficulty. It is contemplated by the school law that all these
are to be educated. Then, why can they not be permitted to
organize separate schools, as in the countries referred to? Such
organization would be an integral part of the whole system; and
the cost would be precisely the same. In fact, we learn from the
Reports of Assistant Superintendents Jones and Calkins, made to
Hon. S. S. Randall, the City Superintendent, and also from his
Report made to the Hon. Board of Education, in December, 1866,
that the school room provided in the city of New York (especially
in the primary department) is altogether inadequate; and yet we
know that tens of thousands of Catholic children could easily be
cared for, if the means were afforded those who, even now, with
the scantiest resources, are erecting parochial schools all over
the city.

It would be impossible in a brief article to enter into details.
Our purpose has been rather to set this question before a liberal
public in its great leading aspects, as we are quite willing to
trust to the wisdom and experience of our legislators to devise
the proper plan and specifications. They will be at no loss for
precedents. The statute-books of half a dozen countries may be
consulted profitably. All we ask is, that this momentous question
may be candidly considered and justly and generously disposed of.
We hope that the day has gone by when such a question as this
shall be met with passionate declamation or the obsolete cry of
"no popery."
{697}
Disraeli has failed to stem the tide of popular reform in England
by reviving the insane clamor of Lord George Gordon. The world
has outgrown such narrow bigotry. Vital questions, affecting the
conscience and the rights of multitudes of men, and deeply
involving the welfare of nations, must henceforth be settled by
calm and just decisions. Christendom will tolerate nothing else
now. And surely, this free and wise Republic will not be the last
to put into practice those principles of equality before the law,
justice, and generous confidence in human nature, which it
published to all the down-trodden nationalities of the earth,
almost a century ago, over the signatures of Hancock, Livingston,
and Carroll of Carrollton.

                   ----------

      The Eclipse Of The Sun Of August 18, 1868.

  A Report Addressed By M. Janssen To The Marshal Of France,
        President Of The Bureau Of Longitudes.


    Calcutta, November 3, 1868.
    M. Le Maréchal Et Ministre:

I have the honor of addressing to you, as President of the Bureau
of Longitudes, my report on the eclipse of the 18th of last
August, and upon some subsequent observations, which led me to
the discovery of a method of observing the solar protuberances
when the sun is not eclipsed. I will beg you to have the kindness
to communicate this to the Bureau.

I have the honor to be, etc. etc.,
                      Janssen.


Mr. President:

I had the privilege of writing to you on the 19th of September
last, to give you a brief account of my expedition. I am now able
to furnish you with a more complete report of my observations
during the great eclipse of the 18th of August.

The steamer of the Messageries Imperiales, in which I left
France, landed me, on the 16th of July, at Madras, where I was
received by the English authorities with great courtesy. Lord
Napier, the governor of the province, gave me passage to
Masulipatam upon a government boat. Mr. Grahame, an assistant
collector, was sent with me to remove any difficulties which I
might meet with in the interior.

On arriving, I had to select my station.

A chart of the eclipse shows that the central line, after
crossing the Bay of Bengal, enters the peninsula of India at
Masulipatam, and crossing the great plains formed by the delta of
the Kistna, passes into a hilly country, containing several
chains of mountains, on the frontier of the independent state of
Nizzam. After receiving and considering much information on the
subject, I determined to choose the city of Guntoor, situated on
this central line, half-way between the mountains and the sea. I
thus avoided the sea-fogs, very frequent at Masulipatam, as well
as the clouds which often hang about lofty peaks.

{698}

Guntoor is quite an important place, being the centre of a large
cotton trade. This cotton comes mostly from Nizzam, and is
shipped to Europe from the ports of Cocanada and Masulipatam.
Several French merchants, with their families, live at Guntoor;
they are descended, generally speaking, from those ancient and
numerous families which in former times were the glory of our
beautiful Indian colonies.

My observatory was at the residence of M. Jules Lefaucheur, who
was so kind as to place at my disposal all the first story of his
house, which is in the highest and best part of the city. The
rooms of this first story communicated with a large terrace, upon
which I erected a temporary structure suitable for the
observations intended.

The instruments were several achromatic lenses of six inches
aperture, and a Foucault telescope of twenty-one centimetres. The
former were all mounted upon one stand. The general movement was
given by a mechanism constructed by Messrs. Brunner Bros., which
enabled one to follow the sun by a simple rotation.

The apparatus was furnished with finders of two and two and three
quarter inches aperture, which were themselves good astronomical
glasses. In spectral analysis, these finders have a peculiar
importance; for by means of them the precise point of the object
under examination is known, to which the slit of the spectroscope
in the principal telescope is directed. It is therefore necessary
that the cross-wires, or in general the sights placed in the
field of the finder, should correspond with great exactness with
the slit of the spectral apparatus, and I had, of course, taken
great care to secure this essential point. Special micrometers
were also provided, to measure rapidly the height and angle of
position of the protuberances. As for the spectroscopes, I had
chosen them of different magnifying powers, so as to answer to
the different requirements of the various phenomena. Finally, the
apparatus carried, at the eye-piece end, screens of black cloth,
forming a dark chamber, in order to preserve the sensibility of
the eye.

Besides these instruments, intended for the principal
observations, I had brought a full set of very delicate
thermometers, made with great skill by M. Baudin; also some
portable spy-glasses, hygrometers, barometers, etc. Thus I was
able to turn to account the kindness of MM. Jules, Arthur, and
William Lefaucheur, who offered their services for the subsidiary
work. M. Jules, who is a good draughtsman, undertook to sketch
the eclipse. An excellent telescope, of three inches aperture,
furnished with cross-wires, was assigned to his use; he practised
with it the representation of the expected phenomena by means of
artificial imitations of eclipses. The thermometric observations
were given to M. Arthur, who was also directed to ascertain the
brilliancy of the protuberances and of the corona at the moment
of totality, by a very simple photometric process.

I was assisted in my own operations by M. Redier, a young
subaltern, whom the commander of the steamer L'Imperatrice had
supplied to me. The services of M. Redier, who has excellent
observing qualities, were very useful to me.

The time which remained before the eclipse was employed in
preliminary study and practice, which served to familiarize us
with the handling of our instruments, and suggested to me various
improvements in them.

{699}

The day approached, but the weather did not promise to be
favorable. It had rained for some time all along the coast. These
rains were considered as extraordinary and exceptional.
Fortunately, they moderated gradually before the 18th; and on
that day the sun rose unclouded, and dimmed only by a mist out of
which it soon passed; and at the time when our telescopes showed
us that the eclipse began, it was shining with its full splendor.

Every one was at his post, and the observations immediately
commenced. During the first phases some thin vapors passed before
the sun, which interfered somewhat with the thermometric
measurements; but, as the moment of totality approached, the sky
became sufficiently clear.

Meanwhile the light diminished sensibly, surrounding objects
appearing as if seen by moonlight. The decisive moment was near,
and we waited for it with some anxiety; this anxiety took nothing
from our powers of observation, it rather stimulated and
increased them; and it was, besides, fully justified by the
grandeur of the spectacle which nature was preparing for us, and
by the consciousness that the fruits of our thorough preparations
and of a long voyage would depend on the use now made of a few
minutes.

The solar disc was soon reduced to a narrow bright arc, and we
redoubled our attention. The slits of the spectroscopes were kept
precisely upon the part of the moon's limb where the last light
of the sun would be seen, so that they would be directed to the
lower regions of the solar atmosphere at the moment of contact of
the discs.

The total obscuration occurred instantaneously, and the spectral
phenomena also changed immediately in a very remarkable manner.
Two spectra, formed of five or six very bright lines--red,
yellow, green, blue, and violet--occupied the field in place of
the prismatic image of the sun which had just disappeared. These
spectra, about one minute (of arc) long, corresponded line for
line, and were separated by a dark space in which I could see no
lines.

The finder showed that these two spectra were caused by two
magnificent protuberances which were now visible on each side of
the point of contact. One of them, that on the left, was more
than three minutes (or one tenth of the sun's diameter) in
height; it looked like the flame of a furnace, rushing violently
from the openings of the burning mass within, and driven by a
strong wind. The one to the right presented the appearance of a
mass of snowy mountains, with its base resting on the moon's
limb, and enlightened by a setting sun. These appearances have
been carefully drawn by M. Jules Lefaucheur. I will therefore
only remark before quitting the subject, which I shall have to
treat subsequently under a special aspect, that the preceding
observation shows at once:

1st. The gaseous nature of the protuberances, (the lines being
bright.)

2d. The general similarity of their chemical composition, (the
spectra corresponding line for line.)

3d. Their chemical species, (the red and blue lines of their
spectrum being no other than the lines C and F of the solar one,
and belonging, as is well known, to hydrogen gas.)

Let us now return to the dark space which separated the spectra
of these protuberances. It will be remembered that, at the moment
of the total obscuration, the slits were tangent to the solar and
lunar discs, and were therefore directed toward the circumsolar
regions immediately above the photosphere, in which regions M.
Kirchhoff's theory places the atmosphere of vapors, which
produces by absorption the dark lines of the solar spectrum.
{700}
This atmosphere, when shining by its own light, should, according
to the same theory, give a reversed solar spectrum, that is to
say, one composed entirely of bright lines. This is what we were
expecting and trying to verify, and it was to make the proof
decisive that I had used so many precautions. But we have just
seen that only the protuberances gave positive or bright-line
spectra. Now, it is very certain that, if an atmosphere formed of
the vapors of all the substances which have been found in the sun
really existed above the photosphere, it would have given a
spectrum at least as brilliant as that of the protuberances,
which were formed of a gas much less dense and less luminous. It
must, then, be admitted that, if this atmosphere exists, its
height is so small that it has escaped notice.

I must also add that this result did not much surprise me; for my
investigations on the solar spectrum had led me to doubt the
reality of any considerable atmosphere around the sun, and I am
more and more inclined to think that the phenomena of elective
absorption, ascribed by the great physicist of Heidelberg to an
atmosphere exterior to the sun, are clue to the vapors of the
photosphere itself, in which the solid and liquid particles
forming the luminous clouds are floating. This view is not merely
in harmony with the beautiful theory on the constitution of the
photosphere which we owe to M. Faye, but even seems to be a
necessary deduction from it.

In fine, the eclipse of the 18th of August appears to me to show
that the formation of the solar spectrum cannot be explained by
the theory heretofore admitted, and I propose a correction to
this theory as above indicated.



To return to the protuberances. During the total obscuration, I
was much impressed by the extreme brilliancy of their spectral
lines. The idea immediately occurred to me that they might be
seen even when the sun was unobscured; unfortunately the weather,
which became cloudy after the eclipse, did not allow me to try
the experiment on that day. During the night, the method and the
means presented themselves clearly to my mind. Rising the next
morning at three, I prepared for these new observations. The sun
rose quite clear; as soon as it had risen from the haze of the
horizon, I began to examine it, placing the slit of the
spectroscope, by means of the finder, upon the same place where,
the day before, I had seen the protuberances.

The slit, being placed partly on the solar disc and partly
outside, gave, of course, two spectra, that of the sun and that
of the protuberances. The brilliancy of the solar spectrum was a
great difficulty; I partially avoided it by hiding the yellow,
the green, and the blue portions, which were the most brilliant.
All my attention was directed to the line C, dark for the sun,
bright for the protuberance, and which, coming at a rather faint
part of the spectrum, was seen with comparative ease.

I had not examined the right hand or western part of the
protuberant region long when I suddenly noticed a small bright
red line, forming an exact prolongation of the dark line G of the
sun. Moving the slit so as to sweep methodically the region which
I was exploring, this line remained, but changed its length and
its brilliancy in the different parts, showing a great inequality
in the height and brightness of the various parts of the
protuberance.
{701}
This examination was resumed at three different times, and the
bright line always appeared in the same circumstances. M. Redier,
who assisted me with much interest in these experiments, saw it
as well as I, and soon we could even predict its appearance by
merely knowing what region we were examining. Soon after, I
ascertained that the line F showed itself simultaneously with G.

In the afternoon, I returned to the region examined in the
morning; the bright lines again showed themselves, but they
indicated great changes in the distribution of the protuberant
matter; the lines broke up sometimes into isolated fragments
which would not unite with the principal one, notwithstanding the
shifting of the slit. This suggested the existence of scattered
clouds formed during the forenoon. In the region of the great (or
left hand) protuberance, I found some bright lines, but their
length and arrangement showed that great changes had also
occurred here.

These first observations already showed that the coincidence of
the lines G and F was real, and that hydrogen was certainly the
most important element in these circumsolar masses. They also
established the rapidity of the changes which these bodies
undergo, which cannot be perceived during the short duration of
an eclipse.

The following days, I availed myself of all the opportunities
allowed by the weather to apply and perfect the new method, at
least as far as was permitted by the character of the
instruments, which had not been constructed to suit this new
idea.

Observing very attentively the lines of the protuberances, I have
sometimes noticed that they penetrated into the dark lines of the
solar spectrum, showing thus that the protuberance extends over
part of the sun's disc. This result was naturally to be expected;
but the interposition of the moon has always made its proof
impossible during eclipses.

I will also detail here an observation made on the 4th of
September at a favorable time, which shows how rapidly the
protuberances change their form and position.

At 9h. 50m., the examination of the sun showed a mass of
protuberant matter in the lower part of the disc. To determine
its shape, I used a method which may be called chronometric,
since time is employed in it as the standard of measure.

In this method, the telescope is placed in a fixed position, so
chosen that by the diurnal movement of the sun all parts of the
region to be explored shall come in turn into the field of the
spectroscope; and at determinate times the length and situation
of the spectral lines successively produced are noted.

The time occupied by the sun's disc in passing before the slit
gives the value of a second of time in minutes of arc. This,
combined with the length of the lines estimated in the same unit,
gives the means for a graphic representation of the protuberance.

The application of this method to the study of the solar region
just mentioned as seen on this occasion, showed a protuberance
extending over about thirty degrees (or one twelfth) of the sun's
circumference, ten of which were east of the vertical diameter,
and twenty west. Near the extremity of the western part, a cloud
was lying, distant one and a half minutes, or one twentieth of
the sun's diameter, from its limb. This cloud, about two minutes
long and one high, was parallel to the limb.
{702}
One hour afterward, a new drawing showed that the cloud had risen
rapidly, and taken a globular form. But its movements soon became
still quicker; for ten minutes later, at eleven o'clock, the
globe was enormously extended in a direction perpendicular to the
limb and to its previous position. A little mass of matter was
also detached from the lower part, and hung between the sun and
the main body of the cloud. Thick weather coming on prevented
further observations.

To resume our remarks. Considered in regard to its principle, the
new method is based upon the difference of the spectral
properties of the protuberances and of the photosphere. The light
of the latter emanates from solid or liquid particles, which are
incandescent, and is incomparably brighter than that of the
former; so that these have hardly been visible hitherto, except
during eclipses. But the case is quite altered when we use the
spectra of these bodies. For the solar light is spread over the
whole extent of its spectrum, and thus much weakened; while that
of the protuberances, on the contrary, is condensed into a few
lines whose intensity bears some proportion to that of the
corresponding solar ones. Hence their lines are quite easily seen
in the field, together with those of the sun, though their
ordinary images are entirely effaced by the dazzling light of the
photosphere.

Another very fortunate circumstance for the new method comes to
the support of the one just mentioned, namely, that the bright
lines of the protuberances answer to the dark ones of the solar
spectrum. Hence they are not only more easily seen in their own
proper field, outside and on the edge of the solar spectrum, but
they can even be followed into the interior of the latter, and by
this means the protuberances can be traced upon the globe of the
sun itself.

As regards the determination of chemical composition, the methods
followed during total eclipses always carried with them some
uncertainty; since, in the absence of the sun's light, graduated
scales had to be employed to fix the position of the lines. The
new method enables us to compare the two spectra directly.

As to the results obtained during the brief period in which this
method has been used, they are as follows:

1st. That the luminous protuberances observed during total
eclipses belong unquestionably to the circumsolar regions.

2d. That these bodies are mainly or entirely composed of
incandescent hydrogen gas.

3d. That they are subject to movements of which no terrestrial
phenomenon can give us any idea; since, though they are masses of
matter having several hundred times the volume of the earth, they
change completely their form and position in the course of a few
minutes.

Such are the principal facts arrived at. I hope, notwithstanding
the state of my eyes--fatigued by protracted experiments upon the
subject of light--that I shall be able to continue my labors, and
have the honor of submitting the results to the Bureau.

In conclusion, I will add, that I have also had an opportunity to
continue my researches on the spectrum of the vapor of water. The
climate of India, which is very moist at present, is quite
favorable to these investigations. I am inclined to attribute to
this spectrum a continually increasing importance. The whole
series of my observations here and at Paris has made me confident
of an elective action upon all the solar rays as far as the
extreme violet, though in the latter such an action is much more
difficult to establish with certainty. These experiments will
form the subject of a separate communication.

                   ----------

{703}

          Who Shall Take Care Of The Poor?

                  First Article.


The duty of caring for the poor, which Christ laid upon his
church, has been assumed in modern times by the civil power; and
governments have sought, by legislative enactments and political
machinery, to fill the place of those ecclesiastical charities
which disappeared in the convulsions of the sixteenth century. It
is needless to say that their attempts have failed, and that the
problem, "Who shall take care of the poor?" is still, in all
Protestant countries, practically unsolved. We feel, therefore,
that no apology is necessary for entering upon its discussion
here, and that any light which may be thrown upon the subject by
ourselves or others will tend to elucidate one of the most
perplexed and difficult social questions of the present age.

There are certain fundamental principles which any examination of
this subject, from a Christian point of view, must assume, and in
accordance with which all Christian theories and practice
concerning it must proceed.

These principles may be thus briefly stated:

I. That the care of the poor devolves upon those who continue the
mission of Christ in the redemption of mankind and accept and
obey his command, "Feed my flock;" upon those whose discipline of
character, at once personal and corporate, enables them to help
the helpless, to reform the vicious, and to conciliate the
dangerous, while their organization affords a guarantee of
persistence in these good works and of the proper use of the
means confided to them; in a word, upon those who combine the
attributes of a providence at once universal and discerning, with
equity in administration and energy in execution.

II. That the principle of action, by which this work alone can be
effected, is what may be termed "absorbent substitution," that
is, the voluntary assumption of poverty out of practical sympathy
with the poor.

III. That the legitimate effect of this action is to encourage,
aid, and guide the poor to help themselves, and to infuse into
them that love for their neighbor which, by this mediation,
becomes reciprocal.

IV. That the established means by which this work must be
performed are, first: The church in her collective capacity;
second, the orders of charity; third, the variously constituted
beneficial societies; fourth, the hand of private Christian
charity, the latter of which, in the discussion of this question
as a public one, does not, however, enter into our consideration.
{704}
The three first mentioned are often found united in the same
community: the church, represented by the congregation,
containing Sisters of Charity or Mercy, and also assistant orders
of pious persons, who, though bound by no vows, work in the world
and aid the other orders with their purse and influence. Still,
those who take the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, and
who, in organized communities, devote themselves to works of
charity, must be regarded as the most perfect organs of this
Christian work. And these become thus voluntarily poor,
self-denying, and exclusive, because not only is the healthy soul
fortified and preserved in spiritual power by privation of the
pleasures of the senses, but poverty itself becomes ennobled by
the assumption, and its degradation disappears.

Treating these principles, for the present, as self-evident, we
now inquire:

Who are _our_ poor, and how shall they be cared for?

Upon this question, the Catholic Church cannot limit her
providential mission or assume a sectarian attitude. While
preaching, by example, to the pious and humane of every creed,
the zeal of active charity, she must extend her benefits to all
those who need and seek her, without favor or distinction. This
she must do to be consistent with her own historic record, and to
fulfil the behest of her Lord.

Wherever Christian faith and love exist, "by their works ye shall
know them." Charity is the test of the Catholic faith. Our Douay
Catechism says that "the first fruit of the Holy Ghost is
charity." Then it tells us what charity means, in the language of
its effects, namely, "To feed the hungry, to give drink to the
thirsty, to clothe the naked, to visit and ransom captives, to
harbor the harborless, to visit the sick, to bury the dead:" a
very matter of fact definition, but which implies that,

"Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."

The practice of charity alone can reconcile mankind by
dissipating schism, and by thus re-establishing their unison,
secure the triumph of the Christian church over the world.

This universal unity of spirit employs in its methods of action
many distinct organs and corresponding varieties of function, and
the time-honored maxim, _Una fides, una domus_, "One faith,
one house," and the obedience to constituted authority, bind in
the circle of good-will those orders which, though each adopts a
particular rule and special use, amicably co-operate in their
separation, like the branches of the same vine.

Whatever principles of action experience has sanctioned in
Catholic charities, commend themselves alike to all Christians.

"Why is it," asks Mrs. Jameson, "that we see so many women,
carefully educated, going over to the Catholic Church? For no
other reason than for the power it gives them to throw their
energies into a sphere of definite utility, under the control of
a high religious responsibility."

To each of the notable aspects of human affliction corresponds,
in the history of Christendom, one or more orders consecrated to
its relief, and, far from being confined to mere palliative
expedients, organic efforts toward the radical cure of our social
evils have been developed under the influence of the Catholic
Church.

Distinctive characters of the Catholic orders, though not
confined to them, are celibacy and community of property. A bond
of union purely spiritual dissolves and replaces those ties which
develop the personality of the individual.

{705}

No fair comparison can be instituted between Catholic and
Protestant orders of charity, for the simple reason that marriage
and the family, which perpetuate secular estates by entail or
inheritance, or seek, in the exchange of love, an earthly heaven,
act as effectual dissolvents on religious orders consecrated to a
special work. The vitality of the Episcopalian charities, St.
John's and St. Luke's, is now undergoing this experiment, to-wit:
Can the requisite number of efficient nurses and officers be
maintained without binding vows? Can the service of the order be
organized with influences that shall counterpoise the temptations
of worldly vanities and interests, the powerful attraction of the
sexes, and the honorable ambition of becoming one's self a focus
of social radiation?

Of course, it is not necessary to the effectiveness of a given
service that it should always be rendered by the same
individuals; but numbers avail not without discipline; and, while
relays and successions are allowed, they must not be too
frequent. The sacrifice of personal liberty, to a certain extent,
is indispensable to the order and efficiency of co-operative
charity. Hence it is not surprising that the first attempts in
England to constitute Episcopalian orders of charity should
generally have failed. This impulse was due to the humiliating
lesson of the Crimean war, when Sisters of Charity and Mercy
flocked from all Europe to the assistance of the French sick and
wounded, when similar orders of the Greek Church came to befriend
the afflicted Russian soldiers; but the English were perishing
miserably, until their unlooked-for succor by the intervention of
Miss Florence Nightingale and her heroic band.

The necessity thus apprehended, to fall back on the institutions
of Catholicity, has recently occasioned the formation of orders,
who take the vow of chastity, poverty, and obedience. Sisters of
Mercy and Sisters of the _Contemplative Life_ may be seen in
London, repairing to chapel through deserted streets in the early
morning hours. Will such vows, unsanctioned by the public opinion
of Protestant countries, be really binding? How has it proved at
Valle Cruce?

Oppressed and alarmed by the increase of pauperism, and the worse
than inefficiency of her poor-rates and secular measures of
pauper-relief, England now feels that she has committed something
near akin to suicide in the destruction of her religious orders.
No longer "merry and wise," her political economists are
splitting hairs to find just what pittance may suffice to keep
the poor from dying of hunger without making them more
comfortable than others whose pride refuses alms, so as not to
set a premium on idleness.

"The notion popularized by Cobbett," says Herbert Spencer,
arguing the question, "that every one has a right to a
maintenance out of the soil, leaves those who adopt it in an
awkward predicament. Do but ask them to specify, and they are set
fast. Assent to their principle; tell them you will assume their
title to be valid; and then, as a needful preliminary to the
liquidation of their claim, ask for some precise definition of
it; inquire what is a maintenance. They are dumb! Is it, say you,
potatoes and salt, with rags and a mud cabin? or is it bread and
bacon, in a two-roomed cottage? Will a joint on Sundays suffice?
or does the demand include meat and malt-liquor daily?
{706}
Will tea, coffee, and tobacco be expected? and if so, how many
ounces of each? Are bare walls and brick floors all that is
needed? or must there be carpets and paper-hanging? Are shoes
considered essential? or will the Scotch practice be approved?
Shall the clothing be of fustian? If not, of what quality must
the broadcloth be? In short, just point out where, between the
two extremes of starvation and luxury, this something called a
maintenance lies. How else shall we know whether enough has been
awarded, or whether too much? One thinks that a bare subsistence
is all that can fairly be demanded. Another hints at something
beyond. A third maintains that a few of the enjoyments of life
should be provided for. And some of the more consistent, pushing
the doctrine to its legitimate result, will rest satisfied with
nothing short of community of property."

What this argument renders most apparent is, the necessity for an
umpire, or mediatorial power, between collective society and the
individual or family requiring aid, a power sympathetic alike
with those who have more, and with those who have less, than
necessity demands, and whose social position shall derive, from a
source superior to either, a _prestige_ which will inspire
confidence in its discretion and give a certain authority to its
decisions. If personal beneficence or corporate guarantees
suffice for the relief of sufferers, or to obtain for those able
and willing the opportunity of suitable employment, the
mediatorial power will not interfere. If, on the other hand,
appeal be made to it, it may act either by the exercise of its
own faculties, or as the trustee of social goods; a mutual
intelligence bureau of higher grade than our ordinary business
offices. Such a function the Catholic Church and its orders of
charity fulfilled in England, and may yet fulfil in America.

Mr. John Stuart Mill well observes, that the state cannot
undertake to discriminate between the deserving and the
undeserving indigent. It owes no more than subsistence to the
first, and can give no less to the last. Since it must provide
subsistence for the criminal poor while undergoing punishment,
not to do the same for the poor--who have not offended is to give
a premium to crime. Guardians and overseers are not fit to be
trusted to give or withhold other people's money according to
their verdict on the morality of the person soliciting it, and it
would show much ignorance of the ways of mankind to suppose that
such persons, even in the almost impossible case of their being
qualified, will take the trouble of ascertaining and sifting the
past conduct of a person in distress, so as to form a rational
judgment on it. Private charity can make these distinctions, and,
in bestowing its own money, is entitled to do so according to its
own judgment.

It is admitted to be right that human beings should help one
another; and the more so in proportion to the urgency of the
need. In all cases of helping, we distinguish the consequences of
the assistance itself, and the consequences of relying on the
assistance. The former are generally beneficial, but the latter
for the most part injurious; so much so, in many cases, as
greatly to outweigh the value of the benefit. There are few
things more mischievous than that people should rely on the
habitual aid of others for the means of subsistence, and
unhappily there is no lesson which they more easily learn. The
problem to be solved is, how to give the greatest amount of
needful help with the smallest encouragement to undue reliance on
it.
{707}
Energy and self-dependence are, however, liable to be impaired by
the absence of help as well as by its excess. It is even more
fatal to exertion to have no hope of succeeding by it than to be
assured of succeeding without it. When the condition of any one
is so disastrous that his energies are paralyzed by
discouragement, assistance is a tonic, not a sedative. It braces
instead of deadening the active faculties, always provided that
the assistance is not such as to dispense with self-help by
substituting itself for the person's own labor, skill, and
prudence, but is limited to affording him a better hope of
attaining success by those legitimate means. This accordingly is
a test to which all plans of philanthropy should be brought,
whether intended for the benefit of individuals or of classes,
and whether conducted on the voluntary or the government
principle.

Overlooking the spiritual forces which religious charity brings
to bear in elevating the moral tone of character, Mr. Mill finds
the foregoing principles well applied by the English Poor-Law of
1834, because, while it prevents any person, except by his own
choice, from dying of hunger, it leaves their condition as much
as possible below that of the poorest who find support for
themselves. Mr. Mill's logic here seems to arrive at the
_reductio ad absurdum_; for the state of these poorest of
the working poor, whom pride forbids to claim pauper relief, is
too distressing for charity, acting only below that level, to be
of any avail. Usually inclined to the most liberal and humane
views, Mr. Mill has here given way to a Protestant prejudice,
which regards as ill-advised the more whole-souled Catholic style
of charity. The following extract from De Vere's work shows the
contrast, and affords a good answer to this overcautiousness
about doing too much. All depends upon the spirit in which
charity is bestowed; it should be cordial, not humiliating and
distressing:

  "Most of the Sisters are from the class of servants and
  needle-women; but there are many who, having been brought up to
  enjoy all the comforts and even elegances of life, have
  willingly renounced all to make themselves the humblest
  servants of the poor, to wash, and cook, and _beg_ for
  those who have been beggars all their lives. The secret of all
  this lies in this, that the Sisters see, in their poor, Jesus
  Christ himself, to wait on whom must be their highest glory.
  From this, then, springs the most delightful interchange of
  feeling between the Sisters and their pensioners; for these
  poor people reverence with the liveliest gratitude those who
  seem to them as the angels of God sent to redeem them from all
  their misery and wretchedness, to comfort their bodies, and
  enlighten their souls. The change wrought in the old people
  after they have been with the Sisters a little while, is said
  to be most remarkable. From being fractious, complaining, and
  idle, they grow cheerful and contented in the highest degree,
  and every one is anxious to do something to contribute to the
  common stock. '_Our_ houses, _our_ Sisters,' they
  say--a type of the perfect union which reigns amongst them.
  Everything is done by the Sisters to cultivate a spirit of
  cheerfulness; they are treated as children, and every
  opportunity is embraced of making them a little festival. The
  beautiful simplicity of childhood seems to return in all its
  fulness to these poor creatures, whose lives have been spent in
  vice and misery. From a state approaching to brutality, they
  revive even to gayety. Well may they say as they do, 'We never
  were happy until we came here.' On great occasions they sing
  and dance, and the Sisters join with them. When the anniversary
  of the house of Rouen was lately celebrated, the old woman who
  had been the first pensioner was crowned as the queen of the
  day, and her lowly seat decked with flowers, whilst her aged
  companions cheered her with the heartiest good will.

{708}

  "The tender regard with which the Sisters cherish the poor on
  whom they wait, calls forth the best feelings of their hearts,
  so long dead to every human charity. They respond by the most
  refreshing cordiality; but truly hearts could not resist the
  winning kindness with which they are invariably treated. One
  little incident may illustrate how above all selfish
  considerations the law of kindness prevails: One old woman was
  anxious to be received among the 'Little Sisters' somewhere in
  France. Her case well deserved the privilege, but the old woman
  insisted on bringing also into the house her hen and her
  sparrow. Without these companions, she would not enter; she
  would rather forego the advantage offered to her. The old
  woman, her hen, and her sparrow were all admitted together,
  anything rather than lose an opportunity of doing good.

  "Selfishness cannot long exist where such examples of
  self-denial are ever present in these Sisters. They take the
  worst of everything for themselves. Even in the longest
  established houses there are no chairs except for the old
  people; the Sisters 'sit upon their heels.' A Jesuit father, on
  one day visiting one of the houses, found the Sisters just
  sitting down to dinner. They had nothing to drink out of but
  odd and broken vessels, mustard-pots, jam-pots, etc.; all in
  such a dilapidated condition that the good father hastened off
  the very first penitent, who came to him for confession, with
  an injunction to buy a dozen of glasses and send them to the
  house of his '_Petites Sceurs_.' Such is their voluntary
  poverty!

  "Every time a house is opened, so soon as a sufficient number
  of poor are collected, a retreat is preached. The fruits of
  these retreats, in those who have been so long absent from the
  sacraments, is wonderful. Thus the house is furnished with
  those who serve to set a good example to all those who are
  afterward admitted.

  "Nothing can exceed the gratitude of these poor creatures when
  reconciled with God. They embrace the Sisters with tears. 'It
  is seventy-five years since I drew near to God,' said one; 'and
  now I am going to receive him to-morrow.' A poor barber who had
  lost the use of his hands through rheumatism, and, being unable
  to exercise his profession, had fallen into such a state of
  destitution that he was thankful to accept an asylum in one of
  the houses of the 'Little Sisters,' was observed, after his
  confession, to be looking at his hands. 'What are you doing?'
  was asked of him. 'I am looking at the finger of God,' he
  replied. This spirit of resignation and gratitude is nearly
  universal, and the Sisters are not without their consolation
  even in this world."

To the special ministry of the Sisterhoods of Charity have been
assigned the sick, infirm, and aged poor, whom all regard as
proper objects of relief and pious care. We have shown, in our
October number, how well they satisfied alike the Christian and
the economic need. Mrs. Jameson, in the work there referred to,
[Footnote 273] has strongly contrasted the conditions of the
"English workhouse system" (which is the same as ours) with the
religious management not only of the sick-poor, but also of the
criminal and most degraded classes. Take, for instance, the
Austrian prison at Neudorf. This prison is an experiment which as
yet had only had a three years' trial when Mrs. Jameson visited
it, but had already succeeded so well, both morally and
economically, that the Austrian government was preparing to
organize eleven others on the same plan. It began by the efforts
of two humane ladies to find a refuge for those wretched
creatures of their own sex who, after undergoing their term of
punishment, were cast out of the prisons. They obtained the aid
of two Sisters of a religious order in France, devoted to the
reformation of lost and depraved women. Government soon enlarged
their sphere of action, and confided to them the administration
of a prison, penitentiary, and hospital, with several buildings
and a large garden.

    [Footnote 273:  _Sisters of Charity, Catholic and Protestant_.]

  "In its management, I found more than two hundred criminals,
  separated into three classes. The first class consisted of
  desperate characters, the refuse of the prisons at Vienna, who
  are brought under a strong armed guard, bound hand and foot.
  Their appearance was either stupid, gross, and vacant or
  frightful from the predominance of evil propensities. The
  second class, drafted from the first, were called the
  penitents, and showed, in the expression of their countenances,
  an extraordinary change from the newly arrived. They were
  allowed to assist in the house, to cook and to wash, and to
  work in the garden, which last was a great boon. There were
  more than fifty of these, and they were, at least, humanized.
  The third class were the voluntaries who, when their term had
  expired, preferred remaining in the house and were allowed to
  do so. Part of the profit of their work was retained for their
  benefit.

{709}

  "Twelve women, aided by three chaplains, a surgeon, and a
  physician, none of whom resided in the establishment, managed
  the whole. They had dismissed the soldiers and police-officers,
  finding that they needed no other means of constraint than
  their dignity, good sense, patience, and tenderness. There was
  as much of frightful physical disease as there was of moral
  disease, crime, and misery. Two Sisters acted as chief nurses
  and apothecaries. The ventilation and cleanliness were perfect.
  When I expressed my astonishment that so small a number of
  women could manage such a set of wild and wicked creatures, the
  answer was, 'If we want assistance, we shall have it; but it is
  as easy with our system to manage three hundred as one hundred
  or as fifty. The power is not in ourselves, it is granted from
  above.' Here men and women were acting together; and in all the
  regulations, religious and sanitary, there was mutual aid,
  mutual respect, and interchange of experience; but the Sisters
  were subordinate only to the chief civil and ecclesiastical
  authorities; the internal administration rested with them."

The "Little Sisters of the Poor" have inspired the following
remarks, which apply to many other orders actively engaged in
works of charity:

  "Their records demonstrate that religious institutions do,
  effectually and cheaply, what the clumsy and lifeless machinery
  of the state does at an enormous cost and peril, with a very
  questionable preponderance of gain over loss. Charity is a
  religious work, and these orders are specially qualified, as
  religious, to lead the charity of the country; they have a
  special vocation and a supernatural aim; they unite the
  strongest motives for individual exertion with the highest
  development of the co-operative system; they are free from the
  impediments of other parties; what they give establishes no
  legal or political right, yet it recognizes a moral claim and
  provides for a human want. In addressing the statesmen of this
  country, we can prove that one thousand dollars a year, thus
  wisely spent in well-organized charity, goes twice as far as
  two thousand dollars a year spent with a blundering alternation
  of prodigality and cruelty, such as characterizes the
  management of our secular charities. Organic bodies contain
  within themselves a principle of endless adaptation. The
  church, herself an organic body, is the fruitful mother of all
  such organizations as the moral needs of man require; nor is
  there any reason to doubt that she can help the modern pauper
  as readily as the captives, the lepers, and the laborers in
  mines for whom her mediaeval orders worked. The recent
  institution of the 'Little Sisters of the Poor' derives a
  peculiar interest from the mode in which it approaches that
  special trial of modern society, pauperism, and it may, with
  the divine blessing, advance from its present humble beginning
  to enterprises which, alike on the ground of theology and of
  sound political economy, are beyond the efforts of the most
  beneficent governments now existing."

The gospels abundantly attest the loving and tender behavior of
Christ toward the poor and the afflicted of every class. It is
important to note how lively and loyal is the tradition of this
conduct in the Christian church, from its earliest periods to our
own day. It was a favorite turn in the mediaeval legends of
charity that our Lord should reveal himself, even in the body, to
those who had, for his love, consoled some poor object of
compassion. It is written of St. Elizabeth, Queen of Hungary,
that she kept always near her, and herself served, thirteen sick
poor, in memory of Christ and the twelve apostles.

  "Among the sick was a poor little leper named Helias, whose
  condition was so deplorable that no one would take charge of
  him. Elizabeth, seeing him thus abandoned by all, felt herself
  bound to do more for him than for any other; she took and
  bathed him herself, anointed him with a healing balm, and then
  laid him in the bed, even that which she shared with her royal
  husband. Now it happened that the duke returned to the castle
  whilst Elizabeth was thus occupied. His mother ran out
  immediately to meet him, and when he alighted she said, 'Come
  with me, dear son, and I will show thee a pretty doing of thy
  Elizabeth.' 'What does this mean?' said the duke. 'Only come,'
  said she, 'and thou wilt see one she loves much better than
  thee.' Then, taking him by the hand, she led him to his chamber
  and to his bed, and said to him, Now look, dear son, thy wife
  puts lepers in thy bed without my being able to prevent her.
{710}
   She wishes to give thee leprosy, thou seest it thyself.' On
   hearing these words, the duke could not repress a certain
   degree of irritation, and he quickly raised the covering of
   his bed; but, at the same moment, the Most High unsealed the
   eyes of his soul, and, in place of the leper, he saw the
   figure of Jesus Christ crucified extended on his bed. At this
   sight he remained motionless, as did his mother, and began to
   shed abundant tears without being able at first to utter a
   word. Then, turning round, he saw his wife, who had gently
   followed in order to calm his wrath against the leper.
   'Elizabeth,' said he, 'my dear, good sister, I pray thee often
   to give my bed to such guests. I shall always thank thee for
   this, and be thou not hindered by any one in the exercise of
   thy virtue.' Then he knelt and prayed thus to God, 'Lord, have
   mercy upon me a poor sinner. I am not worthy to see all these
   wonders.'" [Footnote 274]

    [Footnote 274: Montalembert, _Life of St. Elizabeth_.]

For the many illustrations of the wonderful diffusion of
benevolence in the early ages of the Christian church, in
contrast with the truculent spirit of the contemporaneous
paganism, see Rev. Dr. Manahan's _Triumph of the Catholic
Church_, etc.

We recall here the mention of John, Patriarch of Alexandria, who
asked of his clergy a register of all the poor and destitute in
that city. "Go," said he, "and get me a full list of my masters."

From the Theodosian code, it appears that the church owned large
vessels, employed either in bringing to some dioceses provisions
for their own flocks, or in sending help to the most afflicted
communities, from Egypt even unto Gaul.

"The Cenobites, or Monks of the Desert," says St. Augustine,
"used to freight these ships of charity with grain, obtained by
them in exchange for the mats and baskets which they
manufactured." The vast hospital, founded by St. Basil, of
Cappadocia, near Caesarea, is called by St. Gregory" a new city
built for the sick and poor."

Hospitals were so great an innovation on the customs of the
ancient classic world, that the Emperor Julian, surnamed "The
Apostate," tried in vain to introduce them. Repelling the
Christian doctrine, he was sensible of the influence of Christian
charity, and would fain have engrafted on the pagan stock this
fruit of another dispensation.

Why are the poor and afflicted especially given in charge to the
church, and why does the Christian see them with quite other eyes
than those of mere benevolence? Why is Christ identified, in his
birth and companionship, with the poor? Why are the most
suffering classes the first objects of his care and mediation?

If it is written that "He who shall give to one of my disciples
only so much as a cup of cold water in my name, shall not lose
his reward," it is also written that the hungry, the thirsty, the
stranger, the naked, the sick, the prisoner, are all our brethren
in Christ. It is by virtue of that susceptibility, which the
exercise of charity develops in us, that we become consciously
"members one of another in the body of Christ."

Jesus Christ came to awaken in humanity a conscience including
our neighbor, a conservative instinct embracing the relations of
the individual with the species, unlimited by family, clan, or
nation; and which transcends the analysis of a Malthus, a Locke,
or a La Rochefoucauld. [Footnote 275]

    [Footnote 275: That Sister of the Poor, whom you pass in the
    street with her basket, and perhaps look down upon as on a
    creature of inferior grade, is living closer to the heart of
    universal love, is deeper in celestial wisdom than the proud
    philosopher; leads a life more heroic in its abnegation and
    humility than the general with his bloody laurels. This is
    so, because the divine influx of life moulds the will and the
    affections, and moves the bowels of compassion long before
    the brain matures its schemes of action.]

{711}

The suffering persons or classes are the atoms, the organs, or
the local points where the life of humanity is threatened or
compromised; thither, with unwonted energy, must its vital
resources be directed; and how directed? Here we find the
contrast between the spirit of Christ and that of pagan or
schismatic countries. Ignoring the true unity of man, paganism
merely suppressed the effects of misery by suppressing the person
of the miserable. It did not consider that the spirit of cruelty,
developed or encouraged in this elimination, is itself a living
cause and propagator of human misery. Religious sympathy alone
could quicken the intelligence to this perception, and find
something precious in the life of the wretch rescued from his
wretchedness; find beneath the rags, the dirt, and the chains,
beneath ignorance, the vices, and diseases, that "a man's a man
for a' that." Again, Christianity discerned precious discipline
of virtue in the exercise of charity, and practised it no less
for the sake of the giver than that of the receiver. This is a
practical commentary on the axiom of human unity or solidarity,
anticipating the fuller light which may be expected from a
knowledge of our ulterior destinies.

Wherever the church has nobly filled her part as the social
conscience of Christendom, (a function for which the confessional
so well adapts her,) she has been the intelligent mediator
between those who need to give or to serve, and those who are
really in need; she has maintained a social equilibrium while
averting the jealousies and hatreds of classes, and by her
enlightened and judicious distribution has prevented charity from
ministering to vices and imposture.

"The _poor_ ye shall have always with you." The worst
prejudices only will interpret this saying of our Lord so as to
discourage our efforts to eliminate, from the condition of the
poor, its actual vices, disgraces, and miseries. This once
effected by means, the success of which experience has verified,
there remains an honorable poverty due to the disinterested
devotions of science, art, and social affections, in which the
love of our neighbor, under divers forms, absorbs cupidity and
the cares of self-preservation. The church has always encouraged
vows of voluntary poverty, and directed the zeal which animated
them to Christian uses. She has permitted the rich to expiate
their crimes by sharing their fortunes with the poor, even by
soliciting alms for them; and we are told that Roman nobles have
been seen, during this very year, thus begging in the streets of
Rome. To a noble poverty belong the first years, and often the
whole life, of the inventor, of the true artist, of all whose
originality of conception or fidelity to the ideal transcends
prudential economy. We may glance but in passing at that
"Bohemia," where floating wrecks mingle in disorder with germinal
forces of the social future. In proportion as the constitution of
societies shall be perfected in kind and useful labors, those in
whose characters friendship predominates, whether attached to
holy orders like the Trappists and Sisters of Charity, or simply
members of the church of Christ, will content themselves with the
common _minimum_, and work in their elected spheres without
care for any other material compensation. To such has Christ
said: "Take no care what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink, or
wherewithal ye shall be clothed," etc. "Consider the lilies,"
etc. We shall not confound these noble poor with paupers, a term
which comprehends indifferently the victims of misfortune, of
vice, and of disease; deficient in faculties either corporeal or
mental, or in consistency of purpose, principle, and will.
{712}
_Pauperism_ is not to be regarded as a state of suffering to
which the Christian should be resigned; far from being an
expiation of sin, it is not only humiliation, but degradation and
perversion, and owes its parasite existence to the absence or
decline of Christian life.

The Catholic Church commenced an exterminating war on pauperism
in those fraternal associations which sprang from the breath of
the Saviour, and which its religious orders have never
intermitted. Disbanded by the persecutions of the Roman empire,
they rallied to works of charity; and, gradually obtaining
spiritual ascendency over Europe, organized agriculture and the
arts of peace. In the sixth century, the Benedictines and
Columbans reclaimed the soils of Europe from their wilderness,
and their peoples from the worst of barbarism.

The monasteries and convents, considered from the point of view
of political and social economy, were agricultural, scientific,
and domestic associations, with fields, gardens, and orchards,
libraries, laboratories, and workshops, provided with all the
means and facilities known in their age and country for the
subjection of nature's resources to the progressive evolution of
humanity. Fusing the nobles and the people, absorbing, in the
sentiment of our common fatherhood in God and brotherhood in
Christ, the invidious distinctions of caste, reconciling again in
their administration the behests of spiritual culture with the
exigencies of material existence and refinement of taste in
letters and the arts, the monastic orders were for Christendom a
most benign providence. Their charities never have been limited
to the necessities of mere subsistence, like the secular dolings
out of _so-called_ modern charity. Hearts must respond to
the needs of hearts, and brains to those of brains; in other
words, the organization of Christian charity essentially embraces
social life and education, intellectual and moral culture, as
well as the conditions of labor, of remuneration, of lodging, of
clothing, and nourishment, comprised in the guarantee of access
to the soil. By separating the material from the spiritual
elements of charity, Christendom retrogrades into paganism; less
brutal, less ferocious, the economic (?) workhouse system is
colder and still more inhuman than those methods of summary
destruction by which Greece removed her supernumerary helots, or
Rome her infirm poor.

  "It is not without a mingled shame and fear," says Mrs.
  Jameson, of the English workhouse, "that I approach this
  subject. Whatever their arrangement and condition, in one thing
  I found all alike--the want of a proper moral supervision.

  "The most vulgar of human beings are set to rule over the most
  vulgar; the pauper is set to manage the pauper; the ignorant
  govern the ignorant; every softening or elevating influence is
  absent or of rare occurrence, and every hardening and depraving
  influence continuous or ever at hand. Never did I visit any
  dungeon, any abode of crime or misery, in any country, which
  left me the same crushing sense of sorrow, indignation, and
  compassion--almost despair--as some of our English workhouses.
  Never did I see more clearly what must be the inevitable
  consequences where the feminine and religious influences are
  ignored; where what we call charity is worked by a stern, hard
  machinery; where what we mean for good is not bestowed but
  inflicted on others in a spirit not pitiful, nor merciful, but
  reluctant and adverse, if not cruel. Perhaps those who hear me
  may not all be aware of the origin of our parish workhouses.
  They were not designed as penitentiaries, although they have
  really become such. They were intended to be religious and
  charitable institutions, to supply the place of those
  conventual hospitals and charities which, with their revenues,
  were suppressed by Henry VIII.

{713}

  "The epithet 'charitable' could never be applied to any parish
  workhouse I have seen. Our machine-charity is as much charity,
  in the Christian sense, as the praying-machines of the Tartars
  are piety.

  "These institutions are supported by a variable tax, paid so
  reluctantly, with so little sympathy in its purpose, that the
  wretched paupers seem to be regarded as a sort of parish
  locusts, sent to devour the substance of the rate-payers; as
  the natural enemies of those who are taxed for their
  subsistence, almost as criminals; and I have no hesitation in
  saying that the convicts in some of our jails have more
  charitable and more respectful treatment than the poor in our
  workhouses. Hence, a notion prevails among the working-classes
  that it is better to be a criminal than a pauper--better to go
  to a jail than to a workhouse.

  "Between the poor and their so-called guardians, the bond is
  anything but charity.

  "A gentleman who had served the office said to me: 'I am really
  unfit to be a poor-law guardian; I have some vestige of
  humanity left in me!' Under these guardians, and in immediate
  contact with the poor, are a master and a matron, who keep the
  accounts, distribute food and clothing, and keep order. Among
  them some are respected and loved, others hated or feared; some
  are kindly and intelligent, others of the lowest grade. In one
  workhouse the master had been a policeman, in another the
  keeper of a small public-house, in another he had served in the
  same workhouse as porter. The subordinates are not of a higher
  grade, except occasionally the school-master and
  school-mistress, whom I have sometimes found struggling to
  perform their duties, sometimes quite unfitted for them, and
  sometimes resigned to routine and despair.

  "In the wards for the old and the sick, the intense vulgarity,
  the melancholy dulness, mingled with a strange license and
  levity, are dreadful. I attribute both to the utter absence of
  the religious and feminine element.

  "But is there not always a chaplain? The chaplain has seemed to
  me in such places rather a religious accident than a religious
  element. When he visits a ward to read and pray once a week,
  perhaps there is a decorum in his presence; the oaths, the
  curses, the vile language cease; the vulgar strife is silenced,
  to recommence the moment his back is turned. I remember one
  instance in which the chaplain had requested that the poor,
  profligate women might be kept out of his way. They had,
  indeed, shown themselves somewhat obstreperous and irreverent.
  I saw another chaplain of a great workhouse so shabby that I
  should have mistaken him for one of the paupers. In doing his
  duty, he would fling a surplice over his dirty, torn coat,
  kneel down at the entrance of a ward, hurry over two or three
  prayers, heard from the few beds nearest to him, and then off
  to another ward. The salary for this minister for the sick and
  poor was twenty pounds a year. This, then, is the religious
  element; as if religion were not the necessary, inseparable,
  ever-present, informing spirit of a Christian charitable
  institution, but rather something extraneous and accidental, to
  be taken in set doses at set times. This is what our workhouses
  provide to awaken the faith, rouse the conscience, heal the
  broken spirit, and light up the stupefied faculties of a
  thousand unhappy, ignorant, debased human beings congregated
  together.

  "Then as to the feminine element in a great and well-ordered
  workhouse, under conscientious management, (to take a favorable
  specimen,) I visited sixteen wards, in each ward from fifteen
  to twenty-five sick, aged, bedridden, or helpless poor. In each
  ward all the assistance given and all the supervision were in
  the hands of one nurse and a helper, both chosen from among the
  pauper women supposed to be the least immoral and drunken. The
  ages of the nurses might be from sixty-five to eighty years;
  the assistants were younger.

  "The number of inmates under medical treatment in the year 1854
  in the London workhouses was over 50,000, (omitting one, the
  Marylebone.) To these there were 70 paid nurses and 500 pauper
  nurses and assistants, (not more than one fifth of the number
  requisite for effective nursing, even if they were all able
  nurses.)

  "As the unpaid pauper nurses have some additional allowance of
  tea or beer, it is not unusual for the medical attendant to
  send such poor feeble old women as require some little
  indulgence to be nurses in the sick wards."

Such is the standard of qualification, and as for their
assistants, Mrs. Jameson found some of them nearly blind and
others maimed of a limb. She remembers no cheerful faces; their
features and deportment were melancholy, or sullen, or bloated,
or harsh, and these are the nurses to whom the sick poor are
confided!

{714}

  "In one workhouse the nurses had a penny a week and extra beer;
  in another the allowance had been a shilling a month, but
  recently withdrawn by the guardians from motives of economy.
  The matron told me that while this allowance continued, she
  could exercise some control over the nurses, she could stop
  their allowance if they did not behave well; now she has no
  hold on them! They all drink. Whenever it is their turn to go
  out for a few hours, they come back intoxicated, and have to be
  put to bed in the wards they are set over!"

Mrs. Jameson speaks of bribery as the only means by which some of
the bedridden patients could obtain help.

  "Any little extra allowance of tea or sugar, left by pitying
  friends, went in this way. One nurse made five shillings a week
  by thus fleecing the poor inmates. Those who could not pay this
  tax were neglected, and implored in vain to be turned in their
  beds. The matron knows that these things exist, but has no
  power to prevent them; she knows not what tyranny may be
  exercised in her absence by her deputies, for the wretched
  creatures dare not complain, knowing how it would be visited
  upon them."

In some workhouses many who can work will not; in others the
inmates are confined to such labor as is degrading, such as is a
punishment in prisons, which excites no faculty of attention, or
hope, or sympathy, which contemplates no improvement, namely,
picking oakum, etc., and this lest there should exist some kind
of competition injurious to tradesmen.

As to the "out-door relief" at certain workhouses, Mrs. Jameson
says it was distributed to creatures penned up for hours in foul
air, who waited sullenly for the bread doled out with curses. She
complains again here of the system which brings a brutal and
vulgar power to bear on vulgarity or brutality, the bad and
defective organization to bear on one bad and defective, "so you
increase and multiply and excite, as in a hot-bed, all the
material of evil instead of neutralizing it with good, and, thus
leavened, you turn it out on society to contaminate all around."

Rev. J. S. Brewer, a workhouse chaplain, in his lectures to
ladies on practical subjects, writes of the insensible influence
which the mere presence of ladies, their voice, their common
words, their ordinary manners, their thoughts, all that they
carry unconsciously about them, can exercise on the poor; but
this applies to real ladies, cultivated, gentle, well-born,
well-bred. There are no people more alive to gentle blood and
gentle manners than the English poor. He confirms in other
respects the preceding remarks of Mrs. Jameson, and says of the
children:

  "The disorderly girls and boys of our streets are mainly the
  produce of the workhouse and the workhouse schools. Over them
  the society has no hold, because they have been taught to feel
  that they have nothing in common with their fellow-men. Their
  experience is not of a home or parents, but of a workhouse and
  a governor, of a prison and of a jailer."

Nature exhibits two contrasted methods for controlling that
_tendency to increase of population beyond a due proportion to
the means of subsistence_, which seems to justify in the eyes
of some political economists the partial destruction of the
species by war. One of these methods is extermination; the other,
elevation. Malthus says, in substance: I would share all my
having with the poor. I would proclaim this the duty of the rich,
were it possible, by even enforcing and continuing the most
liberal distribution of goods, while all were working faithfully
to increase the yield of the earth as fast as the mouths that
consume it would multiply; but extensive observation and
experience proves that, the easier life is made for the poor, the
faster they increase; this increase is at a ratio so much greater
than the means of subsistence are capable of reaching, that we
should soon be all paupers unless we restrain each local
population within the ratio of its provisions.

{715}

Malthus understood that high-toned character and uncommon force
of will were essential to the perfection of such restraint. He
invokes the influence of the church and of education to this
effect. One step further, however, in the filiation of ideas
would have led him to perceive a supreme harmony in the
equilibrium between population and subsistence, arising out of
the perfection of organic types and individual characters; so
that _quality is the cure of quantity_.

If it be true, as travellers affirm, that in Europe the
_temperate_ are divided from the _intemperate
populations_ by a curve which, commencing at the eastern
extremity of France, intersects Berlin and terminates at
Sevastopol, being the northern limit of the vine-growing
countries; then, _a fortiori_, will the greatest temperance
be found among peoples whose refinement not only rejects
distilled liquors but the coarser qualities of wine, and will
have either the very best or none.

This law is universal. Compare the order of mammifers, a high
type like man or the elephant, with a low type like the rabbit or
mouse. Species are more prolific with each grade in their
descent. Now compare the order of mammifers with the order of
fishes, passing through the birds and reptiles, embracing all
vertebrate animals; still the lower are more prolific, and
consequently more subject to destruction. Now compare the
vertebrate type with the insect, passing through the articulate.
Still the same increase of numerical ratio down the scale of
life; and when we reach polyps and plants, every section, every
bud, may become a complete organism, and multiplication takes
place by several methods at once--seeds, tubers, roots, suckers,
buds, etc. Follow this law in the science of breeding. Even among
fish, the fat and well-conditioned breed but slowly, and "ponds
of misery" are kept for breeding carps. The history of the
_turf_ verifies similar facts in the physiology of the
horse.

We no longer wonder that the hovels of the suffering poor should
swarm with children; but the analogies of the animal kingdom
encourage us to believe that social and industrial procedures,
which convert these children into Christians and launch them in
the path of a general prosperity, will itself tend to reduce the
ratio of their increase by a method more expedient than those of
war, pestilence, or famine.

In conclusion: If the first of these natural methods of checking
population be adapted to the world of the _fall_--a world of
selfishness and sin--the other method is adapted to the world of
the redemption--a world of Christian co-operation and love of our
neighbor. By the first method, population is reduced so
effectively that the most agreeable portions of the earth's
surface remain almost untouched by human culture. When, by the
triumph of true religion, wars and their consequences cease to
vex humanity, population may increase until it covers the area of
the habitable globe, without danger of starving itself, without
sinking into pauperism. The numerical population of the world may
increase while its actual ratio of propagation is diminished, and
is harmonized with its capacity of production. Such is the logic
of charity, which in relieving suffering aims at the spiritual
elevation of character and the permanent protection of mankind.

              ----------

{716}

           New Publications.


  History Of Louisiana: The American Domination.
  By Charles Gayarré.
  New York: William J. Widdleton. 1866.

This is a handsome 8vo volume of 693 pages, of which 250 are
devoted to the story of the defence of New Orleans by General
Jackson, and 60 pages to a sketch of leading public events from
1816 to 1861. The first chapter opens thus:

  "On the 20th of December, 1803, the colony of Louisiana had
  passed from the domination of Spain into that of the United
  States of America, to which it was delivered by France after a
  short possession of twenty days, as I have related in a former
  work," (_History of Louisiana, Spanish Domination_.)

It is to be regretted, we think, that this relation of the
cession is not given in the volume before us. The causes, the
antecedents, the inevitable necessity of the cession, are all
practically American, and, therefore properly the subject for the
opening chapter of the "American Domination."

We have not seen Mr. Gayarré's preceding volume, but presume he
has well told the story of the cession. It is an interesting one.
Martin's _History of Louisiana_ was very meagre on that
point, and gave, if we remember correctly, little else than the
text of the treaty. True, Martin's book was completed some forty
years ago, when the author had not at hand the materials that now
exist. Barbé Marbois's work was not then published.

The "American Domination," we venture to suggest, should have
opened with at least a sketch or _résumé_ of the state of
facts immediately preceding the cession--the condition of trade
between the Upper Mississippi and New Orleans, the order of
Morales, (October, 1802) closing the river, the supposition
throughout the West that the action of Morales was authorized by
the French government, the excitement caused by it, etc. etc.

The Mississippi to be closed!

It would be difficult at this day to convey an idea of the
consternation and indignant anger of the inhabitants of the Ohio
and Mississippi valleys at the announcement. The country was in a
blaze of excitement. Meetings were held, resolutions passed, and,
what was more significant, rifles were repaired, powder
purchased, and knives sharpened.

When Germany, a few years since, sang and shouted

  "Sie sollen ihn nicht haben,
   den freien Deutschen Rhein,"

war may or may not have been imminent; but when the hunters of
Kentucky and the backwoodsmen of Ohio swore, as they picked their
flint-locks, "They sha'n't have the Mississippi!" the oath meant
business. In their eyes the free navigation of the Father of
Waters is a part of every Western man's heritage, [Footnote 276]
and when he clears a farm in the great valley, the right freely
to carry his produce down to the mouth of the Mississippi is to
him simply what the lawyers would call an _easement_,
passing with the title to his acres.

    [Footnote 276: "No power in the world shall deprive us of
    this right."--_Petition to Congress_.]

Prominent on Mr. Gayarré's pages stands out the figure of
Claiborne, Governor of Louisiana from 1804 to 1816. We rise from
the perusal of Mr. Gayarré's book with a higher estimate than
ever of this distinguished man.

Calm, prudent, wise, temperate, and magnanimous, Claiborne is one
of the most admirable characters in American history.

{717}

When a virulent libel was published against him, on which the
attorney-general thought it his duty to institute suit, Claiborne
wrote him a noble letter requesting him to stop the prosecution,
(p. 227.) "An officer whose hands and motives are pure," he said,
"has nothing to fear from newspaper detraction, or the invectives
of angry and deluded individuals. My conduct in life is the best
answer I can return to my enemies. It is before the public, and
has secured, and will, I am certain, continue to secure me the
esteem and confidence of that portion of society whose
approbation is desirable to an honest man. The lie of the day
gives me no concern. Neglected calumny soon expires; notice it,
and you gratify your calumniators; prosecute it, and it acquires
consequence; punish it, and you enlist in its favor the public
sympathy."

The story of the heroic defence of Fort Bowyer is well and
spiritedly told by Mr. Gayarré, and that of the defence of New
Orleans, in the various skirmishes and battles that for weeks
preceded the grand culminating victory of January 8th, is, for
the first time, clear and intelligible to us. Here Mr. Gayarré
gives us several pages of nervous and picturesque writing. His
description of "the night before the battle," and of the brave
but disastrous charge of the British troops upon the American
line, is excellent in spirit and in detail.

Mr. Gayarré explodes the popular story of the cotton-bale
fortifications. There were none. "Some bales of cotton had been
used to form the cheeks of the embrasures of our batteries, and
notwithstanding the popular tradition that our breastworks were
lined with it, this was the only one," etc. etc. (p. 456.)

The account of the two colored battalions which rendered such
excellent service is interesting, as also Mr. Gayarré's comments
on the celebrated British countersign of "Beauty and Booty."

Mr. Gayarré's history closes with a long paragraph, somewhat in
the same dithyrambic vein that marks the pages of his first
volume of Louisiana. He has, however, greatly improved both in
style and judicious arrangement of matter, and, combining many of
the best qualities of the historian with great aptitude of
research and study, has undoubtedly made a mark in literature,
his state may well be proud of, even though she be amenable to
the reproach conveyed by the author at page 391.

It appears that, in 1814, Governor Claiborne advised one David
McGee in regard to some literary work of the latter: "A love of
letters has not yet gained an ascendency in Louisiana, and I
would advise you to seek for your production the patronage of
some one of the Northern cities."

"How bitter," comments Mr. Gayarré, "is the thought that it is
true! How hard it is for the veracity of the Southern historian
to admit that, even in 1864, a judicious and frank adviser would
be compelled to say to a man of letters, in the language used by
Claiborne in 1814, "I would advise you to seek for your
production the patronage of some one of the Northern cities"!

              ----

  Memorials Of Those Who Suffered For The Faith In Ireland
  in the Sixteenth, Seventeenth, and Eighteenth Centuries.
  By Myles O'Reilly, B.A., LL.D.
  New York: The Catholic Publication Society.
  1 vol. 12mo, pp. 462.

An elegant volume, containing biographies of the martyrs of the
Reformation in Ireland, which we intend to notice at length in a
future number.

              ----

  Lectures On The Life, Writings, And Times Of Edmund Burke.
  By J. B. Robertson, Esq.
  London: John Philp.
  For sale by the Catholic Publication Society,
  126 Nassau Street, New York.

{718}

In this volume, Professor Robertson, as an extremely conservative
monarchist, and as an enthusiastic admirer of what he calls the
"old temperate monarchy," best typified in modern politics by the
government of England, the native land of the lecturer, treats of
the history of the life, writings, and times of Edmund Burke, the
most illustrious Irishman of the eighteenth century, and, in
purely civil affairs of all times, from a monarchical point of
view; and makes his lectures, which he seems to have designed for
a biography of the greatest of British orators and statesmen,
really the medium of an exposition of his own peculiar doctrines
and opinions in the political relation, with such incidental
notices of the immortal Burke as were deemed pertinent to the
illustration and enforcement of the political speculations of the
gifted lecturer, who appears to live and move in utter awe of
"the spirit of revolution," and in utter detestation of "the
sovereignty of the people" and of "the republic." The book is of
value chiefly as showing how the complex affairs known as
constituting the modern world are viewed by an Englishman of fine
culture, eloquent expression, and very conservative instincts and
sympathies.

The book is got out in Mr. Philp's best style; the paper, type,
and binding are faultless.

              ----

  Sadlier's Catholic Directory, Almanac, And Ordo,
  for the year of our Lord 1869.

This work is published in the same style as heretofore, and is,
we presume, about as correct as can be expected of such a
publication. There is one improvement, however, which
_could_ be made at the expense of _one cent_ a copy,
namely, to sew the book instead of _stitching_ it. The way
it is now bound, several pages are defaced by the large holes
punched through the book.

              ----

  A Practical And Theoretical Method
  Of Learning The French Language.
  By A. Biarnois.
  D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1868.

Of all the systems hitherto devised to facilitate the study of
the French language, and at the same time offer to the student a
method which, in its development, will prove attractive to him,
we are inclined to think the present one by M. Biarnois is in
many respects to be preferred.

The idea in the invention of most of the modern systems is a good
one: to give the pupil words and phrases before he is taught the
rules for their grammatical construction. This is the design
proposed by our author, and after an introductory article on
pronunciation he gives us at once a sentence.

  "On nous dit que le Sultan Mahmoud, par ses
   guerres perpétuelles, au dehors et sa tyrannie
   à l'intérieur, avait rempli les
   états de ses ancêtres de mine et de desolation;
   et avait dépeuplé, l'Empire Persan."

This sentence is thoroughly analyzed, which gives him occasion to
explain:
  1. Transposition and contractions of pronouns.
  2. The gender and number of substantives.
  3. Formation of the feminine of adjectives.
  4. Of the plural of adjectives.
  5. Place, elision, and contraction of the article.
  6. Forms of negation.
  7. Possessive pronouns.
  8. Possessive, demonstrative, and indefinite
     adjectives, with many grammatical
     relations of all these.

This is followed by an original set of rules to find French words
to express what we know in English, how to form verbs out of
substantives, and to determine, without a dictionary, the
conjugation to which each of these verbs belongs.

Again we have more phrases, accompanied by running explanatory
notes, and the whole couched in a familiar conversational style
which cannot fail of fixing the attention and impressing the
memory of the student.

The latter half of the work, under the title Recapitulation,
takes up the parts of speech in more regular order.

We confess that for young beginners we would prefer a certain
amount of study in the admirable work of Dr. Emile Otto, as
revised by Mr. Ferdinand Bôcher for English students, before
taking up the method of M. Biarnois. The latter supposes a
considerable advance in the knowledge of the English language,
and he is compelled at the very outset to make use of words and
phrases which, to youthful pupils, might need explanation fully
as much as the corresponding ones in French. But for students in
our colleges, who have already some notion of English or Latin
grammar, we think this grammar of M. Biarnois is one of the best,
and in many respects better than any that have come under our
notice.

             ----

{719}

  Tobacco And Alcohol.
    I. It Does Pay To Smoke
    II. The Coming Man Will Drink Wine.
  By John Fiske, M.A., LL.B.
  New York: Leypoldt & Holt. 1869.

It was hardly possible that Mr. Parton's attack on the "smokers
and drinkers" of this generation should pass without a reply. Mr.
Fiske has sprung into the lists, while yet the gauntlet of the
challenger has scarcely reached the ground, and has begun the
battle with a force and vigor which, to say the least, must
temporarily startle his opposers. Scientifically, he appears to
have the advantage. There is very little of assertion; very much
of authority and argument about him. His manner of dealing with
the sweeping statements of his adversary is more effective than
courteous. His theory of the value of alcohol and tobacco, as
stimulants for daily use, is certainly plausible, and must be
welcome to all who either smoke or drink, or who aspire to do so.
Physiologically, also, it appears sound, and in accordance with
the latest therapeutical discoveries. But it will be indeed a
task of difficulty to lead Mr. Parton, or his sympathizers, into
the belief that either smoking or drinking are profitable to
mankind; a task equalled only by that of bringing smokers and
drinkers to observe that golden mean of temperance which even Mr.
Fiske admits to be of indispensable necessity.

But whatever may be the scientific merits of Mr. Fiske's
treatise, we can but feel that, morally, he is on the losing
side. The advantages and disadvantages of tobacco and alcohol are
to be estimated by their effect upon mankind at large, as mankind
uses and will use them, and not by the medical influence they
exercise when taken by the proper persons, in proper quantities,
at proper times. Many things are _per se_ useful and
beneficial which, _as used_, are sources of great injury and
destruction. Some of these can scarcely be used as they ought by
man in general, but become, almost inevitably, the cause of ruin
and disorder. To this class we believe that tobacco and alcohol
belong. Experience seems to teach that their abuse necessarily
follows from their use, and that, whatever their peculiar
beneficial properties, they have been, and still are, among the
worst enemies of man. For this reason we regret to see any
argument put into the mouths of smokers and drinkers, whereby
they can quiet their own consciences or beguile others into
self-indulgence; and we feel that it were safer and better that
the nerve-power of the individual should waste a little faster,
and the stimulus be denied, than that the misery and wretchedness
which tobacco and alcohol have already occasioned should find
either an increase or an apology.

             ----

  A Book About Dominies:
  Being the Reflections and Recollections of a
  Member of the Profession.
  Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1869.

But for one fault this were a charming book. There is a freshness
and genial warmth about it which is very welcome to the heart of
any one who has ever been "a boy." The keen appreciation of the
"boy nature," of the "boy aspirations," of the "boy troubles,"
which the dominie, whose experience is here narrated, seems to
have possessed, gives a rare relish to his sketches, and makes
his book almost a story of the reader's own youth and school
life. For these merits it will be read not once only but often,
and will serve both to maturity and age as "a tale of the times
of old--a memory of the days of other years."

{720}

The fault of which we speak is the tone of religious
sentimentalism which runs through the whole book, and crops out
in various flings at positive religious faith, and in innumerable
expressions of an unhealthy, mawkish, self-congratulating piety.
Latitudinarianism is bad enough, but when it reaches to the open
contempt of dogma, and elevates the undisguised conceit which
despises all authority and law above the humility which
acknowledges some truth outside its own conclusions, it becomes
the worst possible kind of teaching both for boys and men. It is
difficult to realize that the writer of the substance of this
book should also be the author of these dangerous and
disagreeable sentimentalisms.

----

  An Illustrated History Of Ireland, from the Earliest Period to
  the Present Time.
  With several first-class full-page Engravings of Historical
  Scenes, designed by Henry Doyle, and engraved by George Hanlon
  and George Pearson; together with upward of One Hundred
  Woodcuts, by eminent artists, illustrating Antiquities,
  Scenery, and Sites of Remarkable Events; and three large Maps,
  one of Ireland, and the others of Family Homes, Statistics,
  etc.
  1 vol. 8vo. Nearly 700 pages, extra cloth.
  New York: The Catholic Publication Society,
  126 Nassau Street. 1869.

We are glad to see this new and improved edition of this
excellent history of Ireland. The first edition we noticed at
length, on its appearance, some months ago; but the demand for it
was so great that it was soon exhausted. The distinguished
authoress, (Sister Mary Frances Clare,) having made several
additions and improvements, presents us with a finely illustrated
volume, worthy of a place on the shelves of every library, public
or private, in America.

It is very important that the people of the United States should
study the history of Ireland intelligently. They have, as a
people, too long neglected it; and all the greater portion of
them know about Ireland and her history is that which they have
learned out of their school-books, and vitiated novels. In fact,
our public men, writers and speakers alike, have not thought it
worth their while to read Ireland's history; it was, to many of
them, a country beneath their notice, _except to slander_,
by quoting her history from the biased writers of England. But
those times are passed. We now have good histories enough.
Besides, there is no country of Europe that has sent so many of
her people to populate this country; her children or their
descendants are to be found in every town and hamlet from Maine
to Oregon. It is therefore incumbent on _all_ American
citizens, native or adopted, to study the history of that

  "Isle of ancient fame,"

whose history is almost as old as that of Judea. We trust that
those who have not yet done so will now procure a copy of this
work. Apart from its intrinsic merits, which are manifold, there
is another which is of some importance. It is sold for the
benefit of the Convent of Poor Clares, Kenmare, Ireland, which
institution gives education to hundreds of poor Irish children.

               ----

          Books Received.

From Ivison, Phinney, Blakeman& Co.:

  Analysis of Civil Government: including a topical and tabular
  arrangement of the Constitution of the United States. Designed
  as a class-book for the use of Grammar, High, and Normal
  Schools, Academies, and other institutions of learning.
  By Calvin Townsend, Counsellor-at-Law.
  New York. 1869.


From Lee & Shepard:

  Gloverson and His Silent Partners.
  By Ralph Reder. 1869.

  Words of Hope. "That ye sorrow not, even as others which
  have no hope." 1869.


From J. B. Lippincott & Co.:

  A Few Friends, and how they Amused Themselves.
  A tale in nine chapters; containing descriptions
  of twenty pastimes and games, and a fancy dress party.
  By M. E. Dodge, author of Hans Brinker and The Irvington
  Stories. 1869.


From D. & J. Sadlier & Co.:

  Songs of Ireland and other Lands; being a collection
  of the most popular Irish sentimental and comic songs,
  1 vol. 18mo.


From Charles Scribner & Co., New York:

  Essays on the Progress of Nations, in Civilization,
  Productive Industry, Wealth, and Population, etc.
  By Ezra C. Seaman,
  1 vol. 12mo.


From D. Appleton & Co., New York:

  Mental Science; a Compendium of Psychology, and the
  History of Philosophy.
  By Alexander Bain, M. A.
  1 vol. 12mo.

              ----------

{721}{722}{723}


           The Catholic World.

     Vol. VIII., No. 48.--March, 1869.


  An Apostolic Letter From His Holiness Pope Pius IX.


The letter of the Holy Father which we publish below, in Latin
and English, together with one from Cardinal Barnabo, Prefect of
the Congregation of the Propaganda, have just been received from
Rome. The readers of _The Catholic World_, and those persons
especially who have taken an active interest in, and have
generously contributed to, the establishment of the Paulist
Congregation, the Publication Society, and other associated
works, will doubtless feel gratified and encouraged by the
approving words with which the Holy Father has deigned to give
them his sanction and apostolic blessing. These gracious words of
the Vicar of Jesus Christ ought to encourage us all to redoubled
efforts for the advancement of our holy religion, and such, we
trust, will be their influence.


  Admodum R. D.:

  Cum Sanctissimus Dominus Noster non levi inter quibus afficitur
  acerbitates jucunditate ex pluribus nunciis acceperit, D. Tuam
  per Catholicos ephemerides curam omnem impendere ad religionis
  nostrae sanctissimae studium fovendum, ad falsas doctrinas
  refellendas, et ad hujus Apostolicae Sedis jura tuenda, aliquod
  suae paternae dilectionis testimonium voluit exhibere. Pergratum
  proinde erit D. Tuae literas Sanctitatis suae hisce adjectas
  reperire, quibus factum iri confido ut majori usque studio et
  alacritate inceptum opus prosequaris.

  Cui quidem benevolae, quam Sanctissimus Pater erga Te testari
  voluit, voluntati propensionis meae significationes addens, Deum
  precor ut D. Tuae fausta quaeque largiatur.

  Romae, ex Aed. S. Cong. de Prop.
  Fide, die 5 Januarii, MDCCCLXIX.

  D. Tuae.
    Addictissimus,
      Al. C. Barnabo, Pr.

  [Transcriber's note: English translation.]

  Very Reverend Sir:

  Inasmuch as the Sovereign Pontiff, our Holy Father the Pope, amid
  his many afflictions, has received great joy at hearing, through
  many different sources, that your Reverence is taking such great
  care to spread the knowledge of our most holy religion through
  Catholic publications, adapted to refute false doctrine and to
  defend the rights of this Apostolic See, he has desired to give
  you a testimony of his paternal affection. Accordingly, it will
  be most pleasing to your Reverence to receive, together with
  this, the letter of his Holiness, by which I trust you may be
  encouraged to pursue the work you have undertaken with still
  greater zeal and alacrity.

  Adding to the sentiments of good will which the Holy Father
  declares toward you, the expression of my own regard, I pray God
  that He may grant to your Reverence every kind of prosperity.

  Rome, Office of the S. Cong.
  of the Propaganda, January 5th,
  MDCCCLXIX.

    Most affectionately,
       Al. C. Barnabo, PR.

----

  Dilecto Filio, I. T. Hecker, Presbytero
  Ac Rectori Missionariorum Collegii
  A S. Paulo Nuncup., Neo-eboracum.

       PIUS, PP. IX.

  Dilecte Fili, salutem et Apostolicam Benedictionem. Gaudemus,
  Dilecte Fili, te tui propositi memorem voce scriptisque
  constanter adlaborare propagandae Catholicae religioni
  dissipandisque errorum tenebris; ac tibi gratulamur ex animo de
  incrementis, quae initis a te operibus accessisse discimus.
  Scilicet confertae illae conciones, ubi Catholicam exposuisti
  doctrinam, quaeque tui desiderium ita fecerunt aliis, ut ad
  nobiliores ac frequentiores inviteris; existimatio, quam apud
  ipsos dissentientes ephemeridi tuae CATHOLIC WORLD eruditio et
  perspicuitas compararunt; aviditas qua passim expetuntur editi a
  Societate Catholica, per te coacta, libelli; novi sodales, qui
  culturae a te susceptae fines latius porrecturi, dant familiae
  tuae nomen; alumni tandem, qui in idem opus, se tibi tradunt
  excolendos, totidem sunt amplissimi fructus et diserti testes
  zeli solertiaeque tuae, ac coelestis illius favoris, quo coepta
  tua foecundantur. Quod sane facile intelliges quam jucundum Nobis
  contingere debeat, qui id potissimum optamus, ut evangelium
  nuncietur omni creaturae, ut sedentes in umbra mortis ad viam
  salutis adducantur, ut demum destructis erroribus universis,
  ubique veritatis regnum constituatur, in quo justitia et pax se
  invicem osculantes, humanae familiae reddant ordinis
  tranquillitatem jamdiu a monstrosis opinionum commentis abactam.
  Dum itaque studia tua, et eorum, qui tibi opere, subsidio,
  ingenio opitulantur, libentissime commendamus, maximas Deo
  gratias agimus, quod ipsis obsecundare voluerit; eumque rogamus,
  ut gratiae suae virtute, novos tibi jam currenti veluti stimulos
  addat, aliosque atque alios adjutores tibi conciliet, qui tecum
  industriam viresque suas conferant in commune Christiani populi
  bonum. Coelestis vero favoris auspicem, et paternae nostrae
  benevolentiae testem Apostolicam Benedictionem tibi tuaeque
  Missionariorum familiae peramanter impertimus.

  Datum Romae apud S. Petrum
  die 30 Decembris, 1868, Pontificatus
  Nostri Anno XXIII.

  [Transcriber's note: English translation.]

  To My Beloved Son, I. T. Hecker,
  Priest And Superior Of The Missionary Congregation Of St. Paul,
  New York.

        PIUS IX., POPE.

  Beloved Son, health and apostolic benediction. We rejoice,
  beloved son, that you, mindful of your purpose, labor
  continually, by your word and writings, to spread the Catholic
  religion, and to scatter the darkness of error; and We heartily
  congratulate you upon the increase which, as We have been
  informed, the works undertaken by you have received. Undoubtedly
  those thronged assemblies where you have set forth the Catholic
  doctrine, and have thereby excited in others such a desire to
  hear you, that you are invited to address audiences still larger
  and more notable; the esteem which your periodical, THE CATHOLIC
  WORLD, has, through its erudition and perspicuity, acquired, even
  among those who differ from us; the eagerness with which the
  tracts and books of The Catholic Publication Society, established
  by you, are everywhere sought for; the new associates who enroll
  themselves in your congregation to extend more widely the good
  work you have undertaken; finally, the students who offer
  themselves to you to be educated for the same work, all these are
  so many abundant fruits and eloquent witnesses of your zeal and
  skill, and of the divine favor through which your undertakings
  are made fruitful. You will easily understand, of course, how
  gratifying this must be to Us, who desire, above all things, that
  the gospel should be preached to every creature; that those who
  sit in the shadow of death should be brought into the way of
  salvation; that, in fine, all errors being destroyed, the reign
  of truth should be everywhere established; in which justice and
  peace, kissing each other, may restore to the human family the
  tranquillity of order, so long banished by the extravagances of
  error. While, therefore, We most cordially commend your zealous
  efforts, and those of your associates who contribute to the
  success of the same by their labor, their gifts, or their
  talents, We give especial thanks to God that He has condescended
  to second them, and We pray Him that, by the power of His grace,
  He may stimulate still more your already strenuous exertions; and
  may give you more and more associates who, with you, shall bestow
  their industry and strength on the common good of the Christian
  people. And as a token of the divine favor, and an evidence of
  Our paternal good will, We impart most affectionately to you, and
  to your congregation of missionaries, Our apostolic benediction.

  Given at Rome, at St. Peter's, on the 30th of December, 1868, in
  the twenty-third year of Our Pontificate.

      Pius IX., Pope.

                ----------

{724}

        The Progress of Nations. [Footnote 277]

    [Footnote 277: _Essays on Mm Progress of Nations, in
    Civilization, Productive Industry, Wealth, and Population_.
    By Ezra C. Seaman. First and Second Series, 12 mo.
    PP. 645, 659. New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1868.]


The first series of the Essays which compose these two stout
volumes appeared as long ago as 1846, and has now been revised,
amended, and enlarged, and, after being long out of print,
republished in connection with a second collection similar in
character and general design. Mr. Seaman's purpose has been to
inquire into the principal causes of the welfare of nations, such
as morality, education, personal and political liberty,
commercial, mechanical, and agricultural development, and those
natural conditions of climate and geographical position which man
has no power to modify, and to show how these causes have
operated at various times and in various countries. To the
adequate treatment of so vast a theme, there should be brought
the labor of a life-time, the learning of a ripe scholar, and the
intellect of a philosopher. Mr. Seaman, we must frankly say, has
brought neither of the three. He has attempted what not one man
in a thousand would be wise to attempt; and if he has failed, he
has at any rate failed in very respectable company. The essays
are crude and fragmentary. They lack a sustained train of thought
and logical connection; they are encumbered with commonplaces and
repetitions; and the statistical and historical illustrations
with which they are thickly interwoven have the disadvantage of
being borrowed from sources that convey no weight of authority.
Citations from incompetent witnesses carry no force, but rather
weaken the effect of an author's statements.

The fundamental fault of Mr. Seaman's work is not its raggedness,
however; but it is the misapprehension, with which he starts, of
the meaning of his subject. He understands "Progress" merely as
material prosperity. "Civilization" means nothing in his mind but
"Productive Industry, Wealth, and Population." That people is the
most advanced which owns the most money and wears the best
clothes. The destiny of man is commerce and manufactures. The end
of civil society is the acquisition of wealth. Liberty is good
because it leaves man free to invent telegraphs and railroads.
Government is good because trade would be impossible without it.
Education is valuable because it stimulates production and
regulates industry. Religion is respectable because it develops
the intellectual faculties, and teaches us to restrain the
appetites whose free indulgence would undermine the constitution
or injure our fellow-man. We do not mean to say that Mr. Seaman
teaches these doctrines in so many words. He does not know that
he teaches them at all. If he ever sees this article, he will no
doubt be shocked at our interpretation of his argument. Yet,
pushed to their fair and by no means remote conclusions, these
are the teachings to which his essays amount. He seems to forget
that man was created to know and love God and promote the divine
glory, and that is the highest state of civilization in which he
most perfectly fulfils the end of his creation. There is no true
progress except toward this end.
{725}
There is no real prosperity, where this heavenly destiny is lost
sight of. There is no education which keeps it not constantly in
view. Mr. Seaman treats religion merely as an agency for the
development of civilization, whereas it is the very essence of
civilization itself. He thinks of the worship of God as a useful
mental exercise, which sharpens a man's wits and makes him keener
at a bargain. One who has practised his brain in theological
controversy must of necessity be the clearer-headed when he has
to decide between free-trade and protection, or calculate the
rate of exchange and the fluctuations of stocks. But theology is
not worship. Religion is a matter of the affections as well as
the intellect. The unlettered peasant can praise God, and is
bound to praise God, no less than the scholar. A purely
intellectual religion could not be of divine origin, since it
would only be suitable for a small minority of the human race; it
could not be the great business of every man's life, as religion
must be, if it is worth anything at all. "Happiness, in a future
world as well as in this," says Mr. Seaman, "is the sovereign
good of man, and constitutes the end and chief purpose of his
existence." That statement may pass if you understand happiness
to consist in the promotion of the divine glory; but not if you
place it in bank-notes and steam-engines. These seem to be the
goal of progress in our author's eyes, and he looks at nothing
beyond them.

With his false conceptions of the nature of society and religion,
it is not surprising that Mr. Seaman should thoroughly
misapprehend the work and purpose of that divinely organized
church to which we owe all the true civilization there is in the
world, and all the progress we have ever made. The only thread of
thought which can be clearly discerned running through his
essays, is the idea that Catholicism is the great enemy of
civilization. We wish it were quite as clear by what line of
argument he purposes to prove it. In one chapter, the church is
an enemy to education because she does not teach the people
enough. In another she is the enemy of free thought because she
teaches them too much. Now her offence is neglect, now it is
overmuch care. We don't see how it can be both.

"A part," he says, "and one of the most efficient parts of
government in all civilized countries, consists in the education
of the people." And he argues the necessity of education from the
fact that "the great mass of mankind ... are guided by imitation,
precedent, and the instruction of others." They have very few
ideas except those which are put into their heads by better
educated people, or are derived directly from the senses. "Such
people in all countries are under the influence and control ...
of the aristocracy, the clergy, the members of the learned
professions, and the military and civil officers of government."
The policy of the pope and the priesthood, he complains, is to
retain the masses in a state of ignorance. "The Bible is kept
from them; they are denied the right to read, and exercise their
own individual judgments in matters of religion, but must allow
their priests to read, think, and judge for them, and to form
their opinions; and no efforts are made by the priests to
establish common schools, or to teach the common people anything
beyond the catechism, and the ceremonies and dogmas of religion,
and absolute, unconditional submission in all things to their
priests and rulers.
{726}
Their whole efforts in matters of education are directed to
founding colleges and high-schools, for training up young men for
the priesthood, and instructing and breathing their opinions into
the children and youth of the aristocracy and the wealthy
classes." Now, before we go any further, let us prick a few of
the mistakes in this paragraph. There are so many we hardly know
how to begin.

1. The Bible is _not_ kept from the common people. It is
freely circulated in the vernacular, and our current English
version is older than the translation of King James. From the
time, in fact, when Bishop Ulphilas in the fifth century
translated the Bible into the Gothic tongue, down to our own day,
it has been the constant practice of the church to supply the
faithful with correct translations of the Holy Scriptures. The
use of false and garbled versions is indeed forbidden; but that
is another matter altogether.

2. Catholics are _not_ forbidden to read (!), nor do their
priests claim the right to read and think for them, or to form
their opinions. Mr. Seaman's statements on these points are so
preposterous that in his cooler moments we suppose he is sorry
for having made them.

3. Efforts have _always_ been made by our clergy to
establish schools for the common people. The first work of the
parish priest after he has built his church is to build a
school-house. The free education of the children of the poor has
the next place in his care to the service of the altar. There is
not a step in the whole system of education, from the
alphabet-class to the highest university cursus [Footnote 278],
to which the Catholic Church does not devote the labor of some
religious order or congregation, blessed and sanctioned and
assisted by the supreme Pontiff.

    [Footnote 278: Transcriber's note: "course"]

She does not confine, she never has confined, her solicitude to
theological studies or the education of the rich. Teaching the
poor has been the chosen labor and chief glory of hundreds of her
saints, and is now the crowning work of many a flourishing order,
such as the Sisters of Charity, the Brethren of the Christian
Schools, and similar organizations, the prime object of which, be
it remarked, is the education not of the upper classes but of the
mass of the population. The Jesuits are more celebrated for their
colleges and higher seminaries than for rudimentary schools; but
they too have their primary classes in all places where there is
both need and opportunity for them; and even in their colleges
where every student is supposed to pay for his education, a
system of gratuitous instruction is pursued with a delicate
secrecy designed to spare the poor scholar any possible
mortification. Of course it is chiefly "the masses" who profit by
this hidden charity. Even Mr. Seaman himself, in another part of
his book, interrupts his censure of religious orders in general
by a confession that many of the communities of monks and nuns
have done good by devoting themselves to the education of the
young: if he had not confessed it, indeed, he must have been a
marvel of ignorance or dishonesty. With the history of the
common-school agitation led by Bishop Hughes in New York so fresh
in mind, he must be a bold partisan who would deny our anxiety to
keep in the very van of educational progress. The Catholic demand
for a share of the school fund was in reality a demand for the
admission of our parochial schools to the common school system of
the State. We were ready, nay anxious, to carry out the State
programme of instruction to its fullest extent, and admit the
State inspectors and examiners to scrutinize our operations
whenever they saw fit.
{727}
But sectarian bigotry has imposed a double tax upon our efforts
for the education of our children, and rather than we should
teach them about God opposes our teaching them anything at all.
We do the best we can. We pay our tax for the support of the
schools we do not approve; we pay another voluntary tax for such
parish schools as our poverty can afford; and if these are too
small to receive our children and too poor to do as much for them
as they would be glad to do, the fault is not ours but the law's,
which deprives us of the aid to which we are justly entitled from
the common fund. One thing is clear to every dispassionate
observer: the Catholics do twice as much for education as any
other denomination--nay, do that which no other denomination
would think of attempting. A state system of gratuitous
instruction is often referred to as one of the exclusive boons of
Protestantism. Well, in how many of the great countries of the
world, besides our own, is such a system known? Only in France
and Austria, which are Catholic, and in Prussia and Scotland,
which are Protestant. Protestant England has done less for
popular education, and has consequently a more grossly ignorant
peasantry than any other country on the globe equally advanced in
general civilization. Her great universities and grammar-schools
are the relics of Catholic foundations. The half a million of
pounds annual income which they enjoy is drawn from Catholic
endowments, perverted from their ancient uses; and it is
estimated that not more than three-fifths of this sum is actually
made available for educational purposes in any way whatever. So
shamelessly have these legacies of the ancient faith been
misapplied, that there are masters drawing large salaries for
presiding over schools which have no scholars, and a few years
ago it was found that the teachers of 708 inferior schools and 35
grammar-schools signed their returns with a mark! Of late the
government has made efforts for a reform, and the various
dissenting sects have also done a great deal in the establishment
of denominational schools; but no general system of popular
instruction has yet been devised. Popular education in fact is a
purely Catholic idea, almost as old as Christianity itself, and
the germ of the modern common-school system was in the bosom of
the ancient church. "After the introduction of Christianity,"
says _The American Cyclopaedia_, (art. "Common Schools,")
"and its accession to power, the duty of the authorities to
educate the young was speedily recognized by the bishops and
clergy. The object of this education was of course their training
in the doctrines of Christianity, but it was the first
recognition of the duty of giving instruction to the masses. As
early as A.D. 529 we find the council of Vaison recommending the
establishment of public schools. In 800 a synod at Mentz ordered
that the parochial priests should have schools in the towns and
villages, that 'the little children of all the faithful should
learn letters from them. Let them receive and teach these with
the utmost charity, that they themselves may shine for ever. Let
them receive no remuneration from their scholars, unless what the
parents through charity may voluntarily offer." A council at Rome
in 836 ordained that there should be three kinds of schools
throughout Christendom: episcopal, parochial in towns and
villages, and others wherever there could be found place and
opportunity. The Council of Lateran in 1179 ordained the
establishment of a grammar-school in every cathedral for the
gratuitous instruction of the poor.
{728}
This ordinance was enlarged and enforced by the Council of Lyons
in 1245. Thus originated the popular or common school as an
outgrowth of the Christian Church. "A council of the 16th century
speaks of schools in the priests' houses, and the decretals
abound in mention of popular instruction as one of the first
duties of the clergy and one of the traditional and most ancient
glories of the church. "If the important knowledge of reading and
writing was spread among the people," says the socialist
philosopher St. Simon, "it was owing to the church." If that
knowledge, during the political and social disorders of the
middle ages became so difficult of attainment that only a favored
few could acquire it, it was the church alone who kept the sacred
flame of learning alive in the schools and the cloisters,
maintained the great universities and grammar classes in the
midst of the most turbulent periods; and when society
crystallized again into order, brought forth the treasure of
knowledge which she had guarded so long, and gave it to the
world. [Footnote 279]

    [Footnote 279:  See _The Catholic World_ for
    February, 1869-art. "The Ignorance of the Middle Ages."]

Nearly all the most famous institutions of learning in Europe are
of Catholic foundation. Rome is especially well provided with
schools, and the Roman College gives free instruction in the
classics and the sciences. And in "the face of all these
facts--knowing as he must know if he has studied the "progress of
nations" with a particle of intelligence, that the Catholic
Church has been the most munificent patron of learning the world
ever saw--Mr. Seaman has the sublime effrontery to say that "no
effort has ever been made in any Catholic country to educate the
mass of the people or any of the common classes, except some few
selected by the priests, to be educated and trained for the
ministry," and that "the great body of Catholics seem to be
studiously kept in profound ignorance, that they may be managed
and governed the more easily"! It seems to us it would be a good
and a just thing if the penalties against malpractice by which
the law protects the medical profession from ignorant charlatans
could be extended to the profession of literature. There is a
graceful compliment to the literature of the Catholic Church in
Matthew Arnold's essay on "The Pagan and Mediaeval Religious
Sentiment." For the benefit of Mr. Seaman and his class we cite
the passage nearly at full length:

  "In spite of all the shocks which the feeling of a good
  Catholic has in this Protestant country inevitably to undergo,
  in spite of the contemptuous insensibility to the grandeur of
  Rome which he finds so general and so hard to bear, how much
  has he to console him, how many acts of homage to the greatness
  of his religion, may he see if he has his eyes open! I will
  tell him of one of them. Let him go, in London, to that
  delightful spot, that Happy Island in Bloomsbury, the
  reading-room of the British Museum. Let him visit its sacred
  quarter, the region where its theological books are placed. I
  am almost afraid to say what he will find there, for fear Mr.
  Spurgeon, like a second Caliph Omar, should give the library to
  the flames. He will find an immense Catholic work, the
  collection of the Abbé Migne, lording it over that whole
  region, reducing to insignificance the feeble Protestant forces
  which hang upon its skirts. Protestantism is duly represented,
  indeed; Mr. Panizzi knows his business too well to suffer it to
  be otherwise; all the varieties of Protestantism are there;
  there is the library of Anglo-Catholic Theology, learned,
  decorous, exemplary, but a little uninteresting; there are the
  works of Calvin, rigid, militant, menacing; there are the works
  of Dr. Chalmers, the Scotch thistle, valiantly doing duty as
  the rose of Sharon, but keeping something very Scotch about it
  all the time; there are the works of Dr. Channing, the last
  word of religious philosophy in a land where every one has some
  culture, and where superiorities are discountenanced--the
  flower of moral and intelligent mediocrity.
{729}
   But how are all these divided against one another, and how,
   though they were all united, are they dwarfed by the Catholic
   leviathan, their neighbor! Majestic in its blue and gold
   unity, this fills shelf after shelf and compartment after
   compartment, its right mounting up into heaven among the white
   folios of the _Acta Sanctorum_, its left plunging down
   into hell among the yellow octavos of the _Law Digest_.
   Everything is there, in that immense _Patrologiae Cursus
   Completus_, in that _Encyclopédie Théologique_, that
   _Nouvelle Encyclopédie Théologique_, that _Troisième
   Encyclopédie Théologique_; religion, philosophy, history,
   biography, arts, sciences, bibliography, gossip. The work
   embraces the whole range of human interests; like one of the
   great middle-age cathedrals, it is in itself a study for a
   life. Like the net in Scripture, it drags everything to land,
   bad and good, lay and ecclesiastical, sacred and profane, so
   that it be but matter of human concern. Wide-embracing as the
   power whose product it is! a power, for history, at any rate,
   eminently _the Church_; not, I think, the church of the
   future, but indisputably the church of the past, and in the
   past, the church of the multitude.

  "This is why the man of imagination--nay, and the philosopher,
  too, in spite of her propensity to burn him--will always have a
  weakness for the Catholic Church; because of the rich treasures
  of human life which have been stored within her pale. The
  mention of other religious bodies, or of their leaders, at once
  calls up in our mind the thought of men of a definite type as
  their adherents; the mention of Catholicism suggests no such
  special following. Anglicanism suggests the English Episcopate;
  Calvin's name suggests Dr. Candlish; Chalmers's, the Duke of
  Argyll; Channing's, Boston Society; but Catholicism suggests
  --what shall I say?--all the pellmell of the men and women of
  Shakespeare's plays. This abundance the Abbé Migne's collection
  faithfully reflects. People talk of this or that work which
  they would choose, if they were to pass their life with only
  one; for my part, I think I would choose the Abbé Migne's
  collection. _Quicqnid agunt homines_--everything, as I
  have said, is there."

But Mr. Seaman complains, not only that the Catholic Church
neglects to teach the people, but that she neglects to let them
alone. Not only has she never had any schools, but she has had
too many schools. She has taken no care of education, and
moreover she has meddled officiously with popular instruction
when she ought to have confined herself to masses and sermons.
The clergy, being for long ages the only teachers of letters,
science, philosophy, and religion, acquired an influence over
men's conduct and opinions which can only be regarded as
unfortunate. Yet, a little while ago, he said that in all
conditions of society the majority of mankind are ruled by the
thoughts and instructions of others, and that education is one of
the most important parts of government. Is it better that this
tremendous influence should be exerted by the wisest and most
virtuous class, or by those who are eminent only because they are
the most powerful? If any set of men are to mould the opinions of
the rest, should they not be the men who are best qualified by
study and by sacred pursuits to exercise that function with
intelligence and sincerity? We believe that when the child passes
from the hands of the parent, its best guides are the servants of
the church who have devoted themselves to the training of the
young in order that they may do good to their fellow creatures
and give glory to God. Mr. Seaman would entrust this sacred duty
to pot-house politicians, who covet office for the sake of gain.
The theory of a paternal government, which watches over all our
relations in life, and rears children to be good citizens, may be
all very well; but we know what governments are in practice, and
petty office-holders are the last men we should want to trust
with moulding the opinions of society. There is something too
demoralizing in the means by which they generally get their
places; and, after they have got them, how many are fit for them?
{730}
It is the duty of government to promote education and general
culture, that is very true; but _how_ this ought to be done
is another question. Mr. Seaman says the proper way is to remove
children from the influence of the two institutions which God has
designed for their guides and educators--the family and the
church--and to put them under the control of place-hunters, who
may possibly have a special talent for instruction, but are just
as likely to be fools and rogues. But he has no arguments to
support his opinions, and it is not worth while to answer sheer
dogmatism.

Mr. Seaman is not satisfied with once gravely declaring that "in
all Roman Catholic countries education by means of schools and
books is confined to the wealthy classes," and then blaming the
priests for interfering with the secular studies of the people
instead of confining themselves to religious teaching; asserting
that the Church has "usurped the whole domain of metaphysics and
philosophy," and yet that she has never done anything for
education at all; praising the Presbyterians of Scotland for
making schools a part of their religious establishment, so that
the young might be instructed "in the principles of religion,
grammar, and the Latin tongue," and upbraiding the church because
centuries earlier she had done the same thing; but he returns
time and again to the same misstatements and the same
contradictions. During the Dark Ages, he says, coming back again
to the Bible question, "the Scriptures were in the possession of
those only who were learned in the dead languages. _They had
never been translated into any of the modern languages._ A
good explanation of this remarkable fact may possibly be that the
modern languages, at the period to which Mr. Seaman refers, had
not yet taken a literary form. He probably means to say that the
sacred books had not been translated into the vernacular of any
people. If he does, he makes a great mistake. In the first place,
the Latin Vulgate was by no means a sealed volume. That version
had been made expressly to render the Scriptures accessible to
all. The tongue into which it was turned was the one most
generally understood by whoever had education enough to read any
book at all; and during the so-called Dark Ages, Latin was still
in common use all over the continent of Europe. It was not then a
dead language, so far as books were concerned, though in the
conversation of common life it had passed out of use. Moreover,
as we have already seen, translations of the Bible into other
languages were made as fast as those languages took shape.
Translations of the New Testament were made very early into all
the tongues then spoken by Christians. Portions of the Scriptures
were turned into Saxon by Adhelm, Egbert, the Venerable Bede, and
others, between the 8th and 10th centuries; and there was a
complete English version as early as 1290, that is to say, 90
years before Wycliffe's, which Hallam erroneously calls the
earliest. The first book printed at Guttenberg's press was a
Latin Bible, and in Italy, under the very eye of the church,
there were translations in use in the 15th century. The popular
fable that Luther first threw open the sacred book to the world
is one of the most mischievous falsehoods in history.

On almost every page we find errors hardly less monstrous. "Not
one valuable invention, discovery, or improvement," says Mr.
Seaman, "during the last three centuries and a half, has
originated where the human mind has been subject to Catholicism
.... and the same may be said of jurisprudence, government, and
science, as well as the useful arts."
{731}
The impudence of this assertion is enough to take away one's
breath. France, then, has done nothing for the arts or for
science, Catholic Germany has done nothing, Belgium has done
nothing, Italy has done nothing. Nay, more; if the Church for
three hundred and fifty years has blighted material progress, if
the Catholic clergy during that time have, as our amazingly
ignorant author declares, "restrained the human mind from the
prosecution of new discoveries in natural science under pretence
that the new opinions promulgated were contrary to Scripture, and
therefore impious and heretical," how does it happen that the
world made any discoveries at all before that period? Why, does
Mr. Seaman forget that the art of printing itself, the greatest
invention of all time, dates from that "dark age" when the power
of the Church was at its height, and Luther had not yet arisen,
and that its first use was in the service of the sanctuary? Does
he forget that Copernicus was a Catholic priest? that some of the
most brilliant of modern discoveries in the positive sciences, in
astronomy, in medicine, in natural philosophy, have emanated from
Catholic Italy and France, and that the science of jurisprudence,
to which he especially refers, owes more to those two countries
and Germany than to all the rest of the world? The case of
Galileo, to which of course he alludes, has so recently been
examined in two elaborate articles in this magazine that we need
give but little space to it here. It is enough to say that
although the Florentine philosopher was forbidden to wrest
Scripture to the support of his theory, and was censured for his
disobedience of a solemn obligation to let theology alone and
confine himself to science, the Church stood throughout his
patron and protector, and the Pope and the Cardinals were the
most zealous among his disciples. Mr. Seaman's statement that
"when Galileo taught in Italy the Copernican system of astronomy
as late as the year 1633, it was decided by the POPE and a
COUNCIL OF CATHOLIC CARDINALS AND BISHOPS" that the doctrine was
absurd and heretical, and he was "consigned to the
_dungeons_ of the INQUISITION and compelled to recant and
abjure his opinions in order to save his life," (the capitals and
Italics are Mr. Seaman's,) is a plain up-and-down falsehood.
There is no justification of it in any reputable history. "The
Pope and a council of Catholic Cardinals and Bishops" never
pronounced any judgment whatever either upon Galileo or his
doctrines, and never had anything to do with the affair. The
judgment, such as it was, expressed merely the opinion of the
"qualifiers," or examiners of the Inquisition--an irresponsible
committee attached to a civil tribunal, whose report carried no
theological weight, and no more represented the doctrine of the
Church, or the sentiments of Pope, Cardinals, and Bishops than
the Munchausenisms of Mr. Seaman represent the sober verdict of
history. The Church is not to be reproached for the blunders of
her individual members. Moreover, Galileo never was consigned to
the "dungeons of the Inquisition," and never was in peril of his
life.

The course of Mr. Seaman's argument leads him to a sketch of the
constitution and history of the church, and here he wanders in
such a maze of error, that it is bewildering to follow him.
{732}
He tells us that the Pope and the bishops have the most absolute
and unlimited power over the inferior clergy, sending them
wherever they choose, and appointing and removing them at
pleasure, and that the Pope exercises similar authority over the
bishops. Has our learned historian ever heard of such a thing as
_canon law_, which secures to the inferior clergy a perfect
immunity from arbitrary interference by their superiors, and
which is in force all over the Christian world, except in new
countries, where the church is yet too young to complete her
organization? He tells us that the church invented and upholds
the doctrine of the divine right of kings, and teaches that the
people are bound to submit passively under all circumstances, and
that no amount or continuance of oppression and tyranny can
justify resistance or rebellion in any case whatever. All history
contradicts this statement--contradicts it so plainly that we can
hardly account for the author's temerity. If we had the patience
to read his book straight through, we should probably find him on
some other page blaming the Popes for encouraging rebellion and
insurrection. As it is, he declares that "this tyrannical and
despotic doctrine, ... is the work of the clergy of a
comparatively modern period, and as late as the year 1682 the
University of Oxford, in England, adopted it." We presume Mr.
Seaman is aware that Oxford University in 1682 was
_Protestant_. He tells us that the Catholic Church is a
cruel and persecuting church, and refers to the penal statutes
against heresy, which were in force in England, from the 14th to
the 16th century, and under which, during the reign of Queen
Mary, "several hundred persons were burned;" but he seems not to
know that _all_ denominations, in those cruel times,
persecuted one another impartially; that Henry VIII. had set Mary
the example, and Elizabeth was a worthy follower of her father
and Calvin and the continental reformers were as bad as "bloody
Mary," and even the Protestant settlers of America had little
conception of the principle of religious freedom, until it was
taught them by the Catholics of Maryland. He declares that the
persecution of heretical sects during the 4th, 5th, and 6th
centuries, and the tyranny of the ecclesiastical aristocracy were
the actual causes of the decline of the Roman empire. This is too
much! Why, the commencement of the decline dates from the second
century, and the Roman ascendency was entirely overthrown by the
middle of the fourth; and during this period of decay, the church
had no power in the state, but was herself persecuted and driven
into the darkness of caverns.

We have spoken our mind plainly about this book, because we think
it is one of a class that deserve no mercy. A man who sets
himself to write history without consulting even the ordinary
sources of historical information commits an offence against
truth and against society. Ignorance does not excuse him.
Ignorance in such a case is a crime. Of course we do not suppose
that Mr. Seaman intentionally makes false statements. But he
makes random statements which the slightest examination would
have satisfied him were false. He was bound to undertake such an
examination, and not having done it, he bears the responsibility
of the falsehood. The passage we have already cited about Galileo
is a good example of what we mean. There is no color of authority
for the erroneous version of the case which Mr. Seaman gives.
{733}
He could only have evolved that story out of a vague impression
that the Pope and the Cardinals had done some very cruel and
illiberal thing to the philosopher; and he must have put it into
the words he used, because he considered those words effective in
representing the action of the church in a black aspect. But the
errors are very serious ones. They amount to the assertion that
the church has declared a scientific fact to be a theological
heresy. If this were true, the church would be no church. Not
being true, the words amount to a gross slander. If Mr. Seaman,
having been educated in a prejudice against Catholics, and
believing that they are cruel and vindictive people who ought to
be excluded from good society, should print a pamphlet, charging
the Archbishop of New York and his Vicar-General, and the editors
of _The Tablet_ and _The Catholic World_ with a
conspiracy to torture or murder the Rev. Dr. Prime, the fact that
he thought it probable the accusation _might_ be true, would
be no justification, and would not save him from the consequences
of a libel suit. The author who is guilty of slander in writing
the history of the past, cannot be mulcted in damages like the
criminal who carelessly destroys a private character; but he
deserves to be placed in the pillory of moral criticism and to be
held as a literary outlaw.

          ----------

      The Silent Clock.


  Its sounds were hushed by weeping love,
  A sad heart bade it cease to move,
  And one long hour of sorrow prove.

  A heart and it did beat their last,
  A trembling hand before it passed,
  And endless silence on it cast.

  A spectre from the silent lands,
  A shadow of life's grief it stands,
  Still pleading with uplifted hands,

  Whose awful stillness seems to say;
  Here was the closing of his day--
  Here was the loosing of the clay.

  Forget not one, of old so dear,
  Lift up your hearts for him in prayer
  As we are ever lifted here.

{734}

  It shames the soul--that silent clock,
  Its mournful muteness seems to mock
  The love we thought no years could shock.

  Our sighs and tears of fond distress
  Have changed to smiles of happiness
  It stands unchanged, dumb, motionless!

                              Geraldine.
             ----------

    Who Shall Take Care Of Our Poor?

              No. II.


The point of view in which we propound this problem is that of
the adequacy of the Christian Church, by its organic
institutions, to counteract, in America, those social and
political aberrations which, in the eastern hemisphere, have
developed and maintained the scourge of pauperism. On this
question, history is prophecy; an incomplete prophecy, yet
containing all the principles of action which a plastic
intelligence and fresh inspiration from its fountain life may
enable the church to adapt to our present exigencies.

Under myriad forms and faces, pauperism is the sphinx that
devours every society which cannot, within a certain time, find
its solution, unless wars have anticipated its fate.

Result of international wars, and source of intestine wars--those
irruptions of organized crime--pauperism is the ulcer on the leg
of civilization which betrays the impurity of its blood.

It behoves us on the threshold of this inquiry to distinguish
between accidental impoverishment, and pauperism as an organic
malady, which develops, as in Great Britain, _pari passu_
with population and even with the increase of wealth.

An earthquake devastates Peru, prostrates its cities and destroys
its harvests: its inhabitants suffer the greatest privations, but
having ready access to the soil in that prolific climate, little
or no chronic pauperism will result. The white population of our
immense South has been recently reduced by war to an extreme
distress. Flanders, Germany, France, the most prosperous
countries of Europe, have been scourged still more severely; yet
industrious generations suffice to efface the trace of war.
Pestilences, which decimate the population of a country, yet
respect property, and do not pauperize the survivors, but the
contrary; for they have freer access to the means of production.
But why is it that Great Britain--the old monarch of the seas,
with her predatory grasp on the neck of the Indies, with all her
stupendous machinery of production, and fearing no enemy from
abroad--is rotting with pauperism amid peace and wealth,
perishing like an old eagle, condemned to starvation by the
excessive curvature of his overlapping beak?
{735}
Behold our mother country, she whose laws and institutions we are
now in the main reproducing, she whose crimes against charity we
reorganize by exposing our soil to the cupidity of speculators,
whose pauperism we inherit by emigration, and whose fate we must
share, as certainly as the same causes produce the same effects,
unless we reform in our youth.

One hope, one faith, one path of social salvation, remains for us
both and for all the world--namely, cooperative Christian
association, that, baffling pride and greed, restores to the
workman the produce of his work, and renders the practical love
of our neighbor the means of satisfaction for our own needs,
whether of the senses or the soul. Now, Rochdale and its kindred
co-operative enterprises, whose success is so encouraging in
England; the masons and other artisan associations of Paris, like
the trades co-operations of Barcelona and the old Italian cities;
even the Hanseatic League, so monastic in its discipline--all
proceed in direct line from the Columbans, the Cistercians, and
other religious orders of the Benedictine group, who initiated
the agricultural Christianity of Europe. The seed sown in the
mediaeval heart did not rot amid that dissolution of society
which is called the _Reformation_. It has survived the
oppressions of aristocracy and capital no longer tempered by
monastic orders; it has survived the internecine competition of
our modern _proletariat_; and now the same organic type,
under new names, puts forth its leaf, buds, blooms, and fruits.

"If we look," says Balmes, "at the different systems which
ferment in minds devoted to the study of pauperism and its
remedies, we shall always find there association under one form
or another. Now, association has been at all times one of the
favorite principles of Catholicity, which, by proclaiming unity
in faith, proclaims unity in all things. If we examine the
religious institutions characteristic of Europe in its darkest
period of ignorance, corruption, and social dissolution, we
observe that the monks of the west were not content with
sanctifying themselves; from the first they influenced society.
Society had need of strong efforts to preserve its life in the
terrible crisis through which it had to pass. The secret of
strength is in the union of individual forces, in
_association_. This secret has been taught to European
society as by a revelation from heaven."

Sufficient attention has not perhaps been paid to the merit of
the industrial organization, introduced into Europe from the
earliest ages, and which became more and more diffused after the
twelfth century. We allude to the trades-unions and other
associations, which, established under the influence of the
Catholic religion, had pious foundations for the celebration of
their feasts, and for assisting each other in their necessities.

We must recognize here that highly effective organizations of
labor had taken root in Europe, either by the initiative of the
religious orders, (to whom the north owed its civilization,) or
in the congenial atmosphere of Catholicity; that in this
organization, co-operation, the Christian spirit, had supplanted
or prevented internecine competition, the secular spirit; that
this system of labor rendered pauperism impossible and elevated
the working classes to a plane of virtue, of dignity and
prosperity elsewhere unattained; that it had conquered and kept
its ground against feudal oppression and aggression, by a series
of bloodless battles in which wisdom and patience, self-control
and forethought, perseverance and the love of honorable uses,
vindicated the political superiority of the Christian principle;
finally that it possessed within itself vigorous reproductive or
propagative forces, and had indeed become the manifest destiny of
Europe at that epoch when schism in the church sowed everywhere
hatreds and discord, and denatured civilization, substituting the
ideal of individualism for that of solidarity.
{736}
Hence, incoherence and destructive competition alike in the
market as in the church. For labor, its result is pauperism; for
piety, despair.

Besides the religious motives which brought property into the
hands of the monks, there is another title, remarks Balmes, which
has always been regarded as one of the most just and legitimate.
The monks cultivated waste lands, dried up marshes, constructed
roads, restrained rivers within their beds, and built bridges
over them. Over a considerable portion of Europe, which was in a
state of rude nature, the monasteries founded here and there have
been centres of agriculture and the arts of social life. Is not
he who reclaims the wilderness, cultivates it, and fills it with
inhabitants, worthy of preserving large possessions there?

The religious and moral influence of the monks contributed
greatly, in early European epochs, to the respect of property as
well as persons against attacks which were so frequent in the
turbulent ages succeeding the overthrow of the Roman empire by
barbarian nations, that in some countries almost every castle was
a den of robbers, from which its chief overlooked the country and
sallied forth to collect spoils.

The man who is constantly obliged to defend his own is also
constantly led to usurp the property of others: the first thing
to do to remedy so great an evil was to locate and fix the
population by means of agriculture, and to accustom them to
respect property, not only by reasons drawn from private
interest, but also by the sight of large domains belonging to
establishments regarded as inviolable, and against which a hand
could not be raised without sacrilege. Thus religious ideas were
connected with social ones, and they slowly prepared an
organization which was to be completed in more peaceable times.

It is to the protection afforded to farmers by the monasteries in
retired places that we owe the dissemination of the people in
rural districts, which would have been otherwise impossible.
Those who have lived in a country convulsed by war, like our
South, can best appreciate this.

Mallet (_History of the Swiss_, vol. i. p. 105, a Protestant
authority) tells us that "the monks softened by their
instructions the ferocious manners of the people, and opposed
their credit to the tyranny of the nobility, who knew no other
occupation than war, and grievously oppressed their neighbors. On
this account the government of monks was preferred to theirs. The
people sought them for judges, (that is, as umpires.) It was a
usual saying that it was better to be governed by the bishop's
crosier than the monarch's sceptre."

The kindness and charities performed by the religious orders,
remarks Cobbett, (_History of the Protestant Reformation_,)
made them objects of great veneration, and the rich made them in
time the channels of their benevolence to the poor. Kings,
queens, princes, princesses, nobles, and gentlefolk founded
monasteries and convents, that is, erected the buildings and
endowed them with estates for their maintenance.
{737}
Others--some in the way of atonement for their sins, and some
from a pious motive, gave while alive, or bequeathed at their
death, lands, houses, or money to monasteries already erected. So
that in time the monasteries became the owners of great landed
estates; they had the lordship over innumerable manors, and had a
tenantry of prodigious extent, especially in England, where the
monastic orders were always held in great esteem, in consequence
of Christianity having been introduced into the kingdom by a
community of monks.

One of the greatest advantages attending the monasteries in the
political economy of the country was that they of necessity
caused the revenues of a large part of the lands to be spent on
the spot whence those revenues arose. The hospitals and all the
other establishments of the kind had the same tendency, so that
the revenues of the land were diffused immediately among the
people at large. We all know how the state of a parish changes
for the worse when a great land-owner quits his mansion in it,
and leaves that mansion shut up, and what an effect this has upon
the poor-rates. What, then, must have been the effect of twenty
monasteries in every county, expending constantly a large part of
their incomes on the spot? If Ireland had still her seven hundred
or eight hundred monastic institutions, there would be no
periodical famines and typhus fevers there; no need of sunset or
sunrise laws shutting the people up at night to prevent
insurrections; no projects for preventing the increase of
families; no schemes for getting rid of a "_surplus
population_;" no occasion for the people to live on third-rate
potatoes--not enough, at that; for their nakedness, their hunger,
their dying of hundreds with starvation, while their ports are
crowded with ships carrying provisions from their shores, and
while an army is fed in the country, the business of which army
is to keep the starving people quiet.

Sir Walter Scott thus exposes the nonsense of the "economists on
the non-influence of absenteeism." In the year 1817, when the
poor stood so much in need of employment, a friend asked the Duke
of Buccleugh why his grace did not prepare to go to London in the
spring? By way of answer, the duke showed him a list of laborers
then employed in improvements on his different estates; the
number of whom, exclusive of his regular establishments, amounted
to nine hundred and forty-seven men, who, with those whose
support depended on their wages, would reckon several thousand;
many of whom must have found it difficult to obtain subsistence
had the duke not foregone the privilege of his rank in order to
provide with more convenience for them. The result of such
conduct is twice blessed, both in the means which it employs and
in the end which it attains in the general economy of the
country. This anecdote forms a good answer to those theorists who
pretend that the residence of proprietors on their estates is, a
matter of indifference to the inhabitants of the district. Had
the duke been residing and spending his revenues elsewhere,
one-half of these poor people would have wanted employment and
food, and would probably have been little comforted by any
metaphysical arguments upon population which could have been
presented to their investigation.

"Many such things may be daily heard," says Howitt, "of the
present Duke of Portland."

{738}

The monks, whose religious character gave them an extraordinary
security, as they were the first restorers of agriculture, so
they were the first improvers of our gardens. Their long
pilgrimage from one holy shrine to another, through France,
Germany, and Italy, made them early acquainted with a variety of
culinary and medicinal herbs and various fruits, and amongst the
ruins of abbeys we still find a tribe of plants that they have
naturalized.

Lingard, writing of the consequences of the "_Reformation_,"
tells us that "within the realm poverty and discontent generally
prevailed. The extension of inclosures, and the new practice of
letting lands at rack-rents, had driven from their homes numerous
families whose fathers had occupied the same farms for several
generations, and the increasing multitudes of the poor began to
resort to the more populous towns in search of that relief which
had been formerly distributed at the gates of the monasteries.
The reformation preachers of the day--Knox, Lever, Gilpin,
Latimer--avow that the sufferings of the indigent were treated
with indifference by the hard-heartedness of the rich; while, in
the pursuit of gain, the most barefaced frauds were justified,
robbers and murderers escaping punishment by the partiality of
juries or corruptions of judges. They tell us that church-livings
were given to laymen or converted to the use of the patrons,"
etc.

In dealing with that shameful _pauperism_, the annual
reports of which ring in the ears of the British
government--"_mene, mene, tekel, upharsin_" which presaged
the fall of Babylon--it behoves us to distinguish the victim poor
and the _fighting poor_. The fighting poor exasperate the
evils of poverty by ineffective insurrections against the
organized government of the rich. Protesting against injustice
and maladministration by strikes, which they cannot sustain, and
which soon leave them at the mercy of the employers they have
defied, they provoke the severity of the laws by disorderly
conduct, by poaching, robbery, arson, etc., necessitating the
maintenance of a numerous and rigorous police, and even of
standing armies. These withdraw great numbers from productive
industry, and double the expenses of government, which must, at
last, be borne by the working classes, however indirect the
methods of taxation. It is true that the aristocracy in command
of armies could enrich England by the spoil of India, or Spain by
that of Mexico and Peru; but these ill-gotten gains have cursed
alike the robber and the robbed. No country has ever maintained a
real prosperity except by home production and the contentment of
its producing classes. The _fighting poor_, not organized in
armies under the discipline and pay of governments, but remaining
an integral part of the people, are intimately leagued with the
_victim poor_ by family ties, and even by the imminence of a
common fate, since a wound, a fit of illness, a fraud, the
prolonged lack of work, or other misfortune, may depress them
into pauperism. This class of poor is the most dangerous element
of a nation, and costs in waste and in precautions a great deal
more than the sum expended in pauper relief. An administrative
method which conciliates this class with the rich, with the
established government and public order, is evidently master of
the situation. This end has been achieved by the religious
organization of labor.

{739}

What the Catholic Church once did for England, under military
feudalism, she can do again, and more, because the present
financial and industrial feudalism is pacific in its tendencies
and susceptible of being harmonized with the interests of the
church and of labor by co-operative association; whereas the
former feudalism existed for war, was essentially opposed to the
spirit of Christianity, to the honor of productive industry, and
the prosperity of the people. Now, what is cure for Great Britain
may be prevention for America, which undergoes, like England, the
yoke of industrial feudalism. Allowing for the category of
accidents, for relief needed by the infirm, etc., vastly the
larger proportion of pauperism remains to be prevented by
opportune employments, of which the soil serves as the basis. Let
the religious orders reacquire everywhere, by all legitimate
means, the control of large bodies of land, which they shall
withhold from speculation, which they shall either administrate
by leases or by direct culture, and on which they shall establish
the arts of fabrication. Then they may subdue the world with its
own weapons, commanding capital and labor, conciliating them in
Christian action, and producing wealth without sacrificing the
producer to the product. They would lease farms or hire workmen
according to local and temporary expediency, but in either case
they would constitute, as of old, a bulwark between the people
and speculators, and they would reattach the masses by intimate
household ties. This begins as of old with the voluntary
assumption of social burdens, especially with the care of the
sick and infirm. By organizing a high order of attractive social
life at its rural institutions, where it is so much easier to
find healthful work for either sex and every age, the church will
counteract that destructive fascination which the city now exerts
over the country-folk. In restoring and upholding an order of
yeomanry, subject to its general administration of agriculture,
but free in a scope of action sufficient to content them, within
a predetermined plan, the Catholic Church would counterpoise the
present league of the Church of England with its aristocracy, as
its corporate philanthropies would counterpoise the corporate
selfishness of simple business firms.

Pursuing the noble initiative which the Jesuit order took in the
work of education, especially in Paraguay, it remains for the
church to second the views of American legislation in the
foundation of art and labor-schools, or agricultural and
polytechnic institutes, for the support of which public lands
were appropriated in 1842, although Minnesota alone has had the
wisdom to protest against the malversation of this fund to the
comparatively sterile work of our common schools.

It is not by any means an unreasonable assumption that, after a
few years of experience and discipline for the teachers, art and
labor-schools, embracing all the departments of rural and
domestic economy with religious and social training, may be made
self-supporting. From that day their popularity will be assured,
and pauperism will be well-nigh eradicated, together with the
vices and crimes which it engenders. The diploma of such an
institution might confer either a lease of land or an appointment
to some office of social use and profit. The administration of
the schools and charities of the church would supply a great many
such places.

{740}

We shall not ask whether it be not expedient and just to oblige
every family, in so far as it may be competent, to provide for
its own poor, because modern civilization has not the patriarchal
basis, the family has no such collective unity or substantial
existence among us, as formerly in Palestine, or still in the
Arab _douar_. At most can the family be held responsible for
its minors, since its authority does not extend beyond this
class; but we remark that the largest proportion of pauperism is
due to the neglect of efficient education during the years of
minority; so that with the actual population of the world, and
even in the most thickly settled countries, there need be no such
thing as pauperism, if the productive energies of the whole
people received during childhood and youth a practical direction;
while the diplomas of our labor and art-schools conferred valid
titles to the use of the soil or other means of remunerative
employment. If to organize such education for the children of
poor families be regarded as beyond the province of our
governments or secular powers, how much more extravagant must
this seem for the children of the rich, who are, however, exposed
every day to become poor, and whose wasteful idleness subtracts
so much from the possible resources of mankind? Is it not
self-evident that the influence of religious organizations has
every advantage over secular authority in reforming education
while rendering it universal? At once personal and corporate,
they can take an initiative which is refused to governments or
which governments decline. Now, as in the middle ages, in
civilized as in savage or barbarous states, they can restore to
labor its religious honor, they alone can successfully combat the
idleness and vices of fashionable dissipation, they can
substitute the arbitrament of Christian equity for that of fire
and sword, and while pouring oil on our troubled waters, they can
teach by example as well as by precept, those wholesome
restraints which prevent the increase of a local population
faster than the means of its subsistence.

If pauperism in this country is chiefly exotic, it is none the
less real, and none the less afflictive or disastrous. If an
obvious remedy exist in our vast tracts of unoccupied land, it is
so much the more urgent to organize while directing the tide of
emigration by the spirit of Christianity. By colonizing emigrants
under the guidance of religious orders we obviate the twofold
evils of their pauperism and their isolation.

           ----------

       The Iliad Of Homer.

   Rendered Into English Blank Verse
   By Edward, Earl Of Derby.


It is our custom, or that of our time, to decry classical
education. We have a right to do so, no doubt, if our unfavorable
judgment regarding it is based upon a correct and intelligent
estimate of its value, as a method of training the youthful mind
and of disciplining the intellect by the exercise of its nascent
power upon works of model taste and unrivalled elegance.
Submitting classical education to this test, we cannot glibly
join in the outcry against it of those who see in it only a
process for acquiring a knowledge of Greek and Latin words, of no
earthly use to the possessor or to anybody else.
{741}
Neither, on the other hand, would we, upon such test, accept it
as the only canon of liberal education, to the exclusion of
others that may serve the purpose of instruction with more
practical advantage.

We would fain offer Earl Derby's translation of the _Iliad_
as an example, according to our notion, of the practical process
to be followed in studying the classic authors in order to profit
by their beauty, and of the gifts the mind receives from the
cultivation of classic literature. Not a poet himself, the noble
lord has imbibed into his own plastic mind the conceptions of the
"sovereign poet" in all their poetic beauty and serene grandeur,
and reproduces them for the English reader, shapely moulded, not
distorted nor disfigured. We shall not enter into a comparison of
his translation with that of Pope or Cowper, neither shall we
discuss the fitness of the metre he has adopted. His own
translation, if argument were wanted, would compel us to agree
with him that he has selected that metre best suited for
rendering the Homeric poem into English verse, and we give him
our hearty accord in his condemnation of the English hexameter--
a lumbering rhythm, not inaptly compared, by some author, to the
noise of pumpkins rolling on a barn-floor. We shall merely show,
by a few extracts, how he has succeeded in reproducing the
conceptions of the poem, and how happily he has caught, without
imparting any admixture of modern sentiment, the flowing style in
which the poet pours forth, as it were, without drawing breath,
his grand melodious strain. His translation is not a dead cast,
but a copy, and a copy instinct with life. His task was not an
easy one; and when we reflect upon his life and eminent station,
we cannot help thinking that to ordinary men the difficulty would
be much enhanced thereby. Still, it redounds the more to the
honor of English scholarship and English statesmanship, that the
foremost among its orators and statesmen, who, for more than a
quarter of a century, has borne a large share of the weighty
affairs of a vast empire; who by his talents has helped to solve
the thousand vexed questions of modern politics and reform,
could, during leisure, withdraw his mind from the absorbing
interests of the political arena, and allow it to repose on the
sublime naturalness of the _Iliad_, and float in placid
unison with the serene grandeur of Homer's song. Though the
translation is truly Homeric, yet, wrought as it is with spirit
and genius, it bears in it something of the mind it springs from.
The reader will not fail to discover in the echo of the
_Iliad_, so faithfully reflected in its purity, natural
freshness, and vigor, something of that splendid eloquence heard
amid strife as angry and as fierce as raged between Agamemnon and
Achilles.

In giving quotations, we shall omit those finer passages that are
familiar to most readers, such as those well-known passages of
the Third Book, with their beautiful similes, that describe the
Greeks assembling and passing in review before their leaders. On
these many a youthful and full-grown bard has tried his skill;
but never have we seen them so beautifully rendered as in the
translation before us. We select for our readers, first, that
picture in the Fourth Book, in which all the raging elements of
battle are thronged together--the maddening vengeance, the wrath,
the fury of hostile ranks in the horror of collision--and which
commences with the description of

{742}

                           "Discord unappeased,      504
  Of blood-stained Mars the sister and the friend;
  With humble crest at first, anon her head,
  While yet she treads the earth, affronts the skies.
  The gage of battle in the midst she threw,
  Strode through the crowd and woe to mortals wrought,
  When to their midst they came, together rushed      510
  Bucklers and lances, and the furious might
  Of mail-clad warriors; bossy shield on shield
  Clattered in conflict; loud the clamor rose.
  Then rose two mingled shouts and groans of men
  Slaying and slain; the earth ran red with blood,   513
  As when descending from the mountain's brow,
  Two wintry torrents from their copious source
  Pour downward to the narrow pass, where meet
  Their mingled waters in some deep ravine,
  Their weight of flood; on the far mountain side   520
  The shepherd hears the roar; so loud arose
  The shouts and yells of those commingling hosts."

Nothing can give a better idea of the power of the translator
than the manner in which he has compressed this passage, with its
bewildering throng of elements, into the same number of lines as
the original. We miss none of the simple grandeur, none of the
_directness_, none of the even, rapid movement so
characteristic of Homer. There is no importation of what belongs
not to Homer into it, no amplification, no turning aside from the
object, or indirectness in introducing and depicting every
incident in the picture. It is Homer's strain; grand, rapid, and
simple.

A few lines further on we have one of those beautiful images by
which the poet has a fondness for describing the fall of his
young heroes. Depicting the death of the stripling Simoisius, he
sings:

                "Prone in the dust he fell; 552
  As some tall poplar, grown in marshy mead,
  Smooth-stemmed, with boughs up-springing toward the head."

Again of young Gorgythion, in the Eighth Book:

  "Down sank his head, as in a garden sinks
   A ripened poppy charged with vernal rains;   350
   So sank his head beneath his helmet's weight."

And of Asius, in the Thirteenth Book:

  "He fell as falls an oak, or poplar tall,
   Or lofty pine."

These passages are placed together as containing some of the
poet's favorite and beautiful images, and as showing how happy
the translator has been in rendering them with truthfulness to
their natural grace.

Earl Derby is not less successful in reproducing the deep
tenderness and moving pathos that form a conspicuous feature of
the _Iliad_. We quote from the Sixth Book, from the
affecting scene between Hector and Andromache; but, instead of
Andromache's words, so well known through Pope's translation, we
give the answer of the noble Hector, the hero of the
_Iliad_, in which, with soul-felt tenderness, he seeks to
console his desponding wife: [Footnote 280]

    [Footnote 280: To illustrate what we mean by the directness,
    simplicity, and even rapid movement of Homer's verse, we cite
    here from a popular English poet an extract which, though not
    a parallel to the above, is somewhat kindred; it is the first
    at hand, and will serve our purpose.

      "Trust me, whatever fate my soul may gall,
       Thou at thy woman's choice shall ne'er repine.
       Trust me, whatever storm on me may fall,
       This man's true heart shall ward the bolt from thine.
       Hark, where the bird from yon dark ilex breathes
       Soul into night so be thy love to me;
       Look, when around the bird the ilex wreathes
       Still sheltering boughs, so be my love to thee!
       O dweller in my heart! the music thine;
       And the deep shelter--wilt thou scorn it? mine."

    It will be observed, in reading these exquisite lines, how
    complex is the web of thought; how the artist, as it were,
    lingers to work into it embroidery of words and images
    borrowed from foreign objects. In Homer there is nothing but
    the natural artless flow of feeling; the even movement, as it
    springs from the soul, is not crossed by shadow or image from
    any other object, nor does it diverge this way or that to
    borrow of other sources in metaphor or comparison, tone,
    color, or pathos. The movement in Homer is natural, direct,
    even, rapid; and yet this natural, simple, deep gush of
    feeling presents to us a most truthful, touching, and
    expressive picture of a soul overwhelmed with tender love and
    sorrow commingled, but facing the stern task of duty.]


  "Think not, dear wife, that by such thoughts as these 512
   My heart has ne'er been wrung; but I should blush
   To face the men and long-robed dames of Troy,
   If, like a coward, I could shun the fight.
   Nor could my soul the lessons of my youth
   So far forget, whose boast it still has been
   In the forefront of battle to be found,
   Charged with my father's glory and mine own.
   Yet in my inmost soul too well I know         520
   The day must come when this our sacred Troy,
   And Priam's race, and Priam's royal self,
   Shall in one common ruin be o'erthrown.
   But not the thoughts of Troy's impending fate,
   Nor Hecuba's, nor royal Priam's woes,           525
{743}
   Nor loss of brethren, numerous and brave,
   By hostile hands laid prostrate in the dust,
   So deeply wring my heart as thoughts of thee,
   Thy days of freedom lost, and led away
   A weeping captive by some brass-clad Greek.    530
   Haply in Argos, at a mistress' beck,
   Condemned to ply the loom, or water draw
   From Hypereia's or Messais' fount.
   Heart wrung, by stern necessity constrained,
   Then they who see thy tears perchance may say,   535
   'Lo! this was Hector's wife, who, when they fought
   On plains of Troy, was Ilium's bravest chief!'
   Thus may they speak, and thus thy grief renew
   For loss of him who might have been thy shield
   To rescue thee from slavery's bitter hour.        540
   Oh! may I sleep in dust ere be condemned
   To hear thy cries and see thee dragged away."

The opinion of Lord Derby's oratory, entertained on this side of
the Atlantic, may tempt those who admire it to think that in this
translation his splendid eloquence and vigorous language would
have their fitting scope in depicting the scenes of camp and
field, in transmitting, lifelike, those angry encounters in the
councils of gods and men; but, that the most tender and delicate
tones of human feeling are not alien to his speech, is amply
proved by the lines we have quoted. The same deep chord of
feeling is struck by the words and modulations of this beautiful
passage that vibrates in the pathetic language and melody of the
Ionian bard.

We add another of those magnificent incidents of the
_Iliad_, where the struggle of warriors on the very brink of
battle is so grandly described by the poet. In the Thirteenth
Book, the Greeks, closely massed under the Ajaces,

  Waited the Trojan charge, by Hector led
  Spear close to spear, and shield by shield o'erlaid,
  Buckler to buckler pressed, and helm to helm,
  And man to man, the horse-hair plumes above,
  That nodded on the warriors' glittering crests,
  Each other touched, so closely matched they stood.
  Backward, by many a stalwart hand, were drawn
  The spears, in act to hurl; their eyes and minds
  Turned to the front and eager for the fray.
  On poured the Trojan masses; in the van
  Hector straight forward urged his furious course:
  As some huge boulder, from its rocky bed
  Detached, and by the wintry torrent's force
  Hurled down the cliff's steep face, when constant rains
  The massive rock's firm hold have undermined,
  With giant bounds it flies; the crashing wood
  Resounds beneath it, still it hurries on,
  Until, arriving at the level plain,
  Its headlong impulse checked, it rolls no more;
  So Hector, threatening now through ships and tents
  Even to the sea to force his murderous way,
  Anon, confronted by that phalanx firm,
  Halts close before it."

This truly fine passage is the perfection of Homeric poetry. We
doubt if pen or brush has ever produced a picture abounding so
much in life and action. The marvellous combination of objects
presented to view in these lines, each heightening the effect of
the other, and all blending into one tumultuous action, stirred
by the fiery spirit of war, gives us a grand and terrific
picture. In reading it, with almost the noise and din and the
fray of warring men ringing in the words employed in the
translation, we feel as if we had never before been enabled, by
any English version, to enter into the full spirit of Homer
himself.

We give a last quotation from the closing scene of the poem,
where the cry of mourning Troy is raised over the lifeless body
of its brave defender. The wail of his wife and of his mother has
been heard; but there remains one other, the beauteous Helen,
whose fatal charms had deluged the plains of Troy with blood, had
inflicted on the lifeless hero on whom she now gazes in sadness
many a day of toil and many an hour of pain, and now had crowned
the heap of Ilium's sorrows with this last scene of woe. Her
words of love commingled with self-reproach, are the highest
tribute the poet could pay, in his closing verse, to the hero
whom, throughout his song, he endows with all the noblest traits
of son, of patriot, of brother, and of husband.

  "Hector, of all my brethren dearest thou!
   True, godlike Paris claims me as his wife,
   Who bore me hither--would I then had died!
   But twenty years have passed since here I came
   And left my native land; yet ne'er from thee     895
   I heard one scornful, one degrading word.
   And when from others I have borne reproach,
   Thy brothers, sisters, or thy brothers' wives
   Or mother, (for thy sire was ever kind
   Even as a father,) thou hast checked them still
   With kindly feeling and with gentle words:
   For thee I weep, and for myself no less;
   For through the breadth of Troy, none love me now,
   None kindly look on me, but all abhor."

{744}

In the portions of Lord Derby's translation we have here given,
we have not selected what are universally regarded as the most
beautiful passages of the poem. We have selected such passages as
from their crowded incidents, their bewildering throng of
objects, their rapid succession of scenes or deep and tender
pathos, appeared to us the most difficult for the translator to
reproduce. We doubt if there be a student of Homer who will fail
to find them a transcript of the poet's meaning, with almost
literal exactness, as well as a copy of the genius and spirit of
the poem. We had purposed selecting some passages which would
give our readers a sample of his manner of rendering the Homeric
epithets. The beauty of the few occurring in the above extracts
will not escape them. Students of Homer are aware how constantly
he appends distinctive epithets to persons, things, and places.
To translate these wherever they occur would give a strange,
unnatural cast to the poem. The English language, not like the
plastic Greek, could not bear along the burden of them; besides,
many of them would require an awkward paraphrase, which would
only add words, not vividness or distinctness, to the thought of
the poet. Lord Derby has wisely and discriminately dealt with
these; when he renders them, he does so with so much exactitude
and expressive force, that we feel rise within us, at this late
hour, a sigh of regret that we had not at our hand his version of
them, when we were students of Homer. In reading the translation
through, we cannot say where we would have an epithet added that
has been omitted, or where we would have stricken it out where it
has been preserved. We said that the translation is a copy of the
_Iliad_--a copy produced with genius and spirit. It will be
read with pleasure by the classical scholar, to whom it will
recall in their freshness and grandeur the scenes of that poem
which charmed him in years long past. It will be welcomed by the
general reader, who has not before tasted the charms of Homer's
song, and who will gratefully acknowledge it as a new treasure to
the storehouse of English literature. In it--and in the life of
the noble author, whose devotedness to classical literature could
not have lived through his busy political life, did he not in his
own inward consciousness ever find the great benefit and elegant
pleasure he had gained from it--is furnished for the public at
large the strongest argument we know against banishing classical
education from our schools and colleges.

----------
{745}

       Lines written by Theodulphus.

        Translated From The Latin.


                  Lines

   Written By Theodulphus, Bishop Of Orleans,
   A.D. 820, In A Copy Of The Holy Scriptures,
      Transcribed By His Own Hand.


  Light of God's law! divesting earth of gloom,
    More white than snows, more bright than starry skies,
  Beneath whose radiance good and virtue bloom--
        From whom all error flies.

  Blest word of God! gift of that wisdom, whence
    Springs life and light! what worth exceeds thy worth?
  Word that excels all words in sound and sense
        As heaven excels the earth.

  Whate'er of wonders human arts have taught
    Have here their fountain--hence derive their force;
  Of all the grand achievements of man's thought
        Here wells the living source.

  By day, by night here meditate, here school
    To holiness thy hands, and lips, and soul:
  Thou rulest others--be this book the rule
        That shall thyself control.

  This sharer of thy couch--joy of thine eyes,
    Clasped in thy arms and on thy knees shall rest;
  Thy watcher when soft slumber on thee lies--
        Thy earliest morning guest.

  Be not for knowledge only thy desire;
    In virtue's presence learning's light is dim:
  Deeds and not words the Almighty will require--
        Yet offer both to him.

  By ceaseless study learn, by actions teach,
    Untiring seek for Wisdom's pathway here.
  This meditate, a light thy heart will reach,
        And make all fair and clear.

  Who walks a tangled forest's briery way
    By frequent treading makes it broad and plain.
  And what the quick mind wins from day to day,
        Slow study doth retain.

                                     C. E. B.


               ----------

{746}

  From The French Of Erckmann And Chatrian.

     The Invasion; Or, Yegof The Fool.


              Chapter XXI.


Jerome of Saint-Quirin had made good his retreat upon the
farm-house.

"Who goes there?" cried the sentries, as the party approached.

"People of the village of Charmes," replied Marc-Dives in his
voice of thunder.

They were recognized and allowed to pass.

The house was silent; a sentinel with shouldered arms paced in
front of the barn, where thirty partisans were sleeping upon the
straw. Catherine, at sight of the great dark roofs, the old
sheds, the stables, the ancient dwelling where her youth had
passed, where the peaceful and laborious lives of her father and
her grandfather had tranquilly glided away, the home which she
was perhaps about to leave for ever, felt a terrible pain at her
heart; but she spoke not of it, and springing from the sledge, as
she had often done before on her returning from market, she said:

"Come, Louise, we are home at last; thanks to God."

Old Duchene had pushed open the door, crying,

"It is Madame Lefevre!"

"Yes, it is we. Any news from Jean-Claude?"

"No, madame."

Then every one entered the huge kitchen.

A few coals yet glowed upon the hearth, and, under the immense,
overhanging chimney-piece, Jerome of Saint-Quirin was seated in
the shadow, in his great-coat; his long-pointed red beard hanging
on his breast; his thick staff between his knees, and his rifle
leaning against the wall.

"Ha! good morning, Jerome!" cried the old woman.

"Good morning, Catherine!" answered the grave and solemn chief of
Grossmann. "You come from Donon?"

"Yes. Things are going ill there, my poor Jerome. The Kaiserliks
attacked the farm-house when we left the plateau. We could see
only white coats on every side. They began to cross the abatis--"

"Then you think Hullin will be forced to abandon the road?"

"It is possible, indeed, if Pivrette does not come to his
assistance."

The partisans had neared the fire. Marc-Dives bent over the coals
to light his pipe; as he rose, he cried:

"Jerome, I ask only one thing of you; I know that they fought
well where you commanded--"

"They did their duty," interrupted the shoemaker; "sixty men lie
stretched on the side of Grossmann, who will bear witness to it
on the judgment-day."

"Yes; but who guided the Germans? They never could find of
themselves the pass of Blutfeld."

"It was Yegof--the fool Yegof," replied Jerome, and his gray
eyes, surrounded with deep wrinkles and thick white lashes and
brows, glittered through the darkness.

"Are you very sure of it?"

"Labarbe's men saw him ascend, leading the others."

{747}

The partisans gazed at each other with angry looks.

At the same moment, Doctor Lorquin, who had remained without to
unharness his horse, pushed open the door, crying:

"The battle is lost! Here are our men from Donon. I have heard
Lagarmitte's horn."

It is easy to imagine the feelings with which this news was
received. Every one thought of parent, friends, whom perhaps he
was never more to see, and all who were in the kitchen and the
barn rushed at once to the fields. Then Robin and Dubourg, posted
as sentries, cried:

"Who goes there?"

"France!" replied a voice.

And despite the distance, Louise, recognizing her father's voice,
would have fallen had not Catherine supported her.

Presently a great number of steps echoed upon the frozen snow,
and Louise, no longer able to contain herself, cried in a
trembling voice:

"Father Jean-Claude!"

"I am coming," replied Hullin; "I am coming."

"And my father?" cried Frantz, rushing to the sabot-maker.

"He is with us, Frantz."

"And Kasper?"

"He has received a little wound, but it is nothing: you will see
them both."

Catherine threw herself into Hullin's arms.

"O Jean-Claude! what a happiness it is to see you again!"

"Ay," replied he in a low tone; "there are many who will never
again see those they love."

"Frantz!" cried old Materne; "hallo! this way."

And on all sides, in the darkness, men sought each other, pressed
each other's hands and embraced. Others called aloud for "Vielau"
or "Sapheri," but no voice replied.

Then the calls grew hoarse, strangled, and finally ceased. The
joy of some and the grief of others were in horrible contrast.
Louise wept hot tears in Hullin's arms.

"Ah! Jean-Claude," said Mother Lefevre; "you have much to learn
of your daughter. Now I will tell you nothing, but we were
attacked--"

"Yes, we will talk of it by and by. Time presses," interrupted
Hullin. "The Donon road is lost; the Cossacks may be here at
daybreak, and we have yet many things to do."

He entered the farm-house. All followed. Duchene had just thrown
a fagot upon the fire. Those faces, black with powder, but still
breathing the fire of battle; those garments, torn by
bayonet-thrusts, some of them bloody, advancing from darkness
into the full light, offered a strange spectacle. Kasper, whose
handkerchief was bound around his forehead, had received a
sabre-cut; his bayonet, blouse, and high blue cloth gaiters were
stained with blood. Old Materne, thanks to his imperturbable
presence of mind, came safe and sound from the fray. The remnants
of the two troops of Jerome and Hullin were thus united. They
showed the same fierce countenances, animated by the same energy
and desire for vengeance, save that the last, worn-out with
weariness, sat wherever they might find room--on the fagots, the
hearth--with their heads bowed upon their hands, and their elbows
resting on their knees. The others looked around, unable to
realize that Hans, Juson, Daniel, had disappeared for ever, and
exchanging questions followed by long periods of silence.
Materne's two sons held each other by the arms, as if each feared
he would lose his brother, and their father, behind them, leaning
against the wall, gazed on with looks of delight.

{748}

"They are there; I see them," he seemed to say. "And they are
famous fellows, and both have escaped." The good man coughed, and
when some one came to speak to him about Pierre, or Jacques, or
Nicolas--of a son or a brother--he replied at random, "Ay, ay,
there are a good many stretched out yonder; but what would you
have? War is war. Your Nicolas did his duty. Be consoled." And
then he thought, "My boys are out of the scrape, and that is the
principal thing."

Catherine set the table with Louise. Soon Duchene, returning from
the cellar with a cask of wine upon his shoulder, placed it on
the sideboard. He opened it, and each of the partisans presented
his glass, or cup, or pitcher, to the purple fountain, which gave
back the leaping flames on the hearth in a thousand reflections.

"Eat and drink!" cried the old mistress of the house. "All is not
yet ended; you will yet need strength. Frantz, hand me down those
hams. Here are bread and knives. Be seated, my children."

Frantz, with his bayonet, roasted the hams at the fire.

Benches were brought forward; the men sat down, and ate with that
keen appetite which neither present grief nor thought of future
evil can make mountaineers forget. But all this did not keep
sorrow from the hearts of these brave fellows, and sometimes one,
sometimes another, would stop, drop his fork, and leave the
table, saying,

"I have had enough."

While the partisans thus recruited their strength, their chiefs
met in the neighboring hall to make their last determinations
relative to the defence. There were seated round the table,
lighted by a tin lamp, Doctor Lorquin--his great dog Pluto near
him, watching with uplifted muzzle; Jerome in the recess of a
window to the right; Hullin at the left, very pale. Marc-Dives,
with his elbow on the table and cheek resting in his hand, sat
with his back to the door, and showed only his brown profile and
one of the ends of his long moustache. Materne alone was
standing, as was his habit, leaning against the wall behind
Lorquin's chair, his rifle resting upon his foot. A murmur of
voices came from the kitchen.

When Catherine, who was called by Jean-Claude, entered, she heard
a sort of groan which made her tremble. It was Hullin speaking.

"Do you think," he cried, in a burst of wild grief, "that the
fate of those brave sons, those white-haired fathers, moved not
my heart? Would I not gladly have died a thousand times that they
might live? You know not the woes with which this night has
overwhelmed me. To lose life is but little; but to bear alone the
burden of such a trust!"

He was silent, but his trembling lip, the tear that coursed
slowly down his cheek, showed how heavily that trust weighed upon
him, in a position where conscience itself hesitates and seeks
support. Catherine noiselessly seated herself in the large
arm-chair on his left. After a few moments' pause, Hullin
proceeded more calmly:

"Between eleven o'clock and midnight, Zimmer came crying that we
were turned; that the Germans were coming down from Grossmann;
Labarbe was crushed; Jerome could hold out no longer. He said no
more. What was to be done? Could I retreat--abandon a position
which had cost us so much blood--the Donon road, the way to
Paris? I were a wretch indeed to do so; but I had only three
hundred against the four thousand at Grandfontaine, and I know
not how many descending the mountain.
{749}
But cost what it might, I determined to hold out; it was our duty
to do so. I thought that life is nothing void of honor; we might
all die, but never would it be said that we yielded the road to
France! Never, never, never!"

His voice again trembled, and his eyes filled with tears as he
added:

"We held it--for more than two hours--my brave boys held it. I
saw them fall; they died crying, 'God save France!' When the
battle began, I sent word to Pivrette. He, with fifty men, came
up--too late! too late! The enemy flanked us right and left; they
held three fourths of the plateau, and we were driven among the
firs toward Blanru, their fire crashing into our bosoms. All that
I could do was to collect the wounded who could yet drag
themselves along, and place them under the escort of Pivrette; a
hundred men joined him. I kept only fifty to occupy Falkenstein.
We cut through the Germans, who tried to cut off our retreat.
Happily the night was dark, otherwise not one of us would have
escaped. We are here, and all is lost. Falkenstein alone remains,
and we are reduced to three hundred. Now we must try who will
dare the bitter end. I tell you that my burden presses heavily
upon me. While the Donon road was to be defended, our duty was
clear; every man's life belonged to his country: but that road is
lost; ten thousand men would be needed to regain it, and even now
the enemy are entering Lorraine. What is to be done?"

"Resist to the last!" replied Jerome.

"To the last!" repeated the others.

"Is this your counsel, Catherine?" asked Hullin.

"Ay!" cried the old woman, with a glance of unconquerable
determination.

Then Hullin, in firmer tones, laid his plan before them:

"Falkenstein is our point of retreat. There is our arsenal; there
are our munitions; the enemy knows this, and will attempt to
storm it. We must all be there to defend it; the eyes of all our
countrymen must see us; they will say that Catherine Lefevre,
Jerome, Materne and his sons, Hullin, Doctor Lorquin, are there;
that they will not lay down their arms. This will revive the
drooping courage of all who have hearts to feel for their
country. Pivrette will remain in the woods; his force increasing
day by day. The land will be covered with Cossacks, with robbers
of every kind; and when the enemy's army has entered Lorraine, at
my signal Pivrette will fling himself between Donon and the road,
and the laggards scattered through the mountains will be caught
as in a net. We can also watch our chance to carry off their
wagons, harass their reserves; and if fortune favors, as we hope,
when those Kaiserliks are beaten by our troops in Lorraine, we
can cut off their retreat."

All rose, and Hullin, entering the kitchen, made this simple
speech to the mountaineers:

"My friends, we have determined to resist to the last.
Nevertheless each one is free to do as he pleases, to lay down
his arms and return to his village; but those who seek vengeance
will join us! They will share our last morsel of bread and divide
our last cartridge."

The old wood-cutter, Colon, rose and replied:

"Hullin, we are all with you; we began the fight together, and
together we will end it."

"Ay, ay!" cried every voice.

{750}

"This is your resolution? Then listen! Jerome's brother will take
command."

"My brother is dead," interrupted Jerome; "he lies on the side of
Grossmann."

There was a moment's silence, and then Hullin continued:

"Colon, you will take command of all who remain, except those who
formed the escort of Catherine Lefevre. I retain them with me.
You will rejoin Pivrette in the valley of Blanru."

"And our munitions?" cried Marc-Dives.

"I have brought my wagon with me," said Jerome. "Colon can supply
himself from it."

"Let them take the sledge too," cried Catherine. "The Cossacks
are coming, and they will steal everything. Our people must not
go away empty-handed; let them take with them oxen, cows, and
goats--everything; for whatever they take is so much won from the
enemy."

Five minutes after, the farm-house was a scene of pillage. The
sledge was loaded with hams, smoked meats, and bread; the cattle
driven from the stables; the horses harnessed to the great wagon,
and soon the train began its march, Robin at the head, blowing
his horn, and the partisans behind pushing at the wheels. When
they had disappeared in the woods, and silence suddenly succeeded
the tumult, Catherine, turning round, saw Hullin behind her as
pale as a corpse.

"Well, Catherine," he said; "all is finished. We will begin the
ascent."

Frantz, Kasper, and the men of the escort, Marc-Dives and
Materne, awaited them in the kitchen, resting on their arms.

"Duchene," said the good old woman, "go down to the village; they
must not ill-treat you on my account."

The old servant, shaking his white head, replied with eyes full
of tears:

"I might as well die here, Madame Lefevre. It is fifty years
since I came to this house. Do not force me away; that would kill
me."

"As you will, my poor Duchene," answered Catherine, much
affected. "Here are the keys of the house."

The old man seated himself on a stool by the hearth, with eyes
fixed and lips parted like one in some sad dream.

The others started for Falkenstein. Marc-Dives, on horseback, his
long blade hanging from his wrist, formed the rear-guard. Frantz
and Hullin, on the left, reconnoitered the plateau, and Jerome,
on the right, the valley; Materne and the men of the escort
surrounded the women. Strange! At every threshold, at every
window of the village of Charmes appeared faces, young and old,
gazing with curious eyes at the flight of Mother Lefevre, and
evil tongues were not wanting. "Ah! driven from your nest at
last," they cried. "You would meddle with what did not concern
you!"

Others muttered aloud that Catherine had been rich long enough,
and that all had their turn. As for the labor, the wisdom, the
kindness of heart, the thousand virtues of the old mistress of
Bois-de-Chênes, the patriotism of Jean-Claude, the courage of
Jerome and the three Maternes, the unselfishness of Doctor
Lorquin, the devotion of Marc-Dives--about all these things no
one had a word to say: their owners were beaten!

{751}

            Chapter XXII.

At the bottom of the valley of Bouleaux, two musket-shots from
the village of Charmes, the little troop began slowly to ascend
the path leading to the ancient _burg_. Hullin, remembering
how he had taken the same path when he had gone to buy powder of
Marc-Dives, could not repress his grief. Then, notwithstanding
his visit to Phalsbourg, the sight of the wounded from Hanan and
Leipsic, the story of the old sergeant, he despaired not; he kept
all his energy alive, and never doubted the success of the
defence. But now all was lost; the enemy were descending upon
Lorraine, and the mountaineers flying. Marc-Dives rode along the
wall in the snow; his great horse, accustomed to the journey,
neighing, lifting his head and then dropping it beneath his
chest. The smuggler turned from time to time to throw a glance at
the opposite field of Bois-de-Chênes. Suddenly he cried:

"Ha! the Cossacks are showing themselves."

At this exclamation the entire party halted to look around. They
were already high above the village, and even the farm. The gray
winter dawn was scattering the morning vapors, and in the hollows
of the mountain side they saw a number of those wild horsemen,
pistol in hand, slowly approaching the old house. They were
separated like skirmishers, and seemed to fear a surprise. A few
moments after, others followed from the valley of Houx, then
others, and still others, all alike standing up in their stirrups
to see further. The first, passing the farm-house and seeing
nothing to fear, flourished their lances and turned half-way
round. The rest came up at a gallop, like rooks following one of
their number that rises in the air as if perceiving some prey. In
a few seconds the farm was surrounded, and the door pushed open.
Another minute and the windows flew out, shattered to pieces;
furniture, mattresses, linen followed from every side of the
house at once. Catherine, with lips pressed tightly together,
gazed calmly at all this destruction. For a long while she said
nothing; but suddenly seeing Yegof strike Duchene with the shaft
of his lance, and drive him from the house, she could not
restrain a cry of indignation.

"The wretch! coward! to strike a poor old man who can no longer
defend himself. Ah villain! if I had thee here!"

"Come, Catherine," said Jean-Claude; "we have seen enough, and
the sight does us no good."

"You are right," she replied; "let us go. I cannot bear it."

As they ascended, the air grew keener. Louise, the child of the
gypsies, with a little basket of provisions on her arm, clambered
at the head of the troops. The blue sky, the plains of Alsace and
Lorraine, and at the verge of the horizon those of Champagne, the
boundless immensity of space wherein sight was lost, inspired an
enthusiasm in all. They seemed to have wings, to pierce the blue
air like those great birds that glided from the tree tops over
the abysses, uttering their free and fearless cries. All the
wretchedness of the world beneath, its injustice and its
suffering, were forgotten. Louise saw herself a child on the back
of her mother--that poor wandering gypsy--and thought, "I have
never since been happier; never had less of care; never laughed
so much, sang so gayly, and yet we often lacked bread. Ah! those
dear days gone!" And the words of old songs rang in her ears.

As they neared the great red rock, crusted with its white and
black stones, and hanging over the precipice like the tower of
some grand cathedral, Louise and Catherine paused in ecstasy.
{752}
Above, the sky seemed yet deeper; the path cut in the rock yet
narrower. The valleys stretching on till lost in distance, the
boundless woods, the far-off lakes of Lorraine, the blue ribbon
of the Rhine--all the glorious scene filled them with emotion,
and the old woman said thoughtfully:

"Jean-Claude, He who lifted this rock to heaven, whose hand
hollowed these valleys, who scattered these forests, those
thickets, and even these little mosses upon his earth, will
surely render us what we deserve."

While they gazed thus, standing upon the forest terrace of rock,
Marc had led his horse to a neighboring cavern, and returned on
foot, saying, as he climbed before them.

"Be careful; you may slip."

At the same time he showed them, to the right, the blue
precipice, with the tops of the fir-trees so far down that they
seemed at its base. All were silent until they reached the
terrace where the vault began. Then they breathed more freely,
and saw in the middle of the passage the smugglers Brenn,
Pfeifer, and Toubac, with their great grey cloaks and black
slouched hats, seated by a fire which stretched all along the
rock. Marc accosted them:

"Here we are! the Kaiserliks are victorious. Zimmer was killed
last night. Is Hexe-Baizel above?"

"Yes," answered Brenn; "she is making cartridges."

"They may save us yet," said Marc. "Keep your eyes open, and if
any one ascends, fire on him."

The Maternes halted at the edge of the rock, and the three tall
men, with their hat-brims turned up, their powder-horns at their
sides, their rifles on their shoulders, and their muscular limbs,
and feet firmly planted on the point of the rock, stood, a
strange group, against the blue of the abyss. Old Materne, with
outstretched arm, pointed far, very far away, to an almost
imperceptible white spot among the firs, saying:

"Do you recognize that, my boys?"

And all three gazed with half-closed eyes.

"It is our house," replied Kasper.

"Poor Magredel!" said the old hunter; "how uneasy she must have
been for the last week; how often has she prayed for us!"

Marc-Dives, who led the party, uttered a cry of surprise.

"Mother Lefevre," said he, stopping short, "the Cossacks have set
fire to your house!"

Catherine heard this news calmly, and walked to the edge of the
cliff. Louise and Jean-Claude followed her. At the bottom of the
abyss stretched a great white cloud, through which shone what
seemed like a spark. That was all; but from time to time the
breeze blew aside the smoke and the fire appeared; the two high
gables, standing darkly out from the flames, the ruined barn and
the blazing stables; then all again was hidden.

"It is nearly finished," said Hullin in a low tone.

"Yes," replied the old mistress of the burning dwelling; "forty
years of toil and care are there turning to smoke. But no matter;
they cannot burn my good lands--my fine meadows of the Eichmath.
We will begin to labor once more; Gaspard and Louise will restore
all that mischief. I am content. I repent of nothing I have
done."

At the end of a quarter of an hour, millions of sparks arose, and
all the buildings fell--all save the dark gables. The party again
clambered up the path; and as they reached the highest terrace,
the sharp voice of Hexe-Baizel was heard:

{753}

"You, Catherine!" she cried "I never thought that you would come
to see me in my poor den."

Baizel and Catherine Lefevre had been school-girls together;
there was but little ceremony between them.

"Nor I," replied the latter; "but in misfortune one is glad to
find a companion of one's childhood."

Baizel seemed touched.

"Whatever is here is yours, Catherine," she cried. "Everything."

She pointed to her poor stool, her broom of green twigs, and the
five or six logs on her hearth. Catherine gazed on all in silence
for a few moments, and then said:

"They are not very grand, but they are substantial, and the
Cossacks will not easily burn your house."

"No, they will not burn it," laughed Hexe-Baizel; "they would
need all the trees in the county of Dabo to only warm the walls.
Ha, ha, ha!"

The partisans, after many toils and dangers, felt the want of
repose. Each man hastened to place his musket against the wall
and stretch himself on the floor. Marc-Dives opened the door of
the inner cavern for them, where they were at least sheltered,
and then sallied forth with Hullin to examine the position.



             Chapter XXIII.

On the rock of Falkenstein, high in the blue air, rises a round
tower, the base of which is broken and sunken. This tower,
covered with brambles, hawthorn, and myrtle, seems old as the
mountain itself; it has survived French, Germans, and Swedes. Its
stones and mortar have become a solid mass, from which it is
almost impossible to break the smallest fragment, and the whole
structure wears a gloomy air of mystery which bears back the mind
to ages long past--ages which have no place in the memories of
man. Here was Marc-Dives wont to lie in ambush when the wild
geese flew south--if he had nothing better to do; and here
sometimes at night-fall, when their flocks pierced the fogs and
swept round in a broad circle before going to rest, would he
bring down two or three of their number--a feat which rejoiced
the heart of Hexe-Baizel, who wasted no time in preparing them
for the spit. Here too, in autumn, did Marc often set snares
among the bushes, where the thrushes loved to perch; and to crown
all, the old tower served him as a storehouse for his winter's
stock of wood. How often was Hexe-Baizel, when the northern gales
blew fierce, and the crashing of branches and groans of the
neighboring forests rose like the dashing of a tempest-tost
ocean--how often then was Hexe-Baizel almost torn from that old
tower and hurled to the opposite Kilberi! But her long fingers
held fast to the vines, and the wind only flapped her coarse hair
about her head.

Dives, perceiving that his wood, covered with snow and wet with
every rain, gave more smoke than flame, made a roof of planks for
his storehouse; and the smuggler relates that, while laying the
rafters, he found a screech-owl white as snow, blind and feeble,
but provided with field-mice and bats in abundance. For this
reason he called it the "Grandmother of the country," supposing
that all the other birds fed it on account of its extreme old
age.

Toward evening the partisans--placed on the lookout on every
terrace of the rock--saw white uniforms appear in the surrounding
gorges. Masses of men debouched from the depths on all sides at
once, showing an intention to blockade Falkenstein. Marc-Dives
seeing this, became thoughtful. "If they surround us," said he
musingly, "we cannot procure provisions; we must surrender or die
of hunger."

{754}

The enemy's staff were plainly seen on horseback around the
spring of the village of Charmes. There a stout officer was
observing the rock through a long field-glass; behind him was
Yegof, to whom he turned from time to time to question. The women
and children of the village looked on at some distance away, as
if enjoying the scene, and five or six Cossacks caracoled about.
The smuggler could bear no more; he took Hullin aside.

"Look," said he, "at that long line of shakos glistening along
the Sarre, and nearer, those others running like hares through
the valley. They are Kaiserliks, are they not? Well, what are
they going to do, Jean-Claude?"

"They are going to surround the mountain."

"That is clear. How many men do you think they have?"

"From three to four thousand."

"Without counting those in the open country. Well, what would you
have Pivrette do with his three hundred men against that mass of
vagabonds? I put the question frankly, Hullin!"

"He can do nothing," replied brave Jean-Claude simply. "The
Germans know that our munitions are at Falkenstein; they fear a
rising after they enter Lorraine, and wish to secure their rear.
The enemy's general sees that he cannot overcome us by force; he
has decided to reduce us by famine. All this, Marc, is surely
true; but we are men; we will do our duty; we will die here!"

There was a moment's silence. Marc-Dives knit his brows, but
seemed not at all convinced.

"We will die?" he repeated. "I do not see why we should die; that
idea did not enter our heads; there are too many people who would
be glad of it if we did."

"What would you do?" asked Hullin shortly; "do you want to
surrender?"

"Surrender!" cried the smuggler: "do you take me for a coward?"

"Then explain."

"This evening I start for Phalsbourg. I risk my neck passing
through the enemy's lines; but I would rather do that than fold
my arms and die of hunger. I will enter the city the first sortie
that is made, when I will try and reach a gate. The commandant,
Meunier, knows me; I have sold him tobacco for the last three
years. He, like you, served in Italy and Egypt. I will show him
the state of affairs. I will see Gaspard Lefevre. I will fix
matters so that they will probably give us a company. If we only
get a uniform, we are saved--do you see, Jean-Claude? All of our
brave people who are left will join Pivrette, and, in any case,
they can deliver us. That is my idea; what do you think of it?"

He gazed at Hullin, whose fixed and gloomy eye disturbed him.

"Is it not our only chance?"

"It is an idea," replied Jean-Claude at length; "I do not oppose
it."

And looking the smuggler straight in the eyes, he said:

"Will you swear to do your utmost to enter the city."

"I swear nothing," answered Marc, his brown cheeks flushing. "I
leave here all I possess--my wife, my goods, my comrades,
Catherine Lefevre, and you, my oldest friend! If I do not return,
I shall be a traitor; but if I return, you will explain, your
demand, Jean-Claude; we will clear up this little account between
us."

{755}

"Marc," said Hullin, "forgive me. I have suffered too much; I was
wrong; misfortune has made me distrustful. Give me your hand. Go;
save us; save Catherine; save my child! I say now to you, that
our only hope lies in you."

Hullin's voice quivered. Dives softened, but he said:

"Very well, Jean-Claude; but in such a moment you should not have
spoken so. Never let us again speak of it! I will leave my body
on the way or I will return to deliver you. I will start
to-night. The Kaiserliks already surround the mountain. No
matter; I have a good horse, and I was always lucky."

At six o'clock darkness had fallen on every peak. Hundreds of
fires flashing in the gorges showed where the Germans were
preparing their evening meal. Marc-Dives descended, groping his
way. Hullin listened for a few seconds to his comrade's
footsteps, and then turned, buried in thought, to the old tower,
where he had established his headquarters. He lifted the thick
woolen curtain which closed the entrance, and saw Catherine,
Louise, and the others gathered round a little fire, which
lighted up the grey walls. The old woman, seated on an oaken
block, her hands clasped around her knees, gazed fixedly at the
flame, her lips set tightly together, and her face seemingly
tinged with a greenish tint in its extreme pallor. Jerome,
standing behind Catherine, his folded arms resting on his staff,
touched the slimy roof with his otter-skin cap. All were sad and
disheartened. Hexe-Baizel, who was lifting the cover of a great
pot, and Doctor Lorquin, scraping the old wall with the point of
his sabre, alone kept their accustomed looks.

"Here we are," said the doctor, "returned to the times of the
Triboci. These walls are more than two thousand years old. A fine
quantity of water must have flowed from the heights of
Falkenstein and Grossmann through the Sarre and the Rhine since
fire was made before in this tower."

"Yes," replied Catherine, as if awakening from a dream, "and many
besides us have here suffered cold, hunger, want. Who knows how
many? And when a hundred, or two or three hundred years shall
have passed, still others may here seek shelter. They, like us,
will find the walls cold and the floor damp. They will make a
little fire, and gazing on each other as we now gaze, will ask,
Who suffered here before us, and why did they suffer? Were they
pursued, hunted as we have been, that they would fain hide
themselves in such a miserable den? And then they will think of
by-gone years, and no one may answer them!"

Jean-Claude drew near. In a few moments, raising her head she
said, as she looked at him:

"Well, we are blockaded; the enemy seeks to reduce us by famine."

"True, Catherine,' 5 replied Hullin. "I did not expect that. I
counted on an attack; but the Kaiserliks are not yet so sure of
us as they imagine. Dives has just started for Phalsbourg. He
knows the commandant; and if they only send a hundred men to our
succor--"

"We must not rely on it," interrupted the old woman. "Marc may be
captured or killed; and even should he succeed in making his way
through their lines, how could he enter Phalsbourg? You know the
city is besieged by the Russians."

All remained silent.

Hexe-Baizel soon brought some soup, and the party formed a circle
around the great smoking pot.

{756}

              Chapter XXIV.


Catherine Lefevre came forth from the ruin at about seven o'clock
in the morning. Louise and Hexe-Baizel were yet sleeping; but
day--the brilliant day of the mountains--already flooded the
valleys. Far below, through the blue depths, forests, gorges,
rocks, were outlined like the mosses and pebbles of a lake
beneath its crystal waters. Not a breath stirred the air, and
Catherine, as she surveyed the grandeur of the scene, felt a
sense of peaceful calm--of repose, greater even than that of
sleep, steal over her. "Our miseries, our unrest, and our
sufferings are but of a day," she thought. "Why disturb heaven
with our groans? Why dread the future? All these things endure
but a moment. Our plaints are as those of a butterfly when the
leaves fall; they do not keep winter away. Time must end for all;
we must die that we may be born again."

Thus mused the old woman, and she no longer feared what might
happen. Suddenly a murmur of voices filled her ears; she turned
and saw Hullin with the three smugglers, all earnestly talking,
on the opposite side of the plateau. They had not seen her, so
deeply did the subject of their conversation interest them.

Old Brenn, at the edge of the rock, with a short, black pipe
between his teeth, his cheeks wrinkled like a withered leaf,
short nose, grey moustache, bleared eye-lids, half-closed over
reddish-brown eyes, and long great-coat sleeves hanging by his
sides, gazed at the different points Hullin was showing them
among the mountains; and the other two, wrapped in their gray
cloaks, stepped forward or backward, shading their eyes with
their hands, in deep attention.

Catherine walked toward them, and soon she heard:

"Then you do not think it possible to reach the foot of the
mountain?"

"No, Jean-Claude; there is no way of doing so," answered Brenn;
"those villains know the country thoroughly, and all the paths
are guarded. Look! there is the meadow of Chevreuils along that
lake; no one ever even thought of watching it; but see, they are
there. And yonder, the pass of Rothstein--a mere goat-path, where
a man is scarcely seen once in ten years--you see a bayonet
glisten behind the rock, do you not? And there, where I have
climbed for eight years with my sacks without ever meeting a
gendarme, they hold that too. Some fiend must have shown them the
defiles."

"Yes," cried tall Toubac, "the fiend Yegof."

"But," said Hullin, "it seems to me that three or four stout men
might carry one of those posts."

"No; they are supported by each other; and the first shot fired
would bring a regiment upon us," replied Brenn. "Besides, if we
got through, how could we return with provisions? It is
impossible!"

There were a few moments of silence.

"Nevertheless," said Toubac, "if Hullin wishes it, we will try
all the same."

"Try what?" cried Brenn. "To lose our lives trying to escape, and
leave the others in the toils? But it is all the same to me; if
the others go, I will. But as for talking about returning with
provisions, I say it is impossible. Which path will you take
going, and which returning? Promises will not do here; we must
act up to them. If you know a way, tell us. For twenty years I
have beaten the mountain with Marc. I know every path and pass
for ten leagues around; but I see none open now except through
the air."

{757}

Hullin turned, and saw Mother Lefevre a few paces away, listening
attentively.

"You here, Catherine!" he exclaimed. "Our affairs wear an ugly
look."

"Yes; I understand. There is no way of getting a supply of
provisions."

"Provisions!" said Brenn, with a strange smile. "Do you know,
Mother Lefevre, for how long we are supplied?"

"For a fortnight, at least," replied Catherine.

"For a week," said the smuggler, shaking out the ashes of his
pipe on his nail.

"It is true," said Hullin. "Marc-Dives and I believed that an
attack would be made on Falkenstein; we never thought the enemy
would besiege it like a fortress. We were mistaken."

"And what is to be done?" asked Catherine, growing pale.

"We must reduce each one's ration to half. If Marc does not
return in a fortnight, we shall have no more. Then, indeed, we
must see what is to be done."

So saying, Hullin with Catherine and the smugglers, their heads
drooping, took the path to the notch. They reached the descent,
when, thirty feet beneath them, they saw Materne climbing
breathlessly among the stones, and dragging himself along by the
bushes to increase his speed.

"Well," cried Jean-Claude, "what has happened?"

"Ah! there you are. I was going to look for you. One of the
enemy's officers is coming along the wall of the old _burg_,
with a little white flag. He seems to desire a parley."

Hullin, directing his steps toward the slope of the rock, saw,
indeed, a German officer standing upon the wall, seemingly
awaiting a sign to ascend. He was two musket-shots off, and
further away were five or six soldiers, resting on their arms.

After gazing a moment at the group, Jean-Claude turned, saying:

"It is a flag of truce coming to summon us to surrender."

"Fire on him!" cried Catherine; "we have no other answer."

The others all seemed inclined to do so, save Hullin, who,
without speaking, descended to the terrace, where the rest of the
partisans were gathered.

"My friends," said he, "the enemy sends a flag of truce. We know
not what he wants. I suppose it is a summons to lay down our
arms; but it may be something else. Frantz and Kasper will go to
meet him. They will bandage his eyes at the foot of the rock, and
lead him hither."

No one having any objection to make, the sons of Materne slung
their carbines on their backs and departed. At the end of about
ten minutes the two tall hunters reached the officer; there was a
rapid conference between them, after which all three began to
climb to Falkenstein. As they ascended, the uniform of the German
officer, and even his features, could be clearly seen. He was a
lean man, with ashy flaxen hair, tall, well knit, and resolute in
movement and appearance. At the foot of the rock Frantz and
Kasper bandaged his eyes, and soon their steps were heard beneath
the vault. Jean-Claude went to meet them, and himself untied the
handkerchief, saying:

"You wish to communicate with me, sir. I am listening."

{758}

The partisans stood some fifteen paces off. Catherine Lefevre,
nearer, knitted her brows; her bony figure, long, hooked nose,
the three or four locks of gray hair which fell by chance upon
her hollow temples, and down on her wrinkled cheeks, her tightly
pressed lips, and fixed gaze, seemed first to attract the
officer's attention; then the pale and gentle face of Louise
behind her; then Jerome, with his long, yellow beard and cloak;
and old Materne leaning on his short rifle. He looked at the
others, and at the high, red vault, with its colossal mass of
granite hanging over the precipice, and covered only with a few
brambles. Hexe-Baizel, behind Materne, her long broom of twigs in
her hands, her outstretched neck and feet, on the very, edge of
the rock, seemed to astonish him.

He himself was the object of much attention. His attitude and
bearing, long face, finely-cut bronzed features, clear gray eye
and thin mustache, the delicacy of his limbs, hardened by the
toils of war, all bespoke aristocratic lineage; and he had, too,
a look of shrewdness mingled with that of the man of the world,
the soldier, and the diplomatist.

But this mutual inspection was only the work of an instant. The
officer began, in good French:

"Is it the Commandant Hullin that I have the honor of
addressing?"

"Yes, sir," replied Jean-Claude.

The officer glanced hesitatingly at the circle around.

"Speak out, sir," cried Hullin; "let all hear you. Where honor
and our country are the subject, no one in France is out of
place; our women understand the words as well as we. You have
some propositions to offer me. In the first place, on behalf of
whom?"

"Of the general commanding-in-chief. Here is my commission."

"Very good. We are listening, sir."

Then the officer, raising his voice, proceeded in a firm tone:

"Before I begin, commandant, permit me to say that you have
performed your duty magnificently; you have forced your foes to
admire you."

"As for duty," answered Hullin, "we merely did what we could."

"Yes," added Catherine, in short, dry tones; "and since our foes
admire us on that account, they will admire us much more in a
week or two, for the war is not yet ended. Marc is to come!"

The officer turned his head toward her, and stood as if stupefied
at the savage earnestness imprinted upon the old woman's
features.

"Those are noble sentiments," said he, after a few moments'
silence; "but humanity has its rights, and to spill blood
uselessly is only doing evil for the sake of evil."

"Then why do you come to our country?" cried Catherine, and her
voice seemed like the eagle's shriek. "Begone, and let us alone!"

Then she added:

"You make war like robbers: you steal, pillage, burn. You all
deserve to be hanged. We ought to throw you over the rock, for
the sake of the example."

The officer turned pale, for the old woman seemed ready to
execute her threat; but he soon recovered himself, and continued
calmly:

"I know that the Cossacks set fire to the farm-house opposite
this rock. They are pillagers such as follow all armies, and this
one act proves nothing against the discipline of our troops. The
French soldiery often did the same in Germany, and particularly
in the Tyrol; and, not satisfied with robbing and burning the
villages, they shot pitilessly all the mountaineers suspected of
having taken up arms to defend their homes.
{759}
We might make reprisals. It is our right to do so; but we are not
barbarians; we understand that patriotism is grand and noble,
even when wrongly directed. Besides, we do not make war on the
French people, but on the Emperor Napoleon. Therefore, our
general, on learning of the conduct of the Cossacks, publicly
punished that act of vandalism, and moreover, decided that the
proprietor should be indemnified."

"I ask no indemnity of you," interrupted Catherine rudely. "I
wish to live with my wrong, and to avenge it!"

The officer saw the hopelessness of trying to bring the old woman
to terms, and that it was, besides, dangerous to reply. He
turned, therefore, to Hullin, and said:

"I am charged, commandant, to offer you the honors of war, if you
consent to surrender your position. You have no provisions, as we
are well aware. A few days from now, you will be compelled to lay
down your arms. The esteem the general bears you alone impelled
him to offer you these honorable conditions. Longer resistance is
useless. We are masters of Donon; our _corps d'armée_ is
passing into Lorraine. The campaign will not be decided here; so
that you have no interest in defending a useless position. We
wish to spare you the horrors of famine upon this rock. Decide,
commandant."

Hullin turned to the partisans, and said simply,

"You have heard. I refuse the conditions; but I will submit, if
all accept the enemy's propositions."

"We all refuse them," cried Jerome.

"Yes; all, all!" repeated the others.

Catherine Lefevre, till then so stern, happened to glance at
Louise, and then her firmness gave way. She took her by the arm,
and leading her to the officer, said:

"We have a child among us; is there no means of sending her to
one of her friends in Laverne?"

Louise had scarce heard the words when, throwing herself in
Hullin's arms, she cried affrightedly,

"No, no! I will stay with you, Father Jean-Claude! I will die
with you!"

"Go, sir," said Hullin, with bloodless lips, "tell your general
what you have seen; tell him that Falkenstein we will hold to the
death! Kasper, Frantz, lead back the officer."

The last seemed to hesitate; but as he was about to speak,
Catherine, pale with wrath, cried,

"Go, go! You are not yet so sure of us as you think. It is the
villain Yegof who told you we had no provisions; we have enough
for two months, and in two months our army will have swept you
from the earth. Traitors will not always flourish, and then woe
to you!"

As she grew more and more excited, the officer judged it prudent
to withdraw. He returned to his guides, who again put on the
bandage, and led him to the foot of Falkenstein.

Hullin's orders regarding the provisions were carried out the
same day; each one received a half-ration. A sentry was posted in
front of Hexe-Baizel's cavern, where the food was kept, and the
door barricaded. Jean-Claude ordered the distributions to be made
in presence of all, to avoid injustice; but all these precautions
did not save the unhappy patriots from the worst horrors of
famine.

{760}

              Chapter XXV.


For three days food had been entirely wanting. Still Dives gave
no sign. How often during those long days of agony did the
mountaineers strain their eyes toward Phalsbourg! How often did
they listen to the low murmur of the breeze, thinking it bore
upon it the sound of the smuggler's footsteps!

In the midst of the torments of hunger, the nineteenth day since
the arrival of the partisans on Falkenstein dragged away. They no
longer spoke to each other; but seated on the earth, their
fleshless faces gazing at vacancy, they passed hours as in a
dream. Sometimes they would turn sparkling eyes upon each other,
as if ready to satisfy their hunger at the expense of a comrade's
life; then all would again sink into a gloomy calm.

Once Yegof's raven, winging its way from peak to peak, came near
this scene of misery; but old Materne brought his rifle to his
shoulder, and the bird of ill omen flew back at its utmost speed,
uttering mournful cries, and the old hunter's piece fell
harmless.

And now, as if the horrors of hunger were not enough to fill the
measure of their misery, they only opened their lips to accuse or
threaten each other.

Louise was delirious; her great blue eyes, instead of living
objects, saw spectres fleeting over them, sweeping the tree-tops,
and lighting upon the old tower.

"Food--food at last!" would she cry.

And then the others, carried away by fury, shrieked that she was
mocking them, and bade her beware.

Jerome alone remained calm and collected; but the great quantity
of snow he had eaten in his pangs kept his body and bony face
covered with a cold sweat.

Dr. Lorquin knotted a handkerchief around his waist, and drew it
tighter and tighter, pretending that he thus satisfied his
cravings. He sat against the wall of the tower with closed eyes,
which from hour to hour he opened, saying,

"We are at the first, second, third period. Another day, and all
will be over!"

Then he would deliver dissertations on the Druids, on Odin,
Brahma, Pythagoras, quoting Latin and Greek, all announcing the
approaching transformation of the people of Harberg into wolves,
foxes, and all sorts of animals.

"I," he cried, "I will be a lion! I will eat fifteen pounds of
beef a day."

But soon recollecting himself, he continued,

"No, I would rather be a man. I will preach peace, brotherly
love, justice! Ah my friends! we suffer for our own faults. What
have we been doing on the other side of the Rhine for the last
ten years? By what right did we place masters over those nations?
Why did we not rather exchange thought, feeling, the products of
our arts and industry with them? Why did we not meet them as
brothers, instead of trying to enslave them? We should have been
well received. How they, poor wretches, must have suffered during
ten years of violence and rapine! Now they are avenging
themselves. God is just. May the malediction of heaven fall on
those who divide nations to oppress them!"

After a few moments of excitement like this, he would sink
exhausted against the wall, murmuring:

"Bread! only a morsel of bread!"

{761}

Materne's boys, seated among the bushes, their rifles at their
shoulders, seemed awaiting the sight of game, which never
appeared; but the thought of their eternal resting-place
sustained their expiring strength.

A few, in the agonies of fever, accused Jean-Claude of being the
author of their misery in bringing them to Falkenstein.

Hullin, with more than human energy, yet came and went, watching
all that passed in the valleys, but speaking no word.

Sometimes he would advance to the very edge of the rock, with
jaws pressed firmly together, and flashing eyes, to see Yegof
seated before a great fire on the meadow of Bois-de-Chênes, in
the middle of a troop of Cossacks. Since the enemy's arrival in
the valley of Charmes, this had been the fool's constant post;
and from it he seemed to gloat over the agony of his victims.

The tortures of hunger in the depths of a dungeon are no doubt
terrible; but beneath the open sky, with floods of light pouring
down on every side, in view of help, in view of the thousand
resources of nature, then no tongue can paint their horrors.

At the end of this nineteenth day, between four and five in the
evening, the weather became cloudy; huge masses of gray vapor
rose behind the snowy peak of Grossmann; the setting sun, glowing
redly like a ball of iron just taken from the furnace, threw a
few last gleams through the thickening air. Deep silence reigned
on the rock. Louise no longer gave any sign of life; Kasper and
Frantz still sat motionless as stones among the bushes. Catherine
Lefevre, huddled on the ground, clasping her knees within her
withered arms, her features hard and rigid, her hair hanging over
her ashy cheeks, her eyes haggard, and lips closed tight as a
vice, seemed some ancient sibyl. She no longer spoke. That
evening, Hullin, Jerome, old Materne, and Doctor Lorquin gathered
around the old woman, that all might die together. They were all
silent, and the last glimmer of twilight fell dimly upon the
group. To the right, behind a projection of the rock, the fires
of the Germans sparkled in the abyss. Suddenly the old woman,
starting as from a dream, murmured a few words, unintelligible at
first.

"Dives is coming!" she continued in a low tone; "I see him; he
sallies from the postern--to the right of the arsenal. Gaspard
follows him, and--"

She counted slowly.

"Two hundred and fifty men, National Guards and soldiers. They
cross the fosse; they mount behind the demi-lune. Gaspard is
talking to Marc. What is he saying?"

She seemed to listen.

"'Hasten! Ay, hasten; never was more need of speed! They are on
the glacis!"

There was a long silence; then the old woman, suddenly springing
to her feet, rose to her full height, and with arms outstretched,
and hair flying wildly about her head, shouted:

"Courage! Strike! kill! kill! kill!"

She fell heavily to the earth.

Her terrible cry had awakened all; it might have awakened the
dead. New life seemed breathed into the besieged. Something
strange and unearthly seemed to fill the air. Was it hope? life?
I know not; but the entire party came crawling up on all fours,
like wild beasts, holding their breath that they might listen.
Even Louise moved slightly, and raised her head. Frantz and
Kasper dragged themselves on their knees, and strange to say,
Hullin, casting his eyes toward Phalsbourg, thought he saw the
flashes of musketry, as if a sortie were being made.

{762}

Catherine resumed her first attitude; but her cheeks, lately
rigid as a marble mask, now quivered, and her eye again grew
dreamy. The others listened; their lives seemed hanging on her
lips. Thus a quarter of an hour passed, when she again spoke
slowly:

"They have passed the enemy's lines; they are hastening to
Lutzelbourg; I see them. Gaspard and Dives are in the van with
Desmarets, Ulrich, Weber, and our friends of the city. They are
coming! they are coming!"

She was again silent. They listened long, but the vision had
vanished. Minutes followed minutes that seemed centuries, when at
once Hexe-Baizel's sharp voice arose:

"She is a fool! She saw nothing. I know Marc. He is mocking us.
What is it to him if we perish! So long as he has his bottle of
wine and his dinner, and his pipe after, what does he care? O the
villain!"

Then all was silence again, and the wretches whose hearts were
for a moment animated with the hope of speedy deliverance, again
sank back in despair.

"It was a dream," thought they:

"Hexe-Baizel is right; we are doomed to die of hunger."

Night had fallen. When the moon rose behind the tall firs,
shedding her pale light on the mournful groups, Hullin alone
watched, although fever was burning his vitals. He listened to
every sound from the gorges. The voices of the German sentries
called their _Wer da! Wer da!_ as the rounds passed the
bivouacs; the horses neighed shrilly, and their grooms shouted.
At last, toward midnight, the brave old man fell asleep like the
others. When he awoke, the clock of the village of Charmes was
striking four. Hullin, at the sound of its far-off vibrations,
started from his stupor, opened his eyes, and, while he gazed
upward trying to collect his senses, a dim light like the flare
of a torch passed before his eyes. Fear seized him, and he
muttered:

"Am I going mad? The night is dark, and yet I see torches!"

The flame reappeared; he saw it more clearly; he arose and
pressed his hand for some seconds upon his brow. At last, risking
a glance, he saw distinctly a fire on Giromani, on the other side
of Blanru, flinging its red glare in the sky, and throwing black
shadows from the firs on the snow. Suddenly he remembered that it
was the signal agreed on between Pivrette and himself to announce
an attack; he trembled from head to foot; a cold sweat poured
from his forehead, and groping through the darkness like a blind
man with arms outstretched, he stammered:

"Catherine! Louise! Jerome!"

But no one answered; and after wandering thus, feeling his way,
and often thinking he was moving on when he made not a step, he
fell to the ground on his face crying,

"My children! Catherine! They are coming! We are saved!"

There was a dull murmur; it seemed as if the dead were awakening.
There was a short peal of laughter. It was Hexe-Baizel, crazed
through suffering; then Catherine cried:

"Hullin! Hullin! Who spoke?"

Jean-Claude, overcoming his emotion, shouted in a firmer voice:

"Jerome, Catherine, Materne, all of you! Are you dead? Do you not
see yonder fire on the side of Blanru? It is Pivrette coining to
our rescue!"

{763}

At the same instant a crash rolled like a tempest through the
gorges of the Jaegerthal. The trump of judgment could not have
produced a greater effect upon the besieged. At once all were
awake and listening.

"It is Pivrette! It is Marc!" cried broken voices, sounding
hollow as those of skeletons. "They are coming to save us!"

They tried to rise. Some fell back sobbing; they could no longer
weep. A second crash brought all to their feet.

"It is the volley of a platoon!" cried Hullin; "our men are
firing by platoon too! We have soldiers in line! Long live
France!"

"Mother Catherine was right," said Jerome; "the men of Phalsbourg
are coming to help us; they are descending the hills of the
Sarre, and Pivrette is attacking by way of Blanru."

The fusillade was, in fact, commencing on both sides at once,
toward the meadows of Bois-de-Chênes and the heights of Kilberi.

Then the two leaders embraced, and as they groped about in the
darkness, seeking the edge of the rock, the voice of Materne
shouted:

"Take care! the precipice is there."

They stopped short, and looked down, but saw nothing; a current
of cold air, from the depths beneath, alone told them of their
danger. All the surrounding peaks and valleys were buried in
darkness. On the sides of the opposite slope, the flashes of the
musketry glanced like lightning, now lighting up an aged oak, or
the black outline of a rock, or mayhap a patch of heather,
covered with forms rushing hither and thither. From the depths,
two thousand feet below, rose a confused murmur, the clattering
of horse-hoofs, cries, commands. Now the call of a
mountaineer--that prolonged shout which flies from peak to
peak--rose like a sigh to Falkenstein.

"That is Marc!" said Hullin.

"Yes, it is Marc cheering us," replied Jerome.

The others, near by, with necks outstretched and hands on the
edge of the cliff, gazed wistfully. The fire continued with a
rapidity which told of the desperation of the fight; but nothing
could be seen. How those poor wretches longed for a part in the
struggle! With what ardor would they have hurled themselves into
the combat! The fear of yet being abandoned--of seeing the
retreat of their rescuers--made them speechless.

Soon day began to break; the pale dawn shone behind the dark
peaks; a few rays of light fell into the shadowy valleys, and,
half an hour after, silvered the mists of their depths. Hullin,
glancing through a break in these clouds, at last understood the
state of affairs. The Germans had lost the heights of Valtin and
the field of Bois-de-Chênes. They were massed in the valley of
Charmes, at the foot of Falkenstein, one third of the way up the
slope, so that the fire of their adversaries might not plunge
from above upon them. Opposite the rock, Pivrette, master of
Bois-de-Chênes, was ordering an abatis to be raised on the
descent to the valley. He rushed hither and thither, his short
pipe between his teeth, his slouched hat pulled down on his ears,
and his rifle slung behind him. The blue axes of the wood-cutters
glanced in the rising sun. To the left of the village, on the
side of Valtin, in the midst of the heather, Marc-Dives, on a
little black horse with a trailing tail, his long sword hanging
from his wrist, was pointing out the ruins and the old path over
which the wood-cutters were wont to drag their trees.
{764}
An infantry officer and some National Guards in blue uniforms
listened. Gaspard Lefevre alone, in advance of the group, leaned
on his musket and seemed meditating. His mien told of desperate
resolve. At the top of the hill, two or three hundred men, in
line, resting on their arms, gazed on the scene.

The sight of the fewness of their defenders chilled the hearts of
the besieged; the more so as the Germans, outnumbering them seven
or eight to one, began to form two columns of attack to regain
the positions they had lost. Their general sent horsemen in every
direction with orders, and the lines of bayonets began to move.

"The game is up!" muttered Hullin to Jerome. "What can five or
six hundred men do against four thousand in line of battle? The
Phalsbourg people will return home, saying, 'We have done our
duty!' and Pivrette will be crushed."

All thought the same; but what filled the measure of their
despair was to see a long line of Cossacks debouch at full speed
into the valley of Charmes, the fool Yegof at their head
galloping like the wind, his beard, the tail of his horse, his
dog-skin and his red hair streaming behind. He gazed at the rock,
and brandished his lance above his head. At the bottom of the
valley he spurred toward the enemy's staff. Reaching the general,
he made some gestures, pointing to the other side of the plateau
of Bois-de Chênes.

"The villain!" exclaimed Hullin. "See! he says Pivrette has no
abatis on that side, and that the mountain must be turned."

A column indeed, began its march at once in the direction shown,
while another pressed on toward the abatis to mask the movement
of the first.

"Materne," cried Jean-Claude, is there no means of sending a
bullet after yonder fool?"

The old hunter shook his head.

"None," he answered; "it is impossible; he is not in range."

Even as he spoke, Catherine uttered a wild cry, a scream like
that of a falcon.

"Let us crush them!" she shrieked--"crush them as we did at
Blutfeld!"

And the old woman, but a moment ago so feeble, seized a fragment
of rock which she lifted with both hands; then, with her long
gray hair floating in the wind, her hooked nose bent over her
compressed and colorless lips, and her wrinkled cheeks rigid as
iron, she rushed with firm steps to the edge of the cliff, and
the rock cleft the air.

A horrible clamor arose from beneath, through which could be
heard the crash of broken branches; then the enormous mass
rebounded a hundred feet outward--dashed down the steep slope,
again flew out into the open air, down, down, falling full on
Yegof, and crushing him at the general's feet! All was the work
of a moment.

Catherine, erect on the edge of the cliff, laughed a long,
rattling laugh.

Then the others, those phantoms, spectres, as if a new life had
been given them, dashed over the ruins of the ancient burg,
shrieking:

"Death! Death to the Germans! Crush them as we did at Blutfeld."

Never did eye behold a scene more terrible. Wretches at the gates
of the tomb--lean, fleshless as skeletons found again their
strength and their courage. They blenched not; each man seized
his fragment of rock, hurled it over the precipice, and rushed
back to find another, without even waiting to see the effect of
the one he had thrown.

{765}

No pen can paint the terror of the Kaiserliks as this storm of
rocks dashed down upon their heads. All turned as they heard the
crashing bushes and trees, and at first stood gazing as if
petrified. Raising their eyes, they saw others, and still others,
rushing down, and, above, figures like spectres appear and
disappear, hurling missiles of death into the air; they saw
around them their crushed and mangled comrades--lines of fifteen
or twenty men stricken down at once. A wild cry echoed from the
depths of the valley to the peak of Falkenstein, and despite the
commands of their leaders, despite the hail of shot that began to
pour from right and left upon them, the Germans, careless whither
they went, fled anywhere--anywhere to avoid the horrid death that
smote them there.

In the thick of the rout, however, the Austrian general succeeded
in rallying a battalion and brought it in good order to the
village. Calm and collected amid disaster and death, he seemed
worthy his high rank. He turned gloomily, from time to time, to
gaze on the falling rocks, which still ploughed bloody furrows
through his column.

Jean-Claude observed him, and in spite of the intoxication of
victory, and the joy of having escaped the horrors of a death by
famine, the old soldier could not restrain his admiration.

"Look," he cried to Jerome, "he does as we did on the retreat
from Donon and Grossmann. He is the last to retire, and only
yields his ground foot by foot. Truly there are brave men of all
countries!"

Marc-Dives and Pivrette, witnessing this turn of fortune,
descended among the fir-trees to cut off the enemy's retreat; but
the effort was in vain. The battalion, reduced one half, formed
square behind the village of Charmes, and then retreated slowly
up the valley of the Sarre, halting at times, like a wounded and
hunted wild-boar turning upon his tormentors, whenever the men of
Pivrette or from Phalsbourg pressed them too closely.

Thus ended the great battle of Falkenstein, known among the
mountains as the Battle of the Rocks.


            Chapter XXVI.


Scarcely had the fight ceased, when, toward 8 o'clock,
Marc-Dives, Gaspard, and some thirty mountaineers, bearing
baskets of food, reached the peak of Falkenstein. What a
spectacle awaited them there! The besieged, stretched on the
earth, seemed dead. In vain they shook the bodies and shouted in
their ears; no answer came. Gaspard Lefevre, seeing his mother
and Louise lying motionless with teeth fast locked together, told
Marc, in his agony, that unless they recovered he would blow out
his brains with his own musket. Marc replied that every one was
free to do as he pleased; but that for his part, he would do no
such thing on Hexe-Baizel's account. At length, old Colon placed
his basket on a stone. Kasper Materne suddenly sighed, opened his
eyes, and, seeing the food, began clacking his teeth like a
famished fox.

They knew what that meant, and Marc-Dives passed his flask under
the nose of each one, which was sufficient to resuscitate them.
They wanted to devour all the provisions at once; but Doctor
Lorquin had sense enough remaining to warn Marc not to listen to
them, for the least excess would be sure death. Each one
received, therefore, only a small piece of bread, an egg, and a
glass of wine, which restored their powers singularly. Then they
placed Catherine, Louise, and the entire party on sleds, and
descended to the village.

{766}

Who could describe the enthusiasm and emotion of their friends,
when they saw them arrive, more meagre than Lazarus risen from
his grave! They were gazed at, embraced, hugged, and every
new-comer from Abreschwiller, Dagsberg, Saint-Quirin, or anywhere
else, had to repeat the ceremony.

Marc-Dives was obliged twenty times to relate the story of his
journey to Phalsbourg. Luck had been against the brave smuggler.
After having almost by miracle escaped the bullets of the
Kaiserliks, he fell, in the valley of Spartzprod, into the middle
of a troop of Cossacks, who robbed him of every thing. Then for
two weeks he had to roam about the Russian posts, which
surrounded the city, drawing the fire of their sentries and
running the risk dozens of times of being arrested as a spy,
before he was able to enter the works. Then the commandant
Meunier, fearing from the weakness of the garrison, at first
refused all help, and it was only at the pressing entreaty of the
inhabitants of the city that he at length consented to detach two
companies for the purpose.

The mountaineers, listening to this recital, could not cease
admiring the courage of Marc, and his perseverance amid so many
perils.

"What would you have me do?" asked the tall smuggler of those
loudest in their praises. "I only did my duty; would you have me
leave my comrades to perish? I knew that the task was not an easy
one; those rogues of Cossacks are sharper than custom-house
officers; they scent you a league off like crows; but no matter,
we got the better of them this time."

At the end of five or six days, all the lately besieged were on
their feet again. Captain Vidal, from Phalsbourg, had left
twenty-five men at Falkenstein, to guard the ammunition. Gaspard
Lefevre was of the number, and the brave fellow came every
morning down to the village. The allies had all passed into
Lorraine; none were seen in Alsace, except around the fortresses.
Soon the news came of the victories of Champ-Aubert and
Montmirail; but the evil days had come upon us, and, in spite of
the heroism of our army and the Emperor's genius, the Germans and
Russians entered Paris.

This was a terrible blow for Jean-Claude, Catherine, Materne,
Jerome, and all the mountaineers; but others have related the
history of these events; they form no part of our story.

Peace concluded, the old farm-house of Bois-de-Chênes was rebuilt
in the spring; wood-cutters, sabot-makers, masons, and all the
workmen in the country round lent a hand in the work.

About the same time, the army having been disbanded, Gaspard
trimmed his mustache, and his marriage with Louise took place.

The wedding-day was all the heroes of Falkenstein and Donon
gathered, and the farm-house received them with open doors, and
windows too. Each one brought a present to the couple--Jerome, a
pair of little shoes for Louise; Dives, packages of smuggled
tobacco for Gaspard; each one according to his means.

Tables were set even in the barns and sheds. How much wine,
bread, and meat, how many pies and puddings were disposed of, I
know not; but what I do know is that Jean-Claude, filled with
gloom since the entry of the allies into Paris, cheered upon that
day and sang the old song of his youth as gayly as when he set
out, musket on shoulder for Valmy, Jemmapes and Fleurus.
{767}
The echoes of Falkenstein took up the old patriotic air--the
grandest, noblest ever heard by man. Catherine Lefevre beat time
on the table with the handle of her knife; and if it be true, as
many maintain, that the dead come to listen when we speak of
them, our slain must indeed have rejoiced, and the King of
Diamonds foamed on his red beard.

Toward midnight, Hullin arose, and addressing the bridegroom and
bride said:

"You will have brave children; I will dance them on my knees, and
teach them this old song; and then I will follow those who have
gone before me."

He embraced Louise, and linking arms with Marc-Dives and Jerome,
went to his own little home, followed by all the wedding guests
singing their grand old song. Never was a finer night known;
millions of stars sparkled in the dark blue sky, and a low murmur
arose from the bushes at the foot of the slope where so many
brave hearts lay cold. All felt at once rejoiced and sad. At
Jean-Claude's door they shook his hand and gave him good night;
then, scattering in little parties to right and left, sought
their villages.

"Good-night Materne, Jerome, Pivrette, Dives," cried the brave
sabot-maker cheerily.

His old friends turned and waved their hats, and said among
themselves:

"There are indeed days when it is a joy to be in this fair world.
Ah! if there were no pestilence, nor war, nor famine; if men
understood, loved, and helped one another; if wrongs and distrust
were unknown--what a paradise would be ours!"

                   ----------

        Porter's Human Intellect. [Footnote 281]

     [Footnote 281: _The Human Intellect; with an Introduction
     upon Psychology and the Soul_. By Noah Porter, D.D.,
     Clark Professor of Moral Philosophy and Metaphysics in Yale
     College. New York: Scribner & Co. 1868. 8vo, pp. 673.]

In returning to consider this elaborate volume more in detail, we
would remark that its author has designed it as a text-book for
college students in the class of philosophy, and has proceeded,
in writing, on the presumption that they for whom he writes have
not the slightest knowledge of the subject. Hence his pages are
filled with matters which those who have made some proficiency in
the science of the human understanding, and are not wholly
ignorant of philosophy, properly so called, are already masters
of, and which they cannot even read without great weariness of
the body, and do not deem it worth their while to read at all.
They feel that to be able to understand the author, it is enough
to consult his principles and method, and his definitions of the
several topics he takes up and discusses. They have neither the
patience to read carefully through a huge volume which is,
nine-tenths of it, filled with what is for them mere baby-talk.
But the author does not, in composing his work, begin by stating
and defining his theses, and then proceeding to elucidate and
prove them; but attempts to begin where he supposes the infant
begins, and proceeds as a learner, not as a master.
{768}
Consequently, we are compelled to read his book from the
beginning to the end, or not be sure of his doctrine on any one
point.

It is true, the author sometimes attempts definitions, but they
are seldom scientific, rarely embrace his whole thesis, and
nothing else, and are pretty sure to mislead the unfortunate
reviewer who relies on them. He seldom abides by his own
definitions. In one place he defines consciousness a power, and
in another he makes it an act. Sense-perception is defined to be
the power by which the intellect gains the knowledge of material
objects; then we are told that the object perceived is not the
material existence, but "a joint product of the material agent
and the sentient organism," a psychical transcript of the
material object; while in another part of his work we find him
denying that what the mind perceives is such transcript, and
refuting, by plain and solid reasons, those who maintain that it
is. A really scientific definition is a definition _per genus
et per differentiam_; Dr. Porter sometimes gives the
_genus_ and forgets the _differentia_, and sometimes
gives the _differentia_ without giving the _genus_. He
also adopts a terminology in many respects not familiar to us,
though it may be to others, without the necessary explanation of
the terms he uses: and even when the terms he uses are such as we
are familiar with, they are used in a sense to which we are not
accustomed. We cannot tolerate _subject-object_, for subject
and object are distinct, and stand the one over against the
other. The subject in thought is never the object, and the object
is never the subject. Grammar teaches so much.
_Object-object_ says no more than simply object. Every
object is object, and no object is more or less than object. The
object is always real; for it is causative, since in the act of
thought it resists the subject, and becomes a counter-pressure.
We dislike _percepts_ and _concepts_; for they are
intended to imply that they exist, as it were, independent of the
subject and the object, and that the product of subject and
object may itself be object. We protest earnestly, in the name
both of philology and philosophy, against calling existences,
which are nothing except by the creative act of God,
_beings_, and still more earnestly against so calling the
products of second or third causes. This might pass with the
Gentiles, who substituted generation for creation, but is
inexcusable in a Christian philosopher. We know the schoolmen did
so, but they are not to be commended for it. They speak of _ens
simpliciter, ens secundum quid, ens reale_, and _ens
possibile_, and even of _ens rationis_, as if being, the
creations of being, mental abstractions, and the creations of
fancy and imagination could be all of the same genus or placed in
the same category! There is a philosophy in language which can
never be disregarded without more or less injury to the
philosophy of things.

The professor's method and technology render his work exceedingly
difficult to be understood without as much study as would be
necessary to construct the philosophy of the human mind without
it; and therefore if we should happen at times to miss his
meaning, he must blame himself. He is far more intent on
explaining the processes of the mind in knowing than on setting
forth what it knows. These processes have no interest for us; for
they really throw no light on the power or fact of knowledge. We
want to know what the author means by philosophy, and what is its
value, and we therefore want him to speak as the professor, not
as the pupil.
{769}
We have no disposition to waste our time and weary the flesh,
even, in reading the mass of stuff which he writes and which
tells us nothing we want to know. But enough of this.

The professor divides, not very scientifically, his work into
four parts.

  Part I. treats of Presentation and   Presentative Knowledge;
  Part II., of Representation and Representative Knowledge;
  Part III., of Thinking and Thought-Knowledge; and
  Part IV., of Intuition and Intuitive Knowledge.

He says, p. 77, "The leading faculties of the intellect are
three: the presentative or observing faculty, the representative
or creative faculty, and the thinking or generalizing faculty.
More briefly, the faculty of experience, the faculty of
representation, and the faculty of intelligence." But experience
is not a faculty; it is the result of the exercise of all our
faculties, and a source of intelligence. Intelligence, as a
faculty, is the intellect itself; as a fact, it is
indistinguishable from experience, which is improperly restricted
by some psychologists of the inductive sort to the knowledge of
the external world through the senses, but extends to all
acquired knowledge, whatever the faculty exercised in acquiring
it or the object perceived. The real distinction is not between
experience or empirical knowledge and intelligence, but between
empirical knowledge or experience and the ideal principles which
are given intuitively by the Creator, and neither acquired nor
developed by the soul's own action. Distinctions should be real,
not arbitrary or abstract.

We are able to know objects of various kinds and sorts, but the
knowing is always the same fact, and by the same cognitive
faculty, whatever the object known, the order to which it
belongs, or the means and conditions of its cognition. The
learned professor's division, making four sorts of knowledge,
since he makes intuition empirical, or an act of the soul,
appears to us, therefore, without any real foundation. All
knowledge or actual knowing is presentative, and is in all cases
by direct contemplation of the object in the light of ideal
intuition. Demonstration only strips the object of its envelopes,
removes the _prohibentia_, and presents it to direct
contemplation. In the longest chain of reasoning, each link is,
in the empirical sense, intuitively apprehended. The apprehension
is always immediate, and the several mental processes serve only
to bring the subject and object together, face to face. These
processes, however named or whatever their character, never
extend the matter of knowledge beyond the objects presented.

The presentative faculty the author subdivides into consciousness
and sense-perception. But consciousness is not a presentative
faculty, nor a faculty, nor a subdivision of a faculty at all. It
is simply the recognition of the soul, as reflected from the
object, of herself as subject. At most, it simply presents the
subject of the thought. Sense-perception presents only material
or sensible objects. The professor's doctrine is then that of
Locke, who derives all our ideas from sensation and reflection,
and confines all our knowledge to sensibles with the soul and her
operations. Reflection only operates on the sense-perceptions
without extending the matter of knowledge beyond them. This is
pure sensism, which we are somewhat surprised to find held by an
eminent professor in Yale College.
{770}
Does Dr. Porter know his doctrine is sensism, and therefore
materialistic? He says, though not truly, we apprehend the soul
in consciousness as a spiritual being, but is the soul the only
non-sensible he means to assert?

But, as we showed in our former article, the soul recognizes
herself only as subject, and therefore only as the correlative of
object. She knows her own operations only in the same
correlation. Take away the object and you lose the subject or
fact of consciousness. This, we fear, the professor does. He
defines, p. 131, sense-perception to be "an act of objective
knowledge, in which the soul knows and only knows;" but adds, "if
the soul knows, it knows some _being_ as its object. But
what being does it affirm? We answer, The being which, is the
joint product of the material agent and the sentient organism.
... In perception proper we do not know the excitant apart, nor
do we know the organism apart, only the result of their joint
action. This we know as an object, with which the mind is
confronted both as a sentient and as a percipient." But as there
can be no thought without the conjunction of the intellective
subject and the intelligible object, if the mind does not
apprehend 'the material object itself, there can be no such joint
product as pretended, and, consequently, no object at all. The
object then vanishes, and leaves only the subject, which is, we
need not say, pure idealism. As the subject is the correlative of
object, and recognizes itself only in thinking the object, if the
object vanishes, the subject, too, must vanish, and leave behind
it only the _sensation transformée_ of Condillac. But as
sensation, however transformed, is still sensation, and as
sensations are incapable of standing alone, or of subsisting
without the subject, the sensations themselves must go, and
nihilism alone remains--the result to which all psychologisms and
ontologisms are necessarily tending, and in which Sir William
Hamilton says all philosophy necessarily ends, if we may trust a
passage which we saw quoted from him not long since in _The New
Englander_, by a Princeton professor, in a striking article on
_The Present State of Philosophy_, in which the writer has
well stated the problem presented, but which he neither solves
nor attempts to solve; a problem, the solution of which is in the
ideal formula, or the real synthesis of principles of things and
of science, of which he seems never to have heard.

The professor draws a proper distinction between sensation as
feeling and sensation as perception, but we cannot agree with him
that sensation as feeling is an affection of the soul. Those
psycho-physiologers make a great mistake who call the body
"_The House I live in_." The union of soul and body is too
intimate for that. I am not soul, as distinguished from the body,
nor am I body, as distinguished from the soul; but I am the union
of the two. A General Council defines the soul to be "forma
corporis," the informing and animating principle of the body. Yet
there is a distinction between them. We can predicate of the one
things which we cannot of the other. There is, indeed, no
sensation without thought, or an act of the soul; but the
sensation itself, as distinguished from the perception, is felt,
not merely localized, in the body, not in the soul. When I feel
the twinges of the gout, I feel them, not in my soul, but in my
toe. We must distinguish two classes of affections, frequently
confounded; the one sensible, of the body, the other spiritual,
of the soul.
{771}
The sensible affections or emotions, such as joy and grief,
sorrow and delight, pain and pleasure, are of the body animated
and informed by the soul. They indeed imitate in the sensible
order the affections of the soul, but have in themselves no moral
character. Hence, the masters of spiritual life make no account
of what is called sensible devotion, and see in it nothing
meritorious, and no reason why the soul, in its itinerary to God,
should seek it. But very different is the other class, often
called by the same name, and which may or may not be accompanied
by sensible emotion. This difference is at once understood by all
who have learned to distinguish between the love of the senses
and the love of the soul, the love Plato meant when he
represented the soul, in his fine poetical way, as having two
wings, intelligence and love, on which it soars to the empyreum.
This love, in one degree, is chivalric love, which the knight
cherishes for his mistress whom he worships as a distant star; in
a higher degree, it is heroic love, a love that braves all
dangers for the beloved, whether friend or country; in a still
higher degree, and informed by grace, it is charity or saintly
love, with which the saint burns and is consumed as he
contemplates the Beauty of Holiness, or "the First Good and the
First Fair." This is not sensible love, and its glory is in
struggling against the seductions of the senses, or the flesh,
and by the grace of God winning the victory over them, and coming
off conqueror through Him who hath loved us and given his life
for us.

The professor has entered largely into the physiology of the
senses, and the joint action of the soul in the fact of
knowledge, and the process of the mind in forming what he calls
_percepts_; but as all he says under these heads, whether
true or not true, throws no light on the intellectual act itself,
we pass it over, and proceed to his Part II., Representation and
Representative Knowledge.

"Representation or the representative power," the author says, p.
248, "may be defined in general [that is, _the genus_] the
power to recall, represent, and reknow objects which have been
previously known or experienced in the soul. More briefly, it is
the power to represent objects previously presented to the mind."
Clearly, then, representation adds nothing to the matter
previously presented by the presentative power. But the author
continues: "It is obvious that, in every act of this power, the
objects of the mind's cognition are furnished by the mind itself,
being produced or created a second time by the mind's own energy,
and presented to the mind's own inspection. It follows that
representation, in its very essence, is a creative or a
self-active power."

We cannot say that this is obvious to us. The definition of
representation given by the author makes it what, in the language
of mortals, is called memory; and we have never learned that
memory is a creative power, or that in memory the mind creates
the objects it remembers. To recall or to reknow is not to
create. Even that the soul is self-active--that is, capable of
acting from itself alone--is by no means obvious; nay, is
impossible, unless we take the soul to be the first cause,
instead of merely a second cause; and, even if it were
self-active, it would not follow that it creates. God is
self-active because self-existent, or being in its plenitude; but
he is not necessarily a creator. He has infinite scope for his
infinite activity in himself, and he is free to create or not to
create as he pleases.
{772}
That the mind does not in memory create the objects remembered,
is evident from the fact that the facts remembered are, as the
author himself admits, facts or objects previously known or
experienced. The fact of memory, or the fact remembered, is the
same fact that was known in presentation, accompanied by the
recognition of it as an object previously present and known, and
not now known for the first time. There is no creation a second
time any more than there was the first time, or when the object
was presented.

The professor says, p. 251, "The objects of the representative
power are .... mental objects. They are not _real things_,
nor real percepts, but the mind's own creations after real
things. They are spiritual or psychical, not material, entities;
but in many cases, they concern material beings, being psychical
transcripts of them, believed to be real or possible." Does he
mean this as a true description of the facts of memory? Probably
not. Then his definition needs amending, for it does not include
all that he means by representation. His definition includes only
memory; but his description includes, beside memory, reflection,
fancy, and imagination, things which have nothing in common
except the fact that the mind operates in them all on matters
which have been previously presented. Reflection and memory are
in no sense creative faculties; fancy and imagination are
sometimes so called, but even they do not create their own
objects. Reflection is the mind operating on the ideal principles
re-presented in language, and in their light, on the facts of
experience in their synthetic relations with them. Memory is
simply, as a faculty, the power to retain and to re-present, more
or less completely and distinctly, the facts of experience. Its
objects are those facts themselves, not a mental representation
or transcript of them. The author confounds re-presenting with
representation. In the one, the object previously presented is
re-presented, or presented anew; in the other, the object itself
is not presented for more elaborate consideration, but a certain
mental transcript, image, or resemblance of it, which is the
product of the mind fancying or imagining, yet is never its
object in correlation with which it acts. This distinction alone
upsets the author's whole theory of science, or
_Wissenschaftslehre_, and renders worse than useless more
than nine-tenths of his volume. His whole theory is vitiated by
confounding representation, in the sense of showing or exhibiting
by resemblance or similitude, with the etymological sense, that
of re-presenting, and in taking the representation as the object
of the soul in the intellectual act, which it never is. Neither
reflection nor memory represents, in his sense of the word, the
objects previously presented; they only re-present them.

In point of fact, we never know anything by mental
representation; for we either know not at all, or we know the
thing itself. Representation only replaces the phantasms and
intelligible species of the schoolmen, for ever made away with,
we had supposed, by the Scottish school of Reid and Hamilton, and
the professor himself has given excellent reasons for not
accepting them. Plato, indeed, asserts that we know by
similitude, but in a very different sense. The idea is impressed
on matter as the seal on wax, and the impression is a perfect
fac-simile of the idea; and by knowing the impression, we know
the idea impressed. But he never made either the idea or the
impress of it on matter the product of the mind itself.
{773}
He makes either always objective, independent of the mind, and
apprehensible by it. In other words, he never held that the mind
creates the similitude by which it knows, but, at most, only that
by observation the mind finds it. The peripatetics never, again,
made their phantasms and intelligible _species_ mental
creations, or represented them as furnished by the mind from its
own stock; but always held them to be independent of the mind,
and furnished to it as the means of apprehending the object. If
they had referred their production to the mind itself, they would
have called the species _intellective_, not
_intelligible_ species. The soul has, indeed, the faculty of
representation; but in representing its correlative object, it is
not the representation, but the thing, whatever it may be, that
it attempts to represent. The _product_ of the mind may be a
representation, but the _object_ of the mind is not. In all
the imitative arts, as poetry, painting, sculpture, the artist
seeks to represent, but operates always in view of that reality
of which he produces the representation or resemblance.

The author himself distinguishes memory from representation,
though very indistinctly. "Representation," p. 303> "recalls,
memory recognizes." Here he uses representation in the sense of
re-presenting; for what is recalled is not the mental
representation or semblance, but the object itself; so, really,
there is no representation in the case, and the professor should
not have treated memory under the head of representation. "I see
a face, and I shut my eyes and picture it to myself." This is not
an act of representation, but of memory. There is a
re-presenting, but no representation, in memory; for, so far as
the fact is not reproduced in memory, there is no memory, but
simply fancy or imagination. The objects of reflection are simply
the objects originally presented with only this difference, that,
in presentation, the fact of consciousness is myself as subject
knowing, whereas in reflection it is myself as subject
reflecting, and, in memory, myself as subject remembering.

Fancy and imagination are, in a loose way, called creative
faculties; but properly creative they are not. Creation is
production of substantial existences or things from nothing that
is, without any materials, by the sole energy of the creator.
Fancy and imagination can operate only on and with materials
which have been or are presented to the mind. Fancy is mimetic
and simply imitates imagination, as throughout the universe the
lower imitates the higher, as the universe copies the Creator, or
seeks to actualize the type in the Divine mind; and hence St.
Thomas says, _Deus similitudo est omnium rerum_. God creates
all things after the type or ideal in his own mind, and _idea
in mente divina nihil est aliud quam essentia Dei_. Hence, man
is said to be made after the image and likeness of God, _ad
imaginem et similitudinem_, though he is not the image of God;
for that is the Eternal Word, who, St. Paul tells us, is "the
brightness of his glory and the express image of his substance,"
or being. (Heb. i. 3.) Fancy is mimetic, and plays with
sensations and sensibles; but though it combines them in its own
way, as a winged horse, the objects combined are always objects
of experience. Imagination is of a higher order than fancy, and
operates on and with objects of experience, sensibles,
intelligibles, and the ideal principles intuitively given. It
sweeps through the whole range of creation, descends to hell, and
rises to heaven; but its objects are always those which have been
presented to the mind, which it can only arrange and combine in
new forms of its own.
{774}
But the representations it produces are its products, not its
object. In producing them, the mind has a real object as its
correlate, as in presentation. Let the professor, then, abandon
the absurdity which runs through his book that a mental creation
or representation is the object of the soul in producing it. The
object of the soul is the object whose activity joined to its own
produces it.

Take the artist. The object in his richest and sublimest
productions is the beautiful which he sees, which is his soul's
vision and his soul's love, and which he seeks to express on
canvas, in a statue, a temple, an oration, a poem, or a melody.
Tell us not, as so many aesthetic writers do, that the artist
projects from his own soul, or creates the beauty which he
struggles to express in his work, and which he can never express
to his satisfaction. The ideal infinitely transcends the
expression. The soul contemplates the beautiful, but does not
create it. The beautiful, as Plato somewhere says, "is the
splendor of the Good." It is the splendor of the True and the
Good, that is, of God; though Gioberti, in his _Del Bello_,
seems to divorce it from the ideal, and, while asserting the
reality of the object, would appear to resolve the beautiful into
the subjective impression on the sensibility, produced by the
apprehension of the object, which supposes that beauty exists
only for sensible existences. It is as real as God himself, and
as objective as the ideal formula. It is the divine splendor,
inseparable from the Divine Being. Everything God has made
participates, in a higher or lower degree, of beauty, because it
participates of being; but beauty itself in its infinity is only
in God himself, which exceeds all the power of men and angels to
represent. The artist, by the noetic power of the soul, which, if
a true artist, he possesses in a higher degree than ordinary men,
beholds, contemplates, and loves it. It is; as we have just said,
the vision of his soul and the object of his love. He detects it
in creatures, in the region of fancy, in the mind, and in the
soul itself, and adores it in the ideal. The power of detecting
it in sensibles is fancy; in the ideal, is imagination. In
seeking to represent it or express it in his productions, it is
the real, the objective, he seeks to express or embody. He may
form in his mind a representation of it, but that representation
is not the object of the mind in either fancy or imagination, nor
is it a pure mental representation, not only because it is formed
after the real, but because it is formed only in conjunction with
the activity of the real. [Footnote 282]

    [Footnote 282: The artist ought always to be highly moral and
    devout, but whether so or not depends on the motive with
    which he acts, or purpose for which he seeks to embody the
    beauty he sees. The relation of aesthetics to ethics, of art
    to religion is easily understood. Art is not, as some Germans
    would persuade us, religion, nor is the culture of art true
    religious worship. Art may be licentious, and is, when it
    embodies only the sensual passions and affections of our
    nature, and the more so in proportion to the exquisite touch
    and skill in the execution. In no case can the brilliancy and
    perfection of the execution atone for the moral deformity of
    the object represented. Art which appeals simply to the
    senses, and inspires only sensible devotion, is not
    necessarily immoral, but is not positively moral or
    religious. But art which seeks to embody or express the
    ideal, the splendor of the real, the true, the good, whether
    as presented in the ideal intuition, or as participated by
    the creatures of God, can hardly fail to be moral and
    religious in its effect as well as in its ideal. God is
    worshipped in spirit and in truth, even worshipped in his
    works, for he enters into all his works as their cause, and
    their being is in him. We praise God in his saints, in all
    his works of nature or grace. The art is not the worship, but
    it is an adjunct to worship, and hence religion in all ages
    has called into its service the highest and richest forms of
    art.]

{775}

These remarks are sufficient to show that all that Dr. Porter
says of the faculty of Representation is, when not confused or
false, of no moment. He darkens instead of elucidating his
subject. We pass on, therefore, to his Part III., on Thinking and
Thought-Knowledge.

The mental operations treated by the author under the head of
Thinking and Thought-knowledge, are those which Locke calls by
the general name of reflection, and are conception, abstraction,
or generalization, judgment, reasoning, deductive and inductive,
and scientific or systematic arrangement. They are not faculties,
but operations of the mind. The proper English name for the
faculty on which they depend, so far as usage goes, is not
thought, nor the power of thought--for every intellectual act,
whether representative or presentative, is a thought--but
_understanding_ or _reason_. The old word was
understanding, but it is objectionable, because it includes,
according to present usage, only the intellectual activity of the
soul, and implies nothing of voluntary activity. Reason is the
better term; for it combines both the intellectual and the
volitive activity of the soul.

The objection of the professor that "reason is used for the very
highest of the rational functions, or else in a very indefinite
sense for all that distinguishes man from the brute," does not
appear to us to be conclusive. Every intellectual act, the
highest as the lowest, is thought, an act of one and the same
thinking faculty. The objects and conditions of knowledge may
vary, but the faculty of knowledge does not vary with them.
Reason is not used in a more indefinite sense when used for all
that distinguishes man from the brute, than is thought as used by
the professor. Man is well defined to be _animal rationale_,
or rational animal; but this does not mean that man is animal
_plus_ reason, but the animal transformed by reason; and
hence there is a specific difference between the sort of
intelligence which it seems difficult to deny to animals, and the
intelligence of man. All human intelligence is rational, the
product of reason. Coleridge and our American transcendentalists,
after Kant, attempted to distinguish between understanding
[_Verstand_] and reason [_Vernunft_], and to restrict
understanding to that portion of our knowledge which is derived
through the senses, and reason to an order of knowledge that
transcends all understanding, and to which only the gifted few
ever attain. But they have not been successful. Knowledge of the
highest objects, as of the lowest, is by the same faculty, and we
may still use reason in its old sense, as the subjective
principle of all the operations the professor calls thinking.

The word _reason_ is, indeed, used in an objective as well
as in a subjective sense. As subjective, it is a faculty of the
soul; the objective reason is the ideal formula, and creates and
constitutes the subjective reason. Cousin distinguishes between
the two, but as between the personal and the impersonal--a mere
modal distinction, not a distinction of substance. He identifies
the objective reason with the [Greek text] or Word of God, while
it is really identical with the ideal formula, which embraces
both being and existences, united and distinguished by the
creative act of being, as explained in our former article. This
asserts a distinction of subject and of substance between the
objective and subjective reason asserted by Cousin. In the
objective reason, God, in the subjective, man, is the actor; and
there is all the difference of substance between them that there
is between God and man, or between real, universal, and necessary
being, and finite, contingent existence.
{776}
They ought not to be both called by the same name, and we
ourselves rarely so call them. We ourselves call the objective
reason the ideal formula, or, briefly, the ideal; yet good
writers and speakers do use the word in both senses. They say,
"Man is endowed with reason," or has a "rational nature," in
which they employ the term subjectively. They say, also, of such
an assertion, "It is unreasonable, or it is contrary to reason;"
that is, to the truth, or principle of things, in which they use
it objectively, as they do when they speak of the principles
affirmed in the ideal formula, and call them the reason,
necessary and absolute ideas, or the principles of reason; for
nothing necessary or absolute is or can be subjective.

We ourselves use the word in a subjective sense, and understand
by it the faculty of reasoning, or the subjective principle of
all our mental operations. It is not a simple power, but a
complex power, embracing both the percipient and volitive
capacities of the soul. In every rational operation of the soul,
there is both perception and volition, and it is this fact that
distinguishes reason from the simple power of perception, or
intellectual apprehension. We _see_ and we _look_, and
we _look_ that we may _see_; we _hear_ and we
_listen_, and _listen_ that we may _hear_. The
_looking_ and the _listening_ are peculiarly rational
acts, in which the soul voluntarily, or by an act of the will,
directs her intellectual capacities to a special intellectual
purpose or end. This voluntary activity, or direction of the
capacity to know, must not be confounded with free will; it is
the _voluntarium_ of the theologians, distinguished, on the
one hand, from spontaneity, and on the other, from the _liber
arbitrium_, or free will, which is the faculty of electing or
choosing between right and wrong, and implies, whichever it
chooses, the power to choose the contrary. It is the principle of
all moral accountability. The _voluntarium_ is a simple,
voluntary activity, or power of directing our attention to this
or that intellectual object, or of using the cognitive power in
the service of science. The reason may be defined, then, the
soul's faculty of using her intellectual and volitive powers for
the explication and verification of the knowledge furnished by
presentation.

With these preliminary remarks we proceed to consider some of the
mental operations which give us what Professor Porter calls
Thought-Knowledge. We do not question the fact of these
operations, nor their importance in the development of our
rational life; what we deny is, that they are a power or faculty
of the mind, and that in performing them they are objects of the
mind, or that they add anything to the matter of our knowledge.

The professor says, p. 383, "The power of thought [reason] as a
capacity [faculty] for certain psychological processes, is
dependent for its exercise and development on the lower powers of
the intellect. These furnish the materials for it to work with
and upon. We must apprehend the individual objects by means of
the senses and consciousness [pure sensism] before we can
_think_ these objects." So in consciousness and
sense-perception we do not think, and we must apprehend sensibles
before we can think them! To intellectually apprehend an object
is to think it. Intellectual apprehension and thought are one and
the same fact. The professor continues, "We can classify,
explain, and methodize only individual things, and these must
first be known by sense and consciousness before they can be
united and combined into generals."
{777}
Here are two errors and one truth. The first error is in
regarding consciousness as a cognitive power or faculty, and the
second is in confining the individual things to sensibles, or the
material world. We know in presentative knowledge not only the
sensible but the supersensible, the intelligible, or ideal. The
ideal principles cannot be found, obtained, or created by the
mind's own activity, and are apprehended by the mind only as they
are given intuitively by the act of the Creator; but being given,
they are as really apprehended and known by the mind as any
sensible object; nay, are what the mind apprehends that is most
clear and luminous, so luminous that it is only by their light
that even sensibles are mentally apprehensible or perceptible.
The one truth is that the objects of the soul in her operations
must first be known either by perception or intuition before they
can be classified, explained, and methodized. Hence the
operations of which the author treats under this head do not
extend our knowledge of objects. They are all reflective
operations, and reflection can only re-present what has already
been presented.

The professor is right in maintaining that only individual
objects are apprehensible, if he means that we apprehend things
only in _individuo_ or _in concreto_; for this is what
we have all along been insisting on against him. Things are not
apprehensible in general, but in the concrete. Hence Rosmini's
mistake in making the first and abiding object of the intellect
_ens in genere_, which is a mere possible _ens_, and no
real being at all. It is simply conception or abstraction formed
by the mind operating on the intuition of real being, which never
is nor can be abstracted or generalized. Yet the author has
argued under both presentative knowledge and representative
knowledge that the mind, sometimes with, and sometimes without,
anything distinct from and independent of itself, creates its own
object; and that the object, as well as the act, may be purely
psychical. Thus he tells us that in sense-perception we do not
perceive the material thing itself, but the joint product of the
material agent and the sentient organism; and that in
representation the object represented may be unreal, chimerical,
and exist only in the soul, and for the soul alone. And he dwells
with great unction on the relief and advantage one finds in
escaping from the real world to the unreal which the soul creates
for herself. True, he says that whatever the object, real or
unreal, abstract or concrete, it is apprehensible only as an
individual object; but the unreal, the chimerical, the abstract,
is never individual. Why does he call conceptions
_concepts_, if not because he holds the conception is both
the act and the object of the mind in conceiving? And does he
hold the concept to be always individual, never general?
Conception, in his system, is always a generalization, or a
general notion, formed by the mind, and existing only in the
mind. How, then, can it be an object of the mind? He says truly
the object is individual, but "the concept (p. 391) is uniformly
general." And yet, in the very first paragraph on the next page,
he calls it an object of cognition! Farther on, he says, "The
concept is a purely relative object of knowledge," whatever that
may mean; and in the same section, section 389, he speaks of it
"as a mental product and _mental object_.'" To our
understanding, he thus contradicts himself.

{778}

Yet we hold that whatever the mind cognizes at all, it cognizes
in the concrete, as an individual object. And therefore we deny
that the ideas of the necessary, the universal, of necessary
cause, and the like, which the author calls intuitions, and
treats as first principles, necessary assumptions, abstract
ideas, etc., are abstractions, mental conceptions, or
generalizations; for there are no concretes or individual objects
from which they can be abstracted or generalized. As we really
apprehend them, when affirmed in the ideal formula by the divine
act, and as we cannot apprehend what is neither being nor
existence, as the author himself says, though continually
asserting the contrary; and as every existence is a finite
contingent existence, they must be real, necessary, and universal
being. They cannot be generalizations of being; for nothing is
conceivable more general and universal than being. Being, taken
in its proper sense, as the _ens simpliciter_ of the
schoolmen, is itself that which is most individual and, at the
same time, the most general, the most particular and the most
universal. These so-called necessary ideas, then, are being; and
in apprehending them as intuitively affirmed, we do really
apprehend being. Hence, as being, real and necessary being, is
God, whom the theologians call _Ens necessarium et reale_,
God, in affirming the ideal formula, intuitively affirms himself,
and we really apprehend him, not as he is in himself, in his
essence, indeed, but as being, the ideal or the intelligible,
that is, as facing our intelligence; or, in other words, we
apprehend him as the subject of the judgment, _Ens creat
existentias_, or as the subject of the predicate existences,
united and distinguished by his creative act, the only real, as
the only possible, copula.

The author makes man the analogon of God, and, indeed, God in
miniature, or a finite God, and gravely tells us, p. 100, that
"we have only to conceive the limitations of our being removed,
and we have the conception of God." But as we are not being, but
existence, we are finite and limited in our very nature; remove
the limitations, and we are not God, but nothing. Eliminate the
finite, says Père Gratry, and you have God, in the same way and
by the same process that the mathematician has his
infinitesimals. But this process of elimination of the finite
gives the mathematician only the infinitely less than the finite
number or quantity, and it would give the theologian not the
infinitely greater but the infinitely less than the finite
existence. Besides, the process could at best give us not God in
his being, but a mere abstract God, existing only as a mental
generalization. The universal cannot be concluded from the
particular, nor the necessary from the contingent, because,
without the intuition of the universal and the necessary, we have
and can have no experience of the particular and the
contingent--a fact we commend to the consideration of the
inductive theologians.

As the conception is always general, it can never be the object
of the mind in the fact of thought. It is a product of the mind
operating on the individual object or objects with which the mind
has thought, and is never the object itself. The same may be said
of generalization, abstraction, and every form of reasoning. But
if this be so, in what are conceptions, abstractions, etc.,
known? If they are known at all, they must be objects of
knowledge; if not known at all, how can we think or speak of
them?
{779}
They are known in knowing their concretes, as the author himself
tells us. As concepts, abstractions, generalizations, or general
notions, they do not exist in nature, and cannot be known or
thought. But they exist as qualities or properties of things, and
are known in knowing the things themselves. Thus we know round
things; all round things have the same property of being round;
we may, then, consider only this property common to all round
things, and form the general conception of roundness; but we do
not see or apprehend roundness, and the object of thought is
always the round thing. So of all so-called universals that are
abstractions, conceptions, or generalizations. The object known
is the concrete; the abstraction, abstracted from it, being
nothing, is not known or even thought.

But Cousin, in his _Philosophie Scholastique_, has very
properly distinguished general conceptions or general notions
from genera and species. The former are real only in their
concretes, and knowable only in them; the latter are real, and
actually exist _a parte rei_. Genus has relation to
generation, and is as real as the individual, for it generates
the individual. Hence, we cannot agree with Leibnitz, when he
makes the genus or species consist in resemblance, and declares
that resemblance real. The individual does not merely mimic the
genus, but is produced by it. The genus is always causative in
relation to the species, and the species, in relation to the
individual. The intelligible is always causative in relation to
the sensible, which copies or imitates it. The genus is not the
possibility of individuals, nor are they its realization. It is
not a property or a quality of men as individuals, for it is, in
the order of second causes, the cause producing them, and
therefore cannot be generalized from them, or be a general notion
or conception, like roundness, the generalization or abstract of
round. Without the genus there could be no generation, as without
a generator there could be no genus. Yet, though genera and
species, the only universals, properly so-called, are, as the old
realists held, real, existing _a parte rei_, and are
distinguishable from the individuals, as the generator from the
generated, the species from the specificated; they are not
separable, and do not exist apart from them. Adam was an
individual, lived, acted, sinned, repented, and died, as an
individual man; yet was he the generic, as well as individual,
man; for he was the whole human race, and the progenitor of all
men that have been born or are to be born.

But while we adopt, in relation to genera and species, the
doctrine of the mediaeval realists, we hold with regard to other
so called universals with St. Thomas, who says they exist _in
mente cum fundamento in re_. The _fundamentum in re_ of
conceptions, abstractions, and generalizations is precisely the
individual objects apprehended by the mind from which reason
abstracts or generalizes them. The only point which we now make
against the author is that the object of thought or knowledge is
not the conception or notion, but the object from which the
reason forms it; and that in it nothing is thought beyond that
object. Philosophy has been divested of its scientific character,
made infinitely perplexing and most difficult to be understood,
as well as utterly worthless, by being regarded as the science,
not of things, but of these very conceptions, abstractions, and
general notions, which, apart from their individuals or
concretes, are pure nullities.
{780}
We insist on this, because we wish to see philosophy brought back
to the real, to objects of experience in their relation to the
ideal formula; and our principal quarrel with the professor is,
that his philosophy is not real, is not the science of realities,
but of conceptions and abstractions.

We can hardly pause on what the professor says of judgment and
the proposition. We can only remark in passing that every
thought, every perception, even, is a judgment--a judgment that
the object thought or perceived is real or really exists. Every
affirmation is a judgment, and every judgment is an affirmation;
for denials are made only by affirming the truth denied. Pure
negations are unintelligible, present no counteraction to the
mind, and cannot be thought. "The fool hath said in his heart,
God is--not." It is only by asserting that God is that we can
deny that he is. Every negation is the contradiction of what it
affirms. So-called negative judgments are really affirmative. We
do not mean that denials cannot be made, for we are constantly
making them; but they can be made only by affirming the truth;
and the denial that transcends the truth affirmed in the denial
is simply verbal, and no real denial at all. Universal negation
is simply impossible; and hence when we have shown that any
system of philosophy leads logically to nihilism, or even
universal scepticism, we have refuted it. Logicians tell us that
of contradictories one must be false; but it is equally just to
say, that of contradictories one must be true; for truth cannot
contradict itself, and only truth can contradict falsehood.

But we pass on to Reasoning, which the professor holds to be
mediate judgment, and to which we hold all the reflective
operations of reason may be reduced. What a mediate judgment is,
we do not know. Reasoning may be necessary as the means and
condition of judging in a certain class of cases, but the
judgment itself is in all cases direct. The error of the
professor here, as throughout the whole of this Part III., and,
indeed, of his whole treatise, is that he treats every question
from the point of view of conception, or the general notion,
instead of the point of view of reality, as he cannot help doing
as an inductive psychologist.

Reasoning is a reflective operation. It operates on the matter
presented by ideal intuition and experience; it clears up,
explains, verifies, and classifies what is intuitively affirmed,
together with what experience presents. Its instrument is
language. We can think without language, and so far De Bonald was
wrong, unless he understood, as the professor does, by thought,
an act of reflection; but we cannot reflect or reason without
language of some sort to re-present to the mind's contemplation
the ideal or intelligible intuition. This re-presentation is not
an act of the soul herself, nor the direct and immediate act of
the Creator, as is the ideal intuition. It is effected only by
language in which the ideal or intelligible is embodied and
represented, and of which it is the sensible sign or
representation. In other words, the ideal is an object of
reflection only as taught through the medium of language; for we
must bear in mind that man is not pure spirit or pure
intelligence, but spirit united to body, and that he must have
some sort of sensible representation in order to reflect.
{781}
Hence the peripatetic maxim, _nihil est in intellectu, quod non
prius fuerit in sensu_, which does not mean that only
sensibles are cognizable, but that nothing can be reflectively
thought, or as the Italians say, re-thought, (_ripensare_,)
without sensible representation. That God is, can be proved with
certainty by reason; for we have immediate intuition of that
which is God in the intuition of real and necessary being; but we
cannot reach the conclusion that the intuitively affirmed object
really is God without reflecting on the intuition, and this we
cannot do unless it is re-presented or held up to our
contemplation in language, or without its being sensibly
represented by the word God. Language is the necessary instrument
of reason; we cannot reason without it, and only rational
existences have language properly so called. No animal deprived
of "the discourse of reason" has even articulation.

Those philosophers, or pretended philosophers, who regard
language either as a human invention or as the spontaneous
production of human nature, have never duly considered its office
in the development of thought, and in the rational operations of
the soul. Men could not have invented language without
reflection, and without language they cannot reflect. It needs
language to be able to invent language. The other theory is no
better. The soul does not secrete language as the liver secretes
bile, for language has in it more than human nature. The
spontaneous productions of nature may be less than nature, but
cannot be more. There is a philosophy in language broader and
deeper than human thought, a philosophy that embraces elements
which are known only by revelation, and which human nature does
not contain. All language is modelled after the ideal formula.
Its essential elements are subject, predicate, and copula, or the
noun, adjective, and verb. The verb and adjective may be, and
often are, combined in the same word, but they can be resolved
always into the predicate and copula. The copula is always the
verb _to be_, or its equivalent in other languages than our
own, and this verb is the only verb in any language.

The verb _to be_ is precisely the name of God himself, the
SUM QUI SUM. We cannot make, then, a single assertion but by the
Divine Being, and he enters as the copula into every one of our
judgments without which no affirmation can be expressed. But God
is supernatural, and is the author of nature; the ideal formula
which is repeated in every judgment is not contained in human
nature, is not in the human mind as in its subject, but is above
our nature, and by affirming itself creates our nature, both
physical and intellectual. How then could our nature, operating
simply as second cause, produce spontaneously language which in
its essential nature expresses what is beyond and above itself?
Men, especially philosophers, or rather theorizers, have
corrupted and still continue to corrupt language, as we can see
in the book before us; but we have never yet heard of any one by
the spontaneous action of nature secreting or producing a
language, or of any one having a language without being taught
it. Yet nature is all to-day that it ever was, and as fresh, as
vigorous, as prolific. Even the fall has not deprived it of any
of its primitive faculties, capacities, properties, or
tendencies. If language is a spontaneous production of human
nature, we ought to have some instances of children growing up
and speaking a rich and philosophical language without having
ever learned it.
{782}
For ourselves, we have a huge distrust of all those theories
which assume that nature could and did do in the past what she
does not and cannot do in the present. Our _savants_ employ
themselves in seeking the types of domestic animals in the wild
races; why not seek the type of the wild races in the domestic?
Why suppose man could and once did domesticate races which he
finds it difficult, if not impossible, to domesticate now? We do
not believe much in the modern doctrine of progress, but we
believe just as little in the wonderful superiority of nature and
men in ante-historical times, which is sometimes assumed,
especially by the champions of progress.

Language is neither a human invention nor a natural production,
but was created by God himself and infused into man along with
the affirmation of the ideal formula, when he made him and placed
him in the Garden, and it has been perpetuated by tradition, or
by being handed down from father or rather mother to child. It
comes to us from the hand of the Creator; he who made man gave
him speech. We can explain the origin of language in no other
way, as we can explain the origin of man only by saying with the
catechism, God made him. As language is the instrument of reason,
and re-presents to his contemplation the ideal which the Creator
fitted it to symbolize, its corruption or confusion has a most
disastrous effect on philosophy. It was confounded at Babel, and
men lost the unity of speech, and with it the unity of the ideal,
and were dispersed. The Gentiles lost the unity of language, and
they lost with it the unity of the ideal, or the copula of the
divine judgment, and labored to explain, as our modern
_savants_ are laboring to explain, the existence and laws of
the universe without the creative act of God. Language, corrupted
re-presented to the ancient Gentiles, and as it does to our
modern physiologists and psychologists, the ideal only in a
mutilated form, and hence the fatal error of Gentilism and of
modern so-called science, which asserts pantheism. It is
necessary, in order to have a true philosophy, to have some means
of preserving the purity and infallibility of speech, and at no
former period was such means more necessary than it is now.

The instrument of reasoning is language; its form is the
syllogism, which is given in the ideal formula. All the matter of
knowledge is given in presentation, and the syllogism does not
advance it; but it explains, distinguishes, arranges it according
to the real relations of the objects known, clears up what is
obscure, and verifies what is uncertain, doubtful, by reducing
the whole to its principle or principles. The principle and model
of the syllogism are in the ideal. Being and existences are the
extremes, and the creative act is the _medius terminus_. The
major represents being, the minor existences, and the middle term
produces the conclusion. To this regular form of the syllogism
every form of argument is reducible. If the major is universal,
and the minor is proved, the conclusion is necessary and
apodictic.

The modes in which reason operates are two, deduction and
induction, or analysis and synthesis. Induction is simple
analysis, or what Kant calls analytic judgment, and simply
dissects the subject, analyzes it, and brings out to our distinct
view what is in it. It is never illative, but always explicative,
and enables us to distinguish the part in the whole, the property
in the essence, or the effect in the cause.
{783}
Dr. Porter entirely mistakes it in supposing it to be an
imperfect induction. There is nothing inductive in it. Induction
is what Kant calls a synthetic judgment _a posteriori_, and
adds an element not contained in the subject analyzed. In
synthetic judgments _a posteriori_, the added element is
taken from experience; in synthetic judgments _a priori_,
the added element is from the ideal formula, intuitively given,
or rather, the ideal formula is that into which what Kant calls
synthetic judgments _a priori_ are resolvable. The syllogism
is used in deduction and in induction; yet it is not properly
either, but is productive. As being creates existences, so the
major through the middle term unites the minor to itself and
produces the conclusion. Such men as Sir William Hamilton and J.
Stuart Mill, who reject the middle term, and hold the major may
be a particular proposition, are misled by their philosophy,
which excludes the creative act of God both from the universe and
from science. No man who has a false or defective philosophy can
understand logic as a science. Pantheism, which excludes the
creative act, is the supreme sophism. It is not easy to say what
Dr. Porter's views of logic, either as a science or as an art,
really are.

The chief complaint against the professor here is, that he makes
reasoning turn on the laws of the mind, on conceptions, and
general notions, and reflecting, as logic, only the relations and
forms of the creations or products of the mind, instead of the
relations and forms of things. He studies everything from the
point of view of the mental act, instead of studying them from
the point of view of the ideal intuition, which is the point of
view of God himself. He therefore gives in his science, not
things as they are, but as the mind conceives them.

The conceptions and general notions play, no doubt, an important
part in the process of reasoning, but they play not the chief
part, nor do they impose upon logic the laws it must follow. The
categories are not general conceptions or general notions, formed
by generalizing individuals or particulars. M. Cousin assumes
that he has reduced them to two, substance and cause, or being
and phenomenon: but as with him substance is a necessary cause,
and as phenomenon is only an appearance or mode of substance, his
reduction is really to one, the category of substance, which it
is needless to say is pure pantheism. They, however, may be
reduced to the three terms of the ideal formula; for whatever is
conceivable is being, existence, or the creative act of being.
The categories are not, then, merely formal, simply conceived by
the mind _cum fundamento in re_; but are the ideal
principles of things themselves. Take the categories of space and
time, which seem to puzzle the author as they have puzzled many
greater and wiser men than he. Space is ideal and actual. Ideal
space is the power or ability of God to externize his act, that
is, to create or act _ad extra_; and actual space is the
relation of coexistence of his externized acts or creatures.
Ideal space pertains to being, is being itself; actual space
being a real relation between creatures, and, like all relations,
really existing in the related, comes under the head of
existences, and is joined to being as well as distinguished from
it by the creative act. The reason of space and time is the same.
Time also is ideal and actual. Actual time is the relation of
succession, and ideal time is the ability of God to create
existences that, as second causes, are explicated and completed
successively, or reach their end progressively. Ideal time is
God. Actual time is creature, since all relations really exist in
the related. The difficulty which so many eminent men have felt
with regard to these two categories, evidently reducible to the
terms of the ideal formula, grow out of their attempt to abstract
them, the ideal from God, and the actual from the related,
whether existences or events. Take away the body and the space
remains, says Cousin. Certainly; because the intuition of the
ability of God to externize his act--that is to create--remains.
So of time. So of the infinite lines of the geometrician. No
actual line is infinite, and the conception of its infinity is
based on the intuition of the infinite power or ability of God,
the real ground on which the line, when conceived to extend
beyond the actual, is projected.

There are various other points presented by the learned professor
in this part and in Part IV. on which we intended to comment, but
we have exhausted our space and the patience of our readers. We
have said enough, however, to show that he recognizes intuition
only as an act of the soul, and therefore, however honorable his
intention, since he fails to recognize ideal intuition, which is
the act of God, he fails to get beyond experience, to extend
science beyond the sensible or material world with the operations
of the soul on sensations, and therefore cannot be followed as a
safe guide in the philosophy of the human mind. He has learning,
industry, and even philosophical instincts, but is ruined by his
so-called Baconian method.

              ----------

{784}

         Heremore-Brandon; Or,
      The Fortunes Of A Newsboy.


             Chapter VI.

I could not tell you one half the projects Dick formed and
rejected as entirely hopeless before he at last succeeded in
inducing a gentleman who had been very kind to him to make an
offer to Mr. Brandon of some place in his office, which, while it
would not be more than, with his now broken energies and failing
health, he could easily perform, if he had the disposition, would
give him something to help him live upon.

Soon after this offer was made and (with much grumbling) finally
accepted, Dick, without really seeking it, found himself becoming
known to Mr. Brandon; and, thanks to the patience with which he
listened to that gentleman's railings against the world, and his
own hard fortunes in it, taken into favor. It was a very sad
sight for a hopeful, self-respecting, God-fearing Catholic like
Dick to see this querulous man, from whom all vigorous spirit
seemed to have fled, brooding over his losses, instead of holding
up his head, and bravely going forth to make the most of what was
left; a sad thing to hear these miserable repinings in which
there was never a thought of gratitude for the long years of
comfort and plenty with which God had blessed him.
{785}
But Dick bore it patiently, and sought in every way which his
simple experience could devise to draw him from his despondency;
to inspire him with some trust in God. It was, however, without
any apparent success, other than greater condescension from Mr.
Brandon, who, at last, weak and nervous, would gladly avail
himself of Dick's young strength in his walks home.

And so, in time, that which had seemed the impossible came to
pass very naturally. Mr. Brandon urged Dick to enter the house,
and he was received as a guest in Miss Brandon's home. Home it
must be called, I suppose; though it was a dreary, desolate room,
with "boarding-house" stamped in glaring letters all over the
grey walls and badly-assorted furniture. Even Dick could realize
that it must be a very different home from any which Miss Brandon
had ever seen before; for it was far different from the only
pretty rooms _he_ had ever entered--those dear, clean, sweet
rooms at Mrs. Alaine's.

"Mr. Heremore, Mary," was his introduction, accompanied by a
patronizing wave of Mr. Brandon's hand. Do not be surprised; you
know I have never said--not even in his days of prosperity--that
he was a gentleman--"Mr. Heremore, Mary; a young man who has
thought it not worth while to be unkind and disrespectful to an
old man who has lost every thing."

"I have heard my father speak of you often," said Mary very
quietly; but in such gentle tones that Dick wondered how any man
could count himself poor--knowing _her_.

"I really felt very nervous," Mr. Brandon further explained,
"about coming home alone. I have been so very uncomfortable
to-day. But that's of no consequence, of course, _now_."

"I am very glad you brought Mr. Heremore," Mary answered readily,
and with more warmth than before; and I am sure he was very
careful of you."

After that, conversation became somewhat easier; although Dick
felt half like an impostor, and could not do much to second Miss
Brandon's efforts to make the hour go by pleasantly. She had
several albums and scrap-books of engravings with which she tried
to entertain him; but to do his best, he could think of little
else than the languid, weary manner which had replaced the quick
steps and stately sweetness he had known of old. When Mr. Brandon
left them for a few minutes, she turned with animation and said:

"Mr. Heremore, I must thank you for your kindness to my father. I
would not have him suppose I consider it kindness, but in my
heart I know it is, and I know you mean it as such. Since things
have gone wrong with him, he seems to have changed his whole
nature; he does not appear to have any courage to stand against
the tide. I suppose it would have been very different if Mrs.
Brandon had lived; a wife would have kept his spirits up as no
one else can."

"I know," stammered Dick, not knowing what to say under the gaze
of her beautiful eyes, "I know--that the death of your mother
last summer--"

"Mrs. Brandon, you mean," she interrupted in her quietest tones,
"that is, my father's second wife. This Mrs. Brandon was not my
mother; my own mother died long ago." This so coldly that, for
some inexplicable reason, Dick fancied she was glad to correct
him.

{786}

"You were in the carriage at the same time," said Dick, feeling
that he must say something.

"Yes," answered Mary, "but I remember little about it; as soon as
we found the horses were running away, Mrs. Brandon became very
much alarmed, and almost before I could say a word to her, we
were thrown out, and were both picked up senseless. She was not
conscious of anything again. All these things together have
completely unnerved poor papa, and I really feel very grateful to
any one who is interested in him. His old friends have received
but little encouragement to visit us here, although it is only a
fancy of papa's, I am sure, that they feel any difference, and he
is often quite lonely."

Mr. Brandon soon returned, and seeming to wish his daughter's
undivided attention, Dick rose and said, "good-night."

It need hardly be said that he was after this more
enthusiastically devoted to their fortunes than ever before. He
spent a few hours there at different times during the winter and
spring, and soon found himself at ease in that dreary room; but
as he knew Mary better, his reverence for her, while it
diminished not in the least, became a deep and fervent feeling,
which kept her always in his thoughts. She, too, seemed to regard
him with very kindly feelings, and the sympathy between them was
so strong that it bore down many of their differences of
association and education, and each was astonished to find an
unexpectedly ready understanding in the other. But as yet Dick
had said nothing of the little girl on the steps who gave him her
candy one cold Christmas morning years ago.

Once at New-Year's, and again on the 22d of February, holidays on
which he was free, Dick had been down to the cottage in the
country, and had seen Rose and the boys skate and make
snow-houses, and spent two of the coziest, happiest evenings of
his life around the bright fire, talking pleasant talk with those
dear people, among whom alone he realized the faintest idea of
the word home. Now time had gone by so rapidly that he was to
spend a whole week there as he had the year before. But not
exactly the same; for the last time he had been there a clear,
bright day in February, when they were all coming home from the
skating-pond together--it had chanced that he and Rose had fallen
far in the rear of the children, who, having skated since one
o'clock in the keen air, professed themselves "ever so hungry,"
and, as Dick would not hurry with them, walked off in disgust,
each declaring to the other that they didn't like Mr. Dick, half
so much this time as before; he was "no good" at all.

"What a magnificent day!" Dick said, for about the tenth time, as
he tramped by Rose's side through the crisp snow, just as the sun
was going down in one great glow before them. "I think I never
saw a more splendid winter day in all my life."

Not thinking of any addition to this speech, and not being able
with truth to contradict it, Rose kept on her way, her neat
little boots cutting the snow, and making, Dick thought, the most
delicious music there ever was. Rose looked especially charming
that afternoon; from the very crown of her head, with her wealth
of golden hair, only half hidden by her felt hat, to the dainty
little boots before mentioned, which her warm skating dress,
looped up, did not even affect to conceal, Rose was charming.
{787}
Dick thought that her very cloak seemed to nestle more lovingly
to her plump figure than another's would; and as for the tiny
muff, Uncle Carl's present, and the blue silk handkerchief
knotted around her neck, Dick was certain that Stewart never sold
anything half so pretty. So, if his lips talked about the
weather, it is hardly surprising that his eyes embraced another
subject; and I question if, when her demure glances met his gaze,
Rose needed words to tell her its meaning; for, after all, are
words, the dearest and sweetest that come from the lips, any
dearer or sweeter than those the eyes speak?

But whatever she knew, Rose was a true little woman, and showed
no sign.

"This is the place where Mrs. Brandon was thrown," she said, as
they passed a broad street cutting across the narrow road they
were following. "Just by those trees. They say the horses could
have been managed only for her screams; a woman who screams at
such a time must have very little sense."

"I think so," answered Dick, looking sadly toward the place Rose
pointed out.

"Miss Mary behaved wonderfully well," continued Rose, with one
quick look into Dick's face as they passed on. "She was perfectly
calm, and tried to quiet Mrs. Brandon. She was very much hurt
herself."

"Yes, so I have heard; she shows it, too; you would hardly
recognize her now, she is so thin and altered."

"But, of course, she is more beautiful for that," said little,
plump Rose, who had a great idea of delicate, fragile girls.

"Not more beautiful, exactly," answered Dick, who had not a great
idea of delicate, fragile girls, "but it makes one feel for her
more."

"I know you feel for her very much," said Rose.

"I have always honored her very much," answered Dick warmly. "It
almost seems presumption for me to say I _feel_ for her; but
I do, indeed I do."

"I am sure of it," Rose responded with great warmth, and then
there was silence for a long time.

Rose broke it with a little trembling in the first word or two at
her own audacity, but gathering courage as she went on: "I knew
you did when you were here last summer; then I heard of her
father's failure, and then it seemed more natural; and--now--I am
very glad for your sake. I hope you will be very happy. I do,
indeed."

Now, Dick was no fool, and when the strangeness of this speech
caused him to look harder than ever into the glowing but demure
little face by the side of him, he felt for the moment a great
inclination not to say a word; for provokingly innocent as she
looked, he did not believe she was at all so ignorant of the real
state of things. Rose felt the moment's hesitation, and, poor
little thing, got frightened at her own conjuring, which fright
so changed the expression of her face that Dick's hesitation
vanished, and he answered:

"Of course I know what you mean, Rose, although it is so strange.
I do not think of such a thing--it would be very strange if I
did. You know better, don't you, Rose?"

Rose looked up with a careless answer, but thought better of it,
and said nothing.

"You never did really think it, did you, Rose?" he added,
pursuing his advantage, and repeating it until there was no
escape for Rose, who had to answer truthfully, "No." She having
made this concession, he made one, and told her the story of his
boyish days, and of the Christmas day when he first saw Mary
Brandon.
{788}
He had not felt very easy about Rose's opinion of much he had to
tell her, and was greatly relieved when he saw all her assumed
carelessness depart, and that she listened to him with earnest
sympathy. He was so encouraged by the gentle, womanly interest
she gave him that he did not stop with the history of his boyish
days, but went on to narrate a later experience; very few words
sufficed for this. When he told it, Rose understood very well
why, if Mary Brandon were a queen upon her throne, she would be
no more than friend or sister to him.

After that, there seemed no more to be said; for they finished
the walk in the still winter twilight almost in silence.

That was in February, when Dick went down to Carlton to spend
Washington's birthday, and it inaugurated a new era for Will.
Rose had a sudden interest in the post-office, which was a long
walk from the cottage, and, in rainy weather or on very busy
days, was beyond her reach. I believe all her spare pennies went
into Will's coffers about that time, and I am sure all her cakes
and apples went into his possession; but, for all that, he was an
ungrateful page, and wished "there wasn't no post-offices in the
world," which opinion Will may alter when his own time comes.

This was in February, and it was now August, and Dick was going
down for a week, one whole week in the country. Rose was at the
gate as she had been a year ago; but she did not say "you are
welcome," as she had said before. The children took him into
favor when they found he had not come empty-handed, but had
brought the books for Will, the doll for Trot, and just such toys
for the rest as were most desired; and though many times in their
rambles Will did have his patience sorely tried by "Mr. Dick's
everlasting lagging," he was, on the whole, admitted to be an
acquisition. I believe, though, that Rose's bosom-friend, Clara
Hays, who was always urged to be of every party, and sadly
neglected when she got there, was the greatest sufferer; it is
not every day you see lovers who are perfectly well-bred and
considerate for everybody. My excuse for Rose and Dick is, that
they only had a week, and a week is such a short time when one is
very happy!

Dick's week was nearly at its end when his birthday, his
twenty-first birthday came, and his good friends made a little
rejoicing for him in their homely way. It was a very beautiful
August day, and was celebrated like a holiday by all the family.
Yet it was not exactly a cloudless day for Dick, though it was
the first birthday of his that had ever received the slightest
notice from any one, and ought to have made him radiantly happy.
He had received a present made for him with her own hands, with
no one could tell how many loving thoughts of him worked in it,
from his own dear Rose. His little table was covered with the
first keepsakes he had ever received from any one, and still he
was not happy. Among the treasures on his little table there
stood one--which reminds me that I should not have called the
others the first--from the mother whose face he could not
remember, and what might it not contain? Hitherto he had thought
but little of the box of which Carl spoke so slightingly years
ago; but now that the day of opening it had come, he grew really
afraid of it. He remembered stories of vengeance bequeathed from
the grave, of crimes to be expiated by the children of the
perpetrators years afterward, of fearful confessions of sin and
sorrow and wrong in countless forms; and Dick, in the first glow
of his first joyous days, did not know how he could bear even a
mist upon the rising sun of his happiness.

{789}

"Not until the last thing to-night," he said finally, laying down
the box and turning away from the table. "I will be happy to the
last minute," and he went down to ask Rose to walk with him in
the beautiful twilight after tea. It was earlier than he had
thought when he went down, and Rose was reading in the shadow of
the porch, or seeming to read, for a book was in her hand, and
not, as he supposed, engaged in getting tea.

"I did not suppose I should find you here," said Dick.

"Shall I go away?" she asked, looking up and smiling.

"Yes, do," he replied, sitting by her, "you know there's nothing
would please me better." But for all he tried to be gay, Rose saw
that the shadow she had observed over him all day was deeper than
before.

"Dear friend," she said, softened and made earnest at once,
"something troubles you to-day."

"Yes, dear Rose, I am troubled to-day in spite of all the
kindness shown me. My little box troubles me; I am afraid to open
it."

"Then the best thing is to do it at once, is it not? One only
makes such things worse by thinking about them."

"I know it. No, I will not open it now; I will have every moment
of happiness I can first."

"What happiness can it take from you? You will be yourself still,
let there be in it what there will. Our happiness is our own."

"O Rose!"

"O Dick! if we are good, are we not happy? And nobody can make us
bad against our will."

"But, Rose, this may tell me something that you--there is my
fear, Rose, it may take you away from me."

"Oh! no, Dick, dear Dick, how can anything take me away from you?
But even if it did, you know we always said, '_If it were for
the best_.' If it were not for the best, we would not wish it,
would we, dear? Yes, we could help wishing it; when the good God
saw it was not best, he would give us strength to bear it."

"I never could bear it," said Dick.

"Yes, you would; but I am not afraid. One should not be afraid of
one's own parents. Come, there is a long time before tea. We will
go up the hill where no one will interrupt us, and where we shall
be within call if we are wanted. Won't you get the box, Dick, and
we will open it up there? that is, if you want me with you."

"You make me brave, dear Rose. Perhaps, after all, it is
nothing."

So he did as she advised; and, seated a little back of the house,
the only spot in which there could be five minutes' reading
possible, he broke the seal, undid the wrapping, now yellow with
age, while Rose spoke a word or two of courage, then turned her
head a little away from him, and you may be sure prayed hard and
fast for strength and grace for both to hear whatever of good or
of evil was in store for them. Inside the wrapper Dick found a
tiny key with which he eagerly unlocked the little mahogany box
which was, perhaps, to make great revelations to him.

Then Rose drew still further away, from him, and with a more
earnest gaze watched the sun going down to the west; for they
were young, and many things that you and I would count the merest
trifles, were of great importance to them; neither thought of
anything worse than of something which should separate them.
{790}
Poor little Rose trembled lest he should find a will therein--as
she had read in story-books--that would make him too rich and
great for her to think of him; and Dick, to whom her love for him
had always seemed a wonder--so great was his reverence for her
and his own feeling of unworthiness--trembled lest he should find
some legacy of disgrace that would make it impossible for him
ever to see Rose again. So in silence and with wordless but
earnest prayers, they sat together in the softening August
sunlight, with hearts beating heavily for fear it might be for
the last time.


              Chapter VII.

After all, there was not much in the mysterious box. A square
package, looking like a letter, folded in the old style, and just
fitting in the box, lay uppermost; upon the outside of which, in
a clear, round hand, was written the name _Richard
Heremore_. Before breaking the seal of this, Dick took out two
paper boxes, in each of which was a miniature, painted on ivory;
he glanced at one, then with an expression of intense relief, not
unmingled with something of awe, he, for the first time, turned
to Rose.

"Look, Rose," he said, in a low voice.

"Do you think this is your mother?" she asked, in a voice even
lower and more reverential than his, after a long, long look; for
it was a young and beautiful face, with clear eyes that looked
frankly at you, and that bore in every feature the unmistakable
stamp of true womanliness. 'Do you think this is your mother?"

"I cannot tell yet," said Dick; "but as _this_ is here, it's
all right; there's nothing more to dread now!"

But Rose did not answer. Her quick eyes had seen more than the
character; they had placed the original of that portrait in her
proper social sphere, and that--the highest.

The other miniature was of a man somewhat older, though not more
than twenty-five or thirty, if so much; but it was a face of less
character and less culture. Dick showed it to Rose, but neither
made any comment upon it. Dick then broke the seal of the letter,
and again Rose turned away her face. A few slips of paper fell
out as he unfolded the package; these he gathered up without
looking at them, and then, calling Rose's name once more, he read
in a low voice, from the yellow paper, his mother's letter:

"My Dear Child: I have put aside a few little things that have
been treasures to me, and as I may not live to see the day when I
can give them to you, I write a few lines with them, which
possibly may come to your eyes some day. A healthy, ruddy little
fellow you are, creeping around my feet and trying to climb up my
dress as I write, and I am so weak a woman that I may hardly
stoop to raise my darling to my lap. It is hard for me, seeing
you so, to write to you as a man; and what kind of a man I have
no way to judge. I fear I shall not live long enough to leave any
impression of your mother's face upon you; and what will become
of you, my own dear child, in this terrible world after I am
gone, I dare not think. You are so tender and good now that I
cannot realize that you will change; but you will have no one to
guide you. You put your arms up to me, your brown, hard little
arms, as if to beg me not to speak of this, and I will try to
believe that God will save you through everything; so that when
you read this, you will be one whom I would be proud to own if I
lived.

{791}

"You are my greatest comfort, and such a comfort! It seems as if
you knew everything, and could console for everything; and often
I think that for you I shall in some way find strength to
struggle on for a few years more. Dear child, I know not how much
or how little to tell you. I would like to write volumes for you,
that you might know me in the future days when no father, mother,
or brother will be near to help you in your troubles. But I can
only write a little.

"I have been married five years, and you are my oldest but not my
only child. You have a sweet little sister asleep on the bed. I
say the words to you aloud, and you creep on tiptoe to look at
her, turning and smiling at me as you go. Even if she should live
after I am gone, which I cannot wish for, I cannot tell whether
you will be kept together; if not, I know you will care for her
if it is possible, if only because your dead mother asks it. I
cannot believe the wonderful child-love you have for her and me
will be permitted to die out, or that your heart can ever grow
hard, your heart so tender now. There! kiss the dimpled hand ever
so softly and come away, for you must not wake the darling now.
Will you love her always, let what may be her fate? Remember
always, she had no mother to guide her. Your father I have not
seen for two years, since Mamie was a few months old. I have
since heard that he is dead. I know none of his relatives; for he
brought me an entire stranger to New York three years ago, and
seemed unwilling that I should make many acquaintances. I have no
relatives whom I have ever seen, in the world, except my father,
who lives, or did live, at Wiltshire, in Maine. I do not know if
he is living or not; I have written to him again and again, but I
have heard nothing from him. He would have come to me if he were
alive, for he was always devoted to me. I could write you a
hundred letters about his love and devotion; and now, if I could
only let him know where I am, he would come to me wherever he
might be. I have named you for him. He saw you once when you were
a month old; he came and took me home for the summer; he loved
you dearly, as he loved me, and was proud enough of you. If only
I could put you and Mamie in his hands now, how contentedly I
could die! For this I toiled and struggled from the day I saw
your father last, until this poverty and sickness have killed all
hope. Not all hope; for I think every step I hear--and I hear
thousands passing by--that my father has come to me to save me,
to take my darlings under his care, and to let me die on my own
white bed in my own dear room at home.

"There, darling, there's no more to tell. Why should I tell more?
You come of good blood, my child, of a brave, upright race. My
child, my darling, put your arms tight, tight around mamma's
neck, and promise for the man that you will be worthy of your
name and race. Be good, be true, be honest. How I should blush in
my grave, it seems to me, if child of mine, if these dear
children, so pure and innocent, who cling to me now, covering me
with kisses, should soil their white souls with falsehood,
deceit, or dishonesty. God knows what I would say. Fatherless,
motherless, I must leave my little ones; no earthly help, no
comfort, nothing, only the one hope that will not leave me to my
latest breath, that my father lives, will find me out, save me,
and take care of you.

{792}

"It has been hard for me to write this poor, childish letter; one
poor apple-woman--poor, yet not so poor as I--has been my only
friend; to her I have talked for hours of you, and she has
listened earnestly, and will do her utmost for you two. God will
aid her, I know. I will not put any 'good-byes' on paper so
little likely ever to be seen by your eyes; but I will kiss you a
thousand times, my darling, while I take one last look at these
portraits of your father and me, you leaning against my knee
looking at them too. You, pure, unsullied child, shall cling to
me, and answer, though you cannot understand, the promises to be
good I ask of you to fulfil through all your life. Your mother,

  "Mary Heremore Brandon."

"_Brandon_!" repeated Rose and Dick together, when he read
the signature. Then Dick read the slips of paper that had fallen
out of the letter; they were all the same, notices of her
marriage from different papers:

  "MARRIED. At the residence of the bride's father, on Wednesday,
  May 5th, Charles Brandon, of New-York, to Mary, only daughter
  of Dr. Richard Heremore, of Wiltshire, Maine."

Rose looked at Dick almost with terror in her face. Dick knew not
how to answer her.

"It may not be the same," she said at last.

"The letter does not seem sure of his death," suggested Dick.

"But you have met him--would he not have noticed your name?"

"I should think so. But it was long ago, and perhaps he has known
others of the name. Besides, Miss Brandon--O Rose! if she should
be that sister!--Miss Brandon told me her mother died long ago;
she seemed so proudly to disclaim this Mrs. Brandon, whom I
called her mother."

"How could he be with your father, if Mr. Brandon is that, and he
not know any thing about you?"

"I cannot understand it. I will go to see him to-morrow."

"O Dick!"

"Yes, dear Rose, I must. I have only two days of vacation left,
and I must know all before I go back."

"And then you will not be here for so long?"

"Yes, I will, Rose; I'll be here if I have to walk all night, see
your windows, and go back before daylight! Yes, I will see you. I
will not bear all the long separation as I did before, it is too
much! Now, may I go to-morrow?"

"Yes, Dick, you must go. O Dick! what a mother she was! I can
just see her, so weak she could not lift little you in her arms;
and yet, I am sure, giving you a thousand caresses, and crying
over you as she wrote that letter! If she could only see you
now!"

"I know she does see me; but she does not see me as I ought to
be, having had such a mother."

"She is proud of you if she sees you."

"See how patient she was, Rose! She says she is poorer than the
poor apple-woman, and yet no complaint; and she was not used to
trouble, I am sure, from her face."

"So sweet and grave as she is! Really, Richard, look! Upon my
word, Miss Brandon has just such eyes! It _is_ so! See! the
same blue-gray eyes, so clear, deep, and looking at you so
frankly and graciously; not with the frankness of a question
asked; but--I can't describe it--but that calm, straightforward
way Miss Mary has when she listens to you; always as if she would
encourage you, too, to go on. Indeed, you must go to-morrow!"

{793}

"It is so strange, Rose. I feel my head almost turning. Have we
time to read it over once more?"

"I fear not, for it is already quite late; but you will tell
mamma and Aunt Clara about it, and Uncle Carl?"

"Oh! at once; as soon as I can. I shall think of nothing else
until to-morrow. Rose, he must have treated her badly, or she
would have given me his name instead of her father's."

"I think, perhaps she meant _Brandon_ to be added."

"She does not say a word against him; but she does not praise
him. I will make him tell me, himself, if he is the man. Do you
think he is?"

"I am sure of it! And Miss Brandon is your sister; perhaps that
is why she spoke to you that Christmas day, and why you have
always been so attracted to her."

"How strange it is! Will she be sorry to have me for a brother, I
wonder?"

"Sorry! She will be very proud of you."

"I wonder how I should speak to her. O Rose, Rose! do say
something to steady me; I feel so strange, and as if I were
talking so foolishly!"

"You are not talking foolishly, dear Dick; and if you were, there
is only Rose to hear you, and shall you not talk as you please to
her?"

"Thank God, my darling! this has not separated us."

"No, not yet."

"Not yet!"

"What will your new father and your grand sister think of me?"

"Well, Rose, wait till I ask them!"

"Perhaps a grandfather, too," said Rose.

"I love him already. If he should be living, that would be
something grand, wouldn't it? You may be sure she loved him."

"And you may be sure she never let him know until perhaps the
very last, that she was in trouble. Women and children never tell
their sorrows to those who are entitled to help them."

"Why, Rose?"

"Oh! I cannot tell you that! I only know it's so. Here we are at
home. Have patience; for though to-morrow you will have the news,
to night is all _I_ have!"

"And no matter what happens, Rose," said Dick, as they lingered a
moment outside the house, "you will trust me just the same?"

"Of course I will," Rose answered readily. A question and answer
that have been given--and falsified--I wonder how many times
since the world began; falsified, for even a woman's faith is not
without limit; though Rose thought it was, as many had thought
before her. "Of course I will; why should you ask, Dick?"

"I don't know; only that everything seems whirling around with me
to-night, and the only thing that seems clear to me is that I
must not lose you."

"It will be your own fault if you do," said Rose. "But you must
not try me too much; for things might get whirling around with
me, too, some day, and I should not know faith from want of
pride; so be good."

"And if it is possible, I must come down at once and tell you how
it all ends. If it could only be that I could have you close at
hand to tell you all!"

"Indeed! I am glad," exclaimed Rose, who, much as she loved Dick,
could not endure to think of the time when she should have to
leave her home.
{794}
"Come in, now. What will Uncle Carl say to all this, I wonder?"

Uncle Carl did not say much, when, the children having been sent
out to play, the elders drew their chairs closer around the still
standing tea-table, and listened intently to Dick's story. The
others received it with many exclamations and much wiping of
eyes; but the stolid German smoked his big pipe and looked, or
tried to, as if he had known it all before.

"I'll know before this time tomorrow if it's the same," said
Dick, when the reading was finished, and many conjectures had
been put forward and discussed.

"It is the strangest thing ever was heard of," exclaimed Mrs.
Alaine, "that he should meet you so often and not know who you
were!"

"With your mother's name, too," added Mrs. Staffs.

"Perhaps, after all, he is not so ignorant," suggested Dick. "It
may be that it was on account of my name he made so much of me."

"I think he must be devoured with remorse," Mrs. Alaine said
forcibly, "whenever he thinks of his beautiful wife."

"This Mrs. Brandon couldn't hold a candle to her," added Mrs.
Stoffs.

"I never saw her," said Dick.

"She was very pretty," explained Carl, speaking unexpectedly.

"Pretty!" cried Mrs. Stoffs, in great surprise.

"Pretty!" repeated Mrs. Alaine, with great contempt.

"Pretty!" echoed Rose, with great incredulity. "Why, Uncle Carl,
she was a little doll-baby!"

"She was very pretty," persisted Carl.

"Well, indeed, if you call such a baby pretty, I give up!" said
Mrs. Stoffs. "Why, Mr. Dick, she did not look as if she could say
boo to a goose, and yet she ruled the whole house; it was her
extravagance that ruined the poor man."

"I think it was his own dishonesty," said Carl.

"O Uncle Carl!" remonstrated Rose, "right before Mr. Richard."

"We don't know yet that he has anything to do with 'Mr. Richard,'
as you call him; but I'd say it, if need were, to the man's own
face. His wife may have been a little, tyrannical, extravagant
fool; but the more fool he for letting her take other men's money
out of his purse."

"Indeed, Carl, that's a thing they'll never say of _you_,"
responded his wife, laughing. "But now come away, and let Mr.
Dick get some rest, for I suppose he'll be off by daylight."

"I shall, indeed," said Dick.

"Well, good-night! Mr. Dick, you must not let these things keep
you awake; if you find your family out, it may be the last time
you will sleep under our roof."

"If I thought that, Mrs. Stoffs, I should seek them with a heavy
heart; but nothing can make that so but death, can it?"

"Go to bed, good people," grumbled Carl; "all your noise makes my
head ache."

He went up with Dick and had a long conversation with him, after
the rest were asleep.

"Go find Dr. Heremore, of Wiltshire, unless there comes to be no
doubt that he is gone away, or dead," were his parting words; "he
is better worth seeking than any other. You will need money, and
you shall owe me for this." And he gave him a few gold pieces
which Mrs. Stoffs, in the sanctuary of her own room, had
hurriedly and gladly brought out from countless rags, all tied up
in an old stocking, at her liege lord's command, for this
purpose.

{795}

"But, Mr. Stoffs, I have, I think, enough for this."

"Then do not spend mine, but take it with you for fear of
accident. Good-night; do not be fooled by anything Mr. Brandon
may say--he's an artful one--but find out all you can about your
grandfather; remember that."

So Dick was left to pass a sleepless, fevered night, filled with
the strangest fancies, and perplexed by a thousand fruitless
conjectures. At the first glimmering of daylight he was up, and,
after making a show of eating the substantial breakfast his kind
friends had prepared for him, turned, without being able to say
more than a word or two, to leave.

"Dood-by," said Trot, sliding down from her chair, with her bib
on, and her face not over clean, to get his parting kiss, as well
as to put in a reminder for his return. "What 'oo bing Trot from
the 'tore?"

"What do you want, Trot?" asked Dick, lifting her up.

"Me wants putty tat," she answered with animation; "dear 'ittle
titten!"

Dick promised to do his best, shook hands silently all around,
tried to laugh at the old shoe Minnie had ready to throw after
him, at last heard the gate close behind him, and was alone on
his way to the little yellow station-house.

"He'd better be alone," Rose had said when something had been
said privately about accompanying him. "He has a great deal to
think about, and he can do that best while he is walking in this
fresh morning air."

"O mamma!" she said, when Mrs. Alaine stood beside her, after
Dick had passed out of sight, "O mamma! if Mr. Brandon should
take it angrily!"

"You may be sure he will not," replied Mrs. Alaine, "he is so
broken down, he will be very thankful to find a son like our Dick
who will be worth so much to him. He is the most selfish man ever
lived, Mr. Brandon is."

"Well, I wish it were over," sighed Rose, turning back to the
house and the day's round of household duties.

             To Be Concluded.

               ----------

{796}

      Translated From The French.

    The Approaching General Council.

   By Mgr. Dupanloup, Bishop Of Orleans.


The church and the world have been filled with expectation for
more than a year. When the catholic bishops were gathered at Rome
to celebrate the eighteenth centenary of the martyrdom of St.
Peter, and for the solemn canonization of saints, the Sovereign
Pontiff declared the necessity of a general council, and
announced, at the same time, his intention to convoke it at an
early date.

The bull of induction has already appeared. On the twenty-ninth
day of last June, the feast of the holy apostles Peter and Paul,
the Holy Father, by letters addressed to all the bishops of the
Christian world, fixed the date of the future council, and
summoned the Episcopate of the Catholic Church to Rome. Since
that time, by two truly paternal letters, the Holy Father has
invited the Greek Bishops, and our separated brethren of all the
protestant communions, to profit by the future council to
undertake again the work of reunion, already several times
attempted by the church, but which has always been frustrated by
the misfortunes and the evils of our day.

So it is no longer merely a hope. The first act necessary for the
holding of the council is accomplished. The apostolic letters,
known already throughout the world and received everywhere with
joy, even amid the infatuations and the bitter woes of the
present time, have stirred the hearts of the people. All look
again to Rome. Even her enemies are attentive as well as
astonished, and they feel that a great event is going to happen.
And truly that which is soon to come to pass at Rome, and in the
church, is a rare and solemn fact, a fact of sovereign
importance, perhaps even the greatest event of the century. Let
no one feel surprised at this language. I am well aware that
events of immense importance have marked the beginning and the
course of the nineteenth century. Profound revolutions have
passed over it, and even yesterday we have seen one of the oldest
thrones of Europe toppling over. Enmities and wars have disturbed
nations. The old and new world are forced to meet the same
difficult problems. Yet in this century there is something
superior to worldly ambition and the interests of political
passions. It is the spiritual interests of the people, and those
supremely important questions, whose solution brings peace to the
soul, and tells us of the eternal destinies of humanity. It is
for such purposes as these that the Catholic Church calls her
bishops to Rome. True it is that the church appears to many men
as being of little importance; she seems to occupy only a small
place in modern society, so small, indeed, that modern
politicians have recommended that she should no longer be taken
into consideration. Yet the church is, and must remain, the most
noble power of the world, because she is the spiritual power; and
Rome, the centre of this power--Rome which will soon see within
her walls these great sessions of catholicity--will be always,
according to the words of the poet, "the most beautiful and the
most holy of things beneath the sun."--_Rerum pulcherrima
Roma_.

{797}

What then is the Catholic Church, and what is this council which
is going, within a few months, to present so grand a spectacle to
the world? I propose to follow the example of my venerable
colleagues, who have, in France and in the different parts of
Christendom, published pastoral instructions on this subject. I
will recall to your minds what an ecumenical council is, to
which, for a long time, we have not been accustomed. I will state
the motives, inspired from on high, which have induced the Holy
Father to take this step, which is the most considerable and
extraordinary of the pontifical government. Then we shall see if
there is any foundation for the alarm that the announcement of
this act has caused among certain badly disposed or feebly
enlightened minds: finally, I will make known what we, bishops,
priests, and faithful, have the right to expect.


              I.

         The Council.


"God," says Bossuet, "has created a work in the midst of us,
which, separated from every other cause and belonging to him
alone, fills all time and all places, and bears everywhere in the
world the impression of his hand, the stamp of his authority: it
is Jesus Christ and his church."

There exists, then, in this world, above all human things, though
at the same time most intimately connected with them, a spiritual
society, an empire of souls. An empire of a different and divine
order, more heavenly than worldly, and yet an empire really here
below, a complete society, having, like every other society, its
organization, its laws, its action, its life. A society not built
up by the hand of man, but by God himself. It does not require
the approval of any human being; for its mission is as sacred as
its source, and it draws from it all its essential rights. A
pilgrim in this world and a divine stranger, as Bossuet has
somewhere said, and yet a sovereign, the sovereign of souls,
where she has an inviolable sanctuary. She does not encroach upon
the temporal powers, neither will she abdicate at their
suggestion her divine rights. She is happy to meet with their
approval, and she does not disdain their alliance; but she knows,
when it is necessary, how to do without them. She does not impede
their terrestrial mission, nor will she consent that they should
interfere with her career. A universal society is God's church,
which knows no limit of time or barrier of space; she is the
treasure-house of celestial goods, charged to communicate
evangelical truth to men until the end of time; and, for this
reason, as well as by her origin and her growth, she holds in a
world which she alone has civilized, a place which no other power
will ever fill. Yes, this marvel exists upon the earth; among all
human, temporal, limited, and constantly changing governments,
there is this spiritual society, this government of souls,
extending everywhere, immutable, without boundaries, and which is
called the Catholic Church.

If we examine her construction more closely--and we must do this
if we wish to understand the meaning of the most solemn of her
acts, the Ecumenical Council--we shall see with what divine art
Jesus Christ has proportioned the means to the end.
{798}
It is a part of our faith, that the Son of God has given to men,
not for a time but for the whole duration of time, "for all days,
even to the consummation of the world, "a collection of truths,
of commandments, and of sacred ordinances. The Christian society
that our Lord called his church, _ecclesiam meam_, has the
guardianship of these divine revelations. A visible society,
because religion should not be an occult thing; and perpetually
visible, because perpetuity has been promised to it; in short, a
universal society, because all men, without exception, are called
and admitted within her fold.

But the divine revelations could not be transmitted unaltered for
ages, if they had been subjected to changing and capricious
interpretations of private judgment; therefore it was
indispensable that the doctrinal authority should be sovereign,
that is to say, it must be infallible. An authority cannot be
sovereign in matters of faith, and demand an interior assent,
without being infallible. This it was that the divine Founder of
Christianity has wished to do, and really did, when, giving to
the apostles their mission, he pronounced these words, the last
which have fallen from his lips: "As the Father has sent me, I
send you. Go then and teach all nations, baptize them in the name
of the Father, of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, and teach them
to observe all the commandments that I have given to man: and
behold I am with you all days, even to the consummation of the
world." Such is, then, the essential character of the church; it
is a doctrinal authority, providentially infallible by the divine
assistance, in all things revealed by God.

It is easily seen how unity is born of this infallibility; not an
accidental unity, but a necessary and permanent unity, because
the principle of unity is permanent in the church. The principle
of unity, and besides this, a centre of unity, was among the
indispensable conditions of a church thus founded. It was
necessary that a teaching church, spread throughout the world,
should have a head, a centre, a chief, in order that it might be
united in a single and distinctive body. Jesus Christ has not
neglected this necessity; for among his disciples he chose one
whom he invested with certain special privileges, to whom he
entrusted, according to his divine expression, "the keys of the
kingdom of heaven," whom he called the rock, the foundation-stone
of the edifice, whom he commanded "to confirm his brethren in the
faith," whom he called the pastor of the sheep as well as of the
lambs, that is to say, the shepherd of the entire fold.

This is the hierarchy of the Catholic Church. In order to place a
perpetual check upon time, which destroys all things, and in
order to give the necessary support to the human mind, which is
ever changing, it was, indeed, necessary that a religious society
should be thus constructed. But a divine hand was required to
constitute a society of this kind, which was composed of frail
men; and these grand characters of unity and authority, in
perpetuity and in catholicity, are in the church as the shining
seal of the powerful hand which has established it. Thus it
remains firm among men, and even in spite of universal change. In
vain is the natural restlessness of the human mind shocked at the
dogmas of our faith, and heresies succeed to heresies; [Footnote
283] this constant movement cannot affect her firm constitution;
she will remain, as says the apostle, "the pillar and ground of
truth"--_Columna et firmamentum Veritatis_.

    [Footnote 283: "It is necessary that heresies should be."
    Corinth, xi. 19. Terrible necessity, says Bossuet.]

{799}

Such is the Catholic Church. An ecumenical council is this
Catholic Church assembled to do, with more solemnity, the same
work which, dispersed, she does every day. This work is the
transmission and authentic interpretation of the dogmatic and
moral truths of divine revelation. This is what I desire to
explain at this time, so that it may be clearly understood by our
contemporaries, who have long been unaccustomed to these things.
My design is not, indeed, as you know, an intention to write so
exhaustively that no one else may treat upon the questions
connected with the councils of the church. Volumes have and could
again be written on this subject. But at least there are some
necessary notions which require to be explained with precision,
since these matters are not familiar at this day, and also
because, as on every other topic, the simple and fundamental
ideas are always the most useful.

A council is an assemblage of bishops convoked for the purpose of
discussing questions concerning the faith, morals, and
discipline. A council is particular or general; particular, if it
represents only a part of the church; general or ecumenical, when
it represents the universal church. A general council, simply
because it represents the whole church, has the gift of doctrinal
infallibility and supreme authority given by Jesus Christ to the
church herself, to the body of pastors united to their chief. A
particular council has no infallibility.

The supreme chief of the church, the Pope, and he only, has the
right of convoking general councils. For the same reason, the
Pope alone has the right of presiding over their deliberations.
And as a question of fact, it is true that popes, either
personally or by legates, have presided over every ecumenical
council. Thus at Nice, Constantinople, Ephesus, Chalcedon, as
well as at Trent, the popes presided by legates. At the councils
of Lateran, Lyons, Vienna, and Florence, they presided
personally. "Holy Father," wrote the fathers of Chalcedon to Pope
St. Leo, "you will preside in the midst of the bishops, who are
judges of the faith, as the chief over the members in the persons
of those who hold your place." It is the sovereign pontiff's duty
to close the council, to dissolve it in case of necessity, and to
confirm its decrees. The accord of the bishops and the Pope is
manifestly necessary for the ecumenical character of a council.

Gathered in council from all quarters of the world, and having
the Pope at their head, as witnesses of the faith of their
churches, as judges of the divine law, "_Episcopis
judicibus_" said the fathers of Chalcedon. "_Defining I have
subscribed_," "_I have subscribed pronouncing with the holy
synod_;" [Footnote 284]  thus it was that the bishops of
Chalcedon and Ephesus, and also of Trent, affixed their
signatures.

    [Footnote 284: "_Definiens subscripsi_:"
    "_Subscripsi pronuntians cum sancta synodo_."]

Custom governs the exterior forms used in these assemblies. The
solemn sessions, where the decrees are promulgated, are
distinguished from the congregations where they are elaborated;
with what care, what exactness, what profound research, the
history of the Council of Trent has already shown, and the coming
Council of Rome will give us a no less remarkable proof. The Holy
Father, indeed, ever since he took the great resolution of
convoking a council, has been occupied with activity proportioned
to the importance of the future assembly. He has used such means
as were proper for the head of the church in an ecumenical
council.
{800}
Several commissions or congregations, composed of learned
cardinals, and of theologians chosen from different nations, were
at once appointed by him, and are now zealously working upon the
questions which will be considered in the council. There is a
special congregation upon Dogma, one upon Canon Law, one to
consider the various questions concerning Religious Orders, one
to discuss the relations of Church and State, and one upon the
churches of the East.

It is the usage of the church, when the Pope intends to convene
an ecumenical council, to notify in advance the bishops who bring
there not only the authority of their sacred character, but also
the counsels of their experience, because their dispersion in
many different countries has given them great knowledge and a
special competency to understand the times and the needs of their
people. Thus Pius IX., in two allocutions, addressed to the
bishops assembled at Rome, announced to them the future council.
By his last Bull, he has called them all there and fixed the
precise date, so that the prelates, notified and convoked in
advance, may have the time to study the questions at their
leisure, and arrive perfectly prepared at the date indicated by
the Sovereign Pontiff.

I do not need to add that, although the Pope and bishops can add
disciplinary laws, and modify, more or less, the canon law,
because these are not by their nature immutable, that in matters
of faith, it is not the business of councils to make dogmas.
Dogmas are never made in councils, but they may be formulated
there. All that concerns dogma is learned from the holy
Scriptures and tradition, and from their authorized interpreters.
It is only after these have been thoroughly investigated and
discussed, and after the invocation of the Holy Ghost, that the
council declares what has always been, what is now, the belief of
the church.

History counts eighteen ecumenical councils. [Footnote 285]

    [Footnote 285: The following is a list of these eighteen
    ecumenical councils:
    1. Nice, in 325, against Arius, who denied the divinity of
    the Word.
    2. Constantinople, in 381, against Macedonius, who attacked
    the divinity of the Holy Ghost.
    3. Ephesus, in 431, against Nestorius, who erred concerning
    the Incarnation, and refused to give the Blessed Virgin the
    title Mother of God.
    4. Chalcedon, in 451, against Eutyches, who originated an
    error, the opposite of that of Nestorius.
    5. Constantinople, in 553, against the three celebrated
    chapters which fostered the error of Nestorius on the
    Incarnation.
    6. Constantinople in 680, against the Monothelites, who
    continued the error of Eutyches, in denying that Jesus Christ
    had a human will.
    7. Nice, in 787, against the Iconoclasts, or breakers of
    images.
    8. Constantinople, in 869, against Photius, the author of the
    Greek schism.
    9. Lateran, in 1123, or the promulgation of peace between the
    ecclesiastical power and the empire, after the long quarrels
    of the Investitures, and also for the Crusades.
    10. Lateran, in 1139, for the reunion of the Greeks and
    against the errors of the Albigenses.
    11. Lateran, in 1179, for different questions of discipline,
    and against the heresies of the day.
    12. Lateran, in 1215, against the Vaudois.
    13. Lyons, in 1245, for the Crusade and the troubles with the
    Emperor Frederic.
    14. Lyons, in 1274, for the Crusade, and for reunion with the
    Greeks.
    15. Vienne, in 1311, for the Crusade, and different questions
    of discipline, and for the affair of the Templars.
    16. Florence, in 1439, for reunion with the Greeks.
    17. Lateran, in 1511, against the conventicle of Pisa.
    18. Trent, in 1545, against Protestantism.
    Several sessions of the Council of Constance have also been
    considered ecumenical.]

{801}

It would be difficult to determine the almost infinite number of
particular councils. Nothing can show more clearly than do these
assemblies the wonderful vitality of the church, and the power
she bears within herself to protect her own existence both
against the errors which the human mind is ever producing, and
also against corruption and abuses within the church, abuses
which are unavoidable because of the infirmity of human nature.
She is the only society upon the earth where revolutions are not
necessary, and where reform is always possible. There is not one
of these many councils but which has a regulation upon discipline
at the same time that it has a definition of faith; and the great
Council of Trent itself, without fearing that word, reform, which
had revolutionized Europe, accepted it, because it belonged to
the church, and accompanied its dogmatic decrees concerning the
Catholic faith with decrees concerning reformation--_De
Reformatione_. Assembled in ecumenical council the Pope and
bishops thoroughly investigate the situation of affairs in the
Christian republic, and use fearlessly the remedy for its wounds
and its sufferings. Thus the immortal youth of the church is
renewed, a more active and vigorous breath of life animates this
immense body, and even society feels its happy influence. It is,
then, one of these ecumenical assemblies which the Pope has just
convoked. After long meditation upon the needs of the time, and
earnest prayer for God's guidance, the head of the Catholic
Church has spoken a single word. He has made a solemn sign, and
it is sufficient. From the west and east, from the north and
south, from every part of the habitable globe, from every race,
from every tongue, from every nation, the chiefs of this great
spiritual society, the dispersed members of this government of
souls, leave their sees to meet at the place appointed by the
Sovereign Pontiff. They meet, not as in human congresses, to
debate concerning peace and war, conquests and frontiers, but to
treat of souls and their sacred interests, of things spiritual
and eternal. They obey the divine words of Him who founded the
church, "_Go, therefore, and teach all nations_." They meet
to accomplish the most august duty of their sovereign mission--to
proclaim, in a general council of the church, and, as it were, in
the very face of human errors, those truths whose guardianship
has been confided to them by Him who is the Truth itself. Such is
the work of an ecumenical council. Can there in this world be a
greater one?

It is now three hundred years since the world has seen one of
these assemblies; even at the beginning of this century they were
considered impossible. "In modern times," wrote J. de Maistre,
less than fifty years ago, "since the civilized world is, so to
speak, cut up into some sovereignties, and the world has been so
much enlarged by the boldness of our sailors, an ecumenical
council has become a chimera."

The political difficulties which so provokingly impeded the
Council of Trent were remembered, and it seemed that the present
time was yet more unfavorable. It was thought that the modern
powers were more defiant and more hostile, and consequently that
the liberty of the church was in greater danger, her action more
circumscribed than ever. But we wronged our century, and instead
of coming before God with complaints, we shall do better to adore
his powerful hand, which, as an ancient proverb goes, "can write
straightly on crooked lines," and force events to bend
themselves, in spite of man's efforts, to his eternal designs. A
missionary and a traveller, the church longs to see the road
diminish. A preacher and a liberator, she profits and rejoices
over the destruction of fetters. Then our age has accomplished
these two works, the suppression of distance, the breaking down
of barriers. I understand the words distance and barriers in the
social and political sense, as well as in a material point of
view. It was thought that they would serve only the world's
interests, but they are really allies of the faith; all this
marvellous movement, which seemed to be contrary to catholic
ideas and opposed to the Catholic Church, will turn to her
advantage.
{802}
The spirit of the age obliges political governments, whether they
be willing or not, to act more fairly toward the church, and it
has destroyed the old prejudices which even recently have
hindered her actions. The holding of an ecumenical council is
easier to-day than it would have been in the times of Philip II.,
Louis XIV., or of Joseph II.

"For the convocations of the bishops alone," says again J. de.
Maistre, "and to establish legally this convocation, five or six
years would not be sufficient." To-day it has been enough for
Pius IX. to post his bull upon the walls of the Lateran; modern
publicity, in spite of many wishes to the contrary, carries it to
the extremities of the earth. Soon, thanks to the marvellous
progress of the sciences and mechanics, the bishops will hasten
to obey the Pontiff's summons on the wings which steam has given
to our vessels and our cars. These have, as it were, consumed
space. The bishops will come from every free country, and, as we
hope, even from those which are not free. And thus--for I like to
repeat it--this double current of the ideas and of the industry
of our time is going, in the future, not to serve the material
life of man alone, but also to aid us in the government of souls,
in the highest manifestation of the spiritual life of man, in the
greatest work of God's Holy Spirit upon the earth. It is just, as
divine Providence has so willed, that we should see in this the
secret harmony hidden in the depths of things and in the unity of
divine works. Matter is placed once more at the service of the
spiritual, and the thoughts of man follow the order of God's
counsels.

Three times already, as you are aware, the bishops have gathered
about the vicar of Jesus Christ within a few years; but none of
these three great reunions had the character of a council. The
glory of resuming the ancient traditions of the church, so long
interrupted, by the convention of a true ecumenical assembly, has
been reserved to this magnanimous Pontiff, so powerful in his
mildness, so calm amid his trials, and so confident in that God
who has sustained him and who has manifestly inspired him to
undertake the work of summoning the ecumenical council.


                II.

     The Programme Of The Council.


And why, with what thoughts, has the head of the church called to
this great tribunal of catholicity those whom he names as being
"his venerable brothers, the bishops of the catholic world, whose
sacred character has called them to partake in his solicitudes?
"_Omnes venerabiles fratres totius catholici orbis sacrorum
antistites, qui in solicitudinis nostrae partem vocati sunt_."
The apostolical letters inform us clearly. It is necessary to
read them and to judge the church with equity by her own
statement, not by rancorous or frivolous commentaries. The
programme of the future council is thus traced in the bull of the
Sovereign Pontiff:

  "This ecumenical council will have to examine with the greatest
  care, and determine what is best to do in times so difficult
  and so perverse as these, for the greater glory of God, for the
  integrity of the faith, for the honor of divine worship, for
  the eternal salvation of men, for the discipline of the regular
  and secular clergy, for their useful and solid instruction, for
  the observance of ecclesiastical laws, for the reformation of
  customs, for the Christian education of youth, for general
  peace and universal concord."

{803}

  "It is necessary for us to use every exertion that, by God's
  help, we may separate every evil from the church and from
  society; to lead back into the straight way of truth, justice,
  and salvation, those unfortunate people who have wandered from
  it; to repress vice and refute error, so that our august
  religion and its salutary doctrine may acquire a new vigor
  throughout the world, that it may be extended further every
  day, that it regain its empire, and thus that piety, honesty,
  justice, charity, and all Christian virtues maybe strengthened
  and flourish for the greatest good of humanity."

The entire programme, all the work of the future council, is in
these words. There are, then, two great objects, the good of the
church and the good of human society. This is its object and its
only object.

But especially does the church assemble her bishops that her
interior life may be reanimated, and, as the apostle says, "To
stir up the grace of God which is within us." The reason of this
is because the church has the wonderful privilege that I have
already mentioned--she is the only body which possesses the power
of perpetually renewing her youth in the course of a perpetual
life. It is in virtue of this divine constitution that none of
the truths which she has preserved can change, can be lost, can
be increased--that not even a syllable can be altered or an iota
destroyed! "One jot or one tittle of the law shall not pass away
until all be fulfilled," said Jesus Christ. The church is a
living institution composed of men, borrowing its head and its
members from every nation and from all ranks, always open to
receive those who wish to come to her, and unceasingly increased
by the addition of new races of men among her children. A river
which has received many streams into its current reflects the
objects along its banks and adapts its course to the climate, and
to the country with its irregularities; so the Catholic Church
has the gift of accommodating herself to the times, to the
institutions, and to the requirements of the generations through
which she passes and the centuries which she civilizes.

And more than this is true, because in the world she labors
perpetually in order that she may ever become more worthy to
speak of God to men, and in a way to be heard and understood by
them. She is continually examining, with respect, and at the same
time with sovereign authority, her disciplinary books, her laws,
her institutions, her works, and especially her members,
distributed in the different grades of the hierarchy. Indeed, we
do not believe that we are without faults or blemishes. "Ah!
should we be astonished," Fénélon used to say, "to find in man
the relics of humanity!" But, eternal thanks be given to God, we
find in the imperishable treasury of truth, and of the divine
laws which we are called to guard, the means of recognizing our
faults and reforming our manners.

Thus it is especially against ourselves, or rather for ourselves,
that this council is going to assemble. There will not be one
among us to take his seat in this august assembly, who has not in
the early morning bent his knee upon the lowest step of the
altar, bowed his head, struck his breast, and said, "If God is
not better known, if he is not better served than by me, if the
truth suffers violence, if the poor are not assisted, if justice
is in peril, O God! it is my fault, it is my fault, it is my most
grievous fault!" Monarchs of the earth, who settle the fate of
nations with such a frightful boldness, an examination like this
would be good even for you, if you could only endure it!
{804}
O human assemblies, parliaments, tribunals, popular conventions,
do you think that this rigid self-examination, these confessions,
these scruples, and these courageous habits of discipline and
reform, will be useless in appeasing blind agitation and arrogant
passion, or in rousing up sleepy routine?

When each of us has thus examined, questioned, and accused
himself, we shall ask ourselves, What are the obstacles which
to-day prevent the propagation of the faith among those who have
not yet received it, and its reestablishment among those who have
lost it? We shall revise regulations, we shall reform abuses, we
shall reestablish forgotten laws, we shall modify whatever
requires modification. Under the supreme authority of a common
father, of the bishop of bishops, the experience of old men, the
zeal of the young, the inspiration of the holy and the wisdom of
the wise, will all concur in declaring the present condition of
the church, its mission upon the earth, and its duties in the
future. This examination will be made in the most unconstrained
and fraternal discussion, which will soon be followed by solid
resolutions, which will become, then, and for centuries, the rule
of the church's life.

Such will be the first object of the assembly of bishops. An
object at once sublime and humble, one which fills the children
of the church with respectful admiration, and which strikes her
enemies with an astonishment that they seek in vain to disguise.
Yes, our ministry is so noble, our assemblies so elevated above
other assemblies, that the language of man contains the
involuntary admission of its superiority. If they desire to
designate a noble office, a superior mission, they call it, often
even with exaggeration, a _priesthood_. If they wish to
speak of some unusually imposing and solemn gathering, which will
have a place in history, they say it was a _council_ of
kings or legislators. Human language has no more lofty words than
these: not that we should pride ourselves upon them, for our
hands have not done these things. They come from God, and the
dignity of the words which express them recalls to our humility
at once the majesty of our vocation and the formidable extent of
our duties.

But what is the cause, in our day and at this hour, of the
retreat of the entire catholic episcopate into the breast of a
new cenacle? If I may presume to put it thus, what does this
vigil of arms mean? [Footnote 286] Why these preparations, this
work of a great council? Why has the Sovereign Pontiff, under the
eye of God, and from his inspiration, judged it proper to call
the church together in this second half of the nineteenth
century?

    [Footnote 286: The Bishop of Orleans is here referring to the
    pious custom of the days of chivalry, which compelled the
    knight who was to receive his armor for the first time on the
    following morning to pass the vigil watching in the chapel,
    where his future arms were placed upon the altar.]

It was said of our Master, the divine Saviour of the world, that
"he was wounded because of our iniquities." Yes, it is for the
iniquities of man, and for our own, that we are going to impose
such a work upon ourselves. The more dangerous the times are, the
more necessary is it for us to be pure enough to withstand the
most formidable conflict, wise enough to enter into the most
stirring discussions, prepared to engage in the rudest conflicts.
And if men ask why we are striving to increase knowledge and
charity among ourselves, we will answer that, not forgetting
ourselves and our own needs, we are doing it also on their
account, looking earnestly upon their condition, their
aspirations, and their sufferings, and with a hearty desire to do
them more good.

{805}

              III.

      Causes Of The Council.


What is the condition, then, to-day, of the souls and the state
of the races which are spread over the surface of the earth?
There are few who have not been interested in this question. The
Pope, looking upon the world and lending his ear to the sound of
the struggles of contemporary society, could not help seeing,
what every one knows, that now is a time of profound crisis; or,
as it is expressed in the papal bull, there are torments which
are afflicting at this time both church and society: "_Jam vero
omnibus compertum exploratumque est qua horribili tempestate mine
jactetur ecclesia, et quibus quantisque malis ipsa affligatur
societas_." What is this crisis of the church and the world?
If we collect in our mind the course of history and the vast
ocean of ages on which we are borne for a moment, only to be
swallowed up in our turn, you will first answer that this crisis
is only an incident of a perpetual crisis, an interrupted scene
of the drama which the destiny of the human race is composing.
Untried travellers are ever thinking the voyage a long one, and
that the sea has dashing waves and tempests only for them. Old
sailors know that the ocean is always uncertain and that the
storm of to-day has been preceded by many a severe gale.

But if we are just, as well as attentive, we shall recognize that
the crisis of the present time is not a chance one, and that,
like others which have gone before, it will not escape the
guidance of God. I say even, when I remember the profound designs
of providence, that this crisis is not without its grandeur, that
it has both beauty, laws, and an end, just as do those natural
phenomena which appear the most confused and disordered. Through
continual struggles and obstacles, the evangelical ideal is
followed by the church, who knows where she is going, and by men,
often without their knowledge. The church, since her mission is
to raise souls to that standard, is sorrowful here below, because
that ideal is never realized perfectly enough for the glory and
happiness of humanity. Undoubtedly the industry, the science, and
the courage which men display to-day should be admitted. Within a
few hundred years, vast treasures of science, wealth, and power
have been developed. In two worlds, a most wonderful harvest of
gifted men have appeared; artists and orators, _savants_ and
generals, legislators and publicists, whose names will be
recognized by posterity with well-merited gratitude. Yet after we
have been just toward the good, let us be just to the evil, and
acknowledge, with the august and truthful Pius IX., that human
society is at this moment profoundly troubled.

But do not think that I intend to speak of political trouble and
of war. I know that Europe has, within a few years, resounded
more than once with the shock of battles, and that at the present
moment many feel a dull restlessness. The people are arming and
preparing, it is said, for gigantic struggles. Does the Sovereign
Pontiff wish to speak of the mighty interests of political
affairs, of questions of nationalities, of the frontiers of
kingdoms, and of the balance of power? The church is not indeed
indifferent to peace or war between nations, for every day her
prayers ascend to heaven for concord between Christian peoples
and Christian princes.
{806}
But yet, as I have already stated, she does not gather her
council to solve these questions; the pacific assembly at Rome
will meditate neither revolutions nor conquests, neither leagues
of sovereigns nor treaties of nations, neither the establishment
of dynasties nor their downfall.

While all Europe--and, if we look further, while the new world as
well, as the old--is trembling at the threatening signs of war
and revolution, at Rome, that august centre, that reserved place,
gathered about the successor of St. Peter, around the chair of
truth, the pastors of nations--their feet, it is true, upon the
earth and on the immovable rock, but their eyes turned toward
heaven--will be occupied with souls, the needs of souls the
eternal salvation of souls; in one word, with the highest and
permanent interests of humanity.

And surely they will do well; for, who can disguise it? are not
souls in peril and the faith of whole nations menaced?

Do you ask, what new heresy has arisen? From the bosom of the
church, none; the clergy have never been more closely united in
the faith from one end of the world to the other. Without the
pale of the church the same attacks, a hundred times repelled and
a hundred times renewed, are levelled against all the points of
Christian doctrine, but under new forms and a fresh vigor. Yet
there is more than this. With an impiety which outstrips even the
eighteenth century, the natural truths, those first principles on
which every thing here reposes as its safeguard, even the natural
truths, are denied or boldly discussed. Science is also to have
its heresies. There is a schism among the philosophers. Reason
has to take its turn in assaults which seemed reserved for the
faith. Strange thing! Faith to-day is guarding the treasures of
reason, and serves as their rampart! To-day it is you, O savants,
O philosophers, who have need for us! You have often accused us
of having neither science nor intelligence; but you, my poor
brethren, who are so wise and so intelligent, have scarcely been
able to defend a single well-known truth! And you, O Protestants!
who expected to reform the church of God, it is you who to-day
need reforming; it is you who feel most keenly how great an
injury is the loss of the blessing of authority!

Look for a moment at the state of the intelligent minds of our
day. Where have discordant philosophies led them? For three
centuries, in Germany, impetuous minds have risen who, rejecting
the guiding rein of faith, have shown to the astonished world the
audacity, and at the same time the feebleness, of reason. This
too has quickly been followed by like audacity and feebleness of
morals. What has come from the prodigious efforts of talent and
erudition? Nothing more admirable than the resurrection of every
error of pagan times--pantheism, atheism, scepticism--and among
those who yet cling to some form of religion, Christianity has in
reality perished because of their many contradictory and
ridiculous explanations of its doctrines. Thus have ended, under
our own eyes, eighteen centuries after Jesus Christ, all these
wonderful intellectual labors which are the greatest that the
world has ever witnessed.

And what is the state, to-day, of France? Religious belief is
vigorously attacked and even philosophical faith seems ready to
disappear. The truths of reason are overthrown, and a pretended
science, intoxicated with itself, denies human reason, and
wishes, in the name of atheism and materialism, to snatch from
man his belief in the immortality of the soul and his faith in
God.
{807}
The most dangerous doctrines concerning morals, society, the
soul, the family, a future life, and God, are warmly defended by
means of journals, pamphlets, and even novels. Our contemporaries
are either wrecked on this sea of errors, or float, without a
helm or a compass, at the mercy of every wind of doubt. Dark
storms are rising in human souls, and they penetrate the very
depths of the masses of the people.

At the same time, there are many misunderstandings in regard to
the church, and consequently there is an animated attack upon her
doctrines. When the revolution, which is now making a tour
through Europe and the rest of the world, appeared in France, the
church was attached by bonds, which time had forged, to the old
political order. She was carried with that political system into
the struggle. Hence it comes that men have not been able to
distinguish that which belongs to a legitimate state of society,
without being at all necessary to the church, and that which
constitutes the essential principles and immutable spirit of
Christianity.

With certain men there is only one feeling toward the
church--that of blind and implacable hatred. Forgetting eighteen
centuries of benefits, they continue to wage an ungrateful war.
The waves of revolution sweep in their course both truth and
falsehood, virtue and crime, benefits and injuries, and the
church, because she can make no compromise with error and vice,
must persist in pointing out the illusion of deceitful words and
the danger of false doctrines. Many stubbornly charge the church
with thoughts and doctrines which are not hers. An infidel press
and unscrupulous blasphemy against the church strive to separate
the people from her fold. We hear, both in disorderly conventions
and in the writings of those journalists who convene them, the
most stupid and reckless assertions against the church mingling
with threats of social war. And even in our legislative
assemblies this unreasonable enmity appears, demanding a violent
separation of the church and society.

And lately, when the voice of the Sovereign Pontiff was raised to
describe the overflow of those impious and immoral theories which
now inundate us, how many complaints, how many unmerited
accusations were everywhere made! Without caring to understand
his meaning, the Holy Father was calumniated. And with grief we
saw statesmen, under the influence of violent passion and without
asking or writing for any explanation, hasten to proclaim an
antagonism which, thank God, does not exist.

These hostilities against the church, while separating from her
the people who are deluded, render the peril in which these
contemporary errors would drag us far more formidable. Doctrines
are not inoffensive; M. De Bonald promulgated a law of history
which is confirmed by constant experience, when he wrote these
forcible words: "There are always great disorders where there are
great errors, and great errors where there are great disorders."
It is thought that brings forth facts; storms come from above.

And I say to men of good faith, you expected to establish the
government of people and the conduct of life on reason alone.
This experiment has been tried for three quarters of a century in
France; what is the result? Are the morals of our people better?
Is the civil authority respected?
{808}
Is liberty well established? Has war disappeared? Or misery? Or
ignorance? And what can be said of those questions which reason
asks with a rare fertility of invention, but which she cannot
answer, and which concern the very organization of
society--questions about labor, wages, and workmen? I do not
exaggerate when I assert that since reason has pretended to reign
alone, she reigns, like the night star, over shadows which she
cannot dissipate. Even in the most civilized countries, the earth
has become an abode of anxiety, distress, strife, and terror. The
nineteenth century will soon close, agitated, weary, barren, and
incontestably diseased. Rash indeed would be the one who would
venture to predict that it would close in glory and not in
perdition.


              IV.

       Review Of The Past


However, I beseech my friends and brethren in the faith not to
exaggerate anything. It is permitted to be sad, I repeat, when we
consider the present times; and I should feel bound to consider
the soul which is not saddened by these things as possessing very
little true nobility. The sons of the nineteenth century, the men
of my day, have had many enchanting dreams; we have nourished
many generous hopes; but now we are going to die, and to die
deluded. But what! is our short life the whole of history? We did
not live in the sixteenth century; we shall not see the
twentieth; but the church lived yesterday, and she will live
to-morrow. If I should say what she hopes, all my prophecies
would not be forebodings; and if I should question her memory,
the present times would appear all the brighter by being compared
with the past. If we glance at ages which are no more, shall we
find many centuries which did not have their troubles and their
dangers? Ah! the discouragement of certain Catholics calls to
mind the sentence of one of the sapiential books: "Say not: what
thinkest thou is the cause that former times were better than
they are now? for this manner of question is foolish." [Footnote
287]  I was reading a few days since some of the bulls of
convocation of the ancient councils of the middle ages. The
lamentation of those popes of the misfortunes of their time far
exceeds anything which is heard to-day. And, not to go further
back than the Council of Trent, let the church tell us of those
times, for she was present to them. What did she see then?

    [Footnote 287: Eccles. vii. 11.]

That century was much like ours, because of its great
discoveries, its appreciation of learning, and its revival of the
arts; it was like the present century, also, in the bad use it
made of these gifts. The sixteenth century peopled America, which
had been only recently discovered; abandoned itself to cruel
excesses of crime and avarice there, and introduced the disgrace
of human slavery. It received treasures from that country, and it
used them for the corruption of the morals of Europe. Whether we
look upon the thrones, or among the masses of the people, or even
in the church herself, we find many a sad spectacle. This century
was the witness of the crimes of Henry VIII.; Elizabeth; Ivan the
Terrible; Christian II.; the Medici; Charles IX.; and Henry III.
This century saw the pillaging of Rome and the siege of Paris.
{809}
This century saw the pretended reformation rend the church,
disturb the peace of all Europe, and divide Christians into two
parts. If one desires to find out the evils which existed in the
church and in society in those days, let him read the lives of
great and holy people of that time; let him read of Bartholomew,
of the Martyrs St. Charles Borromeo and St. Francis of Sales. I
have already mentioned the papal bulls of the middle ages; but
read those of the pontiffs who convoked the Council of Trent, and
it will be soon seen that Adrian VI., Paul III., Pius IV., were
then more alarmed at the dangers of the Christian republic than
Pius IX. now is. There was tepidity, disorder, and scandal; the
clergy poorly organized; the religious orders much relaxed; and
then, too, princes were divided, the people oppressed, and war a
daily occurrence in every country. And the council which had
assembled amid such sad circumstances was compelled to meet in a
little village hidden in the mountains of Tyrol, and or six years
it was at the mercy of temporal princes to suspend or to allow it
to proceed; and thus it was compelled to endure a perpetual
conflict.

But vain are obstacles to God's church! Her virtue will triumph
over everything. What great works and great men came forth from
this council and from the regenerating breath that it breathed
over Christian society! St. Charles Borromeo, St. Philip Neri,
St. Peter of Alcantara, St. Theresa, St. John of the Cross, St.
Francis of Sales, St. Jane of Chautal, St. Vincent de Paul, St.
Francis Borgia, and St. Francis Regis, heirs of the spirit of St.
Ignatius and St. Francis Xavier. Then closely following these
canonized saints were such apostolic men as the B. Peter
Fourrier, Cardinal Berulle, M. Olier, M. Eucles, M. Bourdoise,
the Abbé of Raucé, and many others. Then too came many
congregations, which were fruitful in showing again the true
standard of clerical and religious life, and in reanimating
everywhere the love of study, regularity, and charity. Such was
the universal improvement which the church displayed. This was
followed by Fénélon and Bossuet and the majestic unity of the
seventeenth century. And notwithstanding all the misfortunes that
this immortal Mother of men has had to overcome, the church has
now places of worship in Jerusalem, liberty in Pekin and
Constantinople, the episcopal hierarchy in England and Holland,
her councils in Baltimore, and her missionaries in Africa,
Oceanica, and Japan. The church rejoices from the very depths of
her soul to see that, although religion has got much to wish for
and much to deplore, still in every part of the world the laws
are now more equitable, the powerful are less oppressive, the
weak are better protected, the poor more generously assisted, and
slaves are declared free. But when the church turns to that
pretended reform which so audaciously rose up against the spouse
of Christ in the sixteenth century, she finds that its doctrines
have almost vanished; it has run its course and exhausted its
arms. How different is the present condition of the Holy Church!
That church, whose abuses were so fearful that they could no
longer be endured, to-day presents a Pope whose eminent virtue
compels respect; her bishops are more numerous and zealous; her
priests faithful, united, devoted; her religious orders, tempered
by the fire of persecution and poverty, are learned and
exemplary.
{810}
And when this church desires to assemble a council, it is to Rome
she bids her children come, by the reliable roads, the rapid
carriages and the facilities of every kind which she owes to the
genius, the justice, and the resources of modern times.

It is well enough known that I am not among those who close their
eyes and preserve silence in regard to the evils of the day and
the many perils which lie in the way of souls. But neither do I
wish to be ungrateful for the benefits of God, or to refuse to
see the power which lends its strength to the church, and the
help which he gives to the good cause, even in the worst times.
Nor should it be forgotten that man's duty is to struggle for
truth, and that each century has its task and its difficulty. I
pity, I do not execrate, the present time. I do not despair of
the people, and I do not anathematize their rulers. They are not
omnipotent, and they have to contend with many difficulties. I
pray for them, as the Catholic Church has always done; I caution
them, both princes and people, as much as lies within my power,
and I ask a loyal and sincere concurrence to the great work of
the church, which is the sanctification and civilization of the
world.

There are three things which should cause us all the keenest
anxiety; these are, the destruction of faith, which has been
hastened by the impious direction which scientific and
philosophical studies have taken; the prevailing laxity of
morals, which may fairly be attributed to the thousand new and
seductive forms of vice; and lastly, the unjust statements which
the enemies of religion delight in perpetuating between the
church and the masses of the people. These are three diseases
which, by God's grace, will be cured.

There are certain persons in whose eyes these three scourges are
only the partial results of that which is now, and has always
been, the greatest of all scourges, namely, revolution. I do not
like to use this vague and indefinite word which, like a spectre,
appears and grows formidable at one's will; but yet it is very
true that these evils do foster in the bosom of society a
division of mind, a scorn of God and of all authority, a pride
and a hatred, which are continually threatening these societies
with a return to revolutions.

              ----------

{811}


       Catholicity And Pantheism.

             Number Five.

   Laws According To Which The Mystery Of
   The Trinity Should Be Understood.


We proceed, in this article, to lay down some general laws which
govern, so to speak, the organism of the life of the infinite.
The ignorance or the overlooking of these laws has ever caused
those who plunged into the abyss of infinite life to search its
genesis, to fall into one form or other of pantheism, as will be
seen in the course of this article.

The first and principal law may be enunciated as follows: _No
other distinction can be predicated of the infinite, but that
arising from the relative opposition of origin between the
terms._ [Footnote 288]

    [Footnote 288: Realis distinctio inter relationes divinas non
    est nisi ratione oppositionis relativae.
    S. Th., S. T.; qu. 30, art. ad.]

We have already demonstrated that the life of the infinite is
terminated by three distinct personalities, which establish a
multiplicity in its bosom. A distinction, therefore, _must_
be predicated of the infinite. But of what sort?

This distinction, in the first place, could not fall upon the
essence, without breaking its absolute simplicity. It must,
consequently, be found among the terminations of the essence, or
personalities. But, again, these three persons being possessed of
the same identical essence, and thus participating in all its
perfections, how can they be distinguished, one from the other?
By a real opposition of origin. One person originates; the other
is originated; as principle and term they are necessarily opposed
to each other, and consequently distinct.

This law maintains both the unity and the multiplicity in the
infinite. It maintains the unity; for the law does not require
any real distinction between the persons and the essence, but
only a distinction made by our reason to facilitate our
apprehension; hence the three divine persons are truly and
essentially the infinite. It maintains multiplicity, because the
three divine persons are opposed on the ground of opposition of
origin, and are consequently distinct. Here lies the whole
difficulty, the reader will say; three things opposed one to
another, and thus distinct from each other, how are they
_one_ in essence?

We might reply, in the first place, that the possibility of this
is grounded on a psychological fact, which every one accustomed
to reflection may easily ascertain. Take the operation of the
human spirit. Man knows himself; in this fact the _me_
enters twice; because the _me_ is the subject which knows,
and at the same time the object known. The _me_ knowing is
the being in the subjective form; the _me_ known is the
being in the objective form. Again, man loves himself through the
idea of himself: the _me_ here enters three times--the
_me_ under the subjective form of knowing and of loving; the
_me_ under the objective form of known; the _me_ under
the objective form of being loved.
{812}
Nevertheless, all three are one and the same being: the _me_
under the subjective form knows and loves the _me_ under the
objective form; a multiplicity and a unity which cannot be
disputed; not only because of the testimony of consciousness,
which avers to the fact, but because on this multiplicity and
unity are founded two distinct sciences, psychology and ideology;
psychology, which treats of the _me_ as subject, of its
nature and properties; ideology, which treats of the product of
the _me_, or ideas.

This operation of man is an image of the genesis of God's life.
The infinite knows and loves himself. Into this fact of his
eternal life he enters three times; the infinite, so to speak, as
subject knowing and loving himself; the infinite as object known;
the infinite as object loved. The infinite knowing himself is
necessarily opposed to the infinite known, because it originates
him by an intellectual operation; the infinite known is
necessarily opposed to the infinite knowing, because originated
by him. Again, the infinite loving himself and the infinite known
(because the infinite cannot love himself except through the
infinite known) are necessarily opposed to the infinite loved,
because they originate him; the infinite loved is necessarily
opposed to the infinite loving and known, because emanating from
both. This relative opposition of origin causes a real
distinction among the terms without breaking the unity of the
essence.

But, the better to illustrate this law, and to show how well it
maintains unity and multiplicity in the infinite, we shall here
investigate the metaphysical law of the fact; that is, why and
how things which are opposed to each other can harmonize and be
brought into unity, in a third thing.

We have given an example of the fact in the operation of man; but
let us give a few more instances to generalize it more and more.
This fact is observed in both the ideological and ontological
orders. First, as to the order of ideas. Two ideas, which in
their own order are opposed to each other, harmonize and are
brought together in a third idea. Take, for instance, the idea of
substance and modification; substance conveys the idea of
something subsisting by itself, that which requires no being to
lean on in order to subsist. It means something standing
permanent. The idea of modification is that of something which is
not permanent in itself, but requires another being to lean on,
to cling to, in order to subsist. The two ideas, as it appears,
are directly opposed to each other, since their notions are
contradictory; yet both ideas, contradictory one to the other in
their own order, agree and are brought into companionship in the
common idea of existence, one existing permanently, the other
existing by leaning on another.

Moreover, take the transcendental idea of unity, truth, and
goodness. Unity implies a negation of multiplicity, something
undivided in itself and distinct from others. Truth implies a
multiplicity, because it is essentially a relation of an object
to an intelligence; _aequatio rei et intellectus_, as St.
Thomas defines it. Goodness also implies a multiplicity, because
it is essentially a relation of a being to a tendency or faculty.

These three ideas, contradictory or diverse, are brought into
harmony in the common idea of being; for every metaphysician
knows that unity, truth, goodness, are the transcendental
qualities of being, and are identified with it.

{813}

The fact is therefore indisputable in the ideological order, that
is, of ideas contradictory one to another or diverse, agreeing in
a common idea. It is no less true in the order of reality,
because ideology is founded on ontology. Take, for instance, a
body; it has length, breadth, height, and depth. These qualities
of bodies are contrary to each other in their own order, yet they
harmonize in the body. Take the forces of attraction and
repulsion; both are contradictory laws, yet both agree in the
same body. Man harmonizes and brings together in himself the laws
of movement, of vegetation, of animality and of intelligence,
which are different and contradictory to each other. And in his
spirit, as we have said before, he opposes himself as an object
to himself, as subject without breaking the unity of the soul.
Now wherein lies the reason of this fact? In the ideological
order it lies in the universality of ideas; in the order of
reality, in the intensity of being, or in the amount of
perfection. A universal idea comprehends and harmonizes in itself
inferior and more particular ideas, opposed to or different from
each other; a more perfect being, or a greater reality harmonizes
and brings together inferior realities opposed to and diverse
from each other, for the reason of its very intensity of
perfection. A doctrine of St. Thomas beautifully illustrates this
truth. He inquires into the distinction between intelligent and
non-intelligent entities, and, after having remarked that
intelligent beings are distinguished from those not intelligent
by this--that the second are only capable of containing their own
forms or actuality, whereas the first, besides their own
actuality, are capable of receiving the forms or actuality of
other things, because in intelligent beings is found the ideal
similitude of the object known, he alleges, as a reason for this
distinction, contraction or limitation. "From this it appears,"
he concludes, "that the nature of unintelligent beings is more
contracted and limited, while the nature of intelligent beings is
endowed with the greater extension; hence the philosopher said
that the soul is as it were every thing." [Footnote 289]

    [Footnote 289:  S. Th., S. T.; part, 1, qu. 14, art. 1.]

This reason, however, which accounts for a more general idea or
for a greater reality harmonizing in itself particular ideas or
lesser realities opposed to each other in their own order, does
not account for an opposition lying in the very bosom of a being.
In other words, when the particular ideas and the lesser
realities are taken as opposed to each other, they are considered
distinct and apart from the general idea or greater reality. When
they are harmonized in the general idea or greater reality, their
limits and opposition are supposed to be eliminated; and this is
the reason why the harmony becomes possible. But when the
opposition is to be found in the same being, that is to say, when
terms opposed to each other are not distinct from the general
idea or greater reality, but lie in its very bosom, then what is
it that maintains both the opposition of the terms and the unity
and simplicity of the being?

In this case, a relation of origin causes the opposition without
breaking the unity of the being.

The same being supposed subsistent, being capable of
intelligencing itself, can beget an ideal conception of itself;
in other words, the same being can exist as object understood in
itself, as subject understanding, as object loved in itself, and
as subject loving. In this origination, the relation between the
terms originated is true and real; because the being as subject,
as such, is really opposed to itself as object, and truly
relative to itself.
{814}
The being could not be subject, without opposing itself as object
to itself as subject. Yet this takes place without addition to or
subtraction from the unity and the simplicity of the being;
ontologically, the being is absolutely the same. What prevents us
from perceiving this fully and clearly, is the action of the
imagination and the essential condition of our intelligence,
which cannot be exercised except by the help of a sensible
phenomenon. Thus, when we strive to perceive a relation, it is
pictured to our imagination as being something real, a kind of
link or chain between the terms related. Now, when it is
considered that this is only imaginary, and that ontologically a
relation is nothing more than the attitude, to speak the language
of schoolmen, of one object toward another, it is evident that a
being, capable of intelligence and of love, can oppose itself, as
object, to itself as subject, without addition to or diminution
from or breaking up of the simplicity of the being.

We conclude--particular ideas or lesser realities, opposed to
each other, can be harmonized in general idea, or greater
realities.

The metaphysical reason of this is, that opposition proceeds
often-times from limitation, and that general idea or greater
reality, by elimination of the limits, can harmonize things
opposed in their own order. This reason is satisfactory when the
particular ideas or lesser realities are considered distinct and
apart from the general idea or greater reality; that is, they are
opposed when distinct--the opposition vanishes when identified.
But the reason is not satisfactory to explain how there may be
terms distinct and opposed to each other in the same being,
without breaking the unity of the being. The law of opposition of
origin, and the relation resulting therefrom, fully explains and
maintains both the multiplicity and the unity in the same being.

Applying these ideas to the infinite, it is evident that, the
distinction of the divine personalities taking place according to
the law of opposition of origin, both the multiplicity of persons
and the absolute simplicity of the divine essence are maintained.
Because the distinction of the divine persons is caused by a
relation of origin. Now, as we have seen, a relation of origin
neither adds to nor subtracts from the essence; on the other
hand, the relation between the terms is true and real.
Consequently, the law of opposition of origin explains, as far as
human intellect can fathom, how the distinction of the divine
personalities can be maintained without at all detracting from
the unity of the essence.

It will not do to say that theologians have imagined this law, to
suit their systems. This law is given by the fact of human
thought and by the ontological requirements of being. As we have
already observed, being is essentially one, true, and good. Now
these qualities at the same time are identified with being,
because, when the mind tries to fathom them, it finds nothing
added to being, and yet are they essentially a relation. Here we
have identity and distinction, and nothing can explain it, as far
as the mystery of being can be explained, except the law of
opposition of origin. Our readers, from the above remarks, may
see what becomes of that great objection, so often urged against
the dogma of the trinity, and so many times disposed of by the
doctors of the church, yet repeated again and again which the
same assurance.

{815}

It is said, _quae sunt idem tertio, sunt eadem inter se_;
that is, things which are identical with a third thing are
identical with each other. Now, the three divine persons,
according to catholic doctrine, are identical with infinite
essence; therefore they are identical with each other; that is,
not distinct, and consequently cannot exist. Oftentimes, in
thinking over this objection so triumphantly brought forward, we
have thought of the well-known lines of Pope:

  "A little learning is a dangerous thing;
   Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring;
   Those shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,
   But drinking largely sobers us again."

For the principle, when examined carefully, does not apply to
those cases in which a distinction is predicated of a being
caused by a relation to itself.

For instance, upon that principle we might reason thus: things
which are identical with a third thing are identical with each
other. But height, length, breadth, and depth are one and the
same thing with bodies; therefore, are identical among
themselves; and all distinction between height and depth, length
and breadth, is a pure figment; and architects, calculating the
proportions of a building, would do well to remember the
principle, for it would save them considerable time and trouble.

Again: unity, truth, and goodness are identical with reality. But
those things which are identical with a third are identical with
each other; therefore, unity, truth, goodness are identical among
themselves, and it is the same thing to be one, true, and good,
as to be. And all the different sciences formed on these
relations of being are useless wastes of thought and meditation.

Moreover, the thinking and loving subject in man, the thought and
the love, are identical with the soul; therefore, according to
the said principle, there is no distinction between the thinking
subject and the thought, and all ideology and grammar is nothing
but useless pastime, and we could correctly say, the soul is a
thinking subject--the soul is a thought.

The truth is, that the principle applies only to particular
cases, and is by no means general; because, as we have
demonstrated, being, in general, requires three distinct
relations to be conceived, and which, remaining distinct among
themselves, are yet identical with being.

The infinite being could neither be conceived, nor be actual,
without three distinct relations, which must be identical with
the essence, without ceasing to be distinct one from another. If
its truth were general and it applied to all cases, it would
abolish all distinction in the infinite being, and consequently,
abolish its actuality and intelligibility, and leave it only as
an abstraction--the Hegelian being--nothing.

Moreover, that the principle does not apply to the infinite is
evident from the very enunciation and meaning of the principle.
Things which are identical with a third are identical with each
other. In the enunciation and in the meaning, the principle
supposes a plurality, and, consequently, a distinction; for the
gist of the principle is to compare a multiplicity to a unity.
Now, who does not see that, if there were not a supreme identity
and a supreme multiplicity beyond the sphere and subordination of
this principle, the principle itself would be destroyed?

{816}

For if it be asked, what is the origin, the cause, and the
supreme expression of plurality and distinction, which this
principle supposes, we must rise to a supreme and typical
distinction and identity, not subject to the principle; else we
could never account for the existence of the principle.

The infinite is the supreme identity and the supreme
multiplicity, the cause of all distinction and identity, and
consequently, to it the principle cannot apply.

We conclude, therefore, that the first law governing the genesis
of God's life is the law of opposition of origin, and that this
law accounts both for the unity of essence and the trinity of
persons in God.

We pass to the second law, which is as follows: _In the
infinite, there must be a person who does not proceed from
anything, and who is neither begotten nor made, but who subsists
by himself_. The metaphysical reason of this law is, that
there must be a first principle in everything, both in the
ontological and in the ideological orders.

In the ontological order, because if every principle of reality,
if every cause called for the existence of another to explain its
existence, it is evident that there would be a process _ad
infinitum_ without explaining anything. For an infinite number
of causes, each requiring another cause to explain their
existence, would multiply, _ad infinitum_, the necessity of
first cause, existing by itself and containing in itself the
reason of its existence.

In the ideological order, because every science must have a
principle which is not derived from any other, and which must be
taken for granted, otherwise science would become impossible. Ask
a proof and a demonstration for every principle, say of
mathematics, and you will never be able to learn it.

Thus, in the genesis of infinite life, there must be a first
person who subsists by himself, otherwise the life of the
infinite becomes impossible.

But, besides this general reason which requires a first person
underived from anything, there is a particular reason, more
closely allied to the subject, which demonstrates it. Because, if
there were not a first person in the infinite, not proceeding
from any other thing, it would originate either from the essence
or from another person. Now, it could not originate from the
essence; because between the principle and its product there is a
real opposition of origin; therefore, in the supposition, there
would be a real opposition between the essence of the infinite
and the first person. Now, the essence in question is infinite,
and only the finite can be opposed to it. The first person,
therefore, proceeding from the essence, would be finite and not
infinite; that is, he would be a creature. Moreover, it would be
impossible that the first person should proceed from the essence,
because the essence without subsistence is an abstraction, and an
abstraction could not originate a reality.

It could not proceed from another person, because, as we have
remarked, this other person, unless subsisting of himself, would
require another as his principle, and so on _ad infinitum_.

As a corollary of this law, it follows that whatever other
persons may be supposed to exist in the infinite, they must
originate from the first; because--no other distinction being
possible in the infinite, but that arising from opposition of
origin--it follows that, if there were other persons in the
infinite, and if they did not originate from the first, they
could not be opposed to it, and therefore they could not be
distinguished from it; in other words, they could not exist.

{817}

A third law governs the life of the infinite; which, if possible,
is yet more important than the former two. It is the law of
immanence, which may be expressed in the following formula.

_The action, by which the persons in the infinite are
originated, terminates inside of the infinite, and is permanent,
eternal, and complete_.

Let it be observed that the action of an agent is always interior
to it, because it is its own movement. But the product of the
agent is not always so; sometimes it is laid inside the agent;
sometimes it terminates outside the agent. In the first case, the
action is called immanent or interior; in the second, transient
or exterior; not because the action is not always interior to the
subject, but because the effect or term of the action is exterior
or foreign to the subject. The first sense, then, in which the
law of immanence is to be applied to the infinite is, that the
terms of the action of the first person terminate inside the
infinite; because, if they were to terminate outside of God, they
would be something different from him, and consequently not
divine persons, but finite beings.

But the law has a higher and more important bearing: it implies
that the action by which the divine persons are originated is not
transitory, successive, and incomplete, but permanent, eternal,
and complete; because God is infinite actuality, or actuality
itself.

Forget for one single moment to apply this law to the genesis of
God's life, and you fall at once into pantheism. For suppose the
act, by which the divine persons are originated, to be transient,
successive, temporary, incomplete, and it would follow at once
that God is in continual development and explication. For He is
either complete and perfect, or on the road to perfection. He is
in _fieri_, or becoming.

And since, as we have often remarked, every development consists
of different stages of explication, the last of which is always
more perfect than those which precede it, it would follow that
the genesis of God's life consists of a successive series of
evolutions, the last of which is always more perfect than that
which precedes it. Now, assuming the genesis of God's life at one
determinate stage, and travelling backward to arrive at the first
stage of explication from which He started, we should pass from a
more perfect, defined, concrete stage of development, to one less
perfect, less defined, less determinate, and thence to one still
less so, until we should arrive at the most indeterminate,
undefined, abstract stage of evolution; at the _least
being_--the _being_ not _being_, the first principle
of pantheism.

But, keeping in view the law of immanence, every one can see that
God's action is supposed at once all perfect, complete, and
adequate--in one word, eternal; and consequently every idea of
development, progress, and succession is eliminated; and the
consequence is, that the infinite is at once conceived as being
infinite actuality; the first principle of Catholic theology--the
precise contradictory of pantheism.

Hence, according to this law, the first person is always
originating, and his origination is always perfect; the others
are always originated, and their existence is always perfect,
adequate, and complete. We say _always_ and _are
originated_, not because the expressions convey the idea of
eternal actuality and completeness, but because, our mind being
measured by time, we can find no better words to exhibit the
idea. Let this remark be made once for all.

{818}

A corollary of this law is, that whatever persons are originated
in the infinite, being within the essence of God and terminating
in Him, they are--_the infinite_, because nothing can be
added to the infinite.

Fourth law: _In the infinite there are no more than two
processions_.

By processions we mean the origination of one person from
another.

Now, that in God there are no more than two processions will
appear evident, if we consider the proper operation of God. God
is a spiritual nature; the proper operation of a spiritual nature
is by intelligence and by will; therefore, the operation of God
is by intelligence and by will, and consequently one origination
is by the intelligence, the other by the will.

So far we have given those laws which govern, in general, the
genesis of God's life. We must now proceed to those laws which
govern the particular origination of each of the two divine
persons.

Now, the law governing the origination of the second person is
the law of intellectual generation. Generation implies the
following elements:

  1st, the production of a living being from a living principle;

  2d, identity of nature between the two;

  3d, this identity required by the very natural, essential, and
  direct tendency of the action by which the term is produced.

It is according to these elements of generative law that the
second person in the infinite is produced; and consequently he is
really and truly the _Son_ of God, as the producer is
_Father_.

For the first person, whom we have said to be subsisting by
himself, being intelligent activity, necessarily intelligences
himself. He is the God-head intelligencing himself.

Now, an object understood, inasmuch as it is understood, exists
in the understanding in an intelligible state; for to understand
means just to apprehend, to grasp intelligibly that which is
understood.

The Godhead, therefore, is in himself as the Godhead understood
is in the Godhead understanding. Now, the object understood
existing in the intelligence, is what is called mental word,
intellectual conception, and by the Greeks, _logos_.

Hence in the Godhead exists the Godhead as mental word or logos.
St. John, with a sublime expression, which electrified all the
Platonic philosophers, began his Gospel thus: "In the beginning
(the Father) was the Word."

This Word of the Godhead being conceived by an immanent act, an
act which has neither beginning nor end, which is not power
before it is act, is conceived therefore eternally, and
consequently is coeternal with the conceiver. It is God or the
infinite; because the first person, or intelligent activity,
begets him by an operation which terminates inside himself, by
the law of immanence; consequently the Word is identical with his
essence, and is, therefore, the infinite.

Yet is he a distinct person from the first as Word.

For although the intelligent activity and the Word are both God,
yet are they distinct from each other by the law of opposition of
origin, which implies that a term proceeding from a principle is
necessarily opposed to it, and consequently distinct from it.
Thus the intelligent activity, as principle, is necessarily
opposed to the Word as term; and, _vice versa_, the Word as
term is necessarily opposed to the intelligent activity as
principle.
{819}
In other words, the intelligent activity could not be what it is,
unless it were the opposite of the Word, and this could not be
the Word unless it were the very opposite of intelligent
activity. Hence, to be intelligent, activity belongs so
exclusively to the First, as to exclude any other from partaking
in that distinctive constituent; and to be Word is claimed so
exclusively by the Second, as to be attributed to no other. The
result is a duality of terminations, possessed of the same
infinite nature and its essential attributes, each having a
constituent so exclusively its own as to be altogether
incommunicable. Now, two terminations, possessed of the same
infinite nature and its essential attributes, with a constituent
so exclusively their own as to be attributed to no other, convey
the idea of two persons. For what is a person? A spiritual being
with a termination of his own, which makes him distinct from any
other, gives him the ownership of himself and renders him
solidary of his action.

Now, the intelligent activity is a spiritual being, since he is
the Godhead; is possessed of a constituent of his own,
intelligent activity; has the ownership of himself; for, as
intelligent activity, he is himself and no other, and cannot
communicate himself; and is solidary of his notional action, that
is, the action which constitutes him what he is: he is,
therefore, a person.

Likewise the Word is a spiritual nature; for he is the same
Godhead as to substance; as a relation or Word, he is the owner
of himself, incommunicable, and solidary of his notional action;
hence, he is also a person.

In other words, the Godhead is an infinite spirit; all that
constitutes him, both substance and terms of relation, is spirit.
Consequently, each term of the divine relation, as such term, has
an individuality of his own and, as infinite spirit, has
knowledge and intelligence of himself; he beholds himself
distinct from the other as term of relation, one with the other
as substance. His distinction causes his relative individuality;
consciousness and intelligence of this relative individuality
make him a person.

Here an objection might be raised; to be a person implies,
necessarily, to be intelligent, which is an essential attribute
of spiritual being. Therefore the Word also must be intelligent,
otherwise he would have neither knowledge nor consciousness of
his individuality. But you have attributed intelligence to the
first person as being his particular termination; therefore how
can the Word be a person, if intelligence be the particular
termination of the first? Either the Word is not intelligent, and
then he cannot be a person, or intelligence is not the particular
termination of the first, and in that case they cannot be
persons, for they cannot be distinct.

The difficulty will vanish if it be observed that we have not
attributed intelligence to the first person as his particular
termination, but intelligent _activity_.

A slight attention to the manner according to which the Word is
produced in the infinite, will illustrate this distinction. The
intelligence of the Godhead is infinite in its activity and
actuality, as well as infinite in its term; which means that the
Godhead understands itself infinitely, and an infinite term is
the product of this intellection. Hence, once God has understood
himself and conceived the expression of his intelligence, the
activity is complete and fully terminated; consequently, the
Word, the term of this intelligencing, has the Godhead with all
its essential attributes communicated to him; except the activity
of intelligencing, because the activity is complete in the
production of the Word.

{820}

In other words, the act of the first person is eternal, complete,
and perfect, by the laws of immanence. Its activity is fully and
perfectly exercised in engendering the Word, hence it cannot be
communicated. If it were communicated, it would argue
imperfection and incompleteness in the act and in its term. In
the act, for if any portion of activity remained to be
communicated, the Godhead would not intelligence himself to the
fullest extent of his infinity; in the term, because the Godhead
not intelligencing himself to the full extent of his infinity,
the intellectual utterance which would be produced would not
fully and perfectly express the object.

Consequently both would be imperfect, incomplete, and potential.
This happens in human conception. Our mind, being finite, that
is, partial and imperfect, is forced to exert itself partially
and conceive various mental words, which would not be the case if
its activity were perfect and complete, as it is in the infinite.

This answers another objection which is brought forward by those
who lose sight of the law of immanence in the divine operation.
It is said, If the Word be intelligent, there is nothing to
prevent his engendering another Word, and this second, a third,
and so on _ad infinitum_.

The Word is intelligent, but not intelligent activity. When
intelligence, so to speak, is communicated to him, it has been
exercised in the engendering of himself; or better, the eternal
immanent act of the intelligent activity communicating
intelligence to the Word, is continually being exercised in the
immanent engendering of the Word; therefore it cannot be
communicated to him. [Footnote 290]

    [Footnote 290: In Filio non habet _intellectus_ illam
    veluti _virtutem_ quia iam habuit actum sibi
    adequatum.--_Suarez_, De Trin., lib. 1. cap. 7. v. 11.]

Hence that magnificent expression of the Scripture, "_Semel
loquitur Deus_." "God speaks but once." But because the
activity of engendering another Word is not communicated to him,
it does not follow that he is not endowed with the act of
intelligencing the Father or himself; the Father as his
principle, himself as the product of the Father. For it is one
thing to be intelligent, another thing to be intelligent
principle. To give some examples of this distinction. The
architect of a building who has planned it, is the intelligent
principle of the building; another, who understands the plan of
the building, is the intelligent _beholder_ of the building.

God is the intelligent cause of the world, man is the intelligent
perceiver of the world.

There being, therefore, a distinction between intelligence as
principle or cause, and intelligence as perception, one may
easily conceive how the Word in the infinite may be possessed of
intelligence, without being the principle of intelligence.

The Word, who is one Godhead with the first person, a distinct
person himself, is also the substantial image of the first
person. Because, in force of the act by which he is uttered,
which is essentially assimilative, he is produced as the likeness
of him whose expression and utterance he is; and as he is one as
to substance with the conceiver, he is, consequently, his
substantial image and likeness. We conclude, therefore, that the
production of the second person in the infinite--resulting in a
person, the substantial image of the conceiver, in force of the
act of intelligencing by which he is produced, which is
essentially assimilative--is governed by the law of generation;
and that, consequently, the first person in the infinite is
_Father_, and the second, _Son_. "_Thou art my Son,
to-day I have begotten thee_." [Footnote 291]

    [Footnote 291: Ps. ii. 7.]

{821}

The law by which the third person in the infinite is produced, is
different from that which governs the production of the second.

The latter takes place according to the law of generation or
assimilation; the former is subject to the law of aspiration,
which must be understood as follows.

By his Word, the intelligent activity apprehends and conceives
his infinite perfection and goodness. For the Word, as we have
seen, is nothing but the infinite and most perfect expression or
image of the intelligent activity, and as the intelligent
activity is infinite perfection and excellence, so the Word is
the utterance, the intellectual reproduction of that excellence
and goodness. Hence the intelligent activity, by his Word,
conceives and utters himself as infinite perception and
excellence. But perfection or goodness _apprehended_ is
necessarily loved. For goodness, once apprehended, awakens the
will, and necessarily inclines it toward itself; it necessarily
attracts and affects it. The intelligent activity, therefore by
apprehending himself through his Word as infinite perfection and
goodness, necessarily loves himself.

Love implies the insidence or indwelling of the object loved in
the subject loving. The intelligent activity, therefore, who
necessarily loves himself through his Word, must be as object
loved in himself as subject loving.

This love as object must be co-eternal with the infinite, because
by the law of immanence which governs the genesis of infinite
life, every origination in the infinite must be co-eternal with
the infinite.

By the same law also, it must be identical and one with the
infinite; because love, being originated by an immanent act,
terminates inside of the infinite, and is, therefore, identical
with the infinite. The love as object, therefore, is coeternal
and identical with the infinite; it _is_ the infinite.

It is distinct from love as subject and from the Word, by the law
of opposition of origin, which implies that a term which
originates from a principle is necessarily opposed to it, and
consequently distinct. Now, love, as object in the infinite,
originates from the intelligent activity and from the Word. The
intelligent activity, by apprehending himself, as infinite
goodness and excellence, through his Word, loves himself. Hence,
this love proceeds from both--the intelligent activity, who
conceives his infinite goodness--the Word, who represents it, and
makes it intelligible. This love-object is a third person. For,
from what we have said, it appears that love-object is identical
with the infinite, with the divine essence, and consequently
partakes of all the infinite attributes of the essence; hence he
is a spiritual and intelligent being; as distinct from both the
intelligent activity and the Word, he is possessed of a
termination exclusively his own, which makes him the owner of
himself incommunicable and solidary of his notional action. Hence
he is a person.

{822}

This third person, not being originated according to a likeness
of nature, cannot, like the second person, be called son. He is
the personal and subsisting love of the Father and of the Son;
and as the object loved exists in the subject loving, as
inclining, and in a certain manner as impelling, the subject
toward it, as raising in the subject an attraction or aspiration
toward it, hence the third person is called the living and
subsisting Spirit of God.

The better to conceive this distinctive termination of the third
term in the infinite, let us suppose an attraction between two
persons. It is needless to remark that we use this term for want
of a better and more spiritual one. Suppose, therefore, an
attraction between two persons; do not make it an accident or
modification, but substantial; carry it to its utmost perfection,
actualize it _ad infinitum_; so that it may be able to
return upon itself, to have consciousness of itself, to possess
and own itself, and in this sense to feel itself distinct from
and independent of all others--and you will have, as product, a
subsisting or _personal_ attraction, a third person.

Such is the idea we can form of the Holy Spirit. The Father
beholds himself totally in the Son as an offspring of himself,
and loves himself in his offspring, his perfect and substantial
expression.

The Son beholds himself totally in the Father as his author, and
loves the Father as his principle and origin. This common love,
this mutual attraction, this aspiration of the Father toward the
Son, and of the Son toward, the Father, being infinite, is most
actual, perfect, and complete--a living, subsisting attraction,
with consciousness and the ownership of himself, a subsistence
personifying their mutual love and binding both in one eternal
tie of affection.

Hence, by this distinctive constituent of common love, the Spirit
is the archetype of harmony and order; since in his personality
he brings the opposition existing between the conceiver and the
conceived into harmony and unity of love.

He is also the archetype of the _beautiful_, being the very
beauty and loveliness of God.

Beauty, in its highest metaphysical expression, is variety
reduced to unity, by order and proportion. Now, the Spirit
harmonizes the reality and the intelligibility of God into a
unity of love. Hence he is the beauty of the Father and the
Son--their personal and eternal loveliness; and as such, the
archetype of the beautiful in all orders.

He is the very bliss of the infinite, because bliss is the
perfect possession of infinite life. Now, it is in the production
of the Spirit that the genesis of infinite life terminates and is
complete. He is, then, the expression of the perfect possession
and enjoyment of the infinite life--the living Blessedness of
the infinite. The last law which governs the mystery of God's
life, and which is a consequence of all the laws we have
explained, is the law of _insidence_.

This implies the indwelling of all the divine persons in each
other. It is founded both on the community of essence and the
very nature of personalities.

For the essence of the three divine persons, being one and most
simple, it follows that they all meet in it, and consequently
dwell in each other. On the other hand, what constitutes them
persons is essentially a relation. Now, a relation necessarily
asks for and includes the relative term. The intelligent activity
is such, because in him dwells the Word, his infinite expression.
The Word is such, because he is the expression of the intelligent
activity, and dwells in him. The Spirit necessarily dwells in
both, because he is the subsisting aspiration of the activity
toward its conception, and of the conception toward its
principle.

{823}

"_Believe that the Father is in me, and I in the Father_."
(St. John.)

With these laws, we conclude the first part of the problem of
multiplicity raised by pantheism. It is true, as pantheism
affirms, that there must be a certain multiplicity in the unity
of infinite essence. For, without a certain multiplicity, no
being can exist or be intelligible. Pantheism, in giving such
prominent importance to the problem, has rendered great service
to philosophy and to religion, and has cut off, in the very bud,
all those objections raised by the superficial reason of Arians
or anti-trinitarians of old, or Unitarians of modern times. But,
as we have seen, however able in raising the problem, Pantheism
utterly fails in resolving it; and, in its effort to explain the
problem, destroys both the terms to be reconciled. Catholicity,
fully conscious of the immense value of the problem,
unflinchingly asserts that it alone has the secret of its
solution. Without at all assuming to explain away its
super-intelligibility, it lays down such an answer as fully
satisfies the mind which can appreciate the importance and the
sublimity of the problem, and follow it into the depths of its
explanation. The infinite, says Catholicity, is not infinite as
an abstraction or potentiality, a germ as Pantheism affirms,
which ceases to be infinite when it passes into multiplicity; the
infinite is actuality itself.

This actuality consists in a first personality unborn and
unbegotten, with full consciousness of himself and his infinite
perfection. This personality is active intelligence, and in
intelligencing his infinite perfection, begets a conception, an
intelligible expression of that perfection, a second person. The
active intelligence loves his infinite personality conceived by
him in his intelligence. This love is a third personality.

Three personalities or terminations of one infinite actuality: a
multiplicity in unity; unity without being broken by
multiplicity; multiplicity without being destroyed by unity.

Hence the infinite is not a dead, immovable, unintelligible
unity, but a living, actual, intelligible unity; because it is
unity of nature and a trinity of persons; because the unity falls
in the essence, the multiplicity, in the terminations of the
essence.

               ----------

{824}

           A Legend for Husbands.--1699.

  Which Wives, Too, May Read--possibly Not Without Profit.


My story is of people that have long since passed away, so that
no one need take it as personal.

American travellers sometimes differ--though for my part, I do
not see why they should--as to the relative attractions of Paris
and London. But they seldom fail to concur in their estimate of
Brussels as one of the most interesting and agreeable cities in
Europe.

And really the Flemish metropolis presents a remarkable variety
of attractions. Parks, boulevards, botanic gardens, museums,
quaint old streets, quainter old houses, libraries, great
pictures, treasures of Rubens, wealth of old MSS., and last, not
least, grand specimens of middle-age architecture, such as the
Hotel de Ville and the Cathedral of St. Gudule.

Indeed, in mediaeval monuments no country in Europe is richer
than Belgium.

In presence of her grand old cathedrals you can well understand
the enthusiasm of those artists who maintain that our age takes
entirely too much credit to itself for its encouragement of the
fine arts. Neither the past nor the present century, they
maintain, will leave to posterity monuments of such grandeur,
boldness, beauty, and originality as have been bequeathed to us
by the period that immediately followed the crusades; and
strangely enough, these bequests of the "dark ages" can bear any
test of critical scrutiny, even in the full blaze of our
nineteenth century enlightenment.

Will our architectural legacies appear as well in the eyes of
future generations?

"Why, look around you," said to me a Flemish artist; "in those
days the erection of a costly edifice was not handed over to mere
mechanics. The body of it was intrusted to architects. Sculptors
created its woodwork. Carvers executed what is now turned out by
machinery; painters gave you pictures where you now get plaster,
and the Benvenuto Cellinis of the day worked their miracles of
art in metals which today the blacksmith hammers out at his
forge. Ah! that was the golden age of artists, when the pulpits,
the altars, the stalls, and the organ-lofts were monuments; when
furniture, doors, chairs, and tables were poems in wood; when the
family goblets, the mere handle of a poignard or a sword were
chased and embellished; when exquisite miniatures, illuminated
missals, and wood engravings made a picture-gallery of the dryest
chronicle; when fresco and encaustic decorated the walls and
floors; when ceilings and beams shone with arabesques, windows
were bright with stained glass; when, in short, all the arts
brought their tribute of beauty to a church or to a palace. It
was in the fading twilight of these artistic glories that
sculpture in wood still flourished among the artists of ancient
Flanders."

Somewhat thus discoursed to me an enthusiastic young Belgian
painter, as we stood together admiring that grand work of art,
the carved oak pulpit in the cathedral of St. Gudule, at
Brussels.

{825}

This pulpit is a work to which the term unique may be applied
with scrupulous fidelity.

The admiration drawn from you by sculptures in wood elsewhere
culminates in presence of this singular creation of genius. No
description can adequately place it before you or render it
justice. In its exquisite architecture and sculpture, a poem as
grand as that of Milton is spread out before you.

An outline, only, the merest outline, can be attempted to supply
description.

Adam and Eve apparently sustain the terrestrial globe. An angel
chases them from Paradise, and Death pursues them. The life-size
figure of Adam, in particular, is admirable. Carved in marble, it
would have been something for Canova to have been proud of. The
preacher stands in the concavity of the globe, which is
overshadowed by the branches of the tree of good and evil,
covered with birds and animals characteristically grouped. By the
side of Adam is an eagle; on that of Eve, a peacock and a
squirrel.

To the top of the tree is attached a canopy upheld by two angels
and a female figure symbolical of truth. Above stands the Blessed
Virgin with the infant Saviour, who, with a cross in his hand,
crushes the head of the Serpent, whose hideous body, in huge
folds, twines around the tree. "This pulpit was made," said, or
rather sang, to me, the old gray-haired sexton or _bedeau_,
to the tune in which he had shown the lions of the cathedral for
more than thirty years--"This pulpit was made by Verbruggen, of
Antwerp, in 1699, for the Jesuits of Louvain. Upon the
suppression of their order, it was presented to this cathedral by
the empress Maria Theresa. This pulpit--"

Here I interrupted him with questions as to Verbruggen--what was
known of him? Had he left any other works? and so on, to the end
of the chapter. All in vain; I could obtain nothing but a
negative shake of the head, and a hint that it was time to close
the cathedral doors.

My stay in Brussels was prolonged many weeks; and besides my
attendance on Sundays, I frequently, in my rambles between the
grand park and what Mrs. Major O'Dowd calls the _Marchy
O'flures_, strayed into St. Gudule to admire the finest
specimens of stained glass in the world; to read the inscriptions
on the tombs of the Dukes of Brabant, and to feast my eyes and
imagination on the grand old pulpit.

In the course of these visits I became better acquainted with the
_bedeau_ in charge, and after some persuasion and a few
well-timed attentions, the old man at last acknowledged to me
that there was something more than mere names and dates connected
with the history of the pulpit.

Finally, upon my solemn assurance that I was not an Englishman,
and would not write a book and put him and the pulpit therein, he
promised to tell me all he knew about it.

Accordingly, by arrangement with him, I loitered in the cathedral
one evening after vespers until the faithful had finished their
devotions and left the church.

Taking a couple of rush-bottom chairs from one of the huge
pyramids of them piled up at the lower end of the building, we
seated ourselves just outside the grand portal, and the old man
began his recital. Years have since gone by, and I cannot repeat
it in his quaint manner; but, substantially, he thus told me the

{826}

  Story Of The Carved Oak Pulpit.

Henry Verbruggen was heart and soul an artist. Gay, careless,
pleasure-loving, he appeared to live but for two things; his art,
first, and then his amusements.

Verbruggen married Martha Van Meeren, the pretty, the timid, the
good Martha Van Meeren. In the mirage of his artist's enthusiasm
her sweetness, her grace, her beauty, made her at first appear to
him a sylph, a muse, an angel.

Alas! though gentle and attractive, Martha was, after all, only a
woman, of the earth, earthy. In a quiet, well-ordered household
Martha would have been a treasure; but in the eccentric home of
the artist she was out of her element.

A pattern of neatness and economy, an accomplished Flemish
house-wife, a neat domicil and well-spread table possessed for
Martha more attraction than the imaginary world of beauty in
which her artist husband revelled, even when poverty threatened
or want oppressed them. Poor Martha! In vain she remonstrated; in
vain she implored. Henry would neglect his work; he would be idle
and spend his days at the _cabaret_, in the society of those
who were even more idle and more dissipated than himself.

Thus years went on. Martha was not happy. A tinge of moroseness
shaded the clear sunshine of her usual mildness. Occasionally,
too, she came out of her quiet sadness and found sharp words of
reproof for Henry, and anger for the companions who kept him from
home. And so it came about that soon, in Verbruggen's eyes,
Martha appeared harsh and repulsive. Then swiftly followed
dispute and recrimination. His early enchantment had disappeared;
Martha was not the wife for him, thought Verbruggen. He should
have had one as careless, as enthusiastic as himself. Would such
a wife have suited him, think you--you who know the human heart?

Meantime things went from bad to worse. Verbruggen scarcely came
home, totally neglected his art, fell into utter idleness and the
slough of despond, and his family was soon reduced to
want--almost to beggary.

In this crisis--it was in the year 1699--a Jesuit father who had
heard of Verbruggen's talent, called upon him, supplied him with
means, and ordered a pulpit, the most beautiful his art could
produce, for the church at Louvain.

Surprise, gratitude, joy, enthusiasm, all contributed to arouse
the dormant energies of the artist. He set himself energetically
at the composition of a design for his work.

"I will make," said he, "of this pulpit my greatest production.
It shall be," he exclaimed, growing radiant with artistic
inspiration, "something that shall display at a glance the
history of the Christian religion. I will place," thus he mused,
"under the terrestrial globe, Adam and Eve the moment after the
fatal act of disobedience. This globe shall be the pulpit. Around
it shall watch the four Evangelists. Over it shall hang the
canopy of heaven, supported on the right by angels, on the left
by Truth herself. The date-tree shall lend its shade. The long
scaly wings of the serpent shall encircle it, reaching from man
on earth to the Blessed Virgin in heaven. By the side of man I
will place the cherubim armed with his flaming sword, and near
Eve, young and beautiful, a hideous figure of Death. Higher up
shall be the divine infant, with one foot on the head of the
serpent; he shall stand by the side of his august mother,
resplendent in her crown of stars, surrounded by angels, cherubs,
and seraphs.
{827}
Yes, all this and more will I do. The very wood shall grow into
life under my hands, and ages yet unborn shall hear of Henry
Verbruggen of Antwerp."

The artist went at his work with all the enthusiasm of genius,
and had completed the body of the pulpit without placing the
Evangelists according to his original design, when, in a moment
of malicious spite, he imagined he would punish Martha by
displaying near Eve various satirical emblems of her sex's
qualities.

On the branches, then, that entwine the staircase leading up on
the side of Eve, he placed a peacock, symbol of pride; a
squirrel, symbol of destruction; a cock, symbol of noise; and an
ape, image of malice; of all which defects, poor Martha, as the
angels well knew, was as innocent as an infant.

Of the statue of Adam, Verbruggen made a _chef d'oeuvre_--a
figure full of dignity and manly beauty. The figure of Eve is
inferior, and has less grace and animation.

And now to complete his sculptured marital spite, on Adam's side
he carved an eagle, symbol of genius.

Thus far had he progressed when poor Martha sickened and died. In
his motherless household Verbruggen soon discovered the extent of
his misfortune, and learned, as Shakespeare has so well told the
world, that

  "What we have we prize not to the worth;
   But being lacked and lost,
   We then do know its value."

And now came the reaction. Verbruggen deeply mourned Martha. He
sincerely deplored her. Her admirable qualities came fresh upon
his memory, and he bitterly reproached himself for his unkindness
and neglect.

Soon he fell into fits of despondency. Discouragement took
possession of him, and his pulpit, begun with so much energy,
stood unfinished.

Accustomed to find his home in order, his table spread, he soon
discovered their loss, as well as the want of a thousand little
attentions and kindnesses which none could now give him; and in
short, as he was in the high road for discoveries, we may safely
conclude that he found out, with Ben Franklin, that a lone man is
but the half of a pair of scissors.

Twelve months passed by. Verbruggen's friends counselled him to
remarry. "You are but thirty-six," said they. "You have sincerely
mourned Martha's loss, and have done full justice to her
excellent qualities; but you can yet do as well, if not better.
There is Cecily Van Eyck, talented, a painter, an artist, like
yourself. Your dispositions accord, and if she consents to have
you, she will be a mother to your little girl and make you an
admirable wife."

Henry listened to his friends, thought over what they said, and
followed their advice. He became Cecily's suitor, and was
accepted.

Now Cecily Van Eyck was very smiling, very sweet, very charming;
but Cecily had a will of her own.

Scarcely had the honeymoon gone by, when she enlightened Henry
with some new ideas, and gave him several very distinct notions
as to the proper distribution of domestic power in a household.
In a more propitious age Cecily would have made her mark in a
_Sorosis_, and been a leader of the most advanced radical
wing of a woman's rights party.

{828}

Her mastery over Verbruggen was complete, and the poor artist
even kissed his chains.

One day she said to him, "What are you doing? Your apathy is
complained of, and I am taunted with it. Remember, if you please,
that Van Eyck is a name not unknown. Let me not lose, I pray you,
by changing it for that of Verbruggen. Where is the pulpit, that
_chef d'oeuvre_ you so long since announced?"

In reply he led her to his studio. Cecily had an artist's eye,
and more--a woman's.

"What mean," said she, "these emblems by the side of Eve?"

The sculptor blushed.

"When I made them," he answered, "I did not know Cecily Van
Eyck."

"'Tis well. But after these emblems of defects, which perhaps
women have not, what do you intend to bestow upon your own sex?"

"I had already commenced," stammered Verbruggen--"you see the
eagle. 'Twas perhaps somewhat vain."

"Vain! Oh! no; not at all. The eagle--a bird of prey and rapine,
the symbol of brutal tyranny--nothing could be fitter. Well, and
what further do you intend?"

Verbruggen could find no reply.

"Well, then, listen," continued his wife, "to render full justice
to your sex, near the eagle you will place a fox, emblem of
deceit; a parrot, emblem of noisy chatter; a monkey eating
grapes, symbol of intoxication; and a jackdaw, emblem of silly
pride."

Verbruggen executed her orders with a docility most edifying. The
pulpit was soon finished, and, fortunately for us, has been
preserved intact through years of war and revolution. Higher
teachings have been proclaimed from it, but to those who know its
story even its dumb wood speaks a salutary lesson.

"Ah sir!" ejaculated the old sexton, when he had finished the
story of the pulpit, "if I had known the history of that pulpit
before I married a second time, I--"

Just then I came away.

             ----------

       The Future Of Ritualism.


We propose to devote a few pages to the consideration of
Ritualism and its probable future, because it is an interesting
religious movement which is of great importance to many souls,
and because it seems to us to have reached its crisis. A writer
in the _Churchman_ (an Episcopalian journal of Hartford,
Ct.) wonders that Catholics take such an interest in his
communion and its members. "Our bishops being no bishops," he
says, "our clergy only decently behaved laymen, our laity a
perverse generation whose only chance of salvation lies in the
charitable hope of their invincible ignorance, surely it is
wasting powder and shot upon us to criticise our doings when we
are thus only playing at being a church." It is certainly true
that in the eyes of the Catholic Church, and also of every
ecclesiastical body which has the apostolic succession, the
bishops of the Episcopal Church are no bishops, and the clergy
are mere laymen.
{829}
It is also true that the extreme High-Churchmen are "playing at
being a church." But cannot the writer understand our zeal for
the salvation of souls and our honest desire to help those whose
religion is only a logical farce? We assure him that if he does
not appreciate our sincerity, he does injustice to the feelings
which should animate every Christian heart. We see that which
every intelligent and unbiased mind can see, a party in the
Episcopal Church holding opinions which are suicidal to every
species of Protestantism, and which lead directly to the Catholic
faith, and we know that those who belong to this party cannot
long continue in their present position. They must come honestly
forward to us, or go backward to lose what little faith they
have. Is it wonderful that for the love of Christ we beg them to
be truthful to their convictions, and manly in their profession?
Is it strange that we attempt to show them that the doctrines
they profess to hold have no home in Protestantism, and that the
church they pretend to venerate is only a fiction of their
imagination?

In this spirit we write now a few words which will, we hope, fall
into the hands of Ritualists, and help at least some to the
knowledge of the truth. Let us say at once, and in all candor,
that our sympathy is with the movement which is called Ritualism,
and that from its beginning we have earnestly prayed to God to
bless it to the conversion of many souls. We hope it will go on
and prosper, and be truthfully developed; for we can think of
nothing so fearful as "playing church," when the question is one
of salvation. There is, however, among some of the leaders of
this movement, a want of honesty and a direct untruthfulness
which surprise us greatly. If this dishonesty be not wilful, it
is owing to an obliquity of mind which it is hard to comprehend.
The object of this article is to show that Ritualism can have no
standing in the Episcopal Church, and that they who would
propagate it had better lay down the weapons of insinuation and
falsehood and be brave enough to look the truth full in the face.

There is nothing gained by attempting to skulk away under the
_general_ meaning of the name which the world has applied to
a particular signification. "There can be no religion without
external ceremonies, say the High-Churchmen, "therefore,
Ritualism is proper and necessary." This argument is as
fallacious as the following "There is no man without a body,
therefore the negro is a necessity to the human race." The
question, honest friends, is not whether the religion of Christ
demands ceremonies, but whether it demands the particular
ceremonies advocated at St. Alban's and other ritualistic
churches. And Ritualism does not mean the adoption of any rites
in the service of God, but the use of the peculiar ones which are
recommended by the leaders of the movement in the Episcopal
Church. Why, then, not say so at once with manliness? A man will
make little progress in our day who is afraid to avow his creed.

Ritualism means a good deal more than mere rites and ceremonies.
We do not take our good friends who put on Catholic vestments as
automatons who are dressed up by the tailor to show off his art.
They are not so senseless as to play for the benefit of the
dress-maker alone. There is doctrine beneath all this external
ritual which is intended to show forth the sacrifice of the mass,
and the real presence of our Lord in the holy Eucharist.
{830}
It includes the whole sacramental system, and the power of the
priesthood. There is little outward distinction between the
tenets of the Ritualists and the creed of the Catholic Church.
They may pretend to draw a line for the satisfaction of fearful
disciples, but really there is little difference. As far as we
can see, they are willing to accept our faith, so long as they
can enjoy it without submitting to the Catholic Church. They go
to confession, and invoke the saints, and pray for the dead, and
believe in the seven sacraments, and kneel devoutly before the
bread and wine which they elevate for the adoration of the
people. "You can have," said a leading Ritualist of this city,
"everything in the Episcopal Church which you can find in the
Catholic communion, and why therefore should you go away from the
fold in which you were born?" We ought, therefore, to define
Ritualism as a movement toward the actual faith and worship of
the one church of Christ, which were rejected by all Protestants
at the Reformation. This is its true definition before every
honest mind, and any attempts to hide under generalities, are
attempts at deception. It will perhaps bring our remarks to more
clear conclusions, if we show, first, that these doctrines which
underlie the whole movement can have no status in the Episcopal
Church; secondly, that any attempts at disguising the truth, only
injure the leaders in their enterprise; and lastly, from the
indications of the present, conclude the future of Ritualism.

Little time need be spent to persuade any honest mind that the
sacramental system can have no home in the Anglican communion.
First of all, the great body of the people reject it, and can
never be made to accept it, while they say with sincerity that
they see no distinction between it and the teachings of the
Catholic Church. If it be deemed worth while to profess
substantially all the doctrines of Trent, why not undo the
Reformation and go back at once to the fold which their
forefathers forsook? And, as Bishop Lee remarked at the opening
of the late Episcopal Convention, what right had the church
organized by Queen Elizabeth to set forth articles of faith, or
in fact to be a church at all, if not on the Protestant principle
of private judgment? The majority of Episcopalians have the
greatest possible aversion to anything that can be called
Romanism, and will, as a body, never allow themselves to be
catholicised. In this country there is great liberty of speech,
and great pretensions are easily tolerated; but when it is
understood that such pretensions mean more than words, the spirit
of Protestantism, which is the only living thing in the Episcopal
Communion, shows itself in full armor. Individuals daily come to
the one fold of Christ, but the body will never move from its
hostile attitude. It will stand consistent to its own principle
until the hour of dissolution. If any Ritualist doubts this, let
him actually practise all he preaches, and openly avow all he
believes. His eyes will soon be opened sufficiently to see that
the antagonism between himself and his surroundings can never be
removed.

Our friends, the High-Churchmen, are zealous upholders of church
authority; but where is the authority to which they submit? Their
own church ought to be an authority to them, yet we find that its
decisions have no weight for their minds. The articles are
against them, and every doctrinal judgment that has been made
throughout the history of the controversy is distinctly adverse
to their views; yet they insist on holding on, and appealing from
the stern present to the impossible future.
{831}
The thirty-nine articles are really the doctrinal standards of
the English Church and truly express the belief which formed and
animates their communion. When these articles are given up, if
such an event should ever take place, the Episcopal brotherhood
will commit suicide and vote itself out of existence. These
remarkable canons of doctrine condemn the whole sacramental
system, deny any real presence of Christ in the blessed
Eucharist, and cut away, root and branch, any encouragement which
the Ritualists might find in the other portions of the
Prayer-Book. Whatever authority therefore the Episcopal Church
has, is most decidedly against the unnatural children who profess
great fondness for their mother, call her by great names which
she disowns, and still never obey her. We have before us a
declaration of principles made in the year 1867, in which are
contained the very doctrines which the articles condemn, and
which the bishops, whenever they have spoken, have rebuked. One
sentence particularly pleases us by its great frankness and
amiable sincerity. "We heartily and loyally _obey_ the
authority of our own particular church, receive _every one_
of her doctrines, and adopt, as our own, her every act of
devotion." Article xxviii says, "The sacrament of the Lord's
supper was not by Christ's ordinance reserved, carried about,
lifted up, or worshipped." The declaration of these _loyal_
children declares that "Christ is _really present_ in the
Holy Eucharist, and being present, is of course to be adored."

Now, if the bishops of the Anglican communion have any right to
decide in litigated questions, they have spoken with sufficient
plainness. The "Catholic school" in England has had a hard road
to travel while one after another their favorite positions have
been condemned. The last decision of the Privy Council is adverse
to the ceremonies of Ritualism, and of course to the doctrines
which underlie them. Twenty-eight bishops of the American
Episcopal Church have published an open protest against the new
movement, and the late Pastoral of the Convention reasserts the
principles of the Reformation, denies the presence of our Lord in
the Eucharist, and concludes the subject by saying: "We would
most earnestly deprecate those extravagances in Ritualism,
recently introduced, which tend to assimilate our worship to that
of a church hostile to our own. And we must urge you to remember
that the reverent obedience to their bishops and other chief
ministers, promised by the clergy at their ordination, would, if
faithfully rendered, prevent these evils." We are not aware that
anything more explicit be required by our friends who "love their
own particular church" so well; but if the above be not enough,
we imagine they will not wait very long for something more.

The most painful feature, however, in this movement, is an
apparent want of truthfulness and a disingenuousness which are
inconsistent with the earnest desire to know the faith of Christ.
It is very hard to comprehend the course of some of the leaders
in this "Catholic revolution," unless their aim be to maintain a
cause without any regard for truth or justice. They are sometimes
very insincere in their condemnations of Romanism before the
people, when in their hearts they must see that they are making
dupes of the ignorant.

{832}

A very vapid book has been handed to us, entitled
_Conversations on Ritualism_. The Rev. Mr. Wilson
(Ritualist) instructs Mr. Brown, and opens his eyes to see that
there is a pure Catholicity all unknown to Rome, and even to the
(beloved) East, which is now about to revive and do wonders. Mr.
Brown is informed that the American Church has not yet been put
together. The elements of which it is composed are floating
around; but so sure as the sun rises some bright day, the chaos
will be one beautiful scene of order and unity, when all shall
think alike, and the brilliant altars shall blaze with candles
and smoke with incense. Now, Rev. Mr. Wilson "doubts if there are
many of his bishops and priests who know more than the mere A, B,
C, of the real question of the church worship." They will,
however, be enlightened, because the world is to see the
"gorgeous Ritual without the doctrinal errors and corruptions of
Rome," and to take a "pill which is not to be gilded." Puritanism
comes in for a terrible malediction. "If ever an evil spirit has
appeared on the earth, of such a character as to put men out of
patience with its inconsistencies and absurdities, that spirit is
Puritanism." O Puritanism, Puritanism, thou that abhorrest
pictures and flowers, stained glass and altar-cloths, thou that
lovest whitewash and blank hard-finish, with what amazement shalt
thou hereafter discern the glories of the heavenly city, the New
Jerusalem! "This Puritanism is a very subtle and persistent
poison; I have known it to crop out where least expected; I have
even known of mitred heads which seem in some way turned by it."
But, bad as it is, it is not worse than Popery, which good Mr.
Brown is taught to distinguish well from Ritualism. Then Rev. Mr.
Wilson, speaking _ex cathedra_, defines what this Popery is.
Its errors are "the cultus of the Blessed Virgin; adoration of
the cross, images, and relics; the doctrine of purgatory,
Transubstantiation, Papal pardons, indulgences and dispensations,
supererogatory merits, and forbidding the clergy to marry." Pope
Wilson, who rejects the authority of Pius IX., pronounces these
doctrines and practices as grave errors. There can be no doubt,
therefore, of the clearness of his vision, and discussion were
useless and certainly inappropriate. But, behind the scenes, what
is the practical difference between the Catholic doctrine
condemned, and the belief symbolized by the Ritualists? Mr. Brown
has gone home quite satisfied, and he will not hear our
conversation, and we can afford to talk our honest convictions.
The cultus of the Blessed Virgin and the saints is nothing more
than the devotion which our friend, Mr. Mackonochie approves
under another name. Catholics do not _adore_ the cross, nor
images, nor relics. They treat them with veneration and religious
respect, and so do the Ritualists. Rev. Mr. Wilson prays for his
departed friends, though for the world he would not say out loud
Purgatory. Transubstantiation he does not accept, though he
believes that the bread and wine are the body and blood of
Christ, and to be adored with every outward symbol of devotion.
Pardons are very good in themselves, if the Pope has nothing to
do with them; and as for forbidding the clergy to marry, he would
leave that an open question. Many of the Ritualists have evinced
a preference for a single life, and a desire even to establish
convents and monasteries. Mr. Brown is sleeping quietly on his
Protestant pillow while Mr. Wilson prays before his crucifix, and
is a Romanist at heart though not in name.
{833}
We fear there are many Mr. Browns, and Madame Browns, and Misses
Brown, who are likewise deceived. In religion we would prefer
more manliness and outspoken honesty. These _Conversations on
Ritualism_ are only an example of what we have often seen and
heard with much pain. We have great hopes of any man who is
truthful; but when there is a desire to deceive, and an
unwillingness to follow truth to its just conclusions, there is
little chance for argument. But some of the Ritualists are as
unfair toward their own church as they are toward us. It cannot
condemn them; for whatever language it may use, they will
interpret it to suit their own case. When Tract No. XC. appeared,
the entire English communion scouted its attempt to reconcile the
articles with Catholic doctrine. Now, there is no difficulty in
explaining away every objectionable point and making those
thirty-nine daggers inoffensive. The _Baptist Quarterly_
says: "The twenty-fifth article declares, 'The sacraments were
not ordained to be gazed upon,' an unquestionable interdiction of
eucharistic adoration. But this, we are told, must mean that they
are not to be looked upon without reverence and devotion. So
article twenty-eight says, 'The sacrament of the Lord's supper
was not by Christ's ordinance lifted up or worshipped.' This, it
is said, may mean that elevation may not be practised, on the
ground of its being done by Christ's ordinance, but it may be
done on some other ground. What may be the casuistry of men who
can so defend their principles, it is difficult for minds
accustomed to frank and straightforward actions to comprehend."
If the Privy Council forbids the practices of the Ritualists, the
_Church Record_ tells us that "they must indeed be
short-sighted who suppose that the disuse under compulsion of the
ritual expression of a doctrine will hinder it from being taught
and believed." If the whole house of American bishops distinctly
deny any presence of the body and blood of Christ in the
Eucharist, and forbid any worship of the elements, on the ground
that Christ is not there, then these loyal churchmen are
"cheered," and take refuge under the incautious use of a term
which in one sense might be objected to even by Catholics. Say
the bishops, "Especially do we condemn any doctrine of the holy
Eucharist which implies that, after consecration, the proper
nature of the elements of bread and wine does not remain; which
_localizes_ in them the bodily presence of our Lord." The
prelates meant to say that our Lord is not really in the
sacrament, and had no idea of the theological objection which
Catholic doctors might find to the use of the word localize. The
_Catechism_ of the Council of Trent tells us that our Lord
is not in the sacrament "_ut in loco_" that is, he is not
limited or circumscribed by the ordinary laws of quantity and
extension. This is evident, because our Lord is present by
miracle and according to the conditions of his glorified
humanity. "When the Pastoral is examined," says the
_Churchman_, "it turns out to be a denial of a physical or
carnal presence, which the writer (in _The Catholic World_)
not having the fear of the Council of Trent before his eyes,
declares must be _local_." The Pastoral says nothing about a
physical or carnal presence, the precise meaning of which in
high-church casuistry we do not know; but it denies any "bodily
presence." Now, if our Lord's body is there at all, there is a
bodily presence, and that presence is localized, that is to say,
he is within the species of bread and wine.
{834}
To use the words of St. Cyril, "That which appears to be bread is
not bread, but the body of Christ; and that which appears to be
wine is not wine, but the blood of Christ." It is hard for us to
believe that the author of the above stricture on the Pastoral
knows what he means himself. If by "physical" he means according
to the ordinary laws of physics, he need not beat the air any
more. If by "carnal" he intends to say that our Lord is not in
the Eucharist, as when in the days of his sojourn on earth, he
was subject to all the natural conditions of flesh and blood, he
will find no adversary in the Catholic Church. The substance of
the bread and wine is changed into the substance of the body and
blood of Christ, and he is in the Eucharist sacramentally, but as
truly and really as he is at the right hand of the Father in
heaven. Two substances cannot coexist at one time in one and the
same space, and so, according to the plain definition of our
creed, the Incarnate Word is miraculously present, whole and
entire in either form, and under every consecrated host in the
world. That the bishops meant to deny distinctly any true
presence of Christ in the sacrament, is evident enough to any
mind, and we cannot admire the candor of the writer who would try
to escape from it by a quibble upon a word whose common
acceptation is quite plain. The _Church Record_ would have
us believe that anything can here be tolerated, provided you do
not use the word "Transubstantiation."

But what shall we say of the following language taken from the
_Churchman_? "The Romish Church does not, comparatively
speaking, care one fig for transubstantiation, the celibacy of
the clergy, the employment of her particular liturgy and
ceremonial. She has sacrificed these for dominion in times past.
She will do it again. She will explain away transubstantiation,
she will admit the marriage of the clergy, she will make almost
any other concession, if she can get her penny's worth in return.
But one thing she does care about, and that is the Pope's
supremacy." The author of this famous passage is unsafe in any
community, and ought to be continually watched by detectives. It
is easy to write falsehood, and not very hard to speak it; but it
avails very little those who have the hardihood to use it. We
have come to the conclusion, from a long experience, that
high-churchmen will never be driven from their ground by any
decisions of their own church, and that many of them are
exceptions to the ordinary laws of humanity. They are
inaccessible to reason. On this ground they will excuse us if we
pray the more earnestly for them, or endeavor to point out to the
world their wonderful inconsistency. They advocate a kind of
infallibility which, to be sure, is not within the reach of any
one, and yet when the Catholic Church is called infallible, they
find the very idea inconsistent with their reason. "So long as
Rome keeps to itself, it is grand, imposing, and may pass for
powerful. But when it appeals to argument and ventures into the
province of reason, it admits the possibility of an adverse
conclusion. Infallible men must not reason, they can only
pronounce." Perhaps it was a hoary head that indited these words
in the _Churchman_, or it may have been a young and
inexperienced warrior. Is there any objection to show the grounds
of our faith to one who asks for them, and may not even the
writer of the above enter upon an argument to prove the existence
of God, "without admitting the possibility of an adverse
conclusion"?
{835}
It is something new to us that we can only defend by argument the
things that we doubt. We do not reason on the _intrinsic_
credibility of the doctrine proposed to our belief, but upon the
extrinsic evidence that God, the only revealer, really proposes
the doctrine. And we are quite ready to show to any honest mind
the proofs that the Catholic Church is the one and only church of
God. Nay, this has been done by our fathers and doctors from the
beginning. Every Catholic is infallible so far as his faith goes,
because he relies upon the church which is infallible; but this
does not prevent him from defending by reason the creed which he
holds. The same luminous author asks if "Rome will stand equally
well the daylight which will be let into her secret places." So
also the accusation has been made, that "the Romish Church has
one set of doctrines for the public and another for the
initiated; that to converts she always showed her best face, and
did not reveal her true features until she had fairly caught them
in her iron grasp." In reply to these nursery tales, meant for
crying children only, we say briefly that Rome has no "secret
places" whatever; that the daylight shines in her, and through
her; and that all she holds and teaches is in her catechism,
which is taught to young and old. Any one who wishes to know her
creed can easily find it out, and it is as much in the possession
of the unlettered peasant as it is of the learned philosopher. It
is barely possible that they who write and speak such silliness
as the above may be honest; but surely, if they are in their
right minds, there is no excuse for their ignorance. Dear
Ritualists, when you wish to keep your friends or parishioners
from going Romeward, pray tell the truth; for when they find out
that you have tried to deceive them, they will all the faster run
from a system which cannot bear honesty and plain-dealing.

There is another point in which our good friends who like to call
themselves Catholics are manifestly either ill-informed or
disingenuous. They profess to see a great distinction between the
schismatic Greek communion and the Catholic Church, and speak as
if there were the slightest hope of any intercourse between
themselves and the Eastern sects. The separated Greeks are
certainly in a lifeless state, owing to their schism and their
slavish subjection to the state; but their standards are as
decisive against Protestantism and the English pretensions as
even the canons of Trent. To speak otherwise, and to represent to
an unlettered person that there is any approximation between
Anglicanism and the East, is only an attempt to deceive. The
position of the schismatic Christians of the East is quite simple
upon our views of Catholic unity; but we venture to again urge
our brethren of the Episcopal Church, to prosecute their
investigations and do something more than pass resolutions such
as are every year triumphantly carried at the sessions of the
American and Foreign Christian Union. "Why not quietly wait,"
says the _Churchman_, "and let us be snubbed?" We are quite
willing to wait; but in this day of telegraph and steam
improvements, may we not beg the committee to move a little
faster? In the mean time, we would place in their hands a little
manual, by Dr. Overbeck, a Russian priest, who speaks only the
sentiments of his whole communion.
{836}
We quote from the English edition of his work on Catholic
orthodoxy. Speaking in the name of the Greek Church, he says in
answer to Dr. Pusey's _Eirenicon_, (page 97,) "We do not
want your power nor your riches; these are no baits for us. We
are content with our poverty and our pure faith, which nobody
shall sully; and are we to commune with a church _so replete
with heresy_ as the English Church is! Are we to expose our
only treasure, our pure faith! You have installed heresy in your
pulpits; you do not cast it out; nay, you cannot cast it out,
because your church is historically a Protestant Church, and
Protestants framed your articles which you contrive in vain to
unprotestantize. God forbid! _No communion with an heretical
church! No communion with the English Church--it would be the
grave of orthodoxy_." Again, (page 89,) "The Orthodox Church
does not recognize the English Church to be _achurch_, in
her own meaning of the word, any more than the Lutheran,
Reformed, or any other Protestant Church. If we, nevertheless,
use the term _church_ in the controversy, it is only a
conventional mode of speaking, while disproving the fact, and
denying the truth of the underlaid idea." "The English Church is
not, and never was recognized by any Catholic Church."

From what we have seen, the prospects of Ritualism are not very
bright. Whatever authority the Episcopal Church possesses will
undoubtedly be used to prevent its growth and influence. It is
quite certain that it can never be grafted upon the service or
discipline of a communion whose very existence depends upon its
Protestantism. The bishops are in a directly hostile attitude
toward the movement; and if some of them let it alone, it is,
perhaps, because they think that it will the sooner die out.
Ritualists will go forward to a certain point, and High-Churchmen
will stand ungenerously behind to take any advantage of their
success, and to disavow all responsibility when the hour of
trouble comes.

After a while, the whole revolution will cease, and while many
will become Catholics, others will return to indifference, and to
greater torpidity than at the beginning. Already there are signs
of division among the movers in the drama. They are not agreed on
the question of quantity, some proposing to go much further
Romeward than others are willing to follow. English Ritualists
are dissatisfied with their American friends, and accuse them of
cowardice or want of frankness. The bishops snub them at every
opportunity, the powers of the state fall down upon them, and
they cannot come to any settled conclusion what to do. In this
country they can act as they like, untouched by civil authority,
and yet the whole land can boast of only one or two churches
where ceremonies are carried out according to the code. It is
doubtful how long these churches can be supported on the
voluntary principle. Our own judgment is, that a few years will
see the end of a movement which ought to result in many
conversions to the Catholic faith. If there were strict honesty
among the leaders, we should be more hopeful; but when false
statements are constantly made, and the "No Popery" cry is held
up as a blind by even the advance-guard who wear chasubles and
hear confessions, what encouragement have we for the future? It
is so easy to retrace one's steps and to look unconscious of all
harm if the tide of battle turns. We know of more than one
bishop, and many ministers in the Episcopal Church, who have
recanted their errors with more or less manliness, and are now in
the surgeon's tent, far away from all danger.
{837}
The lawn-sleeves and the fair heritage have proved too much for
their faith in things eternal. They who once were ready to accept
all the decrees of Trent and utterly reject the articles of their
own church, have become doctors of divinity, with large families
of children, and the pangs of conscience have ceased. Monasteries
well organized have been broken up by the marriage of nearly all
the reverend monks, and communities of sisters have been
seriously embarrassed by the drafts the clergy have made upon
their number. We mention these facts in sorrow; for it is a sad
proof of the inconsistency of man in matters of religion. Why
should we expect any more from the Ritualists than we have
realized from their cotemporaries or progenitors? Especially,
when we behold among them a self-sufficiency and untruthfulness
which have no parallel in ecclesiastical history, what shall we
dare hope?

The Anglican communion can never be unprotestantized. It may in
the course of time fall to pieces, and every living moment within
its bosom will help its dissolution. As a body, it never can take
any Catholic position, nor wash off the birthmarks which prove
its parentage.

Those who really wish for a divine church and the rites which
speak the old unchangeable faith, will come one by one "to the
pillar and ground of truth." Having tried shadows long enough,
being wearied by "playing at church," and tired of holding up a
religion by their own strength, they will come where God hath
established his covenant in Zion and his mercy in Jerusalem. No
honest man can long hold the doctrine of the Real Presence and
remain away from the altars where alone the Holy of Holies can be
found. No man can seek to confess his sins and often kneel to one
who is afraid to hear him openly, who presents at best a doubtful
code of morals, and plays, like a foolish child, with tools whose
proper use he knows not. The end will soon come. The Catholic
Church would have perished long ago, if her life had not been the
life of God, and no counterfeit of her august creed can survive
the changes of time. Ritualism will pass away, and something else
will take its place. The Holy Spirit of truth speaks through this
movement to honest hearts who will hear and obey. Many are like
the young man in the gospel, who went away from Christ because
the sacrifice was too great. He was "not far from the kingdom of
God," neither are our Ritualistic brethren far distant from the
portals of the true Zion. God grant that they may be not
unfaithful to the truth they know, nor lastingly unwilling in the
day of the divine power.

              ----------

{838}

     Ireland's Martyrs. [Footnote 292]

    [Footnote 292: _Memorials of those who suffered for the
    Catholic Faith in Ireland in the Sixteenth, Seventeenth, and
    Eighteenth Centuries_. Collected and edited from the
    original authorities.
    By Myles O'Reilly, B.A., LL.D.
    New York: Catholic Publication Society. 1869. 12mo, pp. 462.]


The Catholic Church in Ireland, oppressed from the days of the
Norman invasion, became, from the time of Henry VIII., a living
martyr; her sufferings having no parallel in Europe from the time
of the three centuries of persecution under the Roman emperors.
It was not so much the persecution and martyrdom of individuals
so much as of a race and nation. Hence, while the _Acts of the
Early Roman Martyrs_, formally drawn up, have long since been
collected by Ruinart; while a Challoner, for England, collected
records of the martyrs of the faith in his _Missionary
Priests_, that all-absorbing favorite of our earliest days;
while even the memorials of the missionary martyrs in our own
land had been collected, no one seemed to think of selecting the
records of Ireland's martyred priests from the harrowing tale of
the suffering and unconquerably faithful people amid whom they
perished.

It has been well that this pious task has at last been
undertaken, and so well accomplished. This work of Mr. O'Reilly
is a plain, unvarnished collection of contemporary accounts, with
no attempt to make, from the simple details given, a graphic and
affecting picture. Brief, too brief, indeed, many of these
records are; but further researches, unexplored archives,
correspondence not hitherto consulted, will, we trust, ere long,
give more extended and edifying memorials of these faithful
clergymen, these bishops, priests, secular and regular, of the
Isle of Saints.

During much of the period of the great Irish persecution, during
that long interval between 1540 and 1701 it was scarcely possible
to draw up and send out of Ireland, much less preserve in it,
extended accounts of the martyrdom of those who died for the
faith. Research or inquiry into their births or early lives was
out of the question.

The chief sources where we can now seek information as to these
heroic men are the historical writings of the religious orders
who labored in Ireland. Among the Franciscans, the great annalist
of the order is Father Luke Wadding, an Irishman, who has
preserved many valuable accounts relating to his native country.
Colgan, another Irish writer of the same order, in the preface to
the _Acta Sanctorum Hiberniae_, gives an account of the
death of two of his literary associates, Fathers Fleming and
Ward.

De Burgo, of the order of Preachers, published a well-known work,
_Hibernia Dominicana_, devoted to the history of his order
in Ireland.

The Jesuit, Father Tanner, in his _Societas Jesu Militans_,
records the lives of many of his order who died for the faith in
Ireland, and, in another work, not cited by our author, his
_Mortes Illustres_, while treating of distinguished Irish
members, enters into the persecutions of the church in their
native land.

{839}

Then there were special works on the various persecutions: the
_Relatio Persecutionis Hiberniae_, by Father Dominic a
Rosario, published at Lisbon in 1655; Bruodin's _Propugnaculum
Catholiae Veritatis_, issued at Prague in 1669; Bishop Rothe's
_Analecta Sacra Nova et Mira de Rebus Catholicorum in Hibernia
pro Fide et Religione Gestis_, published at Cologne, in 1617,
under the assumed name of Philadelphus; and the _Processu
Martyrialis_ of the same author, which appeared two years
later; the _Persecutio Hiberniae_, 1619; Morrison's
_Threnodia Hiberno-Catholica, sive Planctus Universalis totius
Cleri et Populi Regni Hiberniae_, published at Innspruck, in
1659; and Carve's _Lyra_, Sulzbach, 1666, with other works
of more general scope.

Besides these printed works, Mr. O'Reilly cites several
manuscripts preserved in the Burgundian Library at
Brussels--_Magna Supplicia_, written about 1600; an account
of the martyrdom of Bishop Dovany in 1612; Mooney's account of
the Franciscan Province in Ireland; and unpublished letters of
Irish Jesuits.

The first blows at the Catholic Church in Ireland were struck
under Henry VIII. at the monasteries; then came the intrusion of
men, as bishops, who acknowledged that monster as head of the
church, and the expulsion of those who refused to admit this new
power in the crown. In the reign of his daughter Elizabeth came
the doctrine that the sovereign, provided always, nevertheless,
that he be not a Catholic, is not only head of the church, but
empowered to make creeds and a ritual for worship. In a few
reigns more came the doctrine that the Calvinists in a nation are
the head of the church and state, may behead kings, make and
unmake worships and creeds, and put to death all who gainsay
them.

The persecution under Henry was comparatively bloodless; the
plunder was too plentiful for men to stop to slay. Only one
instance is recorded--that of the beheading of the guardian of
the Franciscan convent at Monaghan, and of several of his friars;
but we can scarcely credit that under so sanguinary a tyrant so
little blood was shed in Ireland, where no scruple ever held back
the English sword from slaughter, only a few Irish families or
bloods being recognized as men whom to kill was murder.

England had her illustrious martyr, Cardinal John Fisher, Bishop
of Rochester; Ireland in her hierarchy had an illustrious
confessor in William Walsh, Bishop of Meath, a Cistercian, born
at Dunboyne, and a monk in the Abbey of Bective, till its
suppression.

  "Whatever doubt there may be about the place of his birth and
  his early history, there is none whatever as to his eminent
  virtues, distinguished abilities, and the heroic fortitude with
  which he bore numerous and prolonged sufferings for the faith.
  His unbending orthodoxy and opposition to the innovations of
  Henry VIII. and Edward VI. marked him out for promotion after
  the accession of Mary, and accordingly we find him associated
  with the zealous primate, Dr. Dowdall, in the commission to
  drive from the sanctuary all such as were faithless to their
  trust.

  "Dr. Walsh was consecrated about the close of 1554, and
  immediately applied himself with zeal and energy to reform
  abuses, and to heal the wounds which during the last two reigns
  had been inflicted on faith, morals, and discipline. The period
  of his usefulness was, however, destined to be brief, and he
  had time merely to stimulate his priests and to fortify his
  diocese when the gathering storm burst over the Irish church,
  and sacrificed the Bishop of Meath among its first and noblest
  victims. Queen Mary died in 1558, and was succeeded by
  Elizabeth, who at once publicly embraced the reformed tenets,
  and proceeded to have them enforced on all. In 1560, an act was
  passed, under the deputyship of the Earl of Suffolk, which
  ordered all ecclesiastical persons, judges, officers, justices,
  mayors, and all the other queen's officers, to take the oath of
  supremacy under penalty of forfeiture, and also enacted that if
  any person should, by writing, printing, teaching, preaching,
  by express words, deed, or act, maintain any foreign spiritual
  jurisdiction, he should for the first offence forfeit all his
  goods and suffer one year's imprisonment, for the second
  offence should incur the penalty of praemunire, and for the
  third be deemed guilty of high treason."

{840}

He was first imprisoned in 1560, and after a brief respite, was,
in 1565,

  "reconducted to his former prison; this was 'a subterraneous
  dungeon, damp and noisome--not a ray of light penetrated
  thither; and for thirteen years this was his unvarying abode.'
  During all that time his food was of the coarsest kind, and,
  with the exception of rare intervals, when the intercession of
  some influential friends obtained a momentary relaxation, he
  was allowed no occupation that could cheer the tedium of his
  imprisonment. In all this lengthened martyrdom, prayer was his
  resource, and, as he himself subsequently avowed, he
  often-times passed whole days and nights overwhelmed with
  heavenly consolations, so that his dungeon seemed transformed
  into a paradise of delights. To preclude the possibility of
  idleness, he procured a bed made of twisted cords, and
  whensoever his mind was fatigued with prayer, he applied
  himself to untie those cords, and often was he well wearied
  with the exertion before he could reunite them to compose
  himself to sleep.

  "His persecutors, overcome by his constancy, and finding his
  fervor in spiritual contemplation a continual reproach to their
  own wickedness, at length, about Christmas, 1572, connived at
  his escape."

Reaching the continent, he died at Alcala, in 1577, bearing to
the grave the marks of his thirteen years' imprisonment.

Next in importance among the sufferers for the faith was a most
remarkable man, David Wolf, a native of Limerick, a priest of the
Society of Jesus, whose labors, perils, sufferings of every kind,
while acting as nuncio to the Pope in Ireland from 1560 to 1578,
form the matter for a most interesting volume--not only from the
personal interest attaching to a man of his ability, learning,
and courage, but from the influence exercised by him in
perpetuating the episcopacy, and, consequently, the priesthood
and the faith in Ireland. The first martyr of whom we have any
details is the Franciscan, Daniel O'Duillian, of the convent of
Youghal, put to death in 1569. Indictment, trial, judge, or jury
seem to have had no part in his cause. Father Mooney thus
describes his death as he obtained authentic information within
fifty years after its occurrence:

  "When one Captain Dudal (probably Dowdall) with his troop were
  torturing him, by order of Lord Arthur Grey, the viceroy, first
  they took him to the gate which is called Trinity Gate, and
  tied his hands behind his back, and, having fastened heavy
  stones to his feet, thrice pulled him up with ropes from the
  earth to the top of the tower, and left him hanging there for a
  space. At length, after many insults and tortures, he was hung
  with his head down and his feet in the air, at the mill near
  the monastery; and, hanging there a long time, while he lived
  he never uttered an impatient word, but, like a good Christian,
  incessantly repeated prayers, now aloud, now in a low voice. At
  length the soldiers were ordered to shoot at him, as though he
  were a target; but yet, that his sufferings might be the longer
  and more cruel, they might not aim at his head or heart, but as
  much as they pleased at any other part of his body. After he
  had received many balls, one, with a cruel mercy, loaded his
  gun with two balls and shot him through the heart. Thus did he
  receive the glorious crown of martyrdom the 22d of April, in
  the year aforesaid."

Similar disregard of all law and forms of justice appears in the
terrible martyrdom of the Franciscan Father O'Dowd, who died like
Sir John Nepomucen, a martyr of the seal of confession.

With some other prisoners, he fell, in 1577, into the hands of
the soldiers of Felton, then president of Connaught.

{841}

  "They pressed a certain secular, who was one of their captives,
  to tell them something of the plots which they said he had made
  with others against the queen of England; but he protested he
  could tell nothing but the truth, and that there were no plots;
  so they determined to hang him. When they said this, he begged
  he might be allowed to make his confession to Father O'Dowd;
  this they granted the more readily that they thought the
  priest, if he were tortured, would reveal what might be told
  him. As soon as the confession was over, the secular was hung;
  and then they asked the priest, who was also to be hung, if he
  had learned aught of the business in confession. He answered in
  the negative, and, refusing to reveal anything of a confession,
  they offered him life and freedom if he would reveal, and
  threatened torture if he refused. He answered he could not, and
  they immediately knotted a cord round his forehead, and,
  thrusting a piece of wood through it, slowly twisted it so
  tightly that at length, after enduring this torment for a long
  time, his skull was broken in, and, the brain being crushed, he
  died, June 9th, 1577."

Father Mooney recorded this horrid statement from the lips of
some of the very soldiery who perpetrated it.

When Dr. Patrick O'Hely, Bishop of Mayo, and his companion,
Father Cornelius O'Rorke, were arrested in the County Kerry, soon
after landing, they were loaded with chains and imprisoned in
Limerick till Sir William Drury arrived.

  "The two prisoners were first placed on the rack, their arms
  and feet were beaten with hammers, so that their thigh-bones
  were broken, and sharp iron points and needles were cruelly
  thrust under their nails, which caused an extreme agony of
  suffering. For a considerable time they were subjected to these
  tortures, which the holy confessors bore patiently for the love
  of Christ, mutually exhorting each other to constancy and
  perseverance.

  "At length they were taken from the rack, and hanged from the
  branches of a neighboring tree. Their bodies were left
  suspended there for fourteen days, and were used in the interim
  as a target by the brutal soldiery."

Here began, it will be seen, a sort of process, or at least
arraignment, torture, and execution; although anything like a
trial is wanting.

But in the fearful deaths of Rev. Daniel O'Nielan, (March 28th,
1580,) Rev. Maurice Kinrehan, Rev. Maurice Scanlan, and his
companions, [Footnote 293] in the same year, no pretence of
examination was made; the soldiery either killing them on the
spot, or wreaking on them any and every cruelty that wanton
malignity could devise or suggest.

    [Footnote 293: These three in 1580, and the three
    Franciscans, of the same names, nearly and at the same places
    in 1582, must be identical.]

In the case of the heroic Cistercian, Abbot of Boyle, Father
Gelasius O'Quillenan, and his companions, arrested while in
Dublin, in 1580, there was not the wanton cruelty of lawless
soldiers, or the mere bloodthirstiness of officers accustomed to
every barbarity. Here the action proceeded from the very highest
English authority in Ireland, in the days of Lord Coke, who tells
us in those legal treatises which have come down to us as
oracles, that he never knew of torture having been used in
England.

The abbot and his companions underwent preliminary examinations.

  "John O'Garvin, then Protestant Dean of Christ Church, was
  among those who assisted at his first interrogatory, and,
  having proposed many inducements to the abbot 'to abandon the
  popish creed,' Gelasius in reply, reproved him for preferring
  the deceitful vanities of this world to the lasting joys of
  eternity, and exhorted him 'to renounce the errors and iniquity
  of heresy by which he had hitherto warred against God, and to
  make amends for the past by joining with him in professing the
  name of Christ, that he might thus become worthy to receive a
  heavenly crown.' The holy abbot and his companion were then
  subjected to torture, and, among their other sufferings, we
  find it commemorated that their arms and legs were broken by
  repeated blows, and fire was applied to their feet. The only
  words of Gelasius during all this torture were, 'Though you
  should offer me the princedom of England, I will not forfeit my
  eternal reward.' Sentence of death being passed against them,
  they were led out with all possible ignominy to execution.
  They, however, were filled with consolation; the sight of the
  joyous sufferers excited the admiration of the assembled
  multitude, and many even of the heretics declared that they
  were more like angels than men.
{842}
   It was on the 21st November, 1580, that they were happily
   crowned with martyrdom. The garments which they wore, and the
   implements of their torture, were eagerly purchased by the
   Catholics, and cherished by them with religious veneration."

Nor can it be said that in the use of torture thus used to wring
from the Irish clergy admissions to justify their execution, the
authorities in Dublin acted without the knowledge or consent of
the queen. Any such pretext is at once scattered to the winds by
English records in the case of one of the most illustrious
martyrs in the whole honored list of Ireland's witnesses for the
faith--Dermod O'Hurley, Archbishop of Cashel.

  "The birthplace of this glorious martyr was a little village in
  the diocese of Limerick, less than three miles from that city,
  called Lycodoon, where his parents lived respectably by
  farming, both of tillage and cattle; they were held in good
  estimation by their neighbors, both rich and poor, especially
  James Geraldine, Earl of Desmond.

  "Having then been raised to the episcopacy by Gregory XIII.,
  and named Archbishop of Cashel, he took his route toward
  Ireland."

At Waterford he was detected by a Protestant named Baal, on whose
information he was pursued to the Castle of Slane, where he had,
indeed, taken refuge for a time, but had proceeded further. When
Lord Slane found himself in danger, he joined in the pursuit of
the archbishop, and, overtaking him at Carrick-on-Suir, induced
him to proceed to Dublin, where his arrival is noted by
Archbishop Loftus and Sir H. Wallop, in a letter to Robert Beale,
temporary chief secretary to the queen, dated Oct. 8th, 1583, and
still preserved in the Public Record Office in London. In a
subsequent letter, on the 10th of December, addressed to Sir
Francis Walsingham, they say: "Among other letters directed to
us, and brought by this last passage, we received one from your
honor declaring her Majesty's pleasure for the proceeding with
Dr. Hurley by torture or any other severe manner of proceeding to
gain his knowledge of all foreign practices against her majesty's
state, wherein we _partly_ forebore to deal till now." Then
they remark, "for that we want here either rack or other engine
of torture to terrify him ... the Tower of London should be a
better school than the Castle of Dublin ... we do wish that we
had directions to send him thither."

The pretext here was shallow; there was wit enough in the
dominant party in Ireland to invent any necessary racks.
Walsingham evidently directed them to proceed in Dublin, and
himself suggested the mode of torture. On the 7th of March, 1584,
they again write, "We made commission to Mr. Waterhouse and Mr.
Secretary Fenton to put him to the torture _such as your honor
advised us_, which was, to toast his feet against the fire
with hot boots." What these Walsingham boots were, we learn from
contemporary statements taken down from eye-witnesses. "The
executioners placed the archbishop's feet and calves in tin boots
filled with oil; they then fastened his feet in wooden shackles
or stocks, and placed fire under them. The boiling oil so
penetrated the feet and legs that morsels of the skin and even
flesh fell off and left the bone bare. The officer whose duty it
was to preside over the torture, unused to such unheard-of
suffering, and unable to look upon such an inhuman spectacle, or
to hear the piteous cries of the innocent prelate, suddenly left
his seat and quitted the place." (Pages 91-2.) All this failed to
extort from him anything to justify his arraignment even, though
the torture was continued till the executioners believed life
extinct, and hastily endeavored to restore animation; for he
"lost all voice and sense, and when taken out lay on the ground
like dead." (Ib. 93.)

{843}

The lords justices were in great perplexity. The judges, on being
consulted, had positively declared that, as no act of treason had
been committed by him in Ireland, he could not by law be
arraigned. Their opinion, still preserved in the Public Record
Office, is given by our author, (p. 109.) Again they apply to
Walsingham, and the whole passage is so curious that we cite it
at length:

  "And herein we thought good to remember your honor by way of
  our opinion that, considering how _obstinate and wilful_
  we find him every way, if he should be referred to a public
  trial, his _impudent and clamorous_ denial might do great
  harm to the ill-affected here, who in troth have no small
  admiration of him. And yet, having had conference with some of
  the best lawyers in the land, we find that they make a scruple
  to arraign him here, for that his treasons were committed in
  foreign parts, the statute in that behalf being not here as it
  is in England. And therefore we think it not amiss (if it be
  allowed of there) to have him executed by _martial law,
  against which he can have no just challenge_, for that he
  hath neither lands nor goods, and as by that way may be avoided
  many harms, which by his presence, standing at ordinary trial,
  and retaining still his former impudence and negative
  protestations, he may do to the people."

The idea of any man impudently objecting to submit to the honor
of being executed by martial law, when a trial at law must result
in his acquittal, is indeed extraordinary, and sufficient to
disquiet Christian rulers.

Elizabeth relieved them. A letter of April 29th, 1584, announced
her majesty's resolution for the course to beholden with Hurley,
namely, "that they should proceed to his execution (if it might
be) by ordinary trial by law, or otherwise, by martial law."

Loftus and Wallop, accordingly, on the 19th of June, 1584, gave
warrant to the knight-marshal in her majesty's name to do
execution upon him." (Letter July 9th, 1584.)

Accordingly, on Friday before Trinity-Sunday, Hurley--whose
wounds had been so skilfully treated by a Jesuit who was enabled
to reach him, as to enable the holy sufferer to regain sufficient
strength to sit up and even rest on his feet--was ordered to
prepare for execution. He was taken out at early dawn, amid the
cries of his fellow Catholic prisoners, proclaiming his
innocence, one bishop, who was expiating in fetters a guilty
pusillanimity, exclaiming that he himself, for the scandal he had
given, deserved to die, but that the archbishop was an innocent
and holy man. He was drawn on a hurdle through the garden gate to
a wood near the city, and "there he was hanged on a withey,
calling on God, and forgiving his torturers with all his heart."
At evening his body was buried in the half-ruined church of St.
Kevin. So great was the veneration felt for this holy man, that
the church was restored to satisfy the devotion of those who
flocked to the spot to recommend themselves to his prayers, and
many of whom averred that miracles were wrought there.

Elizabeth and the ministers of her godless tyranny, in thus
trampling on law and justice, had gained nothing toward the
advancement of the new doctrines in Ireland. The death of Dr.
Hurley but confirmed the Irish Catholics more immovably in the
faith.

{844}

In another case, Dr. Richard Creagh, Archbishop of Armagh, who
escaped from the Tower of London in 1565, but, after two years'
labors in Ireland, was seized in Connaught in 1567, the
government ventured on a trial at law; but the jury acquitted
him. Little did this avail: he was kept a prisoner, but at last
effected his escape, and, for a short time, labored to console
the afflicted Catholics. Falling again into the hands of the
persecutors, he was sent to England, and died of poison in the
Tower of London, (Oct. 14th, 1585,) leaving one of the most
venerated names in the annals of the Irish church. Another
prelate, Murlagh O'Brien, Bishop of Emly, died the same year in
prison, at Dublin, after undergoing tortures.

The interesting biography of another martyr, Rev. Maurice
Kinrechtin, gives a picture of a Catholic Easter during these
dark ages in Ireland that is too touching to omit. It is in a
letter from Father Robert Rochfort:

  'I send you an account of the glorious martyrdom of a friend of
  mine, Maurice Kinrechtin, a pious priest, chaplain to the Earl
  of Desmond, whom you know. He was for this cause taken prisoner
  by the English, and taken to your native town of Clonmel, where
  he lay in prison for more than a year. On the eve of Easter,
  1585, Victor White, one of the principal citizens of Clonmel
  and a pious Catholic, obtained from the head jailer permission
  for the priest to pass the night in his house; this the jailer
  agreed to, but secretly informed the President of Munster, an
  English heretic, who chanced to be in the town, that, if he
  wished, he might easily seize all the principal citizens while
  hearing mass in the house of Mr. White at daybreak; at the same
  time he bargained to be paid for his perfidy. At the hour
  agreed on, the soldiers rushed into the house and seized on
  Victor; but all the others, hearing the noise, tried to escape
  by the back-doors and windows; a certain matron, trying to
  escape, fell and broke her arm. The soldiers found the chalice
  and other things for mass; they sought everywhere for the
  priest, (who had not yet begun the mass,) and came at length to
  a heap of straw, under which he lay hid, and, thrusting their
  swords through it, wounded him in the thigh; but he preserved
  silence, and, through fear of worse, concealed his suffering,
  and soon after escaped from the town into the country. But the
  intrepid Victor (who, although he had for this reason suffered
  much, could never be induced to attend the conventicles of the
  heretics) was thrown into prison because he would not give up
  the priest, and would, no doubt, have been put to death, had
  not Maurice, hearing of the danger of his friend, voluntarily
  surrendered himself to the president, showing a friendship
  truly Christian. The president upbraided him much, and, having
  sentenced him to death, offered him his life if he would abjure
  our Catholic faith and profess the queen to be head of the
  church. There came to him also a preacher, and strove long, but
  in vain, to seduce the martyr; nor would he on any account
  betray any of those who had heard his mass, or to whom he had
  at any time administered the sacraments. At length he was
  dragged at the tail of a horse to the place of execution as a
  traitor. Being come there, he devoutly and learnedly exhorted
  the people to constancy in the faith. The executioner cut him
  down from the gallows when yet half alive, and cut off his
  sacred head, and the minister struck it in the face. Then the
  Catholics by prayers and bribes obtained of the executioners
  that they should not lacerate his body any further, and they
  buried it as honorably as they could. Farewell, and peace in
  the Lord, and be ye imitators--if occasion offers--of the
  courageous Maurice Kinrechtin, and till then prepare your souls
  for the trial. Your devoted servant, dated from the College of
  St. Anthony, 1586, 20th March, Robert Rochfort."

Thus it went on during the reign of Elizabeth. The year 1588
witnessed many hanged, drawn, and quartered--the Rev. Peter
Miller, at Wexford; Peter Meyler, at Galway, and Maurice
Eustace--both candidates for the priesthood, the Franciscan
fathers, O'Molloy, Dogherty, and Ferrall, at Abbeyleix. The next
year another of the same order at Clonmel.

Curry, in his _Civil Wars in Ireland_, thus sums up other
examples:

{845}

  "John Stephens, priest, for that he said mass to Teague McHugh,
  was hanged and quartered by the Lord Burroughs, in 1597; Thady
  O'Boyle, guardian of the monastery of Donegal, was slain by the
  English in his own monastery; six friars were slain in the
  monastery of Moynihigan; John O'Calyhor and Bryan O'Trevor, of
  the order of St. Bernard, were slain in their own monastery, De
  Sancta Maria, in Ulster; as also Felimy O'Hara, a lay-brother;
  so was AEneas Penny, parish priest of Killagh, slain at the
  altar in his parish church there; Cahill McGoran; Rory
  O'Donnellan; Peter McQuillan; Patrick O'Kenna; George Power,
  vicar-general of the diocese of Ossory; Andrew Stritch, of
  Limerick; Bryan O'Murihirtagh, vicar-general of the diocese of
  Clonfert; Doroghow O'Molowny, of Thomond; John Kelly, of Louth;
  Stephen Patrick, of Annaly; John Pillis, friar; Rory McHenlea;
  Tirilagh McInisky, a lay-brother. All those that come after
  AEneas Penny, together with Walter Fernan, priest, died in the
  Castle of Dublin, either through hard usage and restraint or
  the violence of torture."

To whom may be added the Rev. George Power; Rev. John Walsh;
Bishop Brady, of Kilmore, and his companions, whose sufferings
are here most touchingly given; the Rev. Donatus O'Mollony, so
tortured by iron boots and thumbscrews, as well as the rack--of
all which there was now, apparently, a full supply in
Ireland--that he died a few hours after.

But single executions were not prompt enough. In 1602, the
authorities intimated that such of the clergy as presented
themselves to the magistrates would be allowed to take their
departure from the kingdom. Forty-two, secular priests and
fathers of the Dominican and Cistercian orders, believing that a
Protestant government would keep faith with Catholics, accepted
the offer, and assembling, as directed, at Inniscattery, were put
on board a vessel of war to sail for France. But no sooner had
they reached the broad Atlantic, than the whole of these priests
were thrown overboard. On the return of the vessel to port, great
indignation was pretended by the authorities, and the queen
cashiered the officers; while they were, in fact, secretly
rewarded.

This martyrdom, fearful for its treachery, and the number of the
priestly victims, closed, so to say, the reign of bloody
Elizabeth. The hatred of Catholicity was intense; but yet there
was apparent from first to last, a sense of respect for the
opinion of the Catholic powers, an attempt to justify the
executions by color of law, or excuse them as unintended acts of
severity in putting down revolts or conducting military
operations.

When the son of Mary, herself a martyr and sufferer, ascended the
throne, his accession was hailed by the Catholic Irish with a
burst of joy. A prince of their own race, they could regard him
with feelings never awakened by former sovereigns of England. The
memory of his mother would have bound them to him. He might have
rendered Ireland a happy country. Led away by this vision, the
Irish Catholics openly celebrated the long proscribed worship;
but they soon were rudely awakened from their delusion. The
glorious army of martyrs under James I. begins with Redmond
O'Gallagher, Bishop of Derry, hacked to pieces by a party of
horse in 1604.

Among all the martyrs of this reign, however, the most
illustrious was Cornelius O'Dovany, Bishop of Down and Connor,
put to death at Dublin, February 1st, 1611. At an early age he
embraced the rule of St. Francis, and became a model of piety and
patience. Raised to the perilous dignity of the episcopate, he
labored strenuously to fulfil its duties. At last, he was
arrested and sent to Dublin Castle, where he nearly perished from
want of food and of all comforts. As the persecutors admitted
that they could not legally compass his death, he was at last
released. But it was only for a time. Seizing as a pretext his
presence in the district held by the Earl of Tyrone in his rising
against the crown, they again, in June, 1611, committed him to
his former prison. He was then brought to trial, and, although he
pleaded the Act of Oblivion, which clearly covered his case, the
government, grown wiser in its malice, packed a jury, and
obtained a verdict.

{846}

Our author thus describes his martyrdom from contemporary
narratives:

  "The 1st of February, at four o'clock in the afternoon, he was
  called to mount the cart which, surrounded by guards, stood at
  the prison door. When the holy bishop came in sight of that
  triumphal chariot, he sighed and said, 'My Lord Jesus, for my
  sake, went on foot, bearing his cross, to the mountain where he
  suffered; and must I be borne in a cart, as though unwilling to
  die for him, when I would hasten with willing feet to that
  glory? Would that I might bear my cross and hasten on my feet
  to meet my Lord!' Turning to his fellow-sufferer, Patrick, he
  said, 'Come, my brave comrade and worthy soldier of Christ, let
  us imitate his death as best we may who was led to the
  slaughter as a sheep before the shearer. Then bending down and
  kissing the cart, he mounted up into it, and sat down with his
  back to the horses, and was thus drawn through the paved
  streets to the field where the gallows was erected.

  "Cornelius, when he was come to the place of sacrifice, being
  solicitous for the constancy of his colleague, begged that
  Patrick might be put to death first; for he feared lest, by the
  sight of his death and the wiles of the Calvinists, Patrick
  might be induced to yield to human weakness. But as his wish
  would not be granted, Father Patrick assured the bishop he
  might lay aside all fear for him. 'Though,' said he, 'I would
  desire to die first, and be strengthened in my agony by your
  paternal charity, since we are given up to the will of others,
  go, happy father, and fear not for my constancy; aid me by your
  prayers with God, by whose help I am sure that neither death
  nor life, nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor
  things to come, nor any other creature, shall separate me from
  the love of Christ, or from my companionship with you.'
  Rejoiced at these words, Cornelius threw himself on his knees,
  but had only breathed a hasty prayer (which yet reached God in
  heaven) when the councillors, the captain and guard called out
  to make an end quickly. The field, situated to the north of the
  city, which would easily hold 3000 persons, was crowded. The
  executioner was an Englishman and a Protestant, (for no
  Irishman could be found who would stain himself with the blood
  of the bishop,) who was condemned to death for robbery, and was
  promised his life for acting as executioner on this occasion.
  Yet, though he had thus purchased his life, he was touched with
  reverence and compassion for the gray hairs of the bishop, and
  prayed his pardon, and with trembling hands adjusted the noose.
  The moment the bishop mounted the first step of the ladder, and
  his head was seen above the crowd, a great shout and groans
  burst from all the spectators.

  "Then the minister Challoner, furious at the cries of pity
  raised by the people, said to the bishop: 'Why delude ye the
  ignorant people? Why end ye your life with a lie, and a vain
  boast of martyrdom? Tell the multitude that ye are traitors,
  and that it is for treason and not for religion ye suffer.' To
  these unjust words the bishop answered: 'Far be it from us, who
  are about to appear before the tribunal of Christ, to impose
  upon the people. But also far be it from us to confess
  ourselves guilty of crimes of which our conscience tells us we
  are innocent. Nor yet do we vainly ambition the title of
  martyrs, though for us to die for Christ is gain. You know that
  you are yourself guilty of that prevarication of which you
  accuse us; for but a few hours ago, sent as you said by the
  viceroy, you offered us life and freedom if we would subscribe
  to your heresy. Leave us, then, son of darkness, and calumniate
  not our innocence.'

  "Then the minister departed and left the martyrs in peace. As
  they mounted the middle of the ladder, again there rose the cry
  of the people; and a third time, when he was about to be thrown
  off, the groans of those who beat their breasts rose louder
  than before. Thrice he prayed, as he stood there: once for all
  the bystanders; secondly, for the city of Dublin, and all the
  Catholics of this kingdom, that they may serve God piously,
  faithfully, and perseveringly; a third time he prayed for all
  heretics, and for his persecutors, that they might be converted
  from the evil of their ways.

  "The Bishop's head was hardly cut off when an Irishman seized
  it, and, rushing into the centre of the crowd, was never found,
  although the viceroy offered a reward of forty pounds of
  silver. The Catholics gathered up his blood, and contended for
  his garments, despite the resistance of the soldiery.
{847}
   The priest Patrick followed the same road, singing, as he
   mounted the ladder, the canticle of Simeon, 'Now, O Lord!
   dismiss thy servant in peace,' and, after the example of the
   bishop, he prayed for the bystanders, blessed them, and
   forgave all his enemies. The rope being put round his neck, he
   hung for a short time, was then cut down half alive,
   mutilated, and cut in pieces. The soldiers, warned by the loss
   of the bishop's head, resisted the unarmed crowd, who strove
   to catch the martyr's blood and other relics, and wounded
   many. The day after, the bodies were buried at the gallows'
   foot, but in the stillness of the night were removed by the
   Catholics to a chapel."

We cannot enter on the other sufferers of this reign whose
records are carefully collected in the _Memorials_.

The reign of Charles I. opens with the deeply interesting life of
Francis Slingsby, showing how, even amid all the terrible
persecutions of the church, God called his own elect to the light
of his truth, and endowed them with firmness. He was a son of Sir
Francis Slingsby, an English knight settled in Ireland, and was
born in 1611. After being educated at Oxford, he travelled on the
continent, and at Rome was converted to the faith; and, at the
tomb of St. Aloysius, firmly resolved to enter the Society of
Jesus. At the earnest entreaty of his father and mother, he
returned to Ireland; but after an interview with Archbishop Usher
and Lord Strafford, he was thrown into prison. Cardinal Barberini
exerted his influence with the queen of England, and, in May,
1635, he was admitted to bail. His stay in Ireland was not
fruitless; for he converted his mother, his younger brother, his
sister, and several others. This increased his dangers, and, the
General of the Society urging him to come at once to Rome, he
proceeded thither in 1636; but learning that his friend Spreul,
whom he had converted, and won to the order he himself had
chosen, had been struck down by disease, he returned to Ireland,
tended him in his illness, and then both reached Rome in 1639.
Renouncing all his worldly prospects in favor of his brother, he
began his studies, and, after his ordination, entered the
novitiate of the Society of Jesus in 1641; but died at Naples
before he could return to Ireland to labor in the field where his
words, example, and fetters had preached so eloquently. The
sketch of this heroic young man, and that of Maurice Eustace, son
of Sir John Eustace, and a novice in the Society of Jesus, who,
returning to his family by permission of his superiors, was
seized, tried, hung, drawn, and quartered, on the 9th of June,
1588, form a most interesting addition to our biographies, and
show us in Ireland, two young imitators of St. Aloysius and St.
Stanislaus, whose virtues and example can be held up to the young
with the power that flows from the fact that they lived among
scenes and trials so familiar to us.

When the civil war began between the Puritans and Charles I., the
persecution, bitter already under the king, became fiendish under
the Parliament. Hitherto some form, some limit, had been
observed; but the Puritans revelled in blood with all the
ferocity of tigers, and with as little scruple.

  "The Parliament of England resolved, on the 24th of October,
  1644, 'that no quarter shall be given to any Irishman, or to
  _ayn papist born in Ireland;_' and their historian,
  Borlase, adds, 'The orders of Parliament were excellently well
  executed.' (_Hist, of Rebellion_, p. 62.) Leland and
  Warner refer to the letters of the lords-justices for the fact
  that the soldiers 'slew all persons promiscuously, not sparing
  even the women.' Cromwell declared on landing in Dublin that no
  mercy should be shown to the Irish, and that they should be
  dealt with as the Canaanites in Joshua's time. It is impossible
  to estimate the number of Catholics slain in the ten years from
  1642 to 1652. Three bishops and more than 300 priests were put
  to death for the faith.
{848}
   Thousands of men, women, and children were sold as slaves for
   the West Indies; Sir W. Petty mentions that six thousand boys
   and women were thus sold. (_Political Anatomy of
   Ireland_, p. 187.) A letter written in 1656, quoted by
   Lingard, puts the number at 60,000; as late as 1666 there were
   12,000 Irish slaves scattered among the West Indian Islands.
   (Letter of Rev. J. Grace, written in 1669, ap. Moran, p. 147.)
   40,000 Irish Catholics fled to the continent, and 20,000 took
   refuge in the Hebrides and other Scottish islands. (Moran, p.
   99.) In a word, as Sir W. Petty writes, the population of
   Ireland in 1641 was 1,466,000, of whom Catholics were about
   1,240,000; in 1659, the whole population was only 500,091, of
   whom Irish were only 420,000, so that very nearly or quite one
   million must have perished. (Sir W. Petty, _Polit. Anat._
   p. 13, ap. Moran, and Hardinge's _Census of 1659_.)"

In this general and fearful slaughter of priest and people,
records were impossible; and of many of the priests and religious
who perished no trace remains. At the sight of such appalling
massacres the mind shrinks back to seek refuge in doubt; but that
doubt vanishes before the records of the butchers, who, reeking
with slaughter, asked mankind to admire their work as a mercy of
God, and even in our day, their descendants ask us to praise them
as champions of religious freedom.

We can scarcely be accused of being too severe in our language
when Merle d'Aubigné, a professed eulogist of Cromwell, admits
that he used "a greater severity than had perhaps been exercised
by the pagan leaders of antiquity."

Although, necessarily, for many of their victims there are no
details whatever, nevertheless nearly one-fourth of this whole
work of Mr. O'Reilly is devoted to memorials of those who
perished by the hands of the Puritans in the brief period of
twenty years; and he might well close it by the formula at the
end of each day in the Roman martyrology, _Et alibi aliorum
plurimorum Martyrum et Confessorum_, etc.--"And elsewhere of
many other martyrs and confessors," whose names, though
unrecorded on earth, are written in the Book of Life. Cromwell,
Ireton, Inchiquin, and Coote marked their path in blood.
Drogheda, Wexford, Cashel, Limerick, witnessed general massacres,
where neither age nor sex could rouse a spark of human feeling in
the insatiate butchers. The intense and cruel fanaticism seems to
have been either a diabolical possession or a mental disease.

A grandson of Sir Charles Coote, become Earl of Bellomont, was,
some years after, made Governor of New York and of New England,
and was strongly suspected of complicity in the piracies of
Captain Kidd. He certainly showed the fierce anti-Catholic spirit
of his father and grandsire, having introduced and forced
through, both in New York and Massachusetts, laws to punish with
imprisonment for life, or, on recapture, with death, any Catholic
priest entering those colonies.

Among the more illustrious martyrs we notice the Most Rev.
Malachy O'Queely, Archbishop of Tuam, who was overtaken at Clare,
near Sligo, in 1645, by some Puritan cavalry. They hacked off his
right arm, and then cruelly mangled his body, cutting it into
small pieces. In 1650, Boetius Egan, Bishop of Ross, a holy
Franciscan friar, appointed to that see in 1647, on the
recommendation of the Nuncio, Rinuccini, left the retreat in
which he had been hidden for months, to visit some distant and
abandoned parts of his diocese, although Ludlow's Puritan bands
were laying waste the country. After performing the apostolic
duties that had called him forth, he was returning to his lonely
hiding-place, when he was overtaken by a troop of horse hastening
to join Cromwell in besieging Clonmel.
{849}
The commander of this troop, Lord Broghill, whom our readers may
not recognize as Robert Boyle, subsequently Earl of Orrery,
offered him life,

  "If he would deny his faith and join the Parliamentarians, but
  he rejected the temptation with disdain. He was then abandoned
  to the soldiers' fury, and, his arms being first severed from
  his body, he was dragged along the ground to a neighboring
  tree, and, being hanged from one of its branches by the reins
  of his own horse, happily consummated his earthly course in
  November, 1650."

The fall of Limerick enabled Ireton to revel in the blood of
Catholic priests. The martyrs were led by Terence Albert O'Brien,
Bishop of Emly, born in Limerick in 1600, and nurtured piously by
a devoted mother. At an early age he entered the order of St.
Dominic, and, after pursuing his studies in Spain, returned to
labor in his native city. In 1643, he became provincial of his
order, and attended a general chapter at Rome. Four years
afterward, he was consecrated Bishop of Emly, and labored there
earnestly till he joined the rest who took refuge in Limerick.

  "Knowing the fate that was reserved for him, Dr. O'Brien
  retired to the pest-house, in order to devote the last hours of
  his life to the benefit of his suffering fellow-citizens, and
  to preparing himself for death. Here he was found by the
  officers sent to arrest him, and brought before Ireton, who
  told him he was to be tried by a court-martial, and imprisoned
  till the sentence was pronounced. The bishop heard this
  unmoved, and when asked did he want counsel, calmly replied
  that all he required was his confessor. This boon was granted,
  and Father Hanrahan, a member of his own order, was suffered to
  pass the whole day and night of the 30th of October in his
  prison. On the following evening he was led out to execution,
  and, as Father Hanrahan related, walked as joyfully to the
  place as to a feast. His contemporary, De Marinis, relates his
  execution thus: 'He went with joy to the place of execution,
  and then, with a serene countenance, turning to his Catholic
  friends, who stood in the crowd inconsolable and weeping, he
  said to them, "Hold firmly by your faith, and observe its
  precepts; murmur not against the arrangements of God's
  providence, and thus you will save your souls. Weep not at all
  for me, but rather pray that in this last trial of death I may,
  by firmness and constancy, attain my heavenly reward." The head
  of the martyr was struck off and placed on a spike on the
  tower,' ('which is on the middle of the bridge.'--_A
  Rosario_,) 'and long after seemed to drop fresh blood, and
  uncorrupted and unchanged in aspect, flesh, or hair--a tribute,
  as may be thought, to that virginal purity which it is
  universally believed he preserved to the end.' Thus he went to
  his reward, on the vigil of All Saints', 1651. De Marinis and A
  Rosario relate that the holy bishop summoned Ireton to the
  judgment-seat of God to answer for his crimes; and on the 18th
  day afterward that bloody persecutor was seized with the
  plague, and, after sixteen days, expired in great torments. Dr.
  Moran mentions that the spot where this holy bishop was
  martyred is yet pointed out and venerated by the Catholics of
  Limerick."

Another Dominican martyr of this scene, Father James Wolf,

  "was an old man, and preacher-general, who had before been a
  long time in prison for the faith, and in this last persecution
  was as a wall against the enemies of the faith. He was taken in
  Limerick while offering the mass, and in a few hours afterward
  was sentenced to be hung, and brought out into the market
  square, where he made a public profession of his faith, and
  exhorted the Catholics to constancy in the religion of their
  ancestors, and that with so much ardor that it moved his very
  enemies. Standing on the top step of the ladder, and about to
  be swung off, he joyously exclaimed, '_We are made a
  spectacle to God and angels and men--of glory to God, of joy
  to angels, of contempt to men._' Having said this, he was
  hung, and so went to his crown."

It is a strange fact, and one that we must regret, that England
should owe the final conquest of Canada to one who should have
honored this martyr of his family, but who was really intensely
English, and rivalled Ireton by his bloody march up the St.
Lawrence, butchering priests at their own church doors with as
little compunction as Ireton felt for Father James Wolf.
{850}
That martyr had a brother George, an officer in the Irish army.
Although doomed, he managed to escape, and reaching England,
finally settled in Yorkshire. His grandson Edward fought under
Marlborough, and rose to the rank of general. His son, a namesake
of the Limerick martyr, was General James Wolfe, who died in the
arms of victory at Quebec, having struck the blow that seemed to
crush for ever Catholicity in Canada.

Another bishop, Arthur Magennis, a Cistercian, Bishop of Down and
Connor, was, in spite of his infirmities and years, dragged on
shipboard, to be carried to some other land. Death was, however,
the object of his tormentors, not exile: and, as he lingered too
long to please their impatience, they dragged one of the ship's
cannon beside his berth, and, firing it, caused such a shock to
the invalid that he expired.

The clergy who suffered met death in every form. Some perished of
starvation in the mountain, like the Rev. John Carolan; some were
starved to death in prison, like the Dominican father, John
O'Laighlin; some, tracked to their hiding-places, were shot in
their caves, like the Franciscan father, Francis Sullivan; some
were stoned to death, and flung into rivers, like the Dominican
father, John Flaverty; many cut down by the roadside, or shot and
hacked to pieces, like Stephen Pettit, the Dominican fathers,
Peter Costello, Dominic Neagan, Lawrence O'Ferral; others more
deliberately hanged on sea or land, like the Franciscan fathers,
Fergal Ward, Denis Nelan, Rev. Peter Higgins, the Dominican
Bonaventure de Burgo, and many more; or drowned at sea, like the
Trinitarian fathers O'Conor and Daly; or tied to stakes and shot,
like the Jesuit, Father Bathe, and his brother at Drogheda.

  "Of the many thousands of Irish men, women, and children who
  were sold into slavery in the West Indies, the names of very
  few have been preserved. Among these was Father David Roche,
  Dominican. Full details of this infamous traffic are given by
  Prendergast, _Cromwellian Settlement_. Thus, a government
  order, published on March 4th, 1655, states that, in the four
  preceding years, 6400 Irish, men and women, boys and maidens,
  had been disposed of to the English slave-dealers. On the 14th
  September, 1653, two English merchants, named Selleck and
  Leader, signed a contract with the government commissioners, by
  which a supply was granted to them of 250 women and 300 men of
  the Irish nation, to be found within twenty miles of Cork,
  Youghal, Kinsale, Waterford, and Wexford. Roger Boyle, Lord
  Broghill, (afterward Earl of Orrery,) deemed it unnecessary to
  take such trouble in visiting different parts of the kingdom,
  and undertook to supply the whole number from the county of
  Cork alone; hence he received an order empowering him to search
  for and seize upon that number, 'and no person, being once
  apprehended, was to be released but by special order in writing
  under the hand of Lord Broghill. In the month of November,
  1655, all the Irish of the townland of Lackagh, county of
  Kildare, were seized on by the agents of the government. They
  were only forty-one in number, and of these four were hanged by
  sentence of court-martial; the remaining thirty-seven,
  including two priests, were handed over to Mr. Norton, a
  Bristol merchant, to be sold as bond-slaves to the
  sugar-planters at the Barbadoes.' Again, on the 8th December,
  1655, we find a letter from the commissioners to the Governor
  of Barbadoes, 'advising him of the approach of a ship with a
  cargo of proprietors, deprived of their lands, and seized for
  not transplanting.' They add that among them were three
  priests, and the commissioners particularly desire that these
  may be so employed that they may not return again where that
  sort of people are able to do so much mischief, having so great
  an influence over the popish Irish."

{851}

Of their sufferings at sea our author gives no record; but
Anderson, in his _History of the Colonial Church_, (ii. p.
52-3,) describes, from a petition to Parliament, the sufferings
of English prisoners "crowded into close holds amid horses,"
"sold, on arriving, to the most inhuman persons," and treated
worse than beasts; "sleeping in styes, worse than hogs in
England, and many other ways made most miserable beyond
expression of Christian imagination." And nothing in the annals
of history will justify the supposition that the Irish fared
better.

During long examinations of early records and manuscript matter
relating to the colonies which formed the American Union, no
allusion has met our eye relating to any of these priests sold as
slaves in America by the Puritans. It is doubtful, therefore,
whether any ever reached our shores. But it seems to us that
researches will yet lead to some clue or trace in the West India
Islands, that favorite mart for the Puritan slave-dealers, who
sold alike there the Irish Catholic, or the Christian or Pagan
Indian of New England. It is, however, a curious fact that the
first victim of the witchcraft excitement in New England was one
of the Irish slaves, a poor woman, who though able to repeat the
Lord's Prayer in Latin and Irish, failed to pray in the to her
unknown English tongue, was adjudged a witch, and put to death.

Of the Irish transported to St. Christopher's we find some
account in the Jesuit Father Peter Pelleprat's _Relation des
Missions des Pères de la Compagnie de Jésus dans les Isles et
dans la Terre Ferine de l'Amérique Méridionale_, (Paris,
1655.) Part of the island belonged to the French, and Father John
Destriche (Stritch?) an Irish member of the Society, was sent in
1650, to the boundary. His long-forsaken countrymen flocked
around, braving all dangers from their cruel task-masters; and he
spent three months hearing confessions, baptizing, instructing,
consoling and fortifying with the sacraments these poor exiles.
He then, in the disguise of a merchant, visited Montserrat, which
was, for a time, an independent Irish isle, and so laid down on
maps, and where even the negroes spoke Irish. But, at this time
of Puritan rule, the English had reduced them to slavery. Here he
raised a little chapel in the depth of a forest, and the Irish
every day, under pretext of cutting wood, made their way to the
spot, and, after giving the day to religion, cut some wood to
carry back.

Returning to St. Christopher's, he found the English renewing the
persecution. One hundred and twenty-five of the most fervent
Catholics were carried off and set ashore on the barren island of
Crabs or Boriquen. Here some undoubtedly perished of starvation;
a few reached St. Domingo, but, on the refusal of the Spaniards
to receive them, managed to find transport to Tortugas, then in
the hands of the French.

Father Destriche then collected all the Irish he could, and
conveyed them to Gaudeloupe, making excursions from time to time
to bring in others to swell this settlement; and visiting in
disguise the various English islands.

No allusion is made to any priest among these exiles; but this
father was not probably alone. Research in this field may yet
enlarge the touching memorials which Mr. O'Reilly deserves so
great credit for presenting to us.

The persecution may be said to close with the Puritan rule;
Archbishop Plunkett, whose life is well and concisely given,
having been a victim to the infamous fiction of plots in the
reign of Charles II., and brought to the scaffold by the false
testimony of men of his own country and faith.

{852}

The last of the martyred clergy was the Dominican Father Gerald
Gibbon, sub-prior of Kilmallock, killed by some of William III.'s
roving cavalry at Listuahill, in the County of Kerry, in 1691.

Mr. O'Reilly has done an excellent work. The records of the lives
and deaths of these illustrious men should be familiar to all
their countrymen, not to excite feelings of hostility and
vengeance against the descendants of the wrong-doers; for, as in
the case of Wolfe, the later generations fall away at times, and
the priest we revere may trace his descent from a persecutor. But
the lives of these martyrs remind us in these days of insidious
prosperity, that we should struggle as manfully against the
persecution of religious indifference as they did against the
persecution of rack, and sword, and halter, and show that we deem
the religion they died for worthy of a life of love and
sacrifice.

           ----------

           De Profundis.

  O weary, weary heart, O fainting soul!
     Thy struggle is in vain;
  The fiery waves of woe that o'er thee roll
     O'erwhelm with fiercest pain.
  There is for thee no rest, for thee no peace
  Till thought and mem'ry, life itself shall cease.

  "Rest for the weary"--words that flatteringly
     Promise thy heart relief;
  The words of peace are meaningless to thee,
     They mock thy endless grief.
  Think not thy soul from further woe to save,
  Seek not for rest, or seek it in the grave!

              ----

  Sweet rest, sweet peace. O Jesu! thou canst give
     E'en in my mortal woe;
  Thou bidst my struggling, dying soul to live,
     And lead'st me gently through
  The waves that dash against my tired feet,
  To fields of living green and verdure sweet.

  Jesu! sweet Jesu! in my darkest hour
     On thee alone I call;
  Though waves may dash and dark'ning skies may lower,
     And raging storms appall,
  I heed them not--I look beyond, above,
  And find my refuge in thy Heart of Love!

                                        K. A.

             ----------
{853}

   From La Semaine Liturgique De Poitiers.

   The Legend Of St. Michael And The Hermit.

  "Consummatus in brevi, explevit tempera multa."
  --_Book of Wisdom_.


A poor but venerable hermit, wearing the habit, sandals, and cord
of St. Francis of Assisi, travelled, from dawn till the going
down of the sun, over the flowery highways of verdant Normandy,
passing through boroughs and villages, castles and towers. Was he
a palmer from the Holy Land, come to rekindle the ardor of noble
and valiant men of arms with tales of the woes of the Christians
in Palestine? No, the times of Philip Augustus and Louis IX. had
passed away. Yet our hermit kept steadily on, allowing himself
not a day of rest but the Lord's day, seeking some one or
something.

"What art thou seeking, pious traveller? Thy ardor is greater
than that of a knight-errant longing to break a lance in honor of
the fair lady whose color he wears."

"I am seeking a soul," replies the hermit, "because St. Michael
the Archangel has made known to me that a throne in the eternal
mansions awaits some soul from earth, a throne of dazzling
beauty, resplendent with sapphires and diamonds, and the golden
palms of the heavenly Jerusalem. But the soul thus summoned to a
throne on high must not be _too young_."

"Keep on thy way. Old men are to be found in every country on the
earth."

And the hermit kept on his way from the earliest dawn till
eventide. At last he finds an aged abbot beneath the Gothic
arches of an old Benedictine abbey. His reputation for sanctity
and his great age, which was fourscore years, made our pilgrim
hope that he had found the object of his search. So, on Sunday,
after the hour of lauds, the hermit joyfully offered St. Michael,
on bended knee, the name of the venerable abbot, with an account
of his exemplary life; but, in the evening, after the hour of
compline, the archangel said unto him, "Continue thy search. The
abbot Fulgentius, worthy as he is, merits not this high reward.
That servant of the Lord is still _too young_."

"He is fourscore years of age, of which sixty-four have been
spent in the monastic state and in the same monastery."

"He has not yet lived twenty years as years are reckoned by the
guardian angels. Pursue thy way, good hermit, and continue thy
search."

After three months the pilgrim worn by fatigue and prolonged
vigils joyfully brought four names to St. Michael. It will be
understood that these names were chosen from among thousands by
the zealous pilgrim. The first bright name on the list was that
of a Lord of Falaise, illustrious through his ancestors, and
still more so for his own charity. His castle with its square
towers, surrounded by crags, deep moats, and high walls, was
always hospitably open to all pilgrims and strangers as well as
to the unfortunate. There he himself waited upon them at table,
after having washed their feet with his own hands, count and
baron as he was, and he never suffered them to depart till he had
given them alms and chanted the divine office with them in the
nave of his chapel of St. Prix.
{854}
A numerous progeny reverenced him, and all his vassals proclaimed
his fatherly kindness. What more could be asked that he might
exchange his feudal power for a throne in heaven?

The second on the list was the mother of fifteen children, seven
of whom served their king as brave soldiers, seven others served
the altar as priests or monks, and the remaining one, a daughter,
had many children, who were reared under the careful and vigilant
eye of their grandmother of pious renown. What more could be
asked that she might pass from family honors to a throne in
heaven?

The third was a noble warrior of the Knights of Malta, covered
with wounds and scars gained in the service of God. Having been
made, at the age of thirteen years, knight of his order and page
of the grand master, he was appointed, at the age of twenty-two,
to the command of three war-vessels which he armed at his own
expense. He made himself formidable to all the Turks on the seas
of the Levant. Being appointed captain of one of the galleys of
Malta, our knight took twenty-two vessels from the paynim and
delivered many thousand Christian slaves. The Emir Fraycardin,
who held sway over the Druses of Mount Lebanon, and boasted of
his descent from Baldwin, King of Jerusalem, conceived so high an
esteem for him that he came forth from the town of Sayeda to
visit him on board of one of his vessels, and on that occasion
gave him a scimitar from Damascus, with a scabbard of wrought
silver, inlaid with diamonds and rare pearls, which our hero
presented to the king of France, in presence of the same emir of
illustrious memory.

The escutcheon of our knight bore a chevron gules, on a field or,
charged at the bend with a flower-de-luce or, and surmounted by
the silver cross of the Order of Malta. [sic]

He seemed truly endowed with valor and sanctity, which made up
for want of age, for he was only twenty-nine. What more could be
asked that he might pass from the midst of combats to the bosom
of everlasting peace, and from the triumphs of victory to a
glorious throne in heaven?

Finally, the fourth name was that of a widow, like the prophetess
Anna, who departed not from the temple of Jerusalem, by fasting
and prayers serving God day and night. Like her, she was devoted
to good works, to the care of the sick, the help of the infirm,
and the charge of orphans. She was called "the eye of the blind,"
and "the consolation of the afflicted," and throughout old
Neustria with its green orchards the echoes of the manor-houses
and the huts alike knew of the wondrous deeds of good Dame Lois.

Proud of all these names, the hermit at the early hour of lauds
presented the list to St. Michael; when evening had brought the
hour of compline, the holy chant being ended, St. Michael gave
back to the hermit the precious paper, all perfumed with the
incense of paradise, and said to him: "Faithful servant, continue
thy search: all these names are dear and precious in the eyes of
God; but they who bear them are still too young."

"But the sire of Falaise has seen almost a hundred years pass
over his now bald head, and his beard is whiter than the snows of
Mount Saint Bernard!"

"That noble lord of a hundred years is only reckoned fifteen by
the calendar of the guardian angels," replied the archangel.

{855}

"But this mother of fifteen children and twelve grandchildren who
are her crown and her glory? ... And the pious widow?"....

"The mother will only be eight years old come the festival of the
Assumption of Our Lady, her holy Patroness; and the pious and
chaste widow is hardly older than the sire of Falaise."

"And the Knight of Malta? Illustrious and brave above his
fellow-knights, he is only twenty-nine years old according to the
record of his baptism; but these few years have been well
employed in defending Christendom against the infidel Turks who
tremble before his Damascus blade."

"The knight has made progress, it is true, in the way of real
life. He is almost old enough to reign; but his guardian angel
demands yet a space of time before imprinting on his soul the
seal of the eternal and heavenly life. Go thy way, and continue
thy search."

The hermit, in the silence of his cell, was terrified to see how
hard it was to attain length of years according to the reckoning
of the angels; but he redoubled his zeal to discover the rare
treasure demanded by St. Michael. Seven Sundays having passed
away weeping and praying in the undercroft of the church of St.
Gerbold, shepherd of Bayeux, of learned memory, he saw the
archangel with his sword of gold coming toward him resplendent
with light. Troubled in the depths of his heart, the hermit said
to him humbly: "I have only one name to present thee, and this
name offers but little that is worthy of relating; yet I lay it
before thee." And he held forth the paper wet with his tears to
St. Michael, who took it, smiling meanwhile on the trembling
hermit.

The paper had hardly been placed in the angel's hands when the
sombre crypt was filled with a soft light; an unknown perfume
embalmed the air, and the hermit, almost ravished with ecstasy,
at once understood that the chosen one so long sought after was
at length found. ...

The elect soul rose like a blue vapor above the tower of the
church, above the lofty mountains, beyond the stars: it rose
luminous and full of majesty, till it came to the courts of the
New Jerusalem to take its place upon the dazzling throne awaiting
it among the angels.

"How old, then, is this soul according to the calendar of eternal
life?" were the first words addressed St. Michael by the hermit,
still on his knees.

And St. Michael graciously replied: "This saint was only
twenty-one years old according to the reckoning on earth, but he
was a hundred by that of the guardian angels who watch over
souls. Not one hour of his short life was lost for eternity. It
was not only not lost, but--which is necessary to attain length
of years that are meritorious and venerable in our eyes--not one
hour failed to be reckoned twice or thrice, and sometimes a
hundredfold, by the merit of his deeds of faith, hope, charity,
and mortification. Nothing is lost which is pleasing in the eyes
of the Lord. A glass of water given with love in his name becomes
a majestic river flowing on for ever and ever; while a treasure
given without love or from human motives is counted as nothing in
the great Book of Life! To really live, thou must love God while
exiled here below, as we love him in the home of the blessed.
Thou must also love thy neighbor, whose soul reflects the image
of its Maker."

With these words the angel disappeared, leaving behind him a long
train of light in the dim vaults of the crypt of St. Gerbold.

{856}

"O Lord!" cried the hermit "grant me a true knowledge of the
Christian life--the only life really worth the name--that at my
last hour I may not hear resounding above my head the terrible
words, _Too young!_ Teach me, O my God! the value of time,
which is only given us that we may lay up treasures for heaven.
Time is the money of eternity! time is the price of the Saviour's
blood! time, so fleeting, which we seek to kill, and which will
surely kill us; time, the inflexible tyrant who spares no one!
Oh! that I might in turn triumph over time by making it serve to
the sanctification of my soul and the winning of an eternal
crown."

            ----------

         New Publications.


  Dissertations, Chiefly On Irish Church History.
  By the late Rev. Matthew Kelly, D.D.
  Dublin: James Duffy. 1869.

Rev. Matthew Kelly, a canon of his native diocese of Ossory,
Ireland, and a Professor in Maynooth College, was one of the most
accomplished of the contemporaries of Dr. John O'Donovan,
Professor Eugene O' Curry, George Petrie, Rev. Dr. Todd, Very
Rev. Dr. Renehan, and the few other truly great Irish scholars of
the past and passing generations. He was a native of Kilkenny
City, and was barely in the forty-fourth year of his age when
called to his reward, Saturday, October 30th, 1858. He was a very
able writer on and investigator of Irish history, in all its
branches, particularly in the ecclesiastical and ethnological
lines, of which his editorial labors for the Celtic and
Archaeological Societies of Dublin, his editions of White's and
O'Sullivan's writings relative to Ireland, as well as of the
Martyrology of Tallacht, and his contributions to the Dublin
_Review_, Duffy's _Catholic Magazine_, the London
_Rambler_, etc., etc., have given abundant proof. He is more
widely known by general readers through his remarkable
translation of Gosselin's great work, _On the Power of the Pope
during the Middle Ages_. His friend and fellow-laborer, Rev.
Dr. McCarthy, has collected from the periodicals named, chiefly
from the _Dublin Review_, into this volume--for a copy of
which we are indebted to the Catholic Publication Society--
several dissertations by the lamented Dr. Kelly, chiefly on Irish
church history--an examination of which makes us deeply regret
that he was not spared to complete the labors in which he was
engaged, and which he had in contemplation at the time of his
death--which included nothing less desirable than a new and
thorough edition of the _Acta Sanctorum_ of Colgan; a new
edition and a continuation of Rev. Dr. John Lanigan's
_Ecclesiastical History of Ireland_; and the completion of
the publication, under such care as he was capable of bestowing,
of the Very Rev. Dr. Renehan's _Collections on Irish Church
History_. The volume before us should find a place in every
private as well as public collection that aims to have
represented in it the genuine scholarship of Ireland.

              ----

  A Few Friends, And How They Amused Themselves.
  A Tale in nine chapters; containing descriptions
  of twenty Pastimes and Games and a fancy-dress party.
  By M. E. Dodge, author of Hans Brinker and
  the Irvington Stories.
  Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co.

{857}

The author in this little book makes a happy effort to revive
amongst us again those pleasant, home-like games that give such a
charm to the fireside. Many of these pastimes are new, and all of
them interesting and amusing, requiring enough thought and wit to
keep one's faculties in pleasant activity. Society, it is true,
will scarcely condescend to be amused in so simple and cheerful a
way; but as it is a question whether it is ever heartily amused,
we can very well afford to set aside its ruling, and enjoy
ourselves with the pleasant pastimes of our "Few Friends." A
picture-gallery, such as is described in its pages, although it
might not provoke such artistic and wonderful criticisms as the
Academy of Design, would not yet fail to be very amusing. The
great charm of these games, as the author remarks in her preface,
is the bringing together the old and young, in the common pursuit
of pleasure.

             ----

  A Short Grammar Of Plain Chant,
  for the use of schools, seminaries, and
  religious communities.
  Troy, New York: P. J. Dooley. 1868.

It is with the sincerest pleasure we meet with any evidences of a
desire to return to the use of the Gregorian chant in the offices
of the church. Perfectly rendered, we know of no modern
compositions in figured music which can equal it in fitness or
grandeur. The best that can be said of timed music is, that it is
pleasing; that its varied harmonies delight the ear; and that in
the most worthy of such compositions there are pathetic, joyous,
and at times sublime expressions. But of the Gregorian chant only
can it be said that it edifies, compels to prayer and praise, and
never hints at the world, the flesh, or the devil. Like the
sacred vestments of the priest and the solemn ceremonies of
Catholic worship, it is a part of the outward expression of the
church's homage to God. It is the befitting song of the
sanctuary, and we are thankful the church has never sanctioned
any other.

To sing Gregorian chant as it should be sung is a science of its
own; a fact not a few of our musicians appear to be ignorant of;
and although the present little handbook does not pretend to be a
treatise on the subject, yet it may perhaps be found, in the
present state of our knowledge, a work better adapted to our
wants than a more extended and philosophical treatise would be.

It is a first book on chant for beginners, and gives in a concise
form all the preliminary notions upon which a further study may
be based. The author has divided it into three parts: the first
treating of the notation of plain chant; the second, of the
structure and peculiarities of the modes or tones; and the third,
or psalmody.

A convenient appendix has been added containing the different
intonations for High Mass and the Divine Office. The whole will
be found in strict conformity with the Roman Missal and Office
Books, a matter which we deem of no slight consequence. The
author, we observe, has followed the ordinary method (a faulty
one, we think) in the matter of the division of the Psalm tones
and the corresponding adaptation of the words. According to the
system commonly adopted in our choir-books and in works on plain
chant hitherto published in this country, the different
mediations and cadences would require at least four different
divisions or pointings of the Psalms. In fact, the rules laid
down by all masters in Gregorian chant for accentuation and the
adaptation of dactylic and monosyllabic words require only one
pointing of the Psalms for all the tones and their various
conclusions. We think this important point can be demonstrated,
although it would be out of place here.

As a book of first principles of the chant, we most heartily
commend this little volume to those for whose use it has been
prepared, and have no doubt that it will find its way into all
our seminaries and religious communities, and, we venture to hope
as well, into our schools. To our Catholic youth the song of the
church ought not to be an unintelligible jargon of sound. Let us
add, that the effort of the publisher in putting out a work of
this kind is deserving of the highest praise, and we trust will
be fully appreciated. The work bears the imprimatur of the Rt.
Rev. Bishop of Albany.

              ----

{858}

  The Law Of Love And Love As A Law;
  or, Moral Science, Theoretical and Practical.
  By Mark Hopkins, D.D., LL.D., President of Williams College.
  New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1869.

This volume, albeit of moderate size and pretensions, would
require an elaborate review to do it justice. The brief notice we
bestow on it must not therefore be taken as a criterion of our
estimate of its ability, or as a full and matured judgment upon
its doctrines and arguments in detail or in reference to special
points. Its general scope and tenor of thought and reasoning, we
can say without hesitation, are in accordance with Catholic
doctrine in respect to those matters which are clearly defined,
and in accordance with that system of moral philosophy which we
regard as the soundest and most rational on matters which are
open to discussion. The tone and spirit of the work are elevated,
its thought is strong, its style limpid and tranquil, its
sentiments generally moderate and conservative. The author
demolishes the wretched system of utilitarianism and several
other sophisms, by a few blows as quietly yet as effectually
given as those of a polar bear. He establishes also the freedom
of the will as the necessary condition of obligation, and thus
cuts up Calvinism root and branch. We should be glad to see a
more distinct statement of the absolute right of God over his
creatures as the author and preserver and sovereign Lord of the
creation, as the basis of the obligation to obey his laws and
those of his delegates even in things indifferent in themselves.
This would in no wise conflict with the doctrine of the author
that the reason of the eternal law is situated not merely in the
free determination of the divine will, but chiefly and radically
in the divine intelligence. The argument proving that all
morality is determined by the final cause, or the relation of
human acts to the ultimate end of man and creation, is admirable.
So also is the resolution of all the ends and motives of creation
into the _amor entis_, which is really the dominant idea in
the author's philosophy and forms the character of his book. It
is chiefly on account of this noble and elevated view that we
take occasion to commend it, and expect a very great good to be
done by it within the circle of the distinguished author's
influence.

              ----

  Mental Science.
  A Compendium of Psychology and the History of Philosophy.
  Designed as a text-book for high-schools and colleges.
  By Alexander Bain, M.A., Professor in the
  University of Aberdeen, etc.
  New York: Appletons. 1868.

We are willing to believe that this book may contain much
valuable information in regard to the history of philosophy,
physiology, and psychological phenomena. But as a text-book of
"Mental Science," it is an utter absurdity, since its fundamental
principle destroys all metaphysical certainty. It is the
quintessence of the worst and most absurd opinions of the
empirical school of Herbert Spencer and Mill, and therefore
simply a dose of intellectual strychnine. For the refutation of
this miscalled "Mental Science," we refer to all the
philosophical articles of this magazine.

----

  Light On The Last Things.
  By William B. Hayden.
  Publishing House of the New Jerusalem.
  20 Cooper Union. 1869.

We are rather surprised not to see on the title-page of this
book, "published by order of the archangel Gabriel." It gravely
informs us that the "Last Judgment foretold by Daniel, and in the
book of Revelation, took place as described in that book, in the
World of Spirits, in the year 1757, upon those who had
accumulated there since the Lord's first appearing thus finishing
the dispensation in _hades_. The last judgment once
inaugurated, continues to 'sit,' as expressed in Daniel; it
constantly proceeds hereafter, as explained in chapter vii.; the
vast accumulation of the evil communities there will no more be
allowed; it takes effect upon the multitudes who arise, at
longest, in a very few years." (P. 188.)
{859}
We are glad to have authentic intelligence of such a gratifying
nature. But this is not the best of it. "This removed evil
influences, for the most part, from the intermediate world,
replacing them with good influences. The heavens by the increase
of numbers, and by an increased endowment of love and wisdom from
the Lord, became more powerful, and began immediately, as a
consequence, to shed down their influences more powerfully upon
mankind, the church and the world. And they were moved nearer to
men by the Lord that they might effect this purpose." We shrewdly
suspect that our author has taken a moonlight ride on Mohammed's
_Alborac_. Whoever has the curiosity to seek for a brief and
easily readable summary of that fantastic system called
Swedenborgianism will find it in this little volume. In point of
credibility and reasonableness the doctrine of the New Jerusalem
Church is about on a level with that of the Koran and the Book of
Mormon, though more elevated and pure in its morality. There was
never anything more ridiculous than the pretension of its adepts
to be the true gnostics or spiritual men, and to look down on
Catholics as the psychical or half carnal. Their doctrine of the
incorporation of the Godhead is a crude and gross notion
incompatible alike with the principles of reason and revelation,
and rendering the formation of either a sound theology or a sound
philosophy impossible. The rest of their system is a tissue of
dreams and fancies resting on nothing more solid than the
imagination of Swedenborg, and without the slightest claim on the
attention of any reasonable man.

              ----

  Life Of The Blessed Charles Spinola, S.J.,
  with a sketch of the other Japanese Martyrs beatified on the
  9th of July, 1867.
  By Joseph Brockaert, S.J.
  New York. John G. Shea. 1869.

The subject of this memoir was a Jesuit missionary in Japan in
the seventeenth century, illustrious by birth but still more so
by his virtue. Interwoven with the sketch of his life and
martyrdom are many incidents of the history of Christianity and
its glorious confessors in Japan, and an interesting account of
the recent discovery of many thousands of Christians who have
preserved the faith handed down by their ancestors from the days
of persecution until the present time. The history of Japanese
Christianity will compare with that of the first ages of the
church, and is by itself a sufficient and overwhelming proof of
the divine truth of the Catholic religion. Such books as this
might be read with profit by every Catholic and by all who
profess the name of Christ.

              ----

  The Conscript: A Story of the French War of 1813.
  By MM. Erckmann-Chatrian.
  Translated from the twentieth Paris edition. With eight
  full-page illustrations.
  New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 1869.

Those of our readers who have already perused this story in our
pages, will doubtless be pleased to learn that it is at length
issued in a permanent and separate form. The volume needs no
commendation from us; and we believe that many American readers
will find in its pages new ideas of war and its horrors, even
although our own battle-fields are yet scarcely green.

              ----

  Outlines Of Composition.
  Designed to simplify and develop the principles
  of the Art by means of Exercises
  in the preparation of Essays, Debates,
  Lectures, and Orations. For the use
  of schools, colleges, and private students.
  By H. J. Zandee, and T. E. Howard, A.M.
  Boston: Published by Robert S. Davis & Co.
  New York: D. & J. Sadlier, and Oakley & Mason.
  Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co.
  Baltimore: Kelly & Piet.
  Chicago: S. C. Griggs & Co.
  St. Louis: Hendricks and Chittenden. 1869.

We take pleasure in noticing this Manual as an effort in the
right direction. In all the experience of school-children there
is nothing more difficult or perplexing than the art of
composition; and few, even of the most diligent, attain to any
degree of ease in its exercise until maturer years have taught
them the lesson which these outlines are intended to convey,
namely, that knowledge precedes speech, and thought goes before
expression.
{860}
The years which elapse while the young writer is learning "what
to say, and how to say it," will, in our view, be materially
diminished by the use of such works as this, and we are glad to
see, by its imprint, that publishers appreciate its value.

               ----

  Gray's School And Field Book Of Botany.
  Consisting of "First Lessons in Botany,"
  and "Field, Forest, and Garden Botany,"
  bound in one volume.
  By Asa Gray, Fisher Professor of Natural History in Harvard
  University.
  New York: Ivison, Phinney, Blakeman & Co.
  Chicago: S. C. Griggs & Co. 1869.

The works of Professor Gray have been too long before the public
and enjoy already too wide a reputation to make necessary any
extended notice of this new and collected edition. The volume now
before us is a fine octavo of more than 600 pages, and contains
both the principles of the science, and the classification and
description of various plants, to the number of nearly three
thousand species. The illustrations are very numerous and of
superior character; and the care which is displayed in the
revision of the work, and its adaptation to the latest
advancements of science, as well as the mechanical execution of
the book itself, recommend it to all lovers of "the Field, the
Forest, and the Garden."

               ----

  Charlie Bell, The Waif Of Elm Island.
  By Rev. Elijah Kellogg, author of
  _Spartacus to the Gladiators_,
  _Good Old Times_, etc.
  Boston: Lee & Shepard. 1868. pp. 325.

This book will assuredly suit those for whose special pleasure it
was written. It abounds in stirring incident and thrilling
adventure on sea and shore, which, though sometimes some what
exaggerated, will not render it less acceptable to its juvenile
readers. A good moral lesson, although not made obtrusively
prominent, is taught in the gratitude of the orphan Charlie to
his kind protectors. How true, too, and how boylike his remark to
his "mother," on her expressing doubt as to his ability to
accomplish a certain project, "O mother! when a boy gets anything
in his head, he is bound to do it, by hook or by crook."

               ----

The "Catholic Publication Society" will soon publish a new volume
for youth, entitled, _Glimpses of Pleasant Homes_, by the
authoress of the _Life of Mother McAuley_, etc. It will be
beautifully illustrated and got out in the best style of the art.

The same Society will also soon publish

  _Why People do not Believe; or, the Cause of Infidelity_,
  translated from the French of Mgr. Lapot, of Louvain
  University;

  _Not Yet: A Story of To-Day_, by Miss Oxenham;

  _Impressions of Spain_, by Lady Herbert, illustrated;

  _Tales for the Many; The Life of Father Ravignan_;

  Aubrey de Vere's _Irish Odes_;

  and the third series of
  _Illustrated Sunday-School Library_,
  will be ready in a few days.

              ----

        Books Received.

The Triumph Of Faith. A Lecture delivered in the hall of the
Cooper Institute, by the Rev. Thomas S. Preston, on the First
Anniversary of the Church of the Epiphany, Sunday evening,
January 10, 1869.
New York: Robert Coddington, Publisher, 366 Bowery. 1869.

              ----

Report Of The Secretary Of The Treasury On The State Of The
Finances For The Year 1868. Washington: Government Printing
Office.

              ----

Tales of a Grandfather.
By Sir Walter Scott,
Bart. Second Series. A.D. 1603 to 1707.
W. W. Swayne, New York and Brooklyn.






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