The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Catholic World. Volume II; Numbers 7,
8, 9, 10, 11, 12., by E. Rameur

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Title: The Catholic World. Volume II; Numbers 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12.
       A Monthly Eclectic Magazine

Author: E. Rameur

Release Date: June 24, 2012 [EBook #40068]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1


Produced by Don Kostuch

[Transcriber's notes]
This text is derived from

Page numbers in this book are indicated by numbers enclosed in curly braces, e.g. {99}. They have been located where page breaks occurred in the original book.

Footnotes generally appear following the paragraph in which they are positioned. If the paragraph is exceptionally long they will be placed within the paragraph immediately following their position.

Between typesetting, inking and scanning there are many illegible words. I have reviewed the images carefully but some words are guesses. Question marks replace totally unknown letters.

Although square brackets [] usually designate footnotes or transcriber's notes, they do appear in the original text.

This text includes Volume II;
Number 7—October 1865
Number 8—November 1865
Number 9—December 1865
Number 10—January 1866
Number 11—February 1866
Number 12—March 1866
[End Transcriber's notes]



Monthly Eclectic Magazine




OCTOBER, 1865, TO MARCH, 1866.





Adventure, The, 843.
Anglican and Greek Church, Attempt at Union between the, 65.
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity, 71, 199, 377, 507, 697, 816.
Ancient Laws of Ireland, The, 129.
Anglicanism and the Greek Schism, 429.
Ancient Faculty of Paris, The, 496, 681.

Bell Gossip, 32.
Birds, Migration of, 57.
Bruges, The Capuchin of, 237.
Bossuet and Leibnitz, 433.

Catholic Congresses at Malines and Würzburg, 1, 221, 331, 519
Constance Sherwood, 37, 160, 304, 455, 614, 759.
Chinese Characteristics, 102.
Catholic Settlements In Pennsylvania, 145.
Capuchin of Bruges. The, 237.
Christmas Carols, A Bundle of, 349.
Christendom, Formation of, 856.
Calcutta and its Vicinity, A Ride through, 386.
Christmas Eve: or, The Bible, 397.
Charles II. and his Son, Father James Stuart, 577.
Canton, Up and Down, 656.
California and the Church, 790.
Charles II.'s Last Attempt to Emancipate The Catholics, 827.

Duc d'Ayen, The Daughters of the, 252.

Epidemics, Past and Present, 420.

Formation of Christendom, The, 356.

Gallitzin, Rev. Demetrius Augustin, 145.
Gertrude, Saint, Thoughts on, 406.
Genzano, The Inflorata of, 608.
Glastonbury Abbey, Past and Present, 662.

Handwriting, 695.

Inside the Eye, 119.
Ireland before Christianity, 541.

Kingdom without a King, 705.

Leibnitz and Bossuet, 433.
Law and Literature, 560.

Malines and Würzburg, Catholic Congresses in, 1, 221, 332, 519.
Marie Louise, Napoleon's Marriage with, 12.
Migrations of European Birds, 57.
Miscellany, 136, 276, 563, 714, 853.
Moricière, General De La, 289.
Malta, Siege of, 483.
Mistaken Identity, 707.
Mary, Queen of Scots, The Two Friends of, 813.

Natural History of the Tropics, Gleanings from, 178
Novel Ticket-of-leave, A, 707.

Pierre Prévost's Story, 110.
Pen, Slips of the, 272.
Paris, The Ancient Faculty of, 496, 681.
Pusey, Dr., on the Church of England, 530.
Positivism, 791.
Plain-Work, 740.
Procter, Adelaide Anne, Poems of, 837.

Récamier, Madame, and her Friends, 79.
Rome, Facts and Fictions about, 325.
Religious Statistics of the World, 491.
Rhodes, The Colossus of, 544.

Steam Engine, The Inventor of, 211.
Saturnine Observations, A Few, 266.
Slips of the Pen, 272.
Saints of the Desert, 274, 453, 655, 835.
Saint Catharine of Siena, Public Life of, 547.
Saint Patrick, The Birth place of, 744.

True to the Last, 110.
The Eye, Inside of, 119.
Tropics, Gleanings from the Natural History of, 178
The Clouds and the Poor, 213
The Bible; or, Christmas Eve, 397.
The Adventure, 848.

World, Religious Statistics of the, 491.


An English Maiden's Love, 27.

Better Late than Never, 454.
Books, 495.

Children, The, 70.
Christmas Carol, A, 419, 559.
City Aspirations, 680.

"Dum  Spiro Spero," 159.

Falling Stars, 348.

Inquietus, 704

Kirkstall Abbey, 36.
Keviaar, Pilgrimage to, 127.

Little Things, 836.

Properzia Rossi, 235.
Patience, 812.

Resigned, 654.

Song of the Year, 490.
Saint Elizabeth, 529.

Tender and True and Tried, 385.
The Round of the Waters, 396.
The Better Part, 757.

Unshed Tears, 789.

Winter Signs, 198.



Archbishop Hughes's Complete Works, 282.
American Republic, The, 714.
Andrew Johnson, Life of, 856.

Banim's Works, 286.
Baker, Rev. F. A., Memoir and Sermons of, 566.
Brownson's American Republic, 714.
Brincker, Hans, 719.

Catholic Anecdotes, 287.
Cobden, Richard, Career of, 860.
Complete Works of Archbishop Hughes, 282.
Croppy, The, 859.

Darras' History of the Church, 143.
De Guérin, Eugénie, Journal of, 716.
Draper's Civil Policy of America, 858.

England, Froude's History of, 676.

Faith, the Victory, Bishop McGill's, 575.

Hedge's Reason in Religion, 430.
Holmes, Oliver W., Humorous Poems, 576.

Lives of the Popes, 288.

Mother Juliana's Sixteen Revelations, 281.
Metropolites, The, 287.
Memoir and Sermons of Rev. F. A. Baker, 566.
Manning's Temporal Mission of the Holy Ghost, 568.
Merry Christmas, A Cantata, 719.
Monthly, The, 719.
Mozart, Letters of, 856.

Newman's, Rev. Dr., History of Religious Opinions, 139.
Nicholas of the Flue, 718.

Remy St. Remy, 287.
Reason in Religion, 430.

Sixteen Revelations of Mother Juliana, 281.
Sherman's Great March, Story of, 283.
Saint John of the Cross, Works of, 432.
Spelling Book, The Practical Dictation, 576.
Spare Hours, 718.
St. Teresa, Life of, 855.

Thoreau's Cape Cod, 283.
The Old House by the Boyne, 26.
The Christian Examiner, 573, 717.

United States Cavalry, History of, 858.

Vade Mecum, The Catholic's, 859.




VOL. II., NO. 7.—OCTOBER, 1865.

Translated from the German.





The Catholic Congresses in Belgium are of more recent date than the general conventions of all Catholic societies in Germany. The political commotions of 1848 burst the chains which had fettered the German Church, and ushered in a period of renewed religious life and activity. This new and glorious era was inaugurated by the council of twenty-six German bishops at Würzburg, which lasted from Oct 22 to Nov. 16, 1848. There it was that our prelates boldly seized the serpent of German revolution, and in their hands the serpent was turned into a budding rod, the stay alike of Church and state.

Since then sixteen years have rolled by; sixteen general conventions have been held, each of which gained for its participants the respect of the public. Powerful was the influence exerted by these meetings on the religious life of the laity, as is shown both by the numerous and active associations that arose everywhere, and by the general spirit of enterprise which they fostered. By their means, the spirit and principles of the Church were made known to the Catholic laity, whose actions they were not slow to influence.

To these meetings may be traced, directly or indirectly, whatever good was accomplished within the past sixteen years in Catholic Germany; every part of Germany has felt their beneficial effects; they were well suited to perform the task allotted them; and have thus far at least attained the end for which they were called into existence.

These meetings were associations of laymen; of laymen penetrated with the spirit of faith, devoted to the Church, and fully convinced that in matters relating to the government of the Church, to the realization of the liberty and independence due to the Church, their only duty was to listen to the voice of their pastors, and to follow devotedly the lead of a {2} hierarchy they respected and revered. Though for the most part but one third of the members of the annual conventions were laymen, the lay character of the conventions is still theoretically asserted, and appears to some extent at least in practice, inasmuch as the president of the convention is always a layman, and the principal committee is mainly composed of laymen. The preference is also given to lay orators. The society of laymen submitted the constitution drafted and adopted at its first meeting, held at Mayence in 1848, not only to the Holy Father, but to all the bishops of Germany, who joyfully approved its sentiment, and expressed their interest in the welfare of the society. The same course is pursued to the present day; each of the sixteen general conventions maintained the most intimate relations with the German bishops and the Holy See.

In honor of the present pontiff, Pius IX., these associations at first adopted the name of Piusvereine, thus paying a just tribute of respect to the Holy Father. For Pius IX., during his long pontificate of almost twenty years, has become the leading spirit of the age; we live in the age of Pius IX. It was he who brought into vogue modern ideas, and he was the first to do justice to the wants of the age. As the historian now speaks of the age of Gregory VII. and Innocent III., so will the future historian write of the age of Pius IX. The true sons of the nineteenth century are gathered to fight under the banners of the many Catholic associations which, founded for the purpose of putting to flight the threatening assaults of infidelity, have spread during the pontificate of Pius IX. over every portion of the globe. In Switzerland the original name of these societies is retained; in Germany, owing to their branching out into numerous similar associations, it has disappeared, and we now speak of a "general convention of the Catholic associations in Germany."

The first general convention took place toward the beginning of October, 1848, in the ancient electoral palace at Mayence. Hundreds of noble spirits from every quarter of Germany met here, as if by magic; the Spirit of God had convened them. Meeting for the first time, they felt at once that they were friends and brothers. There was no discord, no embarrassment, for on all hearts rested a deep consciousness of the unity, the power, and the charity of their common faith. Whoever was present at this first gathering of the Catholics of Germany, owned to himself that by no scene which he had previously witnessed had he been so profoundly impressed. Opposite the stand from which the speakers were to address the meeting sat Bishop Kaiser, of Mayence, whilst most prominent among the orators of the occasion appeared his destined successor, Baron Emmanuel von Ketteler, who was at that time pastor of the poor and insignificant parish of Hopsten. Writing of him, Beda Weber said: "His determined character is a fresh and living type of the German nation, of its universality, its history, and its Catholic spirit. In his heart he bears the great and brave German race with all its countless virtues, and hence springs the peculiar boldness of his words, asserting that the revolution is but a means to rear the edifice of the German Church, an edifice destined to be far statelier than the cathedral of Cologne. His form was tall and powerful, his features marked, expressing at once his fearlessness, his energy, and his Westphalian devotion to God and the Church, to the emperor and the nation. The words of Baron von Ketteler acted irresistibly on all present, for they were but the echo of their own sentiments." Such was the impression then produced by the man who is now looked upon by the Catholics of Germany as their standard-bearer.

The voice of Beda Weber too was heard on that occasion. Frankfort had not as yet become the scene of his {3} labors as pastor, for he was still professor at Meran. He was a member of the German parliament, then holding its sessions at Frankfort, and like many other Catholic fellow members had come to Mayence for the purpose of assisting at the first general reunion of the Catholic societies. His eloquence likewise called forth immense enthusiasm. Strong and energetic, sometimes pointed and unsparing, a vigorous son of the mountains, manly, noble, and respected, he came forth at a most opportune moment from the solitude of his mountains and his cell, in order to take part in the struggles of his age and become their historian. A master at painting characters, he has written unrivalled sketches of the German parliament and clergy. Equally successful as an orator, a poet, a historian, and a contributor to periodical literature, Beda Weber was distinguished no less by a childlike heart and a nice appreciation of the beautiful in nature and art, than by manly force and an untiring zeal for what is true and good. His deep and extensive learning has proved a useful weapon at all times. His writings were read throughout Germany, and to the rising generation Beda Weber has been an efficient instructor and director.

Döllinger of Munich was also present; he spoke for the twenty-three members of the German parliament, maintaining that the concessions granted to Catholics by that body would necessarily lead to the entire independence of the Church and the liberty of education. At a meeting of the Rhenish-Westphalian societies, held at Cologne in May, 1849, the learned provost delivered another speech, which was at that time considered one of the best, most timely, and most telling efforts of German eloquence. Döllinger's speech at the third general convention, which took place at Regensburg in October, 1849, was hailed as one of the few consoling signs of that gloomy period. It was a masterpiece of oratory, that brought conviction to all minds, and which will prove a lasting monument of German eloquence. The interest Döllinger displayed in these conventions should not be forgotten. He is entitled to our respect and gratitude for his aid in laying the foundations of the edifice; its completion he might well leave to others.

The other members of the parliament that spoke at Mayence were Osterrath, of Dantzic; von Bally, a Silesian; A. Reichensperger, of Cologne; Prof. Sepp, of Munich; and Prof. Knoodt, of Bonn. One of the most impressive speakers was Forster of Breslau, at that time canon of the Metropolitan church of Silesia, now prince-bishop of one of the seven principal sees in the world. Germany looks upon him as her best pulpit orator. Listen to the words of one who heard Forster at Mayence: "The chords of his soul are so delicate that every breath calls forth a sound, and as he must frequently encounter the storms of the world, we may readily pardon the deep melancholy which tinges his words. As he spoke, his heart was weighed down by the troubles of the times, and grief was pictured in his countenance, for he saw no prospect of reconciliation between the conflicting elements. He has no faith in a speedy settlement of the relations between Church and state, such a settlement as will allow freedom of action to the former. To him the revolution appears to be a divine judgment, punishing the clergy for their negligence, and chastising the laity for their crimes. His voice possesses a rich melody, which speaks in powerful accents to the heart. It sounds like the solemn chimes of a bell, waking every mind to the convictions which burst forth from the depth of his soul. He is an orator whose words seem like drops of honey, and whose faith and devotion call forth our love and our gratitude."

The best known of the Frankfort representatives were, Arndts, of Munich; Aulicke, of Berlin; Flir, of {4} Landeck; Kutzen, of Breslau; von Linde, of Darmstadt; Herman Müller, of Würtzburg; Stülz of St. Florian; Thinnes, of Eichstädt; and Vogel, of Dillingen.

The noble Baron Henry von Andlaw also assisted at the convention in Mayence. For sixteen years this chivalric and devoted defender of the Church has furthered by every means in his power the success of the Catholic conventions, and his name will often appear in these pages. Chevalier Francis Joseph von Buss, of Freiburg, was president of the meeting at Mayence. Buss is the founder of the Catholic associations in Germany; to him above all others was due the success of the convention at Mayence, and he it was who laid down the principles on which are based the Catholic societies throughout Germany, and which are the chief source of their efficacy. In 1848 Buss was in the flower of his age, fresh and vigorous in body and mind. All Germany was acquainted with his writings, his exertions, his sufferings, and his struggles. He was no novice on the battle-field, for he had passed through a fiery ordeal, and bore the marks of wounds inflicted both by his own passions and by the broken lances of his enemies. Naturally an agitator, and an enthusiast for ideas, bold, quick, and intrepid, he united restless activity and unquenchable ardor with the most self-sacrificing devotion. He is distinguished for extensive learning, a powerful imagination, and for the force and flow of his language. So constant and untiring have been his exertions for the liberty and independence of the Church, that one who is no mean painter of men and character has lately styled him the Bayard of the Church in the nineteenth century. The last time I saw and heard the Chevalier von Buss was in the convention held at Frankfort in 1862. His imposing figure, his bold commanding eye, his fiery patriotic heart, his glowing fancy, his powerful ringing voice, all were unchanged. His speeches exert the magic influence which belongs to an enthusiastic, powerful, and penetrating mind. Age has whitened his hair, wrinkles furrow his noble features, his life is on the wane. A glance at Catholic Germany and the growth of the Church during the past sixteen years, will reflect a bright consoling radiance on the evening of his life.

We must still mention one of the founders and chief stays of the Catholic general conventions, and one who, alas, is no more. I refer to Dr. Maurice Lieber, attorney and counsellor at Camberg in Nassau, one of the most active members at Mayence in 1848; he was elected president of the second general convention at Breslau in 1849. He was present at the first seven general meetings, and at Salzburg in 1857 filled the chair a second time. At Cologne, in 1858, this honor would again have been conferred on him had he not declined. Maurice Lieber seems by nature to have been designed to preside at these assemblies. Of a noble appearance, he combined dignity with gentleness, force and decision with moderation; his remarks were always to the point. An able and spirited writer and journalist, he contributed in a great measure to make the public acquainted with the aim and object of the newly founded association. He never grew weary of scattering good and fruitful seed, and his writings as well as his speeches were life-inspiring, strengthening, purifying productions. The name of Maurice Lieber will ever be honored.

Beside the eminent men above mentioned, those whose exertions aided in calling into existence the Catholic general conventions in Germany are Lennig, vicar-general at Mayence, Prof. Riffel, Himioben, now dead, and lastly, Heinrich and Moufang, who have been present at almost every meeting.

So many illustrious names are connected with the foundation of the {5} Catholic congress in Belgium that to do all justice will be extremely difficult.

The political and religions status of Belgium is sufficiently well known. In Belgium there are but two parties; the one espouses the cause of God, the other supports that of Antichrist. These parties are on the point of laying aside entirely their political character and of opposing each other on religious grounds. War is inevitable, war to the knife; either party must perish. "To be or not to be, that is the question."

Outnumbering the Catholics in parliament, the followers of Antichrist eagerly use their superiority to trample their opponents in the dust and, if possible, annihilate them. The people is the stronghold of the latter; for the great majority of the Belgians are Catholics, sincere, fervent, self-sacrificing Catholics. They yield support neither to the rationalists nor to the solidaires and affranchis. Day by day the influence of the Catholic leaders increases; they are whetting their swords, and gathering recruits to fight for Christ and his Church. The congress at Malines is their rendezvous, as it were. Even the first congress, that of 1863, exerted a magic influence; the drowsy were aroused from their lethargy, and the faint-hearted were inspired with confidence; they saw their strength and felt it. In that congress we see the beginning of a new epoch in the religious history of Belgium.

The Belgium congresses are imitations of the Catholic conventions in Germany. A number of men used their best endeavors to bring about the congress of 1863, and for this they deserve our respect and gratitude. We shall mention but a few of the many.

Dumortier will head our list. He is one of the most powerful speakers in Belgium, a ready debater, a valiant champion of the Catholic cause, whose delight it is to fight for his principles. Dumortier has the power of kindling in his hearers his own enthusiasm, as he proved in 1863 at Aix-la-chapelle. He has all the qualities of an agitator, and these qualities were the cause of his success in bringing about the congress of 1863. When indignant, Dumortier inspires awe; his brow is clouded, and like a hurricane he sweeps everything before him. It is the anger of none but noble spirits that increases our affection for them. Once only I saw Dumortier swell with just indignation, and I seldom witnessed a spectacle more sublime.

Ducpetiaux was the soul of the congresses at Malines. To singular talent for organization he joins a burning zeal for the interests of Catholicity, and to them he devotes every day and hour of his life. No sacrifice is too great, no labor too exhausting, if it is needed to further the Catholic cause. As general secretary, he is in communication with the leading men of Catholic Europe. At his call Catholics from every country flocked to Malines. Ducpetiaux was the ruling mind of the congress, for the president had intrusted him, to a great extent, with its management. Cautious, subtle, and quick, he is prompt in action, though no great speaker. The most numerous assembly would be obedient to his nod. Ducpetiaux is no stranger to Germany, for he was among us at Aix-la-chapelle in 1862, and at Würzburg in 1864, and the whole-souled remarks made by him on the latter occasion will long ring in our memory. He is an international character, a type of the nineteenth century. By the interest a man takes in the movements and ideas of his age, and by his intercourse with prominent characters, we may easily estimate his influence. To Germany a general secretary like Ducpetiaux would be of inestimable advantage.

Viscount de Kuckhove must not be passed over in silence. A thorough well bred gentleman, he is familiar with the nations and languages of {6} Europe. He is a man of mind, energy, and prudence, and of a dazzling appearance. He seems the embodiment of elegance. His speeches sparkle with delicate touches and are distinguished for refinement. His voice is somewhat shrill and sharp, but melodious withal. In Belgium the viscount ranks as an orator equal to Dechamps and Dumortier. His favorite scheme, to the promotion of which he gives his entire energies, is the closest union among Catholics of all countries. At times he expresses this idea so forcibly that he is misunderstood, but in itself the scheme is praiseworthy, and has been more or less realized in the age of Pius IX.

Baron von Gerlache now demands our attention. He was president of the congress both in 1863 and in 1864. If I were writing his biography, how eventful a life would it be my lot to portray! Baron Gerlache is identified with Belgian history since 1830; for more than forty years he has been acknowledged by the Catholics in Belgium as their head. In 1831 he had no mean share in forming the Belgian constitution, a constitution based on political eclecticism, which at that time satisfied all parties, and which promised even-handed justice to all. Gerlache has ever been the loyal defender of this constitution; Belgium has not a more devoted son. He is a historian and a statesman. But the Church too claims his affection, the great and holy Catholic Church. All Belgium listens to his voice, and his words sometimes become decrees. He speaks with dignity and moderation, with caution and prudence; he is always guided by reason, and never loses sight of facts. His energies spent in the course of a life of seventy-two years, he is no longer understood as well as formerly; his voice has become too weak to address an assemblage of six thousand persons; but there is in it something so solemn, so moving, that his hearers seem spell-bound. His language is appropriate, and at times approaches sublimity. Baron Gerlache is as much the idol of the Catholics of Belgium as O'Connell was of the Irish; he is as respected as Joseph von Grörres was in Germany; he is the Godfrey de Bouillon of the great Belgian crusade of the nineteenth century. Great men seldom appear alone; around them are grouped many minor characters, well worthy of a niche in the temple of fame. The most prominent of those who have fought side by side with Baron von Gerlache are the Count de Theux, a veteran in political warfare, generous, able, and experienced in the art of governing; the Baron della Faille, a man distinguished for the dignity of his demeanor and the nobility of his character; his manners are captivating, and his features bear the impress of calmness, moderation, and judgment; the Viscount Bethune of Ghent, a venerable old man, whose countenance beams with piety, and who in the course of a long career has gathered a store of wisdom and experience; General Capiaumont, a man immovable as a rock, and full of chivalrous sentiments. These venerable men were seated on each side of the President von Gerlache. But the other members are no less worthy of notice. To hear and see such men produces a profound impression.

Dechamps, the mighty Dechamps, the lion of Flanders and Brabant, must not be forgotten. He stands at the head of the Belgian statesmen, brave as Achilles, the terror of the so-called liberals. Dechamps was one of the pearls of the last congress; his mere appearance had a magic effect; the few words he addressed to the assembly before its organization called forth a storm of applause; he electrifies his hearers by his bold and sparkling ideas.

We must next call attention to Joseph de Hemptinne. The owner of immense factories, he employs thousands of laborers, and freely devotes his fortune to the cause of the Church. He also contributed to the success of {7} the congress of Malines. His employés owe him a debt of gratitude. Like a father, he cares for their corporal and spiritual welfare, accompanies them when going to assist at mass, and with them he says the beads and receives the sacrament. De Hemptinne is entirely devoted to his country and his faith; his countenance is a mirror that reflects a pure and guileless soul, deeply imbued with religious feeling. It has seldom been my good fortune to meet as amiable a man as Joseph de Hemptinne.

Perin next demands our notice. He fills a professorship at Louvain, and is well known to the public by his writings. In the congress be was noted as an adroit business man. Possessing a refined mind, stored with manifold attainments, he exerts a peculiar, I might almost say magic, influence on those with whom he deals. His fine piercing eye beams with knowledge, not mere book learning, but the knowledge of men, whilst his noble forehead is stamped with the seal of uncommon intellectual power. In his language as well as in his actions Perin is extremely graceful; he might not inaptly be styled the doctor elegantissimus. Count Villermont of Brussels is well known in Germany, and respected for his historical researches. At Malines he displayed extraordinarily activity. True, he seems to be no favorite of the graces—the warrior appears in all his actions. On seeing him, I imagined I beheld the colonel of one of Tilly's Walloon regiments. This circumstance must surprise us all the more, as the count is not only a diligent student of history and a generous supporter of the Catholic press in Belgium, but also a man who takes a lively interest in every charitable undertaking and in the social amelioration of his country. Would to God that Germany had many Counts Villermont! Monsignor de Ram the rector magnificus of the university of Louvain, was the representative of Belgian science at Malines. Ever since its establishment, he has been at the head of that institution, which he has governed with a firm and steady hand. He is the pride of Belgium, eminent, perhaps the most eminent, among all her sons. His authority is most ample, and to it we must probably trace the majestic calmness that distinguishes his whole being, for to me de Ram appears to be the personification of dignity. At the proper moment, however, he knows how to display the volubility and affable manners of the Roman prelate.

Many illustrious Belgian names might still be mentioned, but we will speak of them in a more appropriate place.

The Belgian congresses differ in some respects from the Catholic conventions in Germany, for the latter are by no means so well attended as the former. At the German meetings, the number of members never exceeded fifteen hundred; only six hundred representatives were present at the convention of Frankfort in 1863, whilst that of Breslau in 1849 mustered scarcely two hundred members. In 1863 four thousand, and in 1864 no less than five thousand, were present at the Malines congress. The sight of this army, full of fervor and of zeal to do battle for the faith, involuntarily reminds us of the warriors who were marshalled under the banners of Godfrey for the purpose of achieving the conquest of Jerusalem and the Holy Land. Or it recalls to our mind the great council of Clermont (Nov., 1095), at which the entire assembly, hurried away by the eloquent appeals of Urban II., shouted with one accord "Deus lo volt," "God wills it," and swore to deliver Jerusalem from the tyranny of the Moslems. The members of the Catholic congresses are the crusaders of the nineteenth century, for in their own way they too battle for Christendom against its enemies, falsehood and malice.

Belgium is a small kingdom, Malines the central point where all its railroads converge; it is a Catholic {8} country, boasting of a numerous clergy both secular and regular; it is an international country, the Lombardy of the north. Its position has made it the connecting link between the Romanic and Teutonic races, between the continent and England. Thus situated, Belgium is a rendezvous equally convenient for the German, the Frenchman, and the Briton. Moreover, Belgium has ever been the battle ground of Germany and France: where can be found a more suitable spot on which to decide the great struggle for the freedom of the Church? This explains sufficiently the numerous attendance of the Belgium congress. In addition to the foreign element, the congress at Malines calls forth the entire intellectual strength of Belgium, both lay and clerical No one remains at home; all are brethren fighting for the same cause; all wish to imbibe new vigor, to gather new courage for the struggle, for the congress acts like the spiritual exercises of a mission.

Very different is the situation of Germany. Much larger than Belgium, its most central point is at a considerable distance from its extremities. Beside, the conventions do not even meet at the most convenient point, but change their place of meeting every year. Suppose, therefore, the convention is held in some city on the French border, say Freiburg, or Treves, or Aix-la-chapelle, this arrangement will render it very difficult for the delegates from the opposite extremity of the empire to attend, the more so since it is not likely that the German railroad companies will reduce their fares to half price, as was done by the Belgium government roads. Lastly, our language, difficult in itself, and especially so to the Romanic races, who are not distinguished for extensive philological learning, will prevent many from attending our meetings.

For these reasons, the German reunions are hardly an adequate representation of the Church militant; comparatively few can attend, the majority must remain at home. For the most part, our conventions are chiefly composed of delegates from the district or diocese in which they are held. Nevertheless, every German tribe has its representative, and Germany, with its many tribes and states, is by no means an inappropriate emblem of the European family of nations.

The hall of the Petit Seminaire at Malines, where the Belgian congress meets, is spacious and well fitted for its purpose; it will seat six thousand persons. Nevertheless, only such as have admission tickets, which cannot be obtained except at extravagant prices, can assist at the sessions. The public in general are excluded, and but few seats are reserved for ladies. On the other hand, the German convention, which meets now in one city, then in another, desires and encourages, above all things, the attendance of the inhabitants of the city where it meets. In every city it has scattered fruit-producing seed. At one place, the convention called into existence a society for the promotion of Christian art; at another, an altar society, a conference of St. Vincent de Paul, or a social club; and in many cities it inspired new religious life and activity. In fact, if the city for some reason cannot assist at the meetings, as was the case in Würzburg, one of the most important ends of the convention is defeated. The congress at Malines is too numerous to travel from place to place; moreover, its meetings are not annual, as are those of the German conventions.

The congress of Malines, like the German convention, claims to be a congress of laymen. But though here, too, the principal committee is mainly composed of laymen, the assembly has almost lost its lay character. Among the laymen, however, who attend the Belgian congress, there are many excellent speakers, in fact these are more numerous than in Germany.


All the Belgian bishops were present at Malines. Whilst in Germany but one or two bishops assist at the convention, the daily meetings of the Malines congress were attended by the primate of Belgium, Cardinal Sterex, and the bishops of Bruges, Namur, Ghent, Liege, and Doornik. The bishops took part in the debates, and in 1864 the speech of Monseigneur Dupanloup was the event of the day, whilst the congress of 1863 had been distinguished by the presence of the illustrious archbishop of Westminster, Cardinal Wiseman. Whenever the bishops appeared, they were welcomed with bursts of enthusiasm. For a full week might be witnessed the most friendly intercourse between the bishops and the other members of the congress, and thus the bonds of affectionate love already existing between the hierarchy, the clergy, and the laity were drawn still closer.

The nobility too of Flanders and Brabant, nay of all Belgium, was well and worthily represented. On the rolls of the Malines congress we meet the most illustrious Belgian names, names pregnant with historic interest. The German nobles, on the contrary, have thus far paid little attention to what is nearest and dearest to mankind, the interests of humanity and religion. True, the Rhenish-Westphalian nobility appeared in considerable numbers and displayed praiseworthy zeal at the conventions of Aix-la-chapelle, Frankfort, and Würzburg, nevertheless there is still room for improvement. Thus far the Bavarian and Franconian nobles have taken no part in furthering the restoration of the Church in Germany, and of the same indifference the Austrian nobility were accused by Count Frederick von Thun, of Vienna. Still, what a blessing for the nobility if they devoted their influence to the service of the Church! The consequence would be the regeneration of the German nobility. May God grant that the German nobles, like those of Belgium, will join in cordially promoting our great and sacred cause. Leaders are not wanting, men of talent, energy, and devotion, such as the Prince Charles of Löwenstein, Werthheim, and Prince Charles of Isenburg-Birstein.

The professors of the university at Louvain were not only present at Malines, but worked with their usual energy and ability in the different sections of the congress. They presented to the world the noble spectacle of laymen uniting learning with zeal for religion and devotion to the Church, a spectacle seldom witnessed in Germany. Of the two thousand professors and fellows of the twenty-two German universities, how many are there who, untainted by pride and self-sufficiency, call the Church their mother? It is the union of knowledge and piety that produces genuine men, worthy of admiration, and at Malines such men were not scarce.

At Malines the foreigners were well represented; in the German conventions but few make their appearance. Twice did France send her chosen warriors to the congress—the first time in 1863, led by Montalembert, at present the most brilliant defender of the Church, and again in 1864, under the Bishop of Orleans, called by some the Bossuet of our day. In August, 1863, the Tuileries were anxiously occupied with the speeches held in the Petit Seminaire at Malines, for in France despotism has gagged free speech, and there a congress of Catholic Europe is an impossibility; the Caesar's minions would tolerate no such assembly.

Next to the French delegation, the German, led by A. Reichensperger, of Cologne, was the most numerous. There might also be seen a noble band of Englishmen, and their speaker, Father Herman the convert, seemed another St Bernard preaching the crusade. Spain, Italy, Ireland, Hungary, Poland, Brazil, the United States, Palestine, the Cape of Good Hope, almost every country on the globe, were represented at Malines. True, the assembly was by no means {10} as large as the multitude that met in Rome on June 8, 1862, when Pius IX. saw gathered around him in St. Peter's church three hundred prelates, thousands of priests, and forty to fifty thousand laymen, representing every nation of the earth. Still, the congress at Malines brings to recollection those immense gatherings of bygone times, where princes and bishops, nobles and priests, met to provide for the welfare of the nations committed to their charge.

The Malines congress is in its infancy, still the general committee has displayed rare ability. All business matters are intrusted to a few, whilst in Germany there is a great want of order, owing partly to the inexperience of the local committees, and partly to the scarcity of men versed in parliamentary proceedings. At the Mayence convention in 1848, want of preparation might be excused; the subsequent meeting had not the same claims on our indulgence. The Frankfort reunion in 1863 attempted to remedy the evil and partly succeeded, but until an efficient general committee be established, many irregularities must be expected. At Malines the delegates are furnished with a programme of the questions to be discussed in the different sections; at Würzburg, on the contrary, the convention seemed at first scarcely to know the purpose for which it had been convened. In Germany, the bureau of direction is composed of three presidents and sundry honorary members and secretaries; at Malines it consists of fifty to sixty officers of the congress, and the list of honorary vice-presidents is at times very formidable. In Belgium secret sessions are unknown, whilst in Germany it often happens that the most important proceedings are decided upon in secret session, whereas the public meetings are mainly devoted to the delivery of brilliant speeches. At Malines the resolutions adopted by the different sections are passed upon in a short session, seldom attended by more than one-fifth of all the delegates. One evil at the Belgium congress is the imperfect knowledge of the German character and of the religious status of Germany. As the Romanic nations will never learn our language, it remains for us to supply the deficiency. We must go to Malines, and expound our views in French both in the sections and before the full congress. A. Reichensperger pursued the proper course in the section of Christian art. With surpassing ability he defended the principles of the Church, triumphantly he came forth from the contest, and many were prevailed upon to adopt his views. No doubt men like Reichensperger are not found every day, nevertheless we might easily send one or two able representatives to every section of the congress. If some one were to do for Germany what Cardinal Wiseman did for England in 1863, when he set forth in clear and forcible language the state of Catholicity in that country, he would deserve the everlasting gratitude of the Romanic races.

Leaving these considerations aside for the present, one thing is certain, we must profit by each other's wisdom and experience. Whatever may be the defects of the Belgian congresses or of the German conventions, they mark the beginning of a new era for Belgium and Germany. For when in the spring of 1848 the storm of revolution swept away dynasties built on diplomacy and police regulations, the Catholics, quick to take advantage of the liberty granted them, made use of the freedom of assembly, of speech, and of the press to defend the interests of religion and of the Church. To Germany the liberty thus acquired for the Church has proved a blessing. This liberty, attained after so many years of Babylonian captivity, acted so forcibly, that many called the day on which the first general convention met a "second Pentecost, revealing the spirit, the force, and the charity of Catholicism." We Catholics have learned the language of freedom, we {11} know the power of free speech. Next to the liberty of speech, it is their publicity that gives a charm to these conventions. Whoever addresses these assemblies speaks before the whole Church, and his words are re-echoed in every country. There the prince and the mechanic, the master and the journeyman, the refined gentleman and the child of nature, all alike have the right to express their opinions. They afford a general insight into the social and religions condition of our times, disclosing at once their defects and their fair side. How inspiring it is to see men, thorough men, with sound principles, full of vital energy, and of experience acquired in public life, men of intellectual vigor and mental refinement! Hence arise great and manifold activity, unity of sentiment, and zeal for the weal of all, in short, feelings of true brotherly love. Great events arouse deep feelings, and the glory of one casts its radiance over many. There is something beautiful and grand in these Catholic reunions. They tend to awaken society to a consciousness of its nobler feelings and to spread Catholic ideas; they give strength and unity to the exertions of all who endeavor seriously to promote the interests of Catholicity; they are, as it were, a mirror that reflects an exact image of the life of the Church. Before their influence narrow-mindedness withers; we take an interest in men and things that had never before come within the scope of our mental vision, and on our return from the congress to the ordinary pursuits of life, we forget fossil notions and take up new ideas. As we feel the heat of the sun after it has set, so long after the adjournment of each convention do we feel its influence. The eloquent words of the champion of their faith kindle in the hearts of Catholic youth a glowing ardor which promises a bright and glorious future. All are impressed with the conviction that it is only by unflinching bravery that victories are won.

"As in nature," says Hergenröther, "individuals are subordinate to species, species to genera, and these again to a general unity of design, thus in the Catholic Church all submit freely to the triple unity of faith, of the sacraments, and of government. Whether they come from the north or the south, from beyond the Channel or from the banks of the Rhine, from the Scheldt or the Danube, from the March or the Leitha, all Catholics of every country and every clime are brethren, members of the same family, all speak but one language, the lips of all pronounce the same Catholic prayer, and all offer to their Heavenly Father the same august sacrifice. Every Catholic convention is a symbol of this great, this universal society. And as in nature we admire the most astonishing variety, and the wonderful display of thousands of hues and tints, so in the Church we behold a gathering of countless tribes and nations, differing in their institutions, their customs, and in their application of the arts and sciences."

Some of my readers, perhaps, are impatient of the praise here lavished on contemporaries. Fame, it is true, has ever dazzled mortal eyes, but I am not now dealing with the miserable characters who consider fame as merchandise that can be bought and sold, who are always panting for honied words, and who never lose sight of themselves. No; I am in the presence of Catholic men, purified by Catholic doctrine and discipline, who hold fame to be vain trumpery. Claiming to be no infallible judge of men, my aim has been to note down what I have seen and heard, for I have been at no special pains to study the characters of those here mentioned.


From The Month.


There are many circumstances where even an excess of caution may not be injudicious, and few things can be more important than to ascertain the veracity of historical facts. Therefore we would fain preface this second episode drawn from the memoirs of Cardinal Consalvi, by pointing out the grounds on which their authenticity rests. We pass over the editor himself, Monsieur Crétineau-Joly, to arrive at the account he gives of the manner in which these papers fell into his possession. Written for the most part by the cardinal during his exile at Rheims, they were hastily penned, and carefully concealed from the French officials that surrounded him. When dying, Cardinal Consalvi intrusted these important documents to friends on whom he could rely. They have since been transmitted as a sacred deposit from one fiduciary executor to another. The last clause of his will relates to this matter, and runs thus:

"My fiduciary heir (and those who shall succeed him in the administration of my property) will take particular care of my writings: on the conclave held at Venice in 1799 and 1800; on the concordat of 1801; on the marriage of the Emperor Napoleon with the Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria; on the different epochs of my life and ministry. These five papers (of which some are far advanced, and I shall set about the others) are not to be published till after the death of the principal personages named therein. As the memoirs upon the conclave, the concordat, the marriage, and my ministry relate more especially to the Holy See and the pontifical government, my fiduciary heir will be solicitous to present them to the reigning pontiff; and he will beg the Holy Father to have these writings carefully preserved in the archives of the Vatican. They may serve the Holy See more than once; especially if the history of events therein related comes to be written, or if there were some false account to refute. As to the memoirs concerning the different epochs of my life, the extinction of my family leaving no one whom they may interest, these writings can remain in the hands of my fiduciary heir and his successors in the administration of my property (or they might go with the others to the archives of the Vatican if they are thought worth preserving). My only desire is, that if hereafter, as will probably be the case, the lives of the cardinals are continued, these pages written by me may then be made known. For I wish that nothing contrary to truth should be published concerning me; being desirous to preserve a good reputation, as is recommended by holy Scripture. With regard to the truth of the facts contained in my writings, it suffices me to say: 'Deus scit quia non mentior.'

"(Signed) E. Card. Consalvi." "Rome, 1st August, 1822."

In 1858 it was deemed that the time for publication had come. Monsieur Crétineau-Joly was then staying at Rome; and the papers were confided to him for that purpose by "those eminent personages who, through gratitude or respect, had accepted the deposit of Consalvi's manuscripts." Accordingly, a part did come out the following year, and the remainder is now before the public. The part which appeared first, embodied in "L'Eglise Romaine en face de la Révolution," won for M. Crétineau-Joly in 1861 a flattering brief from Pope Pius IX., which heads the third edition of the work.


Nine years had rolled on since the concordat. Ten months after the Pope's presence had given solemnity to his coronation, Napoleon caused the French troops to occupy Ancona; Pius VII., having refused to become virtually a French prefect, was deprived of his temporal sovereignty, and then at last dragged from his capital to be transferred a prisoner to Florence, Grenoble, and finally Savona. Excommunication had been pronounced against those who perpetrated these deeds of violence. Meanwhile, Napoleon, at the summit of earthly grandeur, longed for an heir to whom he might transmit his vast dominions. The repudiation of Josephine offered some difficulty to his heart, we believe; but his strong will soon triumphed over that and every other obstacle. Proud Austria stooped to court his preference. Napoleon, disappointed in his wish for a Russian alliance, but in too much haste to wait negotiations, let his choice fall with equal pleasure on a daughter of the house of Hapsburg; Marie-Louise, just then eighteen, came a willing bride to share the splendors of the imperial throne. To prepare for her reception, a state comedy had been enacted at the Tuileries, when Napoleon, holding his good and well-beloved Josephine by the hand, read from a written paper his heroic determination to renounce her for the public weal. Poor Josephine could not get on so well; sobs choked her utterance when she essayed to read her paper in turn. Convulsive fainting-fits had followed when Napoleon first broached in private the resolve he had taken, and called upon her to aid it by consenting to become, instead of his wife, his best and dearest friend. But all that was over now.

One only difficulty had arisen, which even the imperious will of Napoleon failed wholly to break. It was the same that had ever thwarted him. He could destroy all temporal barriers to his ambition; but the spiritual element would rise up and protest. How cut asunder the religious tie that linked him to Josephine? For the Church's blessing had been given to their union ere the Pope would consent to perform the ceremony of the coronation. Full well Napoleon knew that he could with an iron hand put down clamor for the present; but would that dispel the feeling in men's consciences? would that suffice to establish the legitimacy of a future heir to the throne?

M. Thiers gives a curious account of the whole transaction. Cardinal Fesch, usually so pliant to all his nephew's wishes, appears to have been the first to start the difficulty; M. Cambaérès, the chancellor, transmitted his observations to Napoleon. The latter was highly indignant, declaring that a ceremony which had taken place privately, in the chapel of the Tuileries, without any witnesses, and with the sole view of quieting Josephine's scruples and those of the Pope, could not be binding. Finally, however, it was agreed to look at the marriage religiously as well as civilly, and to dissolve both ties. For both, annulment was preferred to the ordinary form of divorce, as more honorable for Josephine; and a defect in procedure or a great state reason were to constitute the grounds of dissolution. It was resolved that no reference should be made to the Pope in any way, as his feelings toward Napoleon under present circumstances could not be friendly. The civil marriage had been easily dissolved by mutual consent of the parties and for public reasons, as seen above, when Napoleon and Josephine read their respective papers before the assembled council. With the views just stated, a committee of seven bishops was formed to pronounce on the religious tie. They declared the marriage irregular; as having taken place without witnesses, and without sufficient consent of the parties concerned. With regard to the absence of witnesses, M. Thiers puts in a note: "It was through a false indication given {14} by a contemporary manuscript that I before mentioned MM. de Talleyrand and Berthier as having been present at the religious marriage privately celebrated at the Tuileries on the eve of Napoleon's coronation. The author of this manuscript held the facts from the lips of the Empress Josephine, and had been led into error. Official documents which I have since procured enable me to rectify this assertion."

What more likely than that Josephine told the simple truth, and that official papers were made to meet future contingencies? If it had not been intended to annul the marriage by any means, why was the certificate of it wrested from Josephine?

Agreeably to the decision of the bishops, it was resolved to pursue the annulment of the marriage as defective in form before the diocesan officialty in the first instance, and afterward before the metropolitan authority. Canonical proceedings were quietly instituted, and witnesses summoned. These witnesses were Cardinal Fesch, MM. de Talleyrand, Berthier, and Duroc. The first was to testify as to the forms observed; and the three others as to the nature of the consent given by both parties concerned. Cardinal Fesch declared he had received dispensations from the Pope authorizing the omission of certain forms, and thus justified the absence of witnesses and of the parish curé. MM. de Talleyrand, Berthier, and Duroc affirmed having heard from Napoleon several times that he only intended to allow a mere ceremony for the purpose of reassuring the Pope's conscience and that of Josephine; but that his formal determination had ever been not to complete his union with the empress, being unhappily convinced that he must one day renounce her for the good of his empire.

A strange conscience is here manifested by Napoleon. Josephine does not appear to have been summoned to tell her tale.

After this inquiry, the ecclesiastical authority recognized that there had not been sufficient consent; but out of respect to the parties this ground of nullity was not specially insisted on. The causes assigned for dissolving the marriage rested on the absence of all witnesses, and of the parish curé. The general dispensations granted to Cardinal Fesch were not considered to have superseded these necessities. M. Thiers says on this point, "En conséquence, le mariage fut cassé devant les deux jurisdictions diocésaine et métropolitaine, c'est à dire, en première et en seconde instances, avec le décence convenable, et la pleine observance du droit canonique! Napoleon était donc` libre."

M. Thiers makes no reference to the Pope, who surely must be supposed to have known whether the ceremony performed for the sole purpose of allaying his and Josephine's scruples were perfectly valid by canon law. It is not possible to admit that he could have insisted on the same, and being present on the spot could yet have failed to ascertain beyond doubt the religious legality of the marriage; more especially as he could have at once removed the obstacle by a dispensation.

This topic must have been mentioned between the Pope and Cardinal Consalvi; it is evident from the conduct of the latter that he and many other cardinals considered the marriage with Josephine as binding in a religious point of view. The character of Consalvi precludes the possibility of supposing any petty motives for his opposition; conscience alone could have dictated it. Evidently he yielded as far as he could; and what he withheld from duty was with manifest peril to himself, and, humanly speaking, even to the Church, whose interests were so dear to him. As to the number of cardinals holding opposite views, or at least acting as if they did, the weakness of human nature, alas, and the selfishness of human interests, too well explain that {15} circumstance. Grave historians and writers of genius do not always take sufficient account of conscience in their estimate of men and things, and thence flow many errors. Those who are politicians also, from their wide knowledge of human vices, fall still more readily into this mistake. Thus Napoleon probably never believed the Pope to be in earnest, of at least his mind could not hold such an idea long together. To himself state policy was all, or nearly all. His negotiations with the Holy See, his appreciations of Consalvi, all bear the stamp of that starting-point; to him it was a trial of strength in will, or of skill in diplomacy: he ignored conscience. In the same way, a mind eminently lucid as that of M. Thiers judges facts in a very different manner than he would do if he could see that with some minds conscience is the spring of action. If this were not the case, he could not, while speaking of the Pope with due respect, pass over his motives so slightly; nor would he construe as he does Consalvi's conduct with regard to the marriage and that of the other black cardinals. The opinions of such men deserved to raise a doubt in the mind of the historian, and to lead to investigation that might have had other results. We purposely lay stress on this matter because M. Thiers is popular with a large class of readers, who justly admire his talent, but who erroneously consider him a fair exponent on ecclesiastical affairs. He does respect religion; but evidently fails to apprehend the idea of men constantly swayed by duty and conscience; whose judgments may err, as all things human do, but whose supernatural principle of action ever lives.

Toward the close of January, 1810, the conclusion of a matrimonial alliance to take place between Napoleon and the Archduchess Marie-Louise was made public in Paris. The ceremony was to be performed by proxy at Vienna in the early part of March; the Archduke Charles being chosen to represent Napoleon on this occasion, and Berthier was the ambassador extraordinary named to ask formally the hand of the princess. The subsequent fêtes at Paris were to vie in splendor with those given at Vienna. Napoleon wished to surround himself with all the members of the Sacred College; a large number had already been summoned to Paris soon after the Pope's captivity; they had been ordered to partake in the festivities of the capital, and we regret to say that they complied. Rome, it must not be forgotten, was now called a French provincial town; Napoleon was progressing on to become the emperor of the West, with the Pope, the spiritual father of Christendom, as his satellite. The other cardinals in Rome were called to Paris. Some found pretexts for delaying obedience; Cardinals Consalvi and di Pietro replied that they could not think of leaving without the Pope's permission, but would immediately refer to him, at the same time declining the pension offered in Paris. After the lapse of a few days an express order enjoined them to quit Rome within twenty-four hours. They alleged that no answer had yet arrived from the Pope. But at the expiration of the period fixed, French soldiers visited their houses to carry them off by force. Yielding to violence they departed, and reached Paris together on the 20th January, 1810.

Twenty-nine cardinals, including Fesch, were then assembled in the French capital. How they should act with regard to the new marriage became soon a subject of grave consultation for them. Consalvi and di Pietro had not long arrived when it was publicly announced. Napoleon seemed disposed to treat them with courtesy. Consalvi had his audience six days after his arrival. Five other cardinals, new comers also, were presented at the same time. They were ranged together on one side, while the other cardinals remained opposite. Further on were the nobles, ministers, kings. {16} queens, princes, and princesses. When the emperor appeared, Cardinal Fesch stepped forward and began presenting the five. "Cardinal Pignatelli," said he. "Neapolitan," replied the emperor, and passed on. "Cardinal di Pietro," continued Fesch. The emperor stopped a moment, and said, "You have grown fat; I remember having seen you here with the Pope at my coronation." "Cardinal Saluzzo," said Fesch, presenting the third. "Neapolitan," replied the emperor, and walked on. "Cardinal Desping," said Fesch, as the fourth saluted. "Spanish," replied the emperor. "From Majorca," cried Desping, in alarm. But Napoleon had already reached Consalvi, and ere Cardinal Fesch could say the name, he exclaimed, in the kindest tone, and standing still, "Oh, Cardinal Consalvi; how thin you have become! I should hardly have recognized you." "Sire," replied Consalvi, "years accumulate. Ten have passed since I had the honor of saluting your majesty." "That is true," resumed Napoleon; "it is now almost ten years since you came for the concordat. We made that treaty in this very hall; but what purpose has it served? All has vanished in smoke. Rome would lose all. It must be owned, I was wrong to displace you from the ministry. If you had continued in that post, things would not have been carried so far."

Listening only to the fear of having his actions misconstrued by the public, Consalvi instantly replied with energy, "Sire, if I had remained in that post, I should have done my duty." Napoleon looked at him fixedly, made no answer, and then going backward and forward through the half-circle formed by the cardinals, began a long monologue, enumerating a number of grievances against the Pope and against Rome for not having adhered to his will by refusing to adopt the system offered. At length, being near Consalvi, he stopped, and said a second time, "No, if you had remained at your post, things would not have gone so far." Again Consalvi replied, "Your majesty may believe that I should have done my duty." Napoleon gave the cardinal another fixed glance, and then without reply recommenced his walks, continuing his former discourse. At last he stopped near Cardinal di Pietro, and said for the third time, "If Cardinal Consalvi had remained secretary of state, things would not have gone so far." Consalvi was at the other end of the little group of five, and need not have answered; but earnest to exonerate himself from all suspicion, he advanced toward Napoleon, and seizing his arm, exclaimed, "Sire, I have already assured your majesty that had I remained in that post, I should certainly have done my duty." The emperor no longer containing himself, and with eyes steadily bent on Consalvi, burst forth into these words, "Oh! I repeat it, your duty would not have allowed you to sacrifice spiritual to temporal things." After this he turned his back on Consalvi, and going over to the cardinals opposite, asked if they had heard his words. Then returning to the five, he observed that the College of Cardinals was now nearly complete in Paris, and that they would do well to see among themselves if there was anything to propose or regulate concerning Church affairs. "Let Cardinal Consalvi be of the committee," added Napoleon; "for if, as I suppose, he is ignorant of theology, he knows well the science of politics."

At a second and third audience, Napoleon showed similar kindness to Consalvi, always asking after his health, and remarking that he was getting fatter now. The cardinal only answered by deep salutations. Principally through Consalvi's influence, the cardinals, in a collective letter addressed to the emperor, declined acting in any way while separated from their head, the Pope. Napoleon had angrily torn their letter to pieces; but even this opposition to his will had not changed his courtesy {17} toward Consalvi, as seen above. He was bent on creating a schism between them and the Pope. Fesch, his ready instrument, proposed several steps as beneficial to religion, but the majority of cardinals refused to do anything. Unlike many of his colleagues, Consalvi held aloof from all society. Beside the prohibition of the Pope, who at Rome had forbidden the members of the Sacred College to assist at festivities while the Church was in mourning, he considered it unworthy conduct for them to take part in amusements while their head remained in captivity, or to seem to court one who had brought such calamities on the Holy See.

While invited to discuss ecclesiastical matters in committee for presentation to the emperor, the cardinals were not by any means requested to give an opinion on the new marriage. But it became very necessary that they should have one as the time approached for the arrival of Marie-Louise, and for the celebration of the marriage ceremonies in Paris.

She reached Compiègne on the 27th of March. Napoleon, to spare her the embarrassment of a public meeting, had surprised her on the road, and they entered the little town together. A few days after they proceeded to St. Cloud. Four ceremonies were to take place. First there was to be a grand presentation on the 31st of March, at St. Cloud, of all the bodies in the state, the nobles and other dignitaries. The next morning the civil marriage was to be celebrated also at St Cloud. The 2d of April was fixed for the grand entrance of the sovereigns into Paris, and for the solemnity of the religious marriage in the chapel of the Tuileries; the following morning another presentation of the state bodies and the court was to take place before the emperor and the new empress seated on their thrones.

Twenty-seven cardinals had taken counsel together; for Fesch, as grand-almoner to the emperor, was out of the question, and Caprara was dying. They had decided, after deliberate research, that matrimonial cases between sovereigns belong exclusively to the cognizance of the Holy See, which either itself pronounces sentence at Rome, or else through the medium of the legates names local judges for instituting the affair.

According to Consalvi's account, the diocesan officialty of Paris on this occasion refused at first to intervene, on the ground of incompetency; but the emperor caused competency to be declared by a committee of bishops assembled at Paris, and presided over by Cardinal Fesch. The words, however, "declared competent," were not eventually inserted in the documents drawn up of the meeting; it was pretended instead that access could not be had to the Pope. But this pretended impossibility could of course arise only from the will of Napoleon.

Consalvi assures us that the preamble used by the committee in the first instance ran thus:

"The officialty, being declared competent, and without derogating from the right of the sovereign pontiff, to whom access is for the moment forbidden, proclaims null and void the marriage contracted with the Empress Josephine, the reasons for such decision being stated in the sentence." But when it was remarked how prejudicial this avowal would be, the government made it disappear from among the acts of the ecclesiastical curia. For it had been previously arranged that all papers relative to this affair should be submitted to government. According to general report in Paris, some of the papers were burnt, and others changed. A person belonging to the officialty succeeded, however, in secretly saving a part, and especially the beginning of the sentence, which was as given above.

Consalvi does not so much as name the validity or invalidity of the marriage; the point to establish for him was that the right of cognizance {18} belonged solely to the Holy See. The incident he mentions of the papers destroyed has no other importance than as showing how conscience at first pronounced and how a strong hand silenced its expression.

Thirteen cardinals resolved to brave any consequences rather than consent to a dereliction of duty; for their oath, when raised to the purple, binds them to maintain at all hazards the rights of the Church. The names of these thirteen were: Cardinals Mattei, Pignatelli, della Somaglia, di Pietro, Litta, Saluzzo, Ruffo Scilla, Brancadoro, Galeffi, Scotti, Gabrielli, Opizzoni, and Consalvi. The other fourteen held different shades of opinion, and only agreed in deciding not to oppose the emperor.

The sole means by which the thirteen could protest, under the circumstances, was not to sanction the new marriage by appearing at the ceremonies. This resolve was accordingly taken, and the fourteen were apprised. Mattei, the oldest cardinal among the thirteen, called upon most of the fourteen to acquaint them with the resolution; other members of the thirteen likewise spoke of it to their colleagues; but no result was produced on the minds of the fourteen. To the shame of the latter it must be said that they afterward untruly declared themselves ignorant of the line of conduct which the thirteen had intended to adopt. Consalvi positively asserts that such was not the case. The thirteen spoke with the caution commanded by prudence on so delicate a matter, not seeking ostensibly to prevent the others from following their own opinions, and anxious to avoid giving any pretext for the accusation of exciting a feeling against the government. But this reserve did not prevent them from clearly expressing their intention to uphold the rights of the Pope and of the Holy See by abstaining from all participation in the marriage ceremonies.

Though called upon by duty to act in the way mentioned, the thirteen cardinals naturally wished to avoid, as much as possible, wounding Napoleon. With this view Mattei was deputed to seek an interview with Fesch, for the purpose of informing him what course they felt obliged to pursue. At the same time Mattei gave him to understand that all publicity might be avoided, or any bad effect on the public obviated, by addressing partial, instead of general, invitations to the cardinals. This was to be done with regard to the senate and the legislative body, and, indeed, the smallness of the enceinte offered a plausible pretext; for it was impossible that all entitled to appear on the occasion could be present. Cardinal Fesch evinced great surprise and anger, endeavoring to reason Mattei out of this view; but finding it was of no use, he promised to speak to the emperor, who was then at Compiègne.

According to Fesch's account, Napoleon flew into a violent passion on learning the decision come to by the thirteen; but he declared that they would never dare to carry out their plot, and utterly rejected the idea of not inviting all the members of the Sacred College.

At the proper time a special invitation reached each cardinal. There was no possibility of escape. To feign illness or invent a pretext they rightly deemed would be unworthy.

Nevertheless, anxious as they were to avoid offence, when they came to consider more closely the nature of the different ceremonies, it was considered by some that they might, without failing in duty, assist at the two presentations that were to take place before and after the marriages. Consalvi was among those opposed to this view on grounds of honor at least; but, not to provoke any further schism in their ranks, the minority yielded, and this mode of proceeding was decided on. Both marriages were to be eschewed; but they would assist at both presentations. The cardinals hoped thus to prove that they did all {19} they possibly could to please Napoleon consistently with their sense of duty. It was also considered highly desirable to shield the fourteen from remark as much as could be, for it was a grievous matter to right-minded men to see the honor and dignity of the Sacred College thus abased.

Accordingly, on the evening fixed, all the cardinals went to St Cloud. Together with the other dignitaries, they were in the grand gallery waiting the arrival of Napoleon and his new empress, when Fouché, the minister of police, came up. Consalvi had been very intimate with him, but having paid scarcely any visits since his return to Paris, from the motives stated above, they had not hitherto met. Fouché drew him aside, and asked with much cordiality and interest if it were true that several cardinals refused to be present at the emperor's marriage.

Consalvi was silent at first, not wishing to name any one in particular. But when Fouché insisted, saying that, as minister of police, he knew of course all about it, and only asked through politeness, Consalvi replied that he belonged to the number.

"Oh, what do you say?" exclaimed Fouché. "The emperor was speaking of it this morning, and in his anger named you; but I affirmed that it was not likely you should be of the set."

Fouché then pointed out the dangerous consequences of such a proceeding, saying that the non-intervention of the cardinals would seem to blame the state, the emperor, and even to attack the legitimacy of the future succession of the throne. He tried to persuade Consalvi to be present himself at leasts or if the whole thirteen would not come to the civil marriage, to attend, however, the religious ceremony. Consalvi could not of course consent; but he told the efforts they had made to avoid invitations for all, and promised, at Fouché's request, to repeat this conversation to the twelve.

Their discourse was interrupted by the appearance of the emperor and empress. Napoleon came in holding Marie-Louise by the hand, and he pointed out each person to her by name as he drew near. On approaching the members of the Sacred College, he exclaimed, "Ah, the cardinals!" and presented them, one after the other, with great courtesy, naming each, and mentioning some qualification. Thus Consalvi was designated as he who arranged the concordat.

It was said afterward that Napoleon's kindliness had been intended to win them over.

They all bowed in return, without speaking. When this ceremony was over, the thirteen returned to Paris and met at the house of Cardinal Mattei. Consalvi then related his conversation with Fouché; they saw clearly what there might be to apprehend, but none wavered in the resolution taken.

The following day, the civil marriage was celebrated at St Cloud. The thirteen cardinals abstained from appearing. Of the fourteen, eleven were present: one was ill, and two, seized with tardy misgiving, said they were.

Monday, the 2d of April, had been fixed for the triumphal entrance of the sovereigns into Paris, and for the religious marriage in the chapel of the Tuileries. A successful representation of the arch of triumph was made; afterward reproduced in the one at the top of the Champs Elysées. Napoleon passed under it, with Marie-Louise at his side, in a carriage that afforded a fair view of both to the spectators. Arrived at the gate of the Tuileries, on the Place de la Concorde, they alighted, and he led her through the gardens till they arrived at the chapel of the palace, prepared for the nuptial ceremony.

It was crowded densely, and many more persons longed to enter, but there were thirteen vacant seats!

It had been hoped that Fouché's words would produce some effect, and {20} that the thirteen cardinals might, at least, be induced to attend the religions marriage. Their seats had been left up to the last moment; but as Napoleon drew near, they were hastily removed. His eye, however, fell immediately on the group of cardinals, always conspicuous from their red costume, and as he marked the smallness of their number, anger flashed from his countenance.

Indeed, only twelve cardinals, including Fesch, were present One was really too ill to go, and two others, as before, pretended sickness. But, as they wrote to this effect, they were considered as absent from accident. And they encouraged this version.

During both these days and nights, the thirteen remained at home, carefully abstaining, as became their position, from all semblance of participation in any rejoicings.

On the morrow was to take place the final ceremony of presentation to both sovereigns seated on their thrones. All the cardinals went, and, according to injunction, in full costume. Two hours passed waiting for the doors of the throne-room to be opened.

Then the stream began to move toward the spot in the middle of the grand gallery that connects the Tuileries with the Louvre, where Napoleon and Marie-Louise were seated on their respective thrones, surrounded by the members of the imperial family and officers of state.

The crowd entered slowly, one by one, according to the rule of precedence prescribed, and each individual, stopping before the throne, made a profound obeisance, passing out afterward by the door of the saloon beyond.

In conformity with French etiquette at that time, the senators were first introduced; and Fesch had the littleness to go in with them, rather than with the Sacred College. After these followed the councillors of state and the legislative body, and then came the turn of the cardinals. But at this moment, Napoleon, with imperious gesture, beckoned an officer toward him, and gave a hasty order to have all the cardinals who had not been present at the marriage immediately expelled from the ante-chamber, as he should not condescend to receive them. The messenger was precipitately quitting the hall, when Napoleon, with rapid change of thought, called him back, and ordered that only Cardinals Opizzoni and Consalvi should be turned out But the officer, confused, did not clearly seize this second order, and imagining that the two cardinals named were to be more particularly designated, acted accordingly.

The scene that followed may be conceived. It rises up vividly. The order for expulsion was as publicly intimated as it had been publicly given; and scores of eager eyes turned on the thirteen culprits so ignominiously dismissed. The report of what was coming got whispered from hall to hall, and flew on to the numerous groups that thronged even the vestibule and staircase; if the buzz ceased as the cardinals drew near, it followed swiftly on their receding steps, while they traversed each apartment. Friends began to tremble for their personal safety: the bloody tragedy of Vincennes rose up in remembrance to many an anxious heart.

Their equipages had disappeared in the confusion of the day. The Parisian crowd were astounded that morning to mark thirteen rich scarlet dresses wending about in search of conveyances or homes.

Within the palace, meanwhile, precedence, contrary to custom, had been given the ministers; but after them the other cardinals were at length introduced. As each, in turn, drew near the thrones, and, not feeling very pleasantly we may believe, made his respectful salutation. Napoleon was giving way to a rapid flow of violent language. Sometimes he addressed the empress, or sometimes those standing near. The Sacred College, as a body, came in for its share of abuse; but two cardinals were special objects {21} of reproachful epithets. "He might spare the others," said Napoleon, "as obstinate theologians full of prejudice; but Cardinals Consalvi and Opizzoni he never could forgive." Opizzoni was ungrateful, owing, as he did, to him (Napoleon) the archbishopric of Bologna, and the cardinal's hat; but Consalvi was the most guilty of all. "Consalvi," cried the emperor, warming as he went on, "does not act from theological prejudice: he is incapable of that; but he hates me for having caused his fall from the ministry. And this is now his revenge. He is a deep politician, and he seeks now to lay a subtle snare, whereby hereafter to attack the legitimacy of a future heir to the throne."

Marie-Louise, accustomed to the stalely etiquette of Austria, must have been rather surprised at this outburst. Perhaps her own destiny, as bride of that crowned soldier of fortune, did not then look quite so brilliant to her. It is easy to fancy courtiers around with their varied shades of amaze, horror, and fear at such delinquency, and its consequences, painted on their faces.

Consalvi tells us in his memoir on the marriage, and also in that of his private life, that the fury of Napoleon on the day of the religious ceremony had been so intense, that on coming out from chapel he actually ordered three cardinals to be shot, afterward confining the sentence to Consalvi alone. And the cardinal each time says that he probably owed his life to the intervention of Fouché.

But in a note which M. Crétineau-Joly mentions as detached from the memoirs, Consalvi writes thus of Napoleon: "In his fits of anger,—often more feigned than real, especially at first,—he would threaten to have persons shot, as he frequently did with regard to myself; but I am persuaded that he never would have signed the order for execution. More than once I have heard his devoted followers and intimate confidants relate that the murder of the Duke d'Enghien had been a surprise rather than a deliberate act of will. I should not be astonished at the truth of this, for it was a useless crime, leaving only shame and remorse, which Bonaparte might easily have spared himself."

The contradiction in these passages is remarkable. M. Crétineau-Joly does not give the date of the note, so we are reduced to conjecture. It seems likely to have been written at a later period, when the downfall of Napoleon would naturally call forth from Consalvi the deepest charity and most lenient interpretations. The two memoirs, it will be remembered, were penned during the cardinal's captivity at Rheims.

The day after their expulsion, those among the cardinals who were bishops had orders to resign their sees immediately, under pain of imprisonment. They signed the deed as required, but with the proviso of the Pope's consent. At eight o'clock on the same evening each one received a short note from the minister of public worship, enjoining him to wait on that functionary in an hour's time, for the purpose of hearing the emperors' orders.

The whole thirteen met in the minister's ante-chamber, and were introduced together to his cabinet. Fouché was with him, and from a kindly intention, says Consalvi. Both seemed grieved at the business they had to transact.

As soon as Fouché perceived Consalvi, he exclaimed,

"Ah, cardinal, I warned you the consequences would be terrible. What pains me most is that you should be of the number."

Consalvi thanked him for his sympathy, but said he was prepared for all that might follow.

The thirteen were then made to sit down in a circle, and the minister of public worship began a long discourse, which could not much have benefitted the culprits, as only three understood French. The substance of it was that they had committed a {22} state crime, and were guilty of treason, having conspired against the emperor. The proof of this lay in the secrecy they had observed toward him (the minister) and toward the other cardinals. They ought to have spoken to him as their superior, and he would have enlightened them with regard to their erroneous idea of the privative right belonging to the Pope in matrimonial cases between sovereigns. Their crime, he said, might have the most serious consequences on the public tranquillity, unless the emperor succeeded in obviating them, for their mode of acting had tended to nothing less than to cast doubts on the legitimacy of the succession to the throne. He concluded by declaring that the emperor, judging the cardinals to be rebels guilty of conspiracy, had ordered them to be informed:

1. That they were from that moment deprived of all their property, ecclesiastical and patrimonial, for the sequestration of which measures had been already taken.

2. That his majesty no longer considered them as cardinals, and forbade them henceforth to wear any ensigns of that dignity.

3. That his majesty reserved to himself the right of afterward deciding with regard to their persons.

And the minister gave them to understand that a criminal action would be brought against some.

Even going back as fully as we can to the ideas of the times, there is something equally startling and absurd in the notion of a lay minister of state undertaking to enlighten princes of the church on matters of canon law, coolly naming himself as their superior, and treating them to a long homily on their duties and misdemeanors. The same pretensions are doubtless reproduced in all revolutionary times; but still the absurdity strikes us forcibly as we read this account.

Consalvi replied that they were erroneously accused of conspiracy and rebellion—crimes unworthy of the purple, and also of their individual characters. No secret, he said, had been made of their opinion to the other cardinals, though it had been expressed without seeking to gain proselytes. If they had not communicated with the minister, they had nevertheless spoken quite openly to Cardinal Fesch, their own colleague and the emperor's uncle, begging him to lay their determination, founded solely on motives of conscience, before Napoleon. Consalvi also explained how they endeavored to avoid all the blame now laid to their charge by requesting partial invitations, which request, if complied with, would have prevented their views from being made public. The other two cardinals who could speak French likewise expressed themselves in similar terms.

Both ministers appeared convinced, and, regretting the emperor had not himself heard their defence, suggested that they should write it out for his perusal. No difficulty was made in complying with this proposal. The ministers then said that the cardinals must not, however, bring forward the real motive of their absence, namely, the Pope's right, as that was just what irritated Napoleon; but lay the cause to sickness, or some excuse of that kind. The cardinals declined taking this course, as incompatible with their duty.

Here we must remark that the whole scene appears to us got up to make them yield at last; but Consalvi, ever charitable, says not a word to that effect.

One of the ministers then tried to make out a draft of a letter for the emperor that should be satisfactory to both parties; and one of the cardinals had the imprudence to copy these rough sketches, for the purpose of comparing them and seeing afterward what could be done. The minister insisted much on having the paper then and there drawn up, as Napoleon was going to travel, and would leave Paris immediately. But Consalvi, pleading his colleagues' ignorance of the French language, {23} succeeded at length in obtaining consent for them to retire together and deliberate among themselves.

It was eleven o'clock when they withdrew; and some of the cardinals had the further imprudence to assure the ministers that the expressions used by the latter had been faithfully copied.

As soon as Consalvi was alone with his colleagues and could speak freely, he showed them the full meaning of the French terms suggested, and the impropriety, to say the least, of using them. All agreed to hold staunchly to their duty. But now appeared the further difficulty, created by having copied the ministers' words, which it would thus be impossible to seem to forget. Fouché was to see Napoleon soon after leaving them, and would doubtless hasten to assure him that the cardinals were writing a letter conformable to his wishes. Thus Napoleon, prepared for submission, would give way to tenfold anger on finding the reverse.

The letter was dictated by conscience alone, but its expressions were as much as possible tempered by prudence. Every word was carefully weighed; and five hours passed in drawing it up. By its tenor, they sought to exculpate themselves from all suspicion of revolt and treason, saying that the real cause of their absence was because the Pope was excluded from the matter; that they had not pretended thereby to institute themselves judges, or cast any doubts among the public either on the validly of the first marriage, or the legitimacy of the children that might follow the second. In conclusion, they assured Napoleon of their submission and obedience, without making any request for the restoration of their property or their purple. The thirteen signed by order of seniority in the cardinalate.

Cardinal Litta immediately conveyed this document to the minister of public worship, who pronounced himself tolerably satisfied. But Napoleon quitted Paris the next day sooner than had been anticipated, and without giving the audience to the minister which had been agreed on. Consequently the latter could not give the letter then, and he informed the cardinals that they must therefore conform to the orders already received. Accordingly they laid aside the ensigns of their dignity, and hence arose the designation of black and red cardinals. Their property was immediately confiscated, and their revenues, contrary to custom, were thrown into the public treasury.

After a short excursion in the Netherlands, Napoleon returned to Paris. Meanwhile the cardinals had put down their carriages, and hired more modest abodes, better suited to their fallen fortunes. Contradictory rumors were afloat abroad as to their fate. Two months and a half passed ere any change took place.

But on the 10th of June each cardinal received a note from the minister of public worship, appointing a time for him to call; two cardinals being designated for each successive hour. Cardinals Consalvi and Brancadoro were those summoned for the first hour. When they reached his cabinet, the minister informed them that they were to set out for Rheims in twenty-four hours, and to remain there until further orders should be given. Passports were in readiness. All the other cardinals successively received a similar sentence; the only difference lay in the place of abode. They were exiled by twos, and care was taken to separate those supposed to be intimate. The minister offered to each cardinal fifty louis for the expenses of his journey; some accepted, and others declined; Consalvi being among the latter. Soon after their arrival in the towns designated, each cardinal had an intimation from the minister that a monthly pension of 250f. would be duly paid. Consalvi refused to profit by this allowance, and he thinks the others did the same. On the 10th of January, 1811, both he and his {24} companion received a note from the sub-prefect of Rheims, requesting them to call and give information on certain orders that had arrived from the supreme authority in Paris. The two cardinals went. The sub-prefect then informed them that he was required to ask what sums they had received for their subsistence since their exile at Rheims, through what conveyance or persons, from whom, and to what amount Consalvi was able to answer that he had not accepted a penny from any one. "But how then do you live, since the government has seized all your property?" "My banker at Rome sends the necessary sums through his correspondent at Paris. Under other circumstances I would have borrowed from my friends."

This measure of the government was caused by irritation on learning that charitable persons had united to make up a general fund every month for the support of the cardinals, and it was wished to put a stop to the proceeding. Consalvi concludes the memoirs of his private life about this time, expressing a fear that the business mentioned above will not end with the interrogatory, but may bring about disastrous consequences. He also says, "We live in exile; foregoing all society, as becomes our situation and that of the Holy See and the sovereign pontiff our head. The red cardinals, I am told, remain in Paris, and go much in the world, but are not esteemed for their late conduct."

It is curious to contract with the preceding account the manner in which M. Thiers disposes of this same episode. "On the day of the emperor's marriage," says that historian, "thirteen out of twenty-eight cardinals failed to be present at the ceremony. The motive, which they dared not assign, but which it was desired to make the public understand, was that, without the Pope, Napoleon could not divorce, and thence, the first marriage still subsisting, the second was irregular. This motive was unfounded, since no divorce had taken place (for in effect divorce being forbidden by the Church could only have been pronounced by the Pope), but simply annulment of the marriage with Josephine, pronounced by the ordinary after all the degrees of ecclesiastical jurisdiction had been exhausted." [Footnote 1]

[Footnote 1: M. Thiers here falls into a grave error: divorce being contrary to the law of God, no Pope can pronounce one. The question was whether Josephine were lawfully married or not.]

In reality, however, this conduct of the thirteen cardinals, acting in conformity with their head, Pope Pius VII., though cut off from all communication with him, was the protest of the Church against temporal despotism in things spiritual. The Church was in chains, but God had left her a living voice to proclaim her rights. Consalvi never for one instant quits his ground—the Church's right of judgment—to give a shadow of personal opinion on the matter in question. It is a fine spectacle also to see him with his few colleagues, deserted by so many of their own body, quietly discussing what degree of excommunication Napoleon had incurred, whether all contact was forbidden, while they inhabited his very capital, and knew well the stem nature of that inexorable will.

The black cardinals continued to inhabit their different places of exile until Napoleon, working on the weakness and the affections of the aged pontiff, drew from him that semblance of a second concordat dated the 25th of January, 1813. Then, restored to liberty, they hastened to the feet of Pius VII.; and found him overwhelmed with grief at the concessions he had made, at what he called his guilt. Truly he had but yielded in his feebleness to the unceasing persuasions of the red cardinals, backed by Napoleon's promises in favor of the Church, and to the charm exercised by that mighty genius when he stooped to court affection. The proviso made that the new concordat, to become binding, should first be submitted to the Sacred College assembled, {25} happily afforded the opportunity of annulling it. That was fully and worthily done by the papal letter addressed to the emperor on the 24th of March following.

When the course of events in Europe brought about such a change in his own position, Napoleon, still powerful notwithstanding, began to wish for a reconciliation with the Holy See. On the 23d of January, 1816, Pius VII. was allowed to set out for Rome, restored to his paternal sovereignty. Strangely, however, Consalvi was not permitted to accompany him. He received instead a note from the minister of public worship, informing him that orders would shortly be transmitted concerning himself, the execution of which admitted neither appeal nor yet delay.

And accordingly, two days after the Pope's departure, a letter came from the Duc de Rovigo, minister of police, telling Consalvi that he was condemned to another exile in the town of Béziers, and was to set out immediately for that destination in the strictest incognito, and escorted during the whole journey by an officer of gendarmerie.

Nothing more is said of this incident. Consalvi does not carry his memoirs beyond 1812. Two notes found among his correspondence, and signed by the functionaries above named, reveal the orders for this second exile. Napoleon abdicated on the 4th of April, 1816. On the 19th of May, in the same year, Pius VII. officially recalled Consalvi to his office of secretary of state.

Thus did Providence terminate the struggle between the spiritual and temporal powers; thus closed for Consalvi the exile consequent on his opposition to the imperial marriage.

On the very day that restored Consalvi to his councils, Pius VII. learned that all the nations of Europe refused to receive within their territories the proscribed family of Napoleon. Rome opened her gates.

Madame Mère, as she was called, the mother of Napoleon, wrote thus to Consalvi, 27th May, 1818:

"I wish and I ought to thank your eminence for all you have done in our favor since the burden of exile has fallen on my children and myself. My brother, Cardinal Fesch, did not leave me ignorant of the generous way in which you received the request of mom grand et malheureux proscrit de St. Hélène. He said that on learning the emperor's prayer, so just and so Christian, you had hastened to interpose with the English government, and to seek out priests both worthy and able. I am truly the mother of sorrows; and the only consolation left me is to know that the Holy Father forgets the past, and remembers solely his affection for us, which he testifies to all the members of my family.

"My sons, Lucian and Louis, who are proud of your unchanging friendship toward them, have been much touched likewise by all that the Pope and your eminence have done, unknown to us, to preserve our tranquillity when menaced by the different powers of Europe. We find support and an asylum in the pontifical states only; and our gratitude is as great as the benefit. I beg your eminence to place the expression of it at the feet of the holy pontiff, Pius VII. I speak in the name of all my proscribed family and especially in the name of him now dying by inches on a desert rock. His holiness and your eminence are the only persons in Europe who endeavor to soften his misfortunes, or who would abridge their duration. I thank you both with a mother's heart,—and remain always, eminence, yours very devotedly and most gratefully,

Another letter, from the ex-king of Holland, father of the present emperor of the French, addressed to Cardinal Consalvi, still further demonstrates the charity shown by Rome, and suggests many reflections. With these extracts from Consalvi's {26} correspondence as a sequel, we shall close our episode of the imperial marriage; the circumstances they recall form a not uninstructive commentary on an event that seemed to place Napoleon at such a high point of worldly greatness.

"Eminence,—Following the advice of the Holy Father and of your eminence, I have seen Mgr. Bernetti, who is specially charged with the affair in question; and he, with his usual frankness, explained the nature of the complaints made by foreign powers against the family of the Emperor Napoleon. The great powers, and principally England, reproach us with always conspiring. They accuse us of being mixed up, implicitly or explicitly, with all the plots in existence; they even pretend that we abuse the hospitality granted us by the Pope to foment divisions in the pontifical states, and stir up hatred against the august person of the sovereign.

"I was fortunately able to furnish Mgr. Bernetti with proofs to the contrary; and he will himself tell you the effect produced on his mind by my words. If the emperor's family, owing so much to Pope Pius XII. and to your eminence, had conceived the detestable design of disturbing Europe, and if it had the means of so doing, the gratitude that we all feel toward the Holy See would evidently arrest us on such a course. My mother, brothers, sisters, and uncle owe too much respectful gratitude to the sovereign pontiff and to your eminence to draw down new disasters on this city, where, while proscribed by the whole of Europe, we have been received and sheltered with a paternal goodness rendered yet more touching by past injustice. We are not conspiring against any one, and still less against God's representative on earth. We enjoy in Rome all the rights of citizens; and when my mother learned in what a Christian manner the Pope and your eminence were avenging the captivity of Fontainebleau and the exile of Rheims, she could only bless you in the name of her grand et malheureux mort, shedding sweet tears for the first time since the disasters of 1814.

"To conspire against our august and sole benefactor would be an infamy that has no name. The family of Bonaparte will never merit such a reproach. I convinced Mgr. Bernetti of it, and he will himself be our surety with your eminence. Deign then to listen to his words, and to grant us the continuance of your favor, together with the protection of the Holy Father.—In this hope, I am, eminence, your very respectful and most devoted servant and friend,

"Rome, 30th Sept. 1821."


From Once A Week.


I read this incident when a mere girl in a very stupid old novel founded upon it, which I never could succeed in meeting with again. The preface stated that in some church in England there yet remained the monument of the knight with his noble one-armed wife beside him. I should be glad if any of your readers could tell me where this monument is to be seen, and the real names (which I have forgotten) of the knight and lady.

  'Twas in the grand heroic days,
    When Coeur de Lion reigned and fought;
  An English knight ta'en in those frays
    To Sultan Saladin was brought.

  The sultan sat upon his throne,
    His courtiers stood around;
  And emir, prince, and padisha
    Bent lowly to the ground.

  They served him upon bended knee—
    "To hear is to obey;"—
  For the fierce and cruel Moslem race
    An iron hand must sway.

  The monarch gazed on each stem face;
    "Ye Moslem chiefs are brave;
  But I know a braver man than ye,
    Bring forth the Christian slave!"

  The slave was brought, and at a sign
    The scimitar waved high,
  But the English captive gazed unmoved,
    With calm unshrinking eye.

  Then spoke the sultan: "Hugh de Vere,
    I've need of men like thee,
  And thou shalt be the first man here,
    In this land, after me.

  "Thou shalt have gold, and gems, and land,
    Palaces shall be thine.
  And thou shalt wed a queenly bride,
    And be a son of mine.

  "Only forsake thy fathers' faith,
    Mah'med and God adore,
  And forget thy love and fatherland.
    Which thou shalt see no more."

  Then Hugh de Vere obeisance made;—
    "Since I must make reply,
  I will not change my love or faith,
    Far liever would I die.
  "I have a God who died for me.
    His soldier I am sworn.
  Shall I, whose shoulder bears the cross,
    Upon the cross bring scorn?

  "I have a love, a gentle girl.
    Whom I love as my wife;
  I cannot bear a Moslem name.
    Nor wed a Moslem wife."

  "Bethink thee now," the sultan said;
    "How knowest thou that the maid
  Is not now wed, since thy return
    Hath been so long delayed?

  "Fickle and false is woman's heart,
    It changes like the sky;
  The showers that fall so fast to-night
    To-morrow' sun will dry.

  "Nor—trust me—e'er was maiden yet
    Constant as is the dove,
  Who dies of grief for her lost mate,
    And knows no second love."

  Then at the monarch's feet bowed low
    The saintly frères who came
  To ransom slaves, bound by their vow,
    For Jesu's holy name.

  And at his footstool wealth untold
    With lavish hands they pour:
  "His bride sends thee her gems and gold;
    Sir Hugh de Vere restore!"

  The sultan spoke: "The other knights
    And men may go with thee.
  But not for gold or jewels bright
    Shall Hugh de Vere go free.

  "I love him with a brother's love,
    His love I hope to win.
  And in this land raise him above
    All men save Saladin.

  "What is a woman's love to mine?
    A hundred slaves I'll give,
  Let him his Christian faith resign,
    And in my shadow live.

  "His lady-love sends pearls and gold,
    She'd give them for a shawl,
  But she must give a dearer thing
    Before I yield my thrall.
  "I'll try how Christian maidens love—
    This answer to her bear,
  'Thy faith and fealty to prove,
    Give what is far more dear.

  "'This is the ransom I demand,
    No meaner thing I'll take,
  Thy own right arm and lily hand
    Cut off for thy love's sake."

  "Return, good frères," Sir Hugh then said,
    "To my betrothed bride,
  And speak of me henceforth as dead,
    Since here I must abide.

  "For rather would I die this day
    Beneath the paynim swords,
  Than ye should bear Agnes de Bray
    The sultan's cruel words.

  "For well I know her faithful heart
    Both arm and life would give
  To ransom mine;—and will not prove
    Her death, that I may live."

  Then mournfully the ransom sent
    The good frères took once more.
  And with the captives they had freed
    Sailed to the English shore.

  And Earl de Bray's castell they sought,
    And to fair Agnes told,
  How that her lover could not be
    Ransomed for gems or gold.

  And that the cruel sultan asked,—
    Nor meaner thing would take,—
  Her own right arm and lily hand,
    Cut off for her love's sake.

  A shudder ran through all who heard,
    Her mother shrieked aloud,
  Her father, crimsoning, clutched his sword,
    And death to Moslems vowed.

  Her little sister to her ran,
    And clasped her tightly round:
  "Sure, sister, such a wicked man
    Cannot on earth be found?"

  But Agnes smoothed the child's long hair
    And kissed her, then spoke low,
  "That cruel is the ransom asked.
    My dear ones, well I know.
  "But did not God for ransom give
    His own beloved Son?
  And do not churls and nobles give
    Their lives for king and throne?

  "Has not my lord and father bled
    By Coeur de Lion's side?
  And would he bid his daughter shirk
    Duty—whate'er betide?

  "Am I not Hugh de Vere's betrothed,
    Fast pledged to be his wife?
  Do not I owe him fealty,
    Even though it cost my life?

  "What is my life? Long days and years
    In vain repining spent,
  And orisons to God to end
    My dear love's banishment.

  "And he has heard.  At last my prayers
    Have reached up to God's throne
  God gives me back my long lost one,
    Nor leaves me sad and lone.

  "Only, he asks a sacrifice,
    A proof my love is pure:
  For such great gain, a little pain.
    And shall I not endure?"

* * * * *

  Once more the Sultan Saladin
    Sat in his royal court,
  At his right hand stood Hugh de Vere
    Grave-eyed and full of thought.

  A herald came. "Sultan, our lord,
    The Christians' holy men
  Who come to ransom captive slaves,
    An audience crave again."

  The friars came, and, bowing low,
    They placed before the throne
  A silver casket richly chased:
    And spoke in solemn tone.

  "Monarch, to whom women are slaves,
    Toys of an idle hour,
  Learn in a nobler faith than thine
    Love's purity and power.

  "The cruel ransom thou didst ask
    For Hugh de Vere here take,
  His love's right arm and lily hand
    "Cut off for her love's sake."
  Then Hugh de Vere, beside himself,
    The casket seized, and said,
  "O cruel monks, why told ye her?
    I bade ye call me dead.

  "O fair sweet arm! O dear white hand!
    Cut off for my poor sake!"
  And to his breast prest it and sobbed,
    As if his heart would break.

  But Saladin the casket oped,
    And lo! embalmed there lay
  The fair white arm and lily hand
    Sent by Agnes de Bray.

  And as he gazed his tears flowed down,
    His nobles also wept
  "Oh I would ere I such words had said
    I'd with my fathers slept!"

  The lily hand full reverently
    And like a saint's he kissed.
  "O gentle hand! what noble heart
    Thee owned, I never wist.

  "I never dreamed that woman lived
    Who would, to save her lord,
  Thus freely give her own right arm
    And hand unto the sword.

  "Mah'med and God witness for me,
    I loved Sir Hugh de Vere!
  And thought if I this ransom asked
    I should retain him here.

  "Fair arm, fair hand, and true brave love!
    My kingdom I'd resign—
  Richer than any king of earth
    In such a love as thine!

  "Take, Hugh de Vere, thy freedom, won
    So nobly by thy love;
  Take gems, and silks, and gold,—all vain
    Saladin's grief to prove.

  "Tell her I yield my selfish love:
    Well may she claim thy life!
  She who was such a noble love
    Will be a noble wife!

  "Unloose the sails, make no delay,
    Depart ere close the day.
  While I among my precious things
    Thy ransom stow away.

  "That, 'mid my treasure placed, it may
    To future ages prove
  How holy Christians' plighted troth,
    How pure their maidens' love!"


From Chamber's Journal.


There are some competent artistic observers who contend that bells were the origin, the cause, the ruling motive, of one of the most important parts of a Christian church—perhaps the most important, in regard to external appearance. The Rev. J. H. Sperling, in a paper read recently before the Architectural Institute, dwells at considerable length on the influence of the turret, campanile, or bell-tower in determining the character of a church. As a means of summoning the faithful to mass (there were no Protestant churches, because no Protestants, in those days), or to bid them pray wherever they might be, a bell was needed with a sound that would reach to a distance; and this could only be insured by placing it in a tower at some elevation. The Gothic architects made everything contribute to the design of their cathedrals and churches; and this elevation of the bell was just the thing to call forth their ingenuity. They made the bell-tower one of the chief features in their design. It was often entirely detached from the building, and was known generally as the campanile. Examples of this are observable at Canterbury and Chichester cathedrals, at Beccles, at Ledbury, and at West Walton in Norfolk. Salisbury cathedral had originally a campanile; but modern wiseacres, who thought they knew better than the men of old, removed it. The central towers of cathedrals and churches were intended as lanterns to let in light, not as turrets to contain bells; this was a later innovation. Many towers have been altered from their original purpose to convert them into bell-towers, but injuriously—as at Winchester and Ely. Mr. Sperling, as a matter of usefulness as well as of style, advocates the detached or semi-detached campanile; and recommends architects to direct their attention more frequently to this matter.

Another way in which church bells manifest, if not a scientific or artistic, at least a historical value, is in their connection with the saints of the Catholic Church; they are still existing records of a very old ecclesiastical custom. The bell of a church was frequently, if not generally, named after the patron saint of that church; and if there were more bells than one, the lowest in tone was named after the patron saint, and the others after saints to whom altars, shrines, or chapels within the edifice were dedicated. Probably, in such case, each bell was appropriated to the service of its own particular saint; for the use of many bells in a peal is comparatively modern. At Durham cathedral, and at the church of St Bartholomew the Great near Smithfield, are (or were recently) examples of a family of bells receiving names bearing special relation to the particular fabric for which they were intended.

Archaeologists claim for church bells a certain value in regard to the inscriptions which they nearly always bear, and which serve as so many guide-posts directing to facts belonging to past ages. Each great bell-founder (and many of them belonged to monastic institutions) had his own particular style of ornamentation, and his own favorite inscription, monogram, or epigraph. Sometimes it was only his own name; sometimes a name and a date; sometimes a pious ejaculation. The towns of Norwich, Lynn, Colchester, Salisbury, etc., had all celebrated families of bell-founders, in the days when the later Gothic cathedrals and churches were built. {33} The earliest known dated bell is at Fribourg, bearing the year 1258, and the inscription: "O Rex Gloriae, veni cum pace; me resonante pia populo succurre Maria." The oldest in England is supposed to be that at Duncton in Sussex, dated 1319. London can boast one a little over four centuries old, at All Hallows Staining, Mark Lane. The inscriptions on the bells, in the days when saints patronized them, were mostly in Latin, in most cases including the entreaty, "Ora pro nobis" (Pray for us). Sometimes the mottoes adverted to the many uses which church bells subserved, such as:

  "Laudo Deum verum, plebem voco, congrego clerum,
  Defunctos ploro, pestem fugo, festa decoro."

Even this did not exhaust the list; for we meet with an enumeration of nearly twenty purposes answered by church bells—some of which we should be little disposed to recognize in these scientific days of ours. The following is not an actual motto on a bell, but an elegy on the subject:

  "En ego Campana, nunquam denuntio vana,
  Laudo Deum verum, plebem voco, congrego clerum.
  Defunctos plango, vivos voco, fulmina frango,
  Vox mea, vox vitae, voco vos, ad sacra venite.
  Sanctos collaudo, tonitrua fugo, funera claudo,
  Funera plango, fulgura frango, Sabbatha pango,
  Excito lentos, dissipo ventos, paco cruentos."

Occasionally, some of the more peculiar of these uses were expressed in English:

  "Sometimes joy, sometimes sorrow.
  Marriage to-day, and Death to-morrow."

They generally lose their point when they lose their Latinity.

The mottoes on old bells, other than those which were dictated by the reverential feeling of the middle ages, comprise instances of vanity, ignorance, and silliness, such as would hardly be expected in these matters. Sometimes a kind of moral aphorism is attempted, with more or less success.

  "Mankind, like us, too oft are found
  Possessed of nought but empty sound.

  When backward rung, I tell of fire;
  Think how the world shall thus expire.

  When souls are from their body torn,
  'Tis not to die, but to be born."

One, very short, bids us to

  "Embrace trew musick."

A bell-founder named Pleasant used to put all kinds of punning mottoes on his bells suggested by his name. Some record the financial virtues of the persons who supplied the money for casting the bell:

  "I'm given here to make a peal,
  And sound the praise of Mary Neale."

  "All ye who hear my solemn sound.
  Thank Lady Hopton's hundred pound."

  "Robert Forman collected the money for casting this bell:
  I'll surely do my part as well."

The name of the founder is sometimes supplanted by that of the churchwarden, or they may appear in companionship.

  "John Martin of Worcester he made wee,
  Be it known to all that do wee see."

  "John Draper made, as plainly doth appeare.
  This bell was broake and cast againe wich
      tyme churchwardens were,
  Edward Dixon for the one who stode close to his tacklin.
  And he that was his partner then was Alexander Tacklyn."

The rhymster was evidently driven to his wits' end by the name of Tacklyn. Some had a touch of loyalty in them:

  "God save the Church,
  Our Queen, and Realme,
  And send us peace in Xt."

The following are examples of a more or less childish class, marvels to find perpetuated in hard metal:

  "My sound is good, my shape is neat:
  Perkins made me all complete."

  "I am the first, although but small,
  I will be heard above you all."

  "I sound aloud from day to day:
  My sound hath praise, and well it may."

  "I ring to sermon with a lusty boom,
  That all may come, and none may stay at home."

  "Pull on, brave boys; I am metal to the backbone,
  I'll be hanged before I'll crack."

The letters of the inscription are not, as some persons may suppose, cut or engraved on the metal by hand: they are formed in intaglio or sunk in the sand of the mould, and thus appear in relief on the outside of the bell when cast. What can be done in this way by that strange people the {34} Chinese may be seen in the British Museum; we might search long enough to find an English bell equal in elaborate ornamentation to the Chinese bell there deposited.

The musical tone of a bell unquestionably depends on the scientific principles of acoustics as applied to music. The pitch of any one bell is determined conjointly by the size and the thickness. Of two bells equally large, the thicker gives the higher note; of two bells equally thick, the smaller gives the higher note. But then bell-founders look to the quality of the tone as well as to the pitch; and on this point there is much divergence of opinion among them. Concerning the metal used, some combination of copper and tin predominates in nearly all church bells; generally from two to three times as much copper as tin. Small additions of other metals are occasionally made, according to the theoretical views of the founder. The popular belief that silver improves the tone of a bell, is pronounced by Mr. Sperling and Mr. Denison to be a mistake; if added in large quantity, it would be as bad as so much lead; if in small quantity, it does neither good nor harm. Whether there is or is not really silver in two well-known bells, called the "Acton Nightingale" and the "Silver Bell" of St John's College, Cambridge, it is believed by these authorities that the sweetness of the tone is due to other causes. A feeling of piety probably influenced the wealthy persons who, in old days, were wont to cast silver into the furnace containing the molten bell-metal. Mr. Sperling thinks that the old bells were, as a rule, better than the modern, by having more substance in them—obtaining depth and fulness of tone by largeness in height and diameter, rather than by diminishing the thickness at the part where the hammer or clapper strikes. "Nothing is more easily starved than a church bell." A long-waisted bell (high in the sides) is considered to give forth a more resonant tone than a shallow or low waist, because there is more metal to act as a kind of sounding-board; but a lower bell is easier to ring in a peal; hence, as Sperling thinks, a reason for the difference in the richness of tone in old and modern bells. There are indications that the old founders sometimes tuned a set of bells in what is called the minor mode, the source of much that is tender and plaintive in Scotch and Irish melodies; but in our days they are always in the major mode. Where the ringing is done by clock-work, the sounds of several bells constitute a chime—where by hand, a peal—but in either case the actual tone or note of each bell is fixed beforehand. It is by many persons believed that the quality of the tone is improved by age, owing to some kind of molecular change in the metal; this is known to be the case in some old organs, and in instruments of the violin class, in the metal of the one and the wood of the other; and so far there is analogy to support the opinion. For good peals of bells, the founders generally prefer D or E as the note for the tenor or largest bell.

As to largeness in a bell, its intention bears relation rather to loudness than to pitch, as a means of throwing the sound to a great distance. This is the reason for the mighty bells that we are told of—St. Paul's weighing something like 13,000 lbs.; Antwerp, 16,000 lbs.; Oxford, 17,000 lbs.; Rome, 18,000 lbs.; Mechlin, 20,000 lbs.; Bruges, 23,000 lbs.; York, 24,000 lbs.; Cologne, 25,000 lbs.; Montreal, 29,000 lbs.; Erfurt, 30,000 lbs.; "Big Ben," at the Houses of Parliament, 31,000 lbs.; Sens, 34,000 lbs.; Vienna, 40,000 lbs.; Novgorod, 69,000 lbs.; Pekin, 119,000 lbs.; Moscow, 141,000 lbs.; and, giant of all the giants, another Moscow bell weighing 192 tons, or 430,000 lbs. Our own Big Ben is more than twice as heavy as our own St. Paul's bell, which used to be regarded as one of our wonders, and its sound travels much further; but whether its quality of tone is equal, is a point on which opinions differ. {35} The history of the two Big Bens must be more or less familiar to most of our readers—how that three chief commissioners of works, and two architects, and three bell-founders, and two bell-doctors, quarrelled year after year; how that both the Bens cracked, and got into disgrace; how that one of them recovered its voice again; and how that we have paid the piper to the tune of something like four thousand pounds for the two Big Bens and the four smaller bells. If a musical reader wishes to know, he may be told that the four quarter-bells give out the notes B, E, F++, G++, and that Big Ben's tone is E, an octave below the first E. Remember, when Big Ben is heard six miles off, it is half a minute behind time, seeing that sound takes about half a minute to travel that distance.

As to bell-ringing, the adepts insist upon it that this is a science; and they give it the name of campanology. We all know, ever since we learnt about permutation and combination at school, that if there are six, eight, ten, or any number of distinct things, we may arrange them in an enormous number of ways, each way differing from every other. The things in this case are bells of different tones; and according to the order in which they are struck by the hammer or clapper so many changes may we produce. Out of the almost infinite number of these changes, campanologists select certain groups which to their ear seem most musical and agreeable; and these changes are known by the names of their proposers or inventors, just as we speak of a work by a great artist. It is not clearly known whether change-ringing began earlier than the seventeenth century; but it is certain that the art is practised much more in England than in any other country. There are peals from two or three to ten or twelve bells. Sixteen of twelve bells, and fifty of ten bells, are mentioned in the books as peals now existing in England. The largest peals now in England are at Bow church, Exeter, and York, each of ten bells; at Bow church and at York they vary from eight hundredweights to fifty-three hundredweights each; at Exeter from eight to sixty-seven hundredweights. From these weights, it must be evident that it is no small labor for men to pull such bells for several hours at a time. Just as the achievements of celebrated pedestrians and race-horses are placed upon record, so are the fraternity proud to refer to the bell-ringing exploits of their crack pullers. Twenty-four changes per minute are frequently reached. We are told that in 1787, 5,040 changes were rung in three hours and a quarter; and that on other occasions there were 6,876 changes rung in four hours and a quarter, 7,000 in four hours, 10,008 in six hours and three quarters, 14,224 in eight hours and three quarters, and (the magnum opus) 40,320 changes rung by thirteen men in twenty-seven hours, working in relief gangs. In one of the old churches, North Parret in Somerset, the belfry contains a set of rhyming rules, purporting that a six-pence fine shall be imposed on the ringers for cursing or swearing, for making a noise or telling idle stories, for keeping on their hats, for wearing spurs, or for overturning the bell. This overturning does sometimes occur, even to the loss of life. One ringer was killed about the time when his brother was drowned; and the following delectable epitaph records the double catastrophe:

  "These 3 youths were by misfortun serounded;
  One died of his wound, and the other was drownded."

Whether bell-pinging is really a science, or whether it is only an ingenious art, as most people would prefer to call it, certainly the technical terms are most profuse and puzzling. Let the reader make what he can out of the following, taken at random from one of the books on the subject: Treble lead, plain work, course, call word, reverse method, direct method, double, method, balance, hold up, cut down, following, handstroke, rounds, {36} backstroke, plain hunt, touches, course ends, hunting up, hunting down, place making, dodging, double dodging, Bob doubles, singles, observation, grandsire doubles, slow course, principle, Bob minor, double Bob minor, treble Bob, superlative surprise, wrong way, Bob triple, tittums. Bob caller, Bob major, double Bob major, treble Bob major, Bob caters, grandsire caters, Bob royals, Bob cinques, Bob maximus, treble Bob maximus. Bob certainly seems to be in the ascendant here. When the reader has marvelled at these funny names, let him try to understand the directions for ringing one particular set of changes: "Call two Bobs on 9, O, x; bring them round. Or, if the practitioner pleases, he may call the tenth and eleventh to make the ninth's place; the former will be a six before the course end comes up. Then a Bob when the tenth and eleventh dodge together behind completes it. In this course the bells will be only one course out of the tittums"—which it is very satisfactory to hear. Once more; and here we would ask whether the directions do not suggest the idea of a damsel going through a sort of country-dance with seven swains all rejoicing in the name of Bob? "When the seventh has been quick, call a Bob when she dodges the right way behind, which will make her quick again; then, if the sixth goes up before the seventh, keep her behind with Bobs, until the seventh comes up to her; but if the sixth does not go up before the seventh, call her the right way behind again, and the sixth is sure to be up before her the next time." After a little more of these extraordinary evolutions—"If not out of course, Bob with the seventh down quick till the fourth comes home; if out of course, a single must be called when the seventh goes down quick, to put them right. But if it happens that the fourth is before the fifth comes home, call when the seventh does her first whole term, and down quick with a double." And we hope that they lived happy ever afterward.

From The Month


  Roll on by tower and arch, autumnal river;
  And ere about thy dusk yet gleaming tide
  The phantom of dead day hath ceased to glide,
  Whisper it to the reeds that round thee quiver—
  Yea, whisper to those ivy-bowers that shiver
  Hard by on gusty choir and cloister wide:
  "My bubbles break; my weed-flowers seaward glide:
  My freshness and my mission last for ever!"
  Young moon, from leaden tomb of cloud that soarest,
  And whitenest those hoar elm-trees, wrecks forlorn
  Of olden Airedale's hermit-haunted forest,
  Speak thus: "I died; and lo, I am reborn!"
  Blind, patient pile, sleep on in radiance! Truth
  Fails not; and faith once more shall wake in endless youth.



From The Month.





One day there was a great deal of company at Mistress Wells's house, which was the only one I then haunted, being as afore said, somewhat sickened of society and diversions. The conversation which was mostly ministered amongst such as visited there related to public affairs and foreign countries, and not so much as in some other houses to private scandals and the tattle of the town. The uncertainty I was in concerning my father's present abode and his known intent soon to cross over the sea from France worked in me a constant craving for news from abroad, and also an apprehensive curiosity touching reports of the landing of seminary priests at any of the English ports. Some would often tarry at Mr. Wells's house for a night who had lately come from Rheims or Paris, and even Rome, or leastways received letters from such as resided in those distant parts. And others I met there were persons who had friends at court; and they often related anecdotes of the queen and the ministers, and the lords and ladies of her household, which it also greatly concerned me to hear of, by reason of my dearest friend having embarked her whole freight of happiness in a frail vessel launched on that stormy sea of the court, so full of shoals and quicksands, whereby many a fair ship was daily chanced to be therein wrecked.

Nothing notable of this kind had been mentioned on the day I speak of, which, howsoever, proved a very notable one to me. For after I had been in the house a short time there came there one not known, and yet it should seem not wholly unknown to me; for that I did discover in his shape and countenance something not unfamiliar, albeit I could not call to mind that I had ever seen this gentleman before. I asked his name of a young lady who sat near to me, and she said she thought he should be the elder brother of Mr. Hubert Rookwood, who was lodging in the house, and that she heard he tabled there also since he had come to town, and that he was a very commendable person, above the common sort, albeit not one of such great parts as his brother. Then I did instantly take note of the likeness between the brothers which had made the elder's face not strange to me, as also perhaps that one sight of him I had at Bedford some years before. Their visages were very like; but their figures and mostly their countenances different. I cannot say wherein that great differency did lie; but methinks every one must have seen, or rather felt it. Basil was the tallest and the handsomest of the twain. I will not be so great a prodigal of time as to bestow it on commendations of his outward appearance whose inward excellences were his chiefest merit. Howsoever, I be minded to set down in this place somewhat touching his appearance; as it may so happen that some who read this history, and who have known and loved Basil in his old years, should take as much pleasure in reading as I do in writing the description of his person, and limning as it were the resemblance of him at a period in this history wherein the hitherto separate currents of his life and mine do meet, like a noble river {38} and a poor stream, for to flow onward in the same channel.

Basil Rookwood was of a tall stature, and well-proportioned shape in all parts. His hair of light brown, very thickly set, and of a sunny hue, curled with a graceful wave. His head had many becoming motions. His mouth was well-made, and his lips ruddy. His forehead not very high, in which was a notable dissemblance from his brother. His nose raised and somewhat sharply cut. His complexion clear and rosy; his smile so full of cheer and kindliness that it infected others with mirthfulness. He was very nimble and active in all his movements, and well skilled in riding, fencing, and dancing. I pray you who have known him in his late years, can you in aught, save in a never-altered sweetness mixing with the dignity of age, trace in this picture a likeness to Basil, your Basil and mine? I care not, in writing this plain showing of mine own life, to use such disguises as are observed in love-stories, whereby the reader is kept ignorant of that which is to follow until in due time the course of the tale doth unfold it. No, I may not write Basil's name as that of a stranger. Not for the space of one page; nay, not with so much as one stroke of my pen can I dissemble the love which had its dawn on the day I have noted. It was sudden in its beginnings, yet steady in its progress. It deepened and widened with the course of years, even as a rivulet doth start with a lively force from its source, and, gathering strength as it flows, grows into a broad and noble river. It was ardent but not idolatrous; sudden, as I have said, in its rise, but not unconsidered. It was founded on high esteem on the one side, on the other an inexpressible tenderness and kindness. Religion, honor, and duty were the cements of this love. No blind dotage; but a deathless bond of true sympathy, making that equal which in itself was unequal; for, if a vain world should have deemed that on the one side there did appear some greater brilliancy of parts than showed in the other, all who could judge of true merit and sound wisdom must needs have allowed that in true merit Basil was as greatly her superior whom he honored with his love, as is a pure diamond to the showy setting which encases it.

Hubert presented to me his brother, who, when he heard my name mentioned, would not be contented till he had got speech of me; and straightway, after the first civilities had passed between us, began to relate to me that he had been staying for a few days before coming to town at Mr. Roper's house at Richmond, where I had often visited in the summer. It so befel that I had left in the chamber where I slept some of my books, on the margins of which were written such notes as I was wont to make whilst reading, for so Hubert had advised me, and his counsel in this I found very profitable; for this method teaches one to reflect on what he reads, and to hold converse as it were with authors whose friendship and company he thus enjoys, which is a source of contentment more sufficient and lasting than most other pleasures in this world.

Basil chanced to inhabit this room, and discovered on an odd by-shelf these volumes so disfigured, or, as he said, so adorned; and took such delight in the reading of them, but mostly in the poor reflections an unknown pen had affixed to these pages, that he rested not until he had learnt from Mr. Roper the name of the writer. When he found she was the young girl he had once seen at Bedford, he marvelled at the strong impulse he had toward her, and pressed the venerable gentleman with so many questions relating to her that he feared he should have wearied him but his inquiries met with such gracious answers that he perceived Mr. Roper to be as well pleased with the theme of his discourse as himself, and as glad to set {39} forth her excellences (I be ashamed to write the words which should indeed imply the speaker to have been in his dotage, but for the excuse of a too great kindness to an unworthy creature) as he had to listen to them. And here I must needs interrupt my narrative to admire that one who was no scholar, yea, no great reader at any time, albeit endowed with excellent good sense and needful information, should by means of books have been drawn to the first thoughts of her who was to enjoy his love which never was given to any other creature but herself. But I pray you, doth it not happen most often, though it is scarce to be credited, that dissemblance in certain matters doth attract in the way of love more than resemblance? That short men do choose tall wives; lovers of music women who have no ear to discern one tune from another; scholars witless housewives; retired men ambitious helpmates; and gay ladies grave husbands? This should seem to be the rule, otherways the exception; and a notable instance of the same I find in the first motions which did incline Basil to a good opinion of my poor self.

But to return. "Mistress Sherwood," quoth Basil, "Mr. Roper did not wholly praise you; he recited your faults as well as your virtues."

I answered, it did very much content me he should have done so, for that then more credit should be given to his words in that wherein he did commend me, since he was so true a friend as to note my defects.

"But what," quoth he, archly smiling, "if the faults he named are such as pleased me as well as virtues?"

"Then," I replied, "methinks, sir, the fault should be rather in you than in her who doth commit them, for she may be ignorant, or else subject to some infirmity of temper; but to commend faults should be a very dangerous error."

"But will you hear," quoth he, "your faults as Mr. Roper recited them?"

"Yea, willingly," I answered, "and mend them also if I can."

"Oh, I pray you mend them not," he cried.

At which I laughed, and said he should be ashamed to give such wanton advice. And then he:

"Mr. Roper declares you have so much inability to conceal your thoughts that albeit your lips should be forcibly closed, your eyes would speak them so clearly that any one who listed should read them."

"Methinks," I said, willing to excuse myself like the lawyer in the gospel, "that should not be my fault, who made not mine own eyes."

"Then he also says, that you have so sharp an apprehension of wrongs done to others, that if you hear of an injustice committed, or some cruel treatment of any one, you are so moved and troubled, that he has known you on such occasions to shed tears, which do not flow with a like ease for your own griefs. Do you cry mercy to this accusation, Mistress Sherwood?"

"Indeed," I answered, "God knoweth I do, and my ghostly father also. For the strong passions of resentment touching the evil usage our Catholics do meet with work in me so mightfully, that I often am in doubt if I have sinned therein. And concerning mine own griefs, they have been but few as yet, so that 'tis little praise I deserve for not overmuch resentment in instances wherein, if others are afflicted, I have much ado to restrain wrath."

"Ah," he said, "methinks if you answer in so true and grave a manner my rude catechizing. Mistress Sherwood, I be not bold enough to continue the inventory of your faults."

"I pray you do," I answered; for I felt in my soul an unusual liking for his conversation, and the more so when, leaving off jesting, he said, "The last fault Mr. Roper did charge you with was lack of prudence in matters wherein prudence is most needed in these days."


"Alas!" I exclaimed; "for that also do I cry mercy; but indeed, Master Rookwood, there is in these days so much cowardice and time-serving which doth style itself prudence, that methinks it might sometimes happen that a right boldness should be called rashness."

Raising my eyes to his, I thought I saw them clouded by a misty dew; and he replied, "Yea, Mistress Constance, and if it is so, I had sooner that myself and such as I have a friendship for should have to cry mercy on their death-beds for too much rashness in stemming the tide, than for too much ease in yielding to it. And now," he added, "shall I repeat what Mr. Roper related of your virtues?"

"No," I answered, smiling. "For if the faults he doth charge me with be so much smaller than the reality, what hope have I that he should speak the truth in regard to my poor merits?"

Then some persons moving nearer to where we were sitting, some general conversation ensued, in which several took part; and none so much to my liking as Basil, albeit others might possess more ready tongues and a more sparkling wit. In all the years since I had left my home, I had not found so much contentment in any one's society. His mind and mine were like two instruments with various chords, but one key-note, which maintained them in admirable harmony. The measure of our agreement stood rather in the drift of our desires and the scope of our approval, than in any parity of tastes or resemblance of disposition. Acquaintanceship soon gave way to intimacy, which bred a mutual friendship that in its turn was not slow to change into a warmer feeling. We met very often. It seemed so natural to him to affection me, and to me to reciprocate his affection, that if our love began not, which methinks it did, on that first day of meeting, I know not when it had birth. But if it be difficult precisely to note the earliest buddings of the sweet flower love, it was easy to discern the moment when the bitter root of jealousy sprang up in Hubert's heart. He who had been suspicious of every person whose civilities I allowed of, did not for some time appear to mislike the intimacy which had arisen betwixt his brother and me. I ween from what he once said, when on a later occasion anger loosened his tongue, that he held him in some sort of contempt, even as a fox would despise a nobler animal than himself. His subtle wit disdained his plainness of speech. His confiding temper he derided; and he had methinks no apprehension that a she-wit, as he was wont to call me, should prove herself so witless as to prefer to one of his brilliant parts a man notable for his indifferency to book learning, and to his smooth tongue and fine genius the honest words and unvarnished merits of his brother.

Howsoever, one day he either did himself notice some sort of particular kindness to exist between us, or he was advertised thereof by some of the company we frequented, and I saw him fix his eyes on us with so arrested a persistency, and his frame waxed so rigid, that methought Lot's wife must have so gazed when she turned toward the doomed city. I was more frighted at the dull lack of expression in his face than at a thousand frowns or even scowls. His eyes were reft of their wonted fire; the color had flown from his lips; his always pale cheek was of a ghastly whiteness; and his hand, which was thrust in his bosom, and his feet, which seemed rooted to the ground, were as motionless as those of a statue. A shudder ran through me as he stood in this guise, neither moving nor speaking, at a small distance from me. I rose and went away, for his looks freezed me. But the next time I met him this strangeness of behavior had vanished, and I almost misdoubted the truth of what I had seen. He was a daily witness, for several succeeding weeks, of what neither Basil nor I {41} cared much to conceal—the mutual confidence and increasing tenderness of affection, which was visible in all our words and actions at that time, which was one of greater contentment than can be expressed. That summer was a rare one for fineness of the weather and its great store of sun-shiny days. We had often pleasant divertisements in the neighborhood of London, than which no city is more famous for the beauty of its near scenery. One while we ascended the noble river Thames as far as Richmond, England's Arcadia, whose smooth waters, smiling meads, and hills clad in richest verdure, do equal whatsoever poets have ever sung or painters pictured. Another time we disported ourselves in the gardens of Hampton, where, in the season of roses, the insects weary their wings over the flower-beds—the thrifty bees with the weight of gathered honey—and the gay butterflies, idlers as ourselves, with perfume and pleasure. Or we went to Greenwich Park, and underneath the spreading trees, with England's pride of shipping in sight, and barges passing to and fro on the broad stream as on a watery highway, we whiled away the time in many joyous pastimes.

On an occasion of this sort it happened that both brothers went with us, and we forecasted to spend the day at a house in the village of Paddington, about two miles from London, where Mr. Congleton's sister, a lady of fortune, resided. It stood in a very fair garden, the gate of which opened on the high road; and after dinner we sat with some other company which had been invited to meet us under the large cedar trees which lined a broad gravel-walk leading from the house to the gate. The day was very hot, but now a cooling air had risen, and the young people there assembled played at pastimes, in which I was somewhat loth to join; for jesting disputations and framing of questions and answers, an amusement then greatly in fashion, minded one of that fatal encounter betwixt Martin Tregony and Thomas Sherwood, the end of which had been the death of the one and a fatal injury to the soul of the other. Hubert was urgent with me to join in the arguments proposed; but I refused, partly for the aforesaid reason, and methinks, also, because I doubted that Basil should acquit himself so admirably as his brother in these exercises of wit, wherein the latter did indeed excel, and I cared not to shine in a sport wherein he took no part. So I set myself to listen to the disputants, albeit with an absent mind; for I had grown to be somewhat thoughtful of late, and to forecast the future with such an admixture of hope and fear touching the issue of those passages of love I was engaged in, that the trifles which entertained a disengaged mind lacked ability to divert me. I ween Polly, if she had been then in London, should have laughed at me for the symptoms I exhibited of what she styled the sighing malady.

A little while after the contest had begun, a sound was heard at a distance as of a trampling on the road, but not discernible as yet whether of men or horses' feet. There was mixed with it cries of hooting and shouts, which increased as this sort of procession (for so it should seem to be) approached. All who were in the garden ran to the iron railing for to discover the cause. From the houses on both sides the road persons came out and joined in the clamor. As the crowd neared the gate where we stood, the words, "Papists—seditious priests—traitors," were discernible, mixed with oaths, curses, and such opprobrious epithets as my pen dares not write. At the hearing of them the blood rushed to my head, and my heart began to beat as if it should burst from the violence with which it throbbed; for now the mob was close at hand, and we could see the occasion of their yells and shoutings. About a dozen persons were riding without bridle or spur or other furniture, on lean and bare horses, which were fastened {42} one to the other's tails, marching slowly in a long row, each man's feet tied under his horse's belly and his arms bound hard and fast behind him. A pursuivant rode in front and cried aloud that those coming behind him were certain papists, foes to the gospel and enemies to the commonwealth, for that they had been seized in the act of saying and hearing mass in disobedience to the laws. And as he made this proclamation, the rabble yelled and took up stones and mud to cast at the prisoners. One man cried out, "Four of them be vile priests." O ye who read this, have you taken heed how, at some times in your lives, in a less space than the wink of an eye, thought has outrun sight? So did mine with lightning speed apprehend lest my father should be one of these. I scanned the faces of the prisoners as they passed, but he was not amongst them; however I recognized, with a sharp pain, the known countenance of the priest who had shriven my mother on her death-bed. He looked pale and worn to a shadow, and hardly able to sit on his horse. I sunk down on my knees, with my head against the railings, feeling very sick. Then the gate opened, and with a strange joy and trembling fear I saw Basil push through the mob till he stood close to the horse's feet where the crowd had made a stoppage. He knelt and took off his hat, and the lips of the priests moved, as they passed, for to bless him. Murmurs rose from the rabble, but he took no heed of them. Till the last horseman had gone by he stood with his head uncovered, and then slowly returned, none daring to touch him. "Basil, dear Basil!" I cried, and, weeping, gave him my hand. It was the first time I had called him by his name. Methinks in that moment as secure a troth-plight was passed between us as if ten thousand bonds had sealed it. When, some time afterward, we moved toward the house, I saw Hubert standing at the door with the same stony rigid look which had frighted me once before. He said not one word as I passed him. I have since heard that a lady, endowed with more sharpness than prudence or kindness, had thus addressed him on this occasion: "Methinks, Master Hubert Rookwood, that you did perform your part excellently well in that ingenious pastime which procured us so much good entertainment awhile ago; but beshrew me if your brother did not exceed you in the scene we have just witnessed, and if Mistress Sherwood's looks do not belie her, she thought so too. I ween his tragedy hath outdone your comedy." Then he (well-nigh biting his lips through, as the person who related it to me observed) made answer: "If this young gentlewoman's taste be set on tragedy, then will I promise her so much of it another day as should needs satisfy her."

This malicious lady misliked Hubert, by reason of his having denied her the praise of wit, which had been reported to her by a third person. She was minded to be revenged on him, and so the shaft contained in her piercing jest had likewise hit those she willed not to injure. It is not to be credited how many persons have been ruined in fortune, driven into banishment, yea, delivered over to death, by careless words uttered without so much as a thought of the evil which should ensue from them.

And now upon the next day Basil was to leave London. Before he went he said he hoped not to be long absent, and that Mr. Congleton should receive a letter, if it pleased God, from his father; which, if it should be favorably received, and I willed it not to be otherwise, should cause our next meeting to be one of greater contentment than could be thought of.

I answered, "I should never wish otherwise than that we should meet with contentment, or will anything that should hinder it." Which he said did greatly please him to hear, and gave him a comfortable hope of a happy return.


He conversed also with Mistress Ward touching the prisoners we had seen the day before, and left some money with her in case she should find means to see and assist them, which she strove to do with the diligence used by her in all such managements. In a few days she discovered Mr. Watson to be in Bridewell, also one Mr. Richardson in the Marshalsea, and three laymen in the Clink. Mr. Watson had a sister who was a Protestant, and by her means she succeeded in relieving his wants, and dealt with the gaolers at the other prisons so as to convey some assistance to the poor men therein confined, whose names she had found out.

One morning when I was at Kate's house Hubert came there; and she, the whole compass of whose thoughts was now circled in her nursery, not minding the signs I made she should not leave us alone, rose and said she must needs go and see if her babe was awake, for Hubert must see him, and he should not go away without first he had beheld him walk with his new leading-strings, which were the tastefullest in the world and fit for a king's son; and that she doubted not we could find good enough entertainment in each other's company, or in Mr. Lacy's books, which must be the wittiest ever written, if she judged by her husband's fondness for them. As soon as the door was shut on her, Hubert began to speak of his brother, and to insinuate that my behavior to himself was changed since Basil had come to London, which I warmly denied.

"If," I said, "I have changed—"

"If," he repeated, stopping my speaking with an ironical and disdainful smile, and throwing into that one little word as he uttered it more of meaning than it would seem possible it should express.

"Yes!" I continued, angered at his defiant looks. "Yes, if my behavior to you has changed, which, I must confess, in some respects it has, the cause did lie in my uncle's commands, laid on me before your brother's coming to London. You know it, Master Rookwood, by the same token that you charged me with unkindness for not allowing of your visits, and refusing to read Italian with you, some weeks before ever he arrived."

"You have a very obedient disposition, madam," he answered in a scornful manner, "and I doubt not have attended with a like readiness to the behest to favor the elder brother's suit as to that which forbade the receiving of the younger brother's addresses."

"I did not look upon you as a suitor," I replied.

"No!" he exclaimed, "and not as on a lover? Not as on one whose lips, borrowing words from enamored poets twenty times in a day, did avow his passion, and was entertained on your side with so much good-nature and apparent contentment with this mode of disguised worship, as should lead him to hope for a return of his affection? But why question of that wherein my belief is unshaken? I know you love me, Constance Sherwood, albeit you peradventure love more dearly my brother's heirship of Euston and its wide acres. Your eyes deceived not, nor did your flushing cheek dissemble, when we read together those sweet tales and noble poems, wherein are set forth the dear pains and tormenting joys of a mutual love. No, not if you did take your oath on it will I believe you love my brother!"

"What warrant have you, sir," I answered with burning cheek, "to minister such talk to one who, from the moment she found you thought of marriage, did plainly discountenance your suit?"

"You were content, then, madam, to be worshipped as an idol," he bitterly replied, "if only not sued for in marriage by a poor man."

My sin found me out then, and the hard taunt awoke dormant pangs in my conscience for the pleasure I had taken and doubtless showed in the disguised professions of an undisguised admiration; but anger yet prevailed, {44} and I cried, "Think you to advance your interest in my friendship, sir, by such language and reproaches as these?"

"Do you love my brother?" he said again, with an implied contempt which made me mad.

"Sir," I answered, "I entertain for your brother so great a respect and esteem as one must needs feel toward one of so much virtue and goodness. No contract exists between us; nor has he made me the tender of his hand. More than that it behoves you not to ask, or me to answer."

"Ah! the offer of marriage is then the condition of your regard, and love is to follow, not precede, the settlements, I' faith, ladies are very prudent in these days; and virtue and goodness the new names for fortune and lands. Beshrew me, if I had not deemed you to be made of other metal than the common herd. But whatever be the composition of your heart, Constance Sherwood, be it hard as the gold you set so much store on, or, like wax, apt to receive each day some new impress, I will have it; yea, and keep it for my own. No rich fool shall steal it from me."

"Hubert Rookwood," I cried in anger, "dare not so to speak of one whose merit is as superior to thine as the sun outshines a torchlight."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, turning pale with rage, "if I thought thou didst love him!" and clenched his hand with a terrible gesture, and ground his teeth. "But 'tis impossible," he added bitterly smiling. "As soon would I believe Titania verily to doat on the ass's head as for thee to love Basil!"

"Oh!" I indignantly replied, "you do almost constrain me to avow that which no maiden should, unasked, confess. Do you think, sir, that learning and scholarship, and the poor show of wit that lies in a ready tongue, should outweigh honor, courage, and kindliness of heart? Think you that more respect should be paid to one who can speak, and write also, if you will, fair sounding words, than to him who in his daily doings shows forth such nobleness as others only inculcate, and God only knoweth if ever they practise it?"

"Lady!" he exclaimed, "I have served you long; sustained torments in your presence; endured griefs in your absence; pining thoughts in the day, and anguished dreams in the night; jealousies often in times past, and now—"

He drew in his breath; and then not so much speaking the word "despair" as with a smothered vehemence uttering it, he concluded his vehement address.

I was so shaken by his speech that I remained silent: for if I had spoken I must needs have wept. Holding my head with both hands, and so shielding my eyes from the sight of his pale convulsed face, I sat like one transfixed. Then he again: "These be not times, Mistress Sherwood, for women to act as you have done; to lift a man's heart one while to an earthly heaven, and then, without so much as a thought, to cast him into a hellish sea of woes. These be the dealings which drive men to desperation; to attempt things contrary to their own minds, to religion, and to honesty; to courses once abhorred—"

His violence wrung my heart then with so keen a remorse that I cried out, "I cry you mercy, Master Rookwood, if I have dealt thus with you; indeed I thought not to do it. I pray you forgive me, if unwittingly, albeit peradventure in a heedless manner, I have done you so much wrong as your words do charge me with." And then tears I could not stay began to flow; and for awhile no talk ensued. But after a little time he spoke in a voice so changed and dissimilar in manner, that I looked up wholly amazed.

"Sweet Constance," he said, "I have played the fool in my customable fashion, and by such pretended slanders of one I should rather incline to commend beyond his deserts, if that were possible, than to give him vile terms, have sought—I cry you {45} mercy for it—to discover your sentiments, and feigned a resentment and a passion which indeed has proved an excellent piece of acting, if I judge by your tears. I pray you pardon and forget my brotherly device. If you love Basil—as I misdoubt not he loves you—where shall a more suitable match be found, or one which every one must needs so much approve? Marry, sweet lady; I will be his best man when he doth ride to church with you, and cry 'Amen' more loudly than the clerk. So now dart no more vengeful lightnings from thine eyes, sweet one; and wipe away the pearly drops my unmannerly jesting hath caused to flow. I would not Basil had wedded a lady in love with his pelf, not with himself."

"I detest tricks," I cried, "and such feigning as you do confess to. I would I had not answered one word of your false discourse."

Now I wept for vexation to have been so circumvented and befooled as to own some sort of love for a man who bad not yet openly addressed me. And albeit reassured in some wise, touching what my conscience had charged me with when I heard Hubert's vehement reproaches, I misdoubted his present sincerity. He searched my face with a keen investigation, for to detect, I ween, if I was most contented or displeased with his late words. I resolved, if he was false, I would be true, and leave not so much as a suspicion in his mind that I did or ever had cared for him. But Kate, who should not have left us alone, now returned, when her absence would have been most profitable. She had her babe in her aims, and must needs call on Hubert to praise its beauty and list to its sweet crowing. In truth, a more winsome, gracious creature could not be seen; and albeit I had made an inpatient gesture when she entered, my arms soon eased hers of their fair burthen, and I set to playing with the boy, and Hubert talking and laughing in such good cheer, that I began to credit his passion had been feigning, and his indifferency to be true, which contented me not a little.

A few days afterward Mr. Congleton received a letter, in the evening, when we were sitting in my aunt's room, and a sudden fluttering in my heart whispered it should be from Basil's father. Mine eyes affixed themselves on the cover, which had fallen on the ground, and then travelled to my uncle's face, wherein was a smile which seemed to say, "This is no other than what I did expect." He put it down on the table, and his hand over it. My aunt said he should tell us the news he had received, to make us merry; for that the fog had given her the vapors, and she had need of some good entertainment.

"News!" quoth he. "What news do you look for, good wife?"

"It would not be news, sir," she answered, "if I expected it."

"That is more sharp than true," he replied. "There must needs come news of the queen of France's lying-in; but I pray you how will it be? Shall she live and do well? Shall it be a prince or a princess?"

"Prithee, no disputings, Mr. Congleton," she said. "We be not playing at questions and answers."

"Nay, but thou dost mistake," he cried out, laughing. "Methinks we have here in hand some game of that sort if I judge by this letter."

Then my heart leapt, I knew not how high or how tumultuously; for I doubted not now but he had received the tidings I hoped for.

"Constance," he said, "hast a mind to marry?"

"If it should please you, sir," I answered; "for my father charged me to obey you."

"Good," quoth he. "I see thou art an obedient wench. And thou wilt marry who I please?"

"Nay, sir; I said not that."

"Oh, oh!" quoth he. "Thou wilt marry so as to please me, and yet—"

"Not so as to displease myself, sir," I answered.

"Come," he said, "another question. {46} Here is a gentleman of fortune and birth, and excellent good character, somewhat advanced in years indeed, but the more like to make an indulgent husband, and to be prudent in the management of his affairs, hath heard so good a report from two young gentlemen, his sons, of thy abilities and proper behavior, that he is minded to make thee a tender of marriage, with so good a settlement on his estate in Suffolk as must needs content any reasonable woman. Wilt have him, Conny?"

"Who, sir?" I asked, waxing, I ween, as red as a field-poppy.

"Mr. Rookwood, wench—Basil and Hubert's father."

Albeit I knew my uncle's trick of jesting, my folly was so great just then, hope and fear working in me, that I was seized with fright, and from crimson turned so white, that he cried out:

"Content thee, child! content thee! 'Tis that tall strapping fellow Basil must needs make thee an offer of his hand; and by my troth, wench, I warrant thee thou wouldst go further and fare worse; for the gentleman is honorably descended, heir-apparent to an estate worth yearly, to my knowledge, three thousand pounds sterling, well disposed in religion, and of a personage without exception. Mr. Rookwood declares he is more contented with his son's choice than if he married Mistress Spencer, or any other heiress; and beshrew me, if I be not contented also."

Then he bent his head close to mine ear, and whispered, "And so art thou, methinks, if those tell-tale eyes of thine should be credited. Yea, yea, hang down thy head, and stammer 'As you please, sir!' And never so much as a Deo gratias for thy good fortune! What thankless creatures women be!" I laughed and ran out of the room before mine aunt or Mistress Ward had disclosed their lips; for I did long to be in mine own chamber alone, and, from the depths of a heart over full of, yea overflowing with, such joy as doth incline the knees to bend and the eyes to raise themselves to the Giver of all good—he whom all other goodness doth only mirror and shadow forth—pour out a hymn of praise for the noble blessing I had received. For, I pray you, after the gift of faith and grace for to know and love God, is there aught on earth to be jewelled by a woman like to the affection of a good man; or a more secure haven for her to anchor in amid the present billows of life, except that of religion, to which all be not called, than an honorable contract of marriage, wherein reason, passion, and duty do bind the soul in a triple cord of love?

And oh! with what a painful tenderness I thought in that moving hour on mine own dear parents—my mother, now so many years dead; my father, so parted from his poor child, that in the most weighty concernment of her life—the disposal of her in marriage—his consent had to be presumed; his authority, for so he had with forecasting care ordained, being left in other hands. But albeit a shade of melancholy from such a retrospect as the mind is wont to take of the past, when coming events do cast, as it should seem, a new light on what has preceded them, I could not choose but see, in this good which had happened to me, a reward to him who had forsaken all things—lands, home, kindred, yea his only child, for Christ's dear sake. It minded me of my mother's words concerning me, when she lay dying, "Fear not for her."

I was somewhat loth to return to mine aunt's chamber, and to appear in the presence of Kate and Polly, who had come to visit their mother, and, by their saucy looks when I entered, showed they were privy to the treaty in hand. Mine aunt said she had been thinking that she would not go to church when I was married, but give me her blessing at home; for she had never recovered from the chilling she had when Kate was married, and {47} had laid abed on Polly' wedding-day, which she liked better. Mistress Ward had great contentment, she said, that I should have so good an husband. Kate was glad Basil was not too fond of books, for that scholars be not as conversable as agreeable husbands should be. Polly said, for her part, she thought the less wit a man had, the better for his wife, for she would then be the more like to have her own way. But that being her opinion, she did not wholly wish me joy; for she had noticed Basil to be a good thinker, and a man of so much sense, that he would not be ruled by a wife more than should be reasonable. I was greatly pleased that she thus commended him, who was not easily pleased, and rather given to despise gentlemen than to praise them. I kissed her, and said I had always thought her the most sensible woman in the world. She laughed, and cried, "That was small commendation, for that women were the foolishest creatures in the world, and mostly such as were in love."

Ah me! The days which followed were full of sweet waiting and pleasant pining for the effects of the letter mine uncle wrote to Mr. Rookwood, and looking for one Basil should write himself, when licence for to address me had been yielded to him. When it came, how unforeseen, how sad were the contents! Albeit love was expressed in every line, sorrow did so cover its utterance, that my heart overflowed through mine eyes, and I could only sigh and weep that the beginning of so fair a day of joy should have set in clouds of so much grief. Basil's father was dead. The day after he wrote that letter, the cause of all our joy, he fell sick and never bettered any more, but the contrary: time was allowed him to prepare his soul for death, by all holy rites and ghostly comforts. One of his sons was on each side of his bed when he died; and Basil closed his eyes.


Basil came to London after the funeral, and methought his sadness then did become him as much as his joyfulness heretofore. His grief was answerable to the affection he had borne unto his father, and to that gentlemen's most excellent deserts. He informed Mr. Congleton that in somewhat less than one year he should be of age, and until then his wardship was committed to Sir Henry Stafford. It was agreed betwixt them, that in respect of his deep mourning and the greater commodity his being of age would afford for the drawing up of settlements, our marriage should be deferred until he returned from the continent in a year's time. Sir Henry was exceeding urgent he should travel abroad for the bettering as he affirmed of his knowledge of foreign languages, and acquirement of such useful information as should hereafter greatly benefit him; but methinks, from what Basil said, it was chiefly with the end that he should not be himself troubled during his term of guardianship with proceedings touching his ward's recusancy, which was so open and manifest, no persuasions dissuading him from it, that he apprehended therefrom to meet with difficulties.

So with heavy hearts and some tears on both sides, a short time after Mr. Rookwood's death, we did part, but withal with so comfortable a hope of a happy future, and so great a security of mutual affection, that the pangs of separation were softened, and a not unpleasing melancholy ensued. We forecasted to hold converse by means of letters, of which he made me promise I should leastways write two for his one; for he argued, as I always had a pen in my hand, it should be no trouble to me to write down my thoughts as they arose, but as for himself, it would cost him much time and labor for to compose such a letter as it would content me to receive. But herein he was too modest; {48} for, indeed, in everything he wrote, albeit short and mostly devoid of such flowers of the fancy as some are wont to scatter over their letters, I was always excellently well pleased with his favors of this kind.

Hubert remained in London for to commence his studies in a house of the law; but when my engagement with his brother became known, he left off haunting Mr. Lacy's house, and even Mr. Wells's, as heretofore. His behavior was very mutable; at one time exceedingly obliging, and at another more strange and distant than it had yet been; so that I did dread to meet him, not knowing how to shape mine own conduct in his regard; for if on the one hand I misliked to appear estranged from Basil's brother, yet if I dealt graciously toward him I feared to confirm his apprehension of some sort of unusual liking on my part toward himself.

One month, or thereabouts, after Basil had gone to France, Lady Surrey did invite me to stay with her at Kenninghall, which greatly delighted me, for it was a very long time then since I had seen her. The reports I heard of her lord's being a continual waiter on her majesty, and always at court, whereas she did not come to London so much as once in the year, worked in me a very uneasy apprehension that she should not be as happy in her retirement as I should wish. I long had desired to visit this dear lady, but durst not be the first to speak of it. Also to one bred in the country from her infancy, the long while I had spent in a city, far from any sights or scents of nature, had created in me a great desire for pure air and green fields, of which the neighborhood of London had afforded only such scanty glimpses as served to whet, not satisfy, the taste for such-like pleasures. So with much contentment I began my journey into Norfolk, which was the first I had taken since that long one from Sherwood Hall to London some years before. A coach of my Lord Surrey's, with two new pairs of horses, was going from the Charter-house to Kenninghall, and a chamber-woman of my lady's to be conveyed therein; so for conveniency I travelled with her. We slept two nights on the road (for the horses were to rest often), in very comfortable lodgings; and about the middle of the third day we did arrive at Kenninghall, which is a place of so great magnitude and magnificence, that to my surprised eyes it showed more like unto a palace, yea, a cluster of palaces, than the residence of a private though illustrious nobleman. The gardens which we passed along-side of, the terraces adorned with majestic trees, the woods at the back of the building, which then wore a gaudy dress of crimson and golden hues,—made my heart leap for joy to be once more in the country. But when we passed through the gateway, and into one court and then another, methought we left the country behind, and entered some sort of city, the buildings did so close around us on every side. At last we stopped at a great door, and many footmen stood about me, and one led me through long galleries and a store of empty chambers; I forecasting in my mind the while how far it should be to the gardens I had seen, and if the birds could be heard to sing in this great house, in which was so much fine tapestry, and pictures in high-gilt frames, that the eye was dazzled with their splendor. A little pebbly brook or a tuft of daisies would then have pleased me more than these fine hangings, and the grass than the smooth carpets in some of the rooms, the like of which I had never yet seen. But these discontented thoughts vanished quickly when my Lady Surrey appeared; and I had nothing more to desire when I received her affectionate embrace, and saw how joyful was her welcome. Methought, too, when she led me into the chamber wherein she said her time was chiefly spent, that its rich adornment became her, who had verily a queenly beauty, and a {49} presence so sweetly majestic that it alone was sufficient to call for a reverent respect from others even in her young years. There was an admirable simplicity in her dress; so that I likened her in my mind, as she sat in that gilded room, to a pare fair diamond enchased in a rich setting. In the next chamber her gentlewoman and chambermaids were at work—some at frames, and others making of clothes, or else spinning; and another door opened into her bed-chamber, which was very large, like unto a hall, and the canopy of the bed so high and richly adorned that it should have beseemed a throne. The tapestry on the wall, bedight with fruits and flowers, very daintily wrought, so that nature itself hath not more fair hues than therein were to be seen.

"When my lord is not at home, I mislike this grand chamber, and do lie here," she said, and showed me an inner closet; which I perceived to be plainly furnished, and in one corner of it, which pleased me most for to see, a crucifix hung against the wall, over above a kneeling-stool. Seeing my eyes did rest on it, she colored a little, and said it had belonged to Lady Mounteagle, who had gifted her with it on her death-bed; upon which account she did greatly treasure the possession thereof.

I answered, it did very much content me that she should set store on what had been her grandmother's, for verily she was greatly indebted to that good lady for the care she had taken of her young years; "but methinks," I added, "the likeness of your Saviour which died for you should not need any other excuse for the prizing of it than what arises from its being what it is, his own dear image."

She said she thought so too; but that in the eyes of Protestants she must needs allege some other reason for the keeping of a crucifix in her room than that good one, which nevertheless in her own thinking she allowed of.

Then she showed me mine own chamber, which was very commodious and pleasantly situated, not far from hers. From the window was to be seen the town of Norwich, and an extensive plain intersected with trees; and underneath the wall of the house a terrace lined with many fair shrubs and strips of flower-beds, very pleasing to the eye, but too far off for a more familiar enjoyment than the eyesight could afford.

When we had dined, and I was sitting with my lady in her dainty sitting-room, she at her tambour-frame, and I with a piece of patch-work on my knees which I had brought from London, she began forthwith to question me touching my intended marriage, Mr. Rookwood's death, and Basil's going abroad, concerning which she had heard many reports. I satisfied her thereon; upon which she expressed great contentment that my prospects of happiness were so good; for all which knew Basil thought well on him, she said; and mostly his neighbors, which have the chiefest occasions for to judge of a man's disposition. And Euston, she thought, should prove a very commendable residence, albeit the house was small for so good an estate; but capable, she doubted not, of improvements, which my fine taste would bestow on it; not indeed by spending large sums on outward show, but by small adornments and delicate beautifying of a house and gardens, such as women only do excel in; the which kind of care Mr. Rookwood's seat had lacked for many years. She also said it pleased her much to think that Basil and I should agree touching religion, for there was little happiness to be had in marriage where consent doth not exist in so important a matter. I answered, that I was of that way of thinking also. But then this consent must be veritable, not extorted; for in so weighty a point the least shadow of compulsion on the one side, and feigning on the other, do end by destroying happiness, and virtue also, which is more urgent. She made no answer; and I then asked her if she {50} liked Kenninghall more than London, and had found in a retired life the contentment she had hoped for. She bent down her head over her work-frame, so as partly to conceal her face; but how beautiful what was to be seen of it appeared, as she thus hid the rest, her snowy neck supporting her small head, and the shape of her oval cheek just visible beneath the dark tresses of jet-black hair! When she raised that noble head methought it wore a look of becoming, not unchristian, pride, or somewhat better than should be titled pride; and her voice betokened more emotion than her visage betrayed when she said, "I am more contented, Constance, to inhabit this my husband's chiefest house than to dwell in London or anywhere else. Where should a wife abide with so much pleasure as in a place where she may be sometimes visited by her lord, even though she should not always be so happy as to enjoy his company? My Lord Arundel hath often urged me to reside with him in London, and pleaded the comfort my Lady Lumley and himself, in his declining years, should find in my filial care; but God helping me—and I think in so doing I fulfill his will—naught shall tempt me to leave my husband's house till he doth himself compel me to it; nor by resentment of his absence lose one day of his dear company I may yet enjoy."

"O my dear lady," I exclaimed, "and is it indeed thus with you? Doth my lord so forget your love and his duty as to forsake one he should cherish as his most dear treasure?"

"Nay, nay," she hastily replied; "Philip doth not forsake me; a little neglectful he is" (this she said with a forced smile), "as all the queen's courtiers must needs be of their wives; for she is so exacting, that such as stand in her good graces cannot be stayers at home, but ever waiters on her pleasure. If Philip doth only leave London or Richmond for three or four days, she doth suspect the cause of his absence; her smiles are turned to frowns, and his enemies immediately do take advantage of it. I tried to stay in London one while this year, after Bess was married; but he suffered so much in consequence from the loss of her good graces when she heard I was at the Charter-house, that I was compelled to return here."

"And hath my lord been to see you since?" I eagerly asked.

"Once," she answered; "for three short days. O Constance, it was a brief, and, from its briefness, an almost painful joy, to see him in his own princely home, and at the head of his table, which he doth grace so nobly; and when he went abroad saluted by every one with so much reverence, that he should be taken to be a king when he is here; and himself so contented with this show of love and homage, that his face beamed with pleasant smiles; and when he observed what my poor skill had effected in the management of his estates, which do greatly suffer from the prodigalities of the court, he commended me with so great kindness as to say he was not worthy of so good a wife."

I could not choose but say amen in mine own soul to this lord's true estimation of himself, and of her, one hair of whose head did, in my thinking, outweigh in merit his whole frame; but composed my face lest she should too plainly read my resentment that the like of her should be so used by an ungrateful husband.

"Alas," she continued, "this joy should be my constant portion if an enemy robbed me not of my just rights. 'Tis very hard to be hated by a queen, and she so great and powerful that none in the compass of her realm can dare to resent her ill treatment. I had a letter from my lord last week, in which he says if it be possible he will soon visit me again; but he doth add that he has so much confidence in my affection, that he is sure I would not will him to risk that which may undo him, if the queen should hear of it. 'For, Nan,' he writes, 'I resemble a man scrambling up unto a slippery rock, who, if he {51} gaineth not the topmost points, must needs fall backward into a precipice; for if I lose but an inch of her majesty's favor, I am like to fall as my fathers have done, and yet lower. So be patient, good Nan, and bide the time when I shall have so far ascended as to be in less danger of a rapid descent, in which thine own fortunes would be involved."

She folded this letter, which she had taken out of her bosom, with a deep sigh, and I doubt not with the same thought which was in mine own mind, that the higher the ascent, the greater doth prove the peril of an overthrow, albeit to the climber's own view the further point doth seem the most secured. She then said she would not often speak with me touching her troubles; but we should try to forget absent husbands and lovers, and enjoy so much pleasure in our mutual good company as was possible, and go hawking also and riding on fine days, and be as merry as the days were long. And, verily, at times youthful spirits assumed the lead, and like two wanton children we laughed sometimes with hearty cheer at some pleasantry in which my little wit but fanciful humor did evince itself for her amusement. But the fair sky of these sunshiny hours was often overcast by sudden clouds; and weighty thoughts, ill assorting with soaring joylity, wrought sad endings to merry beginnings. I restrained the expression of mine own sorrow at my father's uncertain fate and Basil's absence, not to add to her heaviness; but sometimes, whilst playing in some sort the fool to make her smile, which smiles so well became her, a sharp aching of the heart caused me to fail in the effort; which when she perceived, her arm was straightway thrown round my neck, and she would speak in this wise:

"O sweet jester! poor dissembler! the heart will have its say, albeit not aided by the utterance of the tongue. Believe me, good Constance, I am not unmindful of thy griefs, albeit somewhat silent concerning them, as also mine own; for that I eschew melancholy themes, having a well-spring of sorrow in my bosom which doth too readily overflow if the sluices be once opened."

Thus spake this sweet lady; but her unconscious tongue, following the current of her thoughts more frequently than she did credit, dwelt on the theme of her absent husband; and on whichever subject talk was ministered between us, she was ingenious to procure it should end with some reference to this worshipped object. But verily, I never perceived her to express, in speaking of that then unworthy husband, but what, if he had been present, must needs have moved him to regret his negligent usage of an incomparable, loving, and virtuous wife, than to any resentment of her complaints, which were rather of others who diverted his affections from her than of him, the prime cause of her grief. One day that we walked in the pleasaunce, she led the way to a seat which she said during her lord's last visit he had commended for the fair prospect it did command, and said it should be called "My Lady's Arbor."

"He sent for the head-gardener," quoth she, "and charged him to plant about it so many sweet flowers and gay shrubs as should make it in time a most dainty bower fit for a queen. These last words did, I ween, unwittingly escape his lips, and, I fear me, I was too shrewish; for I exclaimed, 'O no, my lord; I pray you let it rather be unfitted for a queen, if so be you would have me to enjoy it!' He made no answer, and his countenance was overcast and sad when he returned to the house. I misdoubted my hasty speech had angered him; but when his horse came to the door for to carry him away to London and the court, he said very kindly, as he embraced me, 'Farewell, dear heart! mine own good Nan!' and in a letter he since wrote he inquired if his orders had been obeyed touching his sweet countess's pleasure-house."


I always noticed Lady Surrey to be very eager for the coming of the messenger which brought letters from London mostly twice in the week, and that in the untying of the strings which bound them her hand trembled so much that she often said, "Prithee, Constance, cut this knot. My fingers be so cold I have not so much patience as should serve to the undoing thereof."

One morning I perceived she was more sad than usual after the coming of this messenger. The cloud on her countenance chased away the joy I had at a letter from Basil, which was written from Paris, and wherein he said he had sent to Rheims for to inquire if my father was yet there, for in that case he should not so much fail in his duty as to omit seeking to see him; and so get at once, he trusted, a father and a priest's blessing."

"What ails you, sweet lady?" I asked, seeing her lips quiver and her eyes to fill with tears.

"Nothing should ail me," she answered more bitterly than was her wont. "It should be, methinks, the part of a wife to rejoice in her husband's good fortune; and here is one that doth write to me that my lord's favor with the queen is so great that nothing greater can be thought of: so that some do say, if he was not married he would be like to mount, not only to the steps, but on to the throne itself. Here should be grand news for to rejoice the heart of the Countess of Surrey. Prithee, good wench, why dost thou not wish thy poor friend joy?"

I felt so much choler that any one should write to my lady in this fashion, barbing with cruel malice, or leastways careless lack of thought, this wanton arrow, that I exclaimed in a passion it should be a villain had thus written. She smiled in a sad manner and answered:

"Alas, an innocent villain I warrant the writer to be, for the letter is from my Bess, who has heard others speak of that which she doth unwittingly repeat, thinking it should be an honor to my lord, and to me also, that he should be spoken of in this wise. But content thee; 'tis no great matter to hear that said again which I have had hints of before, and am like to hear more of it, maybe."

Then hastily rising, she prepared to go abroad; and we went to a lodge in the park, wherein she harbored a great store of poor children which lacked their parents; and then to a barn she had fitted up for to afford a night's lodging to travellers; and to tend sick people—albeit, saving herself, she had no one in her household at that time one half so skilful in this way as my Lady l'Estrange. I ween this was the sole place wherein her thoughts were so much occupied that she did for a while forget her own troubles in curing those of others. A woman had stopped there the past night, who, when we went in, craved assistance from her for to carry her to her native village, which was some fifteen miles north of Norwich. She was afraid, she said, for to go into the town; for nowadays to be poor was to be a wicked person in men's eyes; and a traveller without money was like to be whipt and put into the stocks for a vagabond, which she should die of if it should happen to her, who had been in the service of a countess, and had not thought to see herself in such straits, which she should never have been reduced to if her good lady had not been foully dealt with. Lady Surrey, wishing, I ween, by some sort of examination, to detect the truth of her words, inquired in whose service she had lived.

"Madam," she answered, "I was kitchen maid in the Countess of Leicester's house, and never left her service till she was murthered some years back by a black villain in her household, moved by a villain yet more black than himself."

"Murthered!" my lady exclaimed. "It was bruited at the time that lady had died of a fall."

"Ay, marry," quoth the beggar, {53} shaking her head, "I warrant you, ladies, that fall was compassed by more hands than two, and more minds than one. But it be not safe for to say so; as Mark Hewitt could witness if he was not dead, who was my sweetheart and a scullion at Cumnor Place, and was poisoned in prison for that he offered to give evidence touching his lady's death which would have hanged some which deserved it better than he did—albeit he had helped to rob a coach in Wales after he had been discharged, as we all were, from the old place. Oh, if folks dared to tell all they do know, some which ride at the queen's side should swing on a gibbet before this day twelvemonth."

Lady Surrey sat down by this woman; and albeit I pulled her by the sleeve and whispered in her ear to come away—for methought her talk was not fitting for her to hear, whose mind ran too much already on melancholy themes—she would not go, and questioned this person very much touching the manner of Lady Leicester's life, and what was reported concerning her death. This recital was given in a homely but withal moving manner, which lent a greater horror to it than more studied language should have done. She said her lady bad been ill some time and never left her room; but that one day, when one of her lord's gentlemen had come from London, and had been examining of the house with the steward for to order some repairing of the old walls and staircases, and the mason had been sent for also late in the evening, a so horrible shriek was heard from the part of the house wherein the countess's chamber was, that it frighted every person in the place, so that they did almost lose their senses; but that she herself had run to the passage on which the lady's bed-chamber did open, and saw some planking removed, and many feet below the body of the countess lying quite still, and by the appearance of her face perceived her to be gone. And when the steward came to look also (this the woman said, lowering her voice, with her hollow eyes fixed on Lady Surrey's countenance, which did express fear and sorrow), "I'll warrant you, my lady, he did wear a murtherer's visage, and I noticed that the corpse bled at his approach. But methinketh if that earl which rides by the queen's side, and treads the world under his feet, had then been nigh, the mangled form should have raised itself and the cold dead lips cried out, 'Thou art the man!' Marry, when poor folks do steal a horse, or a sheep, or shoot the fallow-deer in a nobleman's park, they straightway do suffer and lose their life; but if a lord which is a courtier shall one day choose to put his wife out of his way for the bettering of his fortunes, even though it be by a foul murther, no more ado is made than if he had shot a pigeon in his woods."

Then changing her theme, she asked Lady Surrey to dress a wound in her leg, for that she did hear from some in that place that she often did use such kindness toward poor people. Without such assistance, she said, to walk the next day would be very painful. My lady straightway began to loosen the bandages which covered the sore, and inquired how long a time it should be since it had been dressed.

"Four days ago," the beggar answered, "Lady l'Estrange had done her so much good as to salve the wound with a rare ointment which had greatly assuaged the pain, until much walking had inflamed it anew."

We both did smile; and my lady said she feared to show herself less skilful than her old pupil; but if the beggar should be credited, she did acquit herself indifferently well of her charitable task; and the bounty she bestowed upon her afterward, I doubt not, did increase her patient's esteem of her ability. But I did often wish that evening my lady had not heard this woman's tale, for I perceived her to harp upon it with a very notable persistency; and when I urged no credit should attach itself to her {54} report, and it was most like to be untrue, she affirmed that some similar surmises had been spoken of at the time of Lady Leicester's death; and that Lord Sussex and Lord Arundel had once mentioned, in her hearing, that the gypsy was infamed for his wife's death, albeit never openly accused thereof. She had not taken much heed of their discourse at the time, she said; but now it came back into her mind with a singular distinctness, and it was passing strange she should have heard from an eye-witness the details of this tragedy. She should, she thought, write to her husband what the woman had related; and then she changed her mind, and said she would not.

All my pleadings to her that she should think no more thereon were vain. She endeavored to speak of other subjects, but still this one was uppermost in her thoughts. Once, in the midst of an argument touching the uses of pageants, which she maintained to be folly and idle waste, but which I defended, for that they sometimes served to exercise the wit and memory of such as contrive them, carrying on the dispute in a lively fashion, hoping thus to divert her mind, she broke forth in these exclamations: "Oh, what baneful influences do exist in courts, when men, themselves honorable, abhor not to company with such as be accused of foul crimes never disproved, and if they will only stretch forth their blood-stained hands to help them to rise, disdain not to clasp them!"

Then later, when I had persuaded her to play on the guitar, which she did excellently well, she stopped before the air was ended to ask if I did know if Lady Leicester was a fair woman, and if her husband was at any time enamored of her. And when I was unable to resolve these questions, she must needs begin to argue if it should be worse never to be loved, or else to lose a husband's affection; and then asked me, if Basil should alter in his liking of me, which she did not hold to be possible, except that men be so wayward and inconstant that the best do sometimes change, if I should still be glad he had once loved me.

"If he did so much alter," I answered, "as no longer to care for me, methinks I should at once cast him out of my heart; for then it would not have been Basil, but a fancied being coined by mine own imaginings, I should have doted on."

"Tut, tut!" she cried; "thou art too proud. If thou dost speak truly, I misdoubt that to be love which could so easily discard its object."

"For my part," I replied, somewhat nettled, "I think the highest sort of passion should be above suspecting change in him which doth inspire it, or resenting a change which should procure it freedom from an unworthy thrall."

"I ween," she answered, "we do somewhat misconceive each one the other's meaning; and moreover, no parallel can exist between a wife's affection and a maiden's liking." Then she said she hoped the poor woman would stay another day, so that she might speak with her again; for she would fain learn from her what was Lady Leicester's behavior during her sorrowful years, and the temper of her mind before her so sudden death.

"Indeed, dear lady," I urged, "what likelihood should there be that a serving-wench in her kitchen should be acquainted with a noble lady's thoughts?"

"I pray God," my lady said, "our meanest servants do not read in our countenance, yea in the manner of our common and indifferent actions, the motions of our souls when we be in such trouble as should only be known to God and one true friend."

Lady Surrey sent in the morning for to inquire if the beggar was gone. To my no small content she had departed before break of day. Some days afterward a messenger from London brought to my lady, from Arundel House, a letter from my {55} Lady Lumley, wherein she urged her to repair instantly to London, for that the earl, her grandfather, was very grievously sick, and desired for to see her. My lady resolved to go that very day, and straightway gave orders touching the manner of her journey, and desired her coach to be made ready. She proposed that the while she was absent I should pay a visit to Lady l'Estrange, which I had promised for to do before I left Norfolkshire; "and then," quoth my lady, "if my good Lord Arundel doth improve in his health, so that nothing shall detain me at London, I will return to my banishment, wherein my best comfort shall ever be thy company, good Constance. But if peradventure my lord should will me to stay with him" (oh, how her eyes did brighten! and the fluttering of her heart could be perceived in her quick speech and the heaving of her bosom as she said these words), "I will then send one of my gentlewomen to fetch thee from Lynn Court to London; and if that should happen, why methinks our meeting may prove more merry than our parting."

She then dispatched a messenger on horseback to Sir Hammond l'Estrange's house, which did return in some hours with a very obliging answer; for his lady did write that she almost hoped my Lady Surrey would be detained in London, if so be it would not discontent her, and so she should herself have the pleasure of my company for a longer time, which was what she greatly desired.

For some miles, when she started, I rode with my lady in her coach, and then mounted on a horse she had provided for my commodity, and, accompanied by two persons of her household, went to Sir Hammond l'Estrange's seat. It stood in a bleak country without scarce so much as one tree in its neighborhood, but a store of purple heath, then in flower, surrounding it on all sides. As we approached unto it, I for the first time beheld the sea. The heath had minded me of Cannock Chase and my childhood. I ween not what the sea caused me to think of; only I know that the waves which I heard break on the shore had, to my thinking, a wonderful music, so exceeding sweet and pleasant to mine ears that one only sound of it were able to bring, so it did seem to me, all the hearts of this world asleep. Yet although I listed thereunto with a quiet joy, and mine eyes rested on those vasty depths with so much contentment, as if perceiving therein some image of the eternity which doth await us, the words which rose in my mind, and which methinks my lips also framed, were these of Holy Writ: "Great as the sea is thy destruction." If it be not that some good angel whispered them in mine ear for to temper, by a sort of forecasting of what was soon to follow, present gladness, I know not what should have caused so great a dissimilarity between my then thinking and the words I did unwittingly utter.

Lady l'Estrange met me on the steps of her house, which was small, but such as became a gentleman of good fortune, and lacking none of the commodities habitual to such country habitations. The garden at the back of it was a true labyrinth of sweets; and an orchard on one side of it, and a wood of fir-trees beyond the wall, shielded the shrubs which grew therein from the wild sea-blasts. Milicent was delighted for to show me every part of this her home. The bettering of her fortunes had not wrought any change in the gentle humility of this young lady. The attractive sweetness of her manner was the same, albeit mistress of a house of her own. She set no greater store on herself than she had done at the Charter-house, and paid her husband as much respect and timid obedience as she had ever done her mistress. Verily, in his presence I soon perceived she scarce held her soul to be her own; but studied his looks with so much diligence, and framed each word she uttered to his liking with so much {56} ingenuity, that I marvelled at the wit she showed therein, which was not very apparent in other ways. He was a tall man, of haughty carriage and well-proportioned features. His eyes were large and gray; his nose of a hawkish shape; his lips very thin. I never in any face did notice the signs of so set a purpose or such unyielding lineaments as in this gentleman. Milicent told me he was pious, liberal, an active magistrate, and an exceeding obliging and indulgent husband; but methought her testimony on this score carried no great weight with it, for that her meekness would read the most ordinary kindnesses as rare instances of goodness. She seemed very contented with her lot; and I heard from Lady Surrey's waiting-maid (which she had sent with me from Kenninghall) that all the servants in her house esteemed her to be a most virtuous and patient lady; and so charitable, that all who knew her experience her bounty. On the next day she showed me her garden, her dairy, poultry-yard, and store-room; and also the closet where she kept the salves and ointments for the dressing of wounds, which she said she was every morning employed in for several hours. I said, if she would permit me, I would try to learn this art under her direction, for that nothing could be thought of more useful for such as lived in the country, where such assistance was often needed. Then she asked me if I was like to live in the country, which, from my words, she hoped should be the case; and I told her, if it pleased God, in one year I would be married to Mr. Rookwood, of Euston Hall; which she was greatly rejoiced to learn.

Then, as we walked under the trees, talk ensued between us touching former days at the Charter-house; and when the sun was setting amidst gold and purple clouds, and the wind blew freshly from the sea, whilst the barking of Sir Hammond's dogs, and the report of his gun as he discharged it behind the house, minded me more than ever of old country scenes in past time, my thoughts drew also future pictures of what mine own home should be, and the joy with which I should meet Basil, when he returned from the field-sports in which he did so much delight. And a year seemed a long time to wait for so much happiness as I foresaw should be ours when we were once married. "If Lady l'Estrange is so contented," I thought, "whose husband is somewhat churlish and stem, if his countenance and the reports of his neighbors are to be credited, how much enjoyment in her home shall be the portion of my dear Basil's wife! than which a more sweet-tempered gentleman cannot be seen, nor one endued with more admirable qualities of all sorts, not to speak of youth and beauty, which are perishable advantages, but not without attractiveness."

Mrs. l'Estrange, an unmarried sister of Sir Hammond, lived in the house, and some neighbors which had been shooting with him came to supper. The table was set with an abundance of good cheer; and Milicent sat at the head of it, and used a sweet cordiality toward all her guests, so that every one should seem welcome to her hospitality; but I detected looks of apprehension in her face, coupled with hasty glances toward her husband, if any one did bring forward subjects of discourse which Sir Hammond had not first broached, or did appear in any way to differ with him in what he himself advanced. Once when Lord Burleigh was mentioned, one of the gentleman said somewhat in disparagement of this nobleman, as if he should have been to blame in some of his dealings with the parliament, which brought a dark cloud on Sir Hammond's brow. Upon which Milicent, the color coming into her cheeks, and her voice trembling a little, as she seemed to cast about her for some subject which should turn the current of this talk, began to tell what a store of patients she had {57} seen that day, and to describe them, as if seeking to stop the mouths of the disputants. "One," quoth she, "hath been three times to me this week to have his hands dressed, and I be verily in doubt what his station should be. He hath a notable appearance of good breeding, albeit but poorly apparelled, and his behavior and discourse should show him to be a gentleman. The wounds of his hands were so grievously galled for want of proper dressing, when he first came, I feared they should mortify, and the curing of them to exceed my poor skill. The skin was rubbed off the whole palms, as if scraped off by handling of ropes. A more courageous patient could not be met with. Methought the dressing should have been very painful, but he never so much as once did wince under it. He is somewhat reserved in giving an account of the manner in which he came by those wounds, and answered jestingly when I inquired thereof. But to-morrow I will hear more on it, for I charged him to come for one more dressing of his poor hands."

"Where doth this fellow lodge?" Sir Hammond asked across the table in a quick eager manner.

"At Master Rugeley's house, I have heard," quoth his wife.

Then his fist fell on the table so that it shook.

"A lewd recusant, by God!" he cried. "I'll be sworn this is the popish priest escaped out of Wisbeach, for whom I have this day received orders to make diligent search. Ah, ah! my lady hath trapped the Jesuit fox."

I looked at Milicent, and she at me. O my God, what looks those were!


From The Popular Science Review.


The migrations of animals—especially those of the feathered tribe—constitute one of the most interesting and improving studies that the admirer of nature can pursue. When naturalists were less conversant with the movements of birds of passage, and knew little of their habits and haunts, it used to be a favorite mode of accounting for the regular disappearance of many species by attributing to them what is the case with certain animals, namely, a torpid condition during winter. It was affirmed that certain birds spent the cold months at the bottom of lakes, and gravely asserted by an authority of the last century that "swallows sometimes assemble in numbers, clinging to a reed till it breaks and sinks with them to the bottom; that their immersion is preceded by a song or dirge, which lasts more than a quarter of an hour; that sometimes they lay hold of a straw with their bills, and plunge down in society; and that others form a large mass by clinging together by the feet, and in this manner commit themselves to the deep." Irrespective of the ridiculous absurdity of such assertions, and their want of corroborative evidence, we have the recorded opinions of John Hunter and Professor Owen as to the incompatibility of a bird's organism for such a mode of existence. In all probability, the statement may have in part arisen from the well-known circumstance that many birds of passage tarry in their summer retreats until caught by the cold of winter, when individuals may be found benumbed and senseless; {58} this is a common occurrence, even with the swallows and other birds of northern India, where in the cold months the temperature during night falls often to freezing, whilst at midday it may range as high as 80° Fahr. in the shade. I have also seen the green bee-eater and small warblers so mach affected by a temperature of 40° on the banks of the Nile in Nubia as to be scarcely able to fly from twig to twig. The effects of severe winters on many of our indigenous as well as migratory birds have been frequently exemplified by the numbers found dead in sheltered situations, and especially if the cold sets in early, when comparatively few birds of passage escape; for instance, the corn-crake has been found in Britain during the winter months; we know of one individual that was picked up on Christmas-day, crouching among furze bushes, almost insensible from cold. The winter homes of European birds of passage comprehend southern Europe, lower Egypt, and the countries that lie between the desert and southern shores of the Mediterranean, including the elevated lands of Tunis, Algeria, and Morocco, which, although differing in physical features and, in some respects, in climate, are, strictly speaking, but an extension of Europe, for their flora and fauna are European. It is only when the traveller crosses the Sahara, with its salt lakes and moving clouds of sand, and gains the region of verdure beyond, that he enters on a new zoological and botanical province. It is curious and instructive to observe how well this statement accords with late geological discoveries. From a series of ascertained facts the student of physical science is enabled to speculate on a time when equatorial Africa was divided from the northern portion of the continent by a great sea, of which the Sahara formed the bed; it extended from the Gulf of Cabes to Senegambia in the west, and was many hundred miles in breadth. The Mediterranean sea did not then exist; therefore there was no great obstacle to the southern migrations of animals until they reached the shores of the great central African sea; but as there was no desert in those days, there would be no hot winds to temper the climates northward, and consequently we should expect to find traces of more rigorous winters in central and southern Europe; and such have been clearly proven by certain evidences, which were lucidly explained by Sir Charles Lyell at the last meeting of the British Association. Thus, although we may wonder at the extraordinary intelligence which prompts the bird to cross the Mediterranean, we see at the same time that it is going to no foreign land, where it will not meet friends to cheer it, or food unsuited to its wants. The two great causes which bring about the regular migrations of birds are either change of climate or failure of food—most often both combined. Any ordinary observer must have often remarked that the first effect of a decrease in temperature in autumn is the sudden disappearance of many winged and wingless insects, on which many soft-billed birds of passage depend. At that season swallows, that seemed so full of life and vigor, skimming over fields, threading along the lanes, or twittering from straw-built sheds, are soon seen collecting in flocks, and flitting about with a marked diminution in their activity—now huddling together on the eaves of houses, or assembling in long lines on the telegraph wires; another boreal blast, not yet sufficient to turn the leaf, sends the whole flock southward, for they soon find that there is no use facing the north from whence the cold puffs are coming, whilst by holding in the direction of the sun, with the balmy southern winds occasionally beckoning them to advance, they soon gain the object of their desires. Thus flocks may be seen pursuing their journey, and picking up a livelihood and more companions as they speed their way over mountain, moor, field, city, or sea to {59} the sunny climes and eternal sunshine of southern Europe and trans-Mediterranean lands. The majority of migratory birds cross the latter sea during the vernal and autumnal equinoxes; whilst a few, such as certain finches and water birds, make their appearance on the islands and southern shores throughout the winter; the latter, however, are in a great measure dependent on the state of the weather, and their numbers increase or decrease accordingly.

It is evident that such animals as the lapp, lemming, musk-ox, or reindeer must push southward on the approach of winter. Their migrations are by no means unexpected; nor would the mere land journey of birds create amazement when we know the real causes; but to cross the great inland sea anywhere, save at its entrance, must be considered a great feat when performed by tiny warblers, and birds not physically adapted for long flights; for instance, the willow warbler or the land-rail, crossing the broadest parts of the Mediterranean, must traverse at least six hundred miles. No doubt the heated winds from the desert exert a great influence in determining the route to be taken by migratory birds, especially in the countries that come directly under their operation; and at no seasons are their presence more apparent than during the spring and autumn; for not only then do they blow their greatest violence, but are also most keenly felt by contrast with the previous hot or cold months. Thus the winds that beckon the bird in autumn to come southward, drive it back again to Europe in spring. Much, however, depends on the constitutional powers of the individual species, which vary greatly in members of the same family; for instance, the little chiffchaff often makes its appearance in England as early as the middle of March, whilst its congener, the willow warbler, is seldom seen before the end of April; the spotted fly-catcher and night-jar arrive toward the end of May, and depart again early in September. Bird migrations may be said to be either complete or partial; some birds totally abandon Europe during winter, and take up their residence in north Africa; others repair merely to the more genial climates of the south of Europe; whilst many remain, but in diminished numbers, throughout the year, the majority resorting to milder temperatures. For example, the swallow tribe leave Europe entirely; the wagtails have their winter homes among the oases of the desert and on the banks of the Nile, whilst a few tarry in southern Europe, and with their brethren in spring push northward. A good many stone-chats spend the winter in Britain, whilst the majority move southward; not so with their close ally, the whin-chat, which disappears entirely during the cold season, and, with the migratory portion of the last-named species, seeks the more genial climates of north Africa. Thus, in all probability, there are individual stone-chats that have alternately braved the cold of the north and the more cheerful winter of the Sahara; for we cannot suppose that there is a set that invariably stop in the north, and another that constancy leave at the approach of winter. At all events, here is displayed a flexibility of constitution often considered characteristic of man alone. Although the regular birds of passage maintain much exactitude with reference to their arrivals and departures, others seem to err greatly when compelled by weather or other causes to trust to their own intelligence in guiding them from place to place; even many migratory species far exceed the bounds of their usual resorts, and certain individuals, not known to be migratory, have found their way across the whole continent of Europe. A good example of the latter is seen in the late irruption of Pallas's sand-grouse from north-western Asia, so well illustrated by Messrs. Moore and Newton, in the "Ibis." The short-toed lark seldom {60} migrates beyond the northern shores of the Mediterranean, yet finds itself often in Britain, and caught either in gales, or wandering unknowingly northward; occasional individuals of the Egyptian vulture from Spain, the Griffon vulture and spotted eagle from the mountains of central Europe, and the spotted cuckoo from north Africa. Moreover, several American species have been recorded, chiefly water birds, which, of course, are better adapted to brave the dangers of the deep. Certain birds—to wit, the redbreast, song-thrush, and black-bird—do not leave the north of Europe, whilst many of their brethren of Italy and the neighboring countries make regular annual migrations to Africa and the islands. To account for this remarkable anomaly, it will be observed that the robin of the south is far less omnivorous than its northern compeer, and is not nearly so familiar in its habits—like the warblers, it depends almost entirely on insect food; consequently, when that fails, it has no alternative but to push southward, and participating, like other species, in climatic effects, it would doubtless follow a like route; and much the same with the thrushes, as they depend in a great measure on fruits for their winter subsistence. When the grapes of the south are gathered, having no holly-berries, mountain ash, or haws to draw on for their winter wants, they would naturally disperse; probably many fly northward as well; for all the thrushes that cross the Mediterranean during winter are but an infinitesimal part of what frequent Italy and the south of Europe in summer. No doubt much depends on the nature of the locality, whether favorable or otherwise; and wherever a complete or only partial failure of food has taken place, so accordingly will the species depart or remain. Moreover, what has just been remarked in connection with the stone-chat, might be applied again to the robins and thrushes of southern Europe: supposing one of either hatched in Italy, and after several years' migrations to the oasis of the desert, should deviate on one occasion from its accustomed course and fly northward, and spend the winter in northern Europe,—with the example of the resident individuals before it, no doubt the robin would soon pick up crumbs at the kitchen door, and the thrushes crowd with their indigenous brethren on the holly-trees, and, becoming climatized, remain in their adopted countries ever afterward. Although we have no direct proof that such occurrences actually take place, there is nothing in the bird's constitution to preclude such a supposition; and not only that, but we know in the case of Pallas's sand-grouse, and many other accidental visitors, that they have at once adapted themselves to the food afforded by the country, although perfectly new to them. How far such influences, acting on generations and for long periods, do effect the external appearances or internal structure of a species, are points not yet clearly determined; but doubtless, as the geographical distribution and migrations of animals become better known, so will many difficulties of that nature be cleared up. Of the vast hosts of birds that cross the Mediterranean annually not a few perish on their way, and their bodies are thrown up on the beach; many arrive only to die, as we can testify from our own observations along the shores of Malta, where we have picked up numerous warblers that had been either drowned on their passage or died on the rocks, or had dashed themselves at night against the fortifications and light-houses.

      "The beacon blaze illures
  The bird of passage, till he madly strikes
  Against it, and beats out his weary life."

The quail on its way to Europe in spring, or Africa in autumn, is often borne back by a strong head-wind to the country it had just left; and we have repeatedly noticed that a strong sirocco in September scarcely ever fails in throwing abundance of quail {61} on the southeast coast of Malta, in the same way that a powerful gregale brings in many that had been bent on an opposite direction. We now come to observe that extraordinary intelligence whereby swallows, for instance, are enabled year after year to return to the same nest. Taking into consideration the long absence, the dangers and difficulties incident to the voyage, it seems incredible that any animal not human can be capable, after nearly eight months' sojourn in central Africa, to return in spring to a farm-yard in the midland counties of England; and still more wondrous, as recorded in "Yarrell's British Birds," that several swifts, undeniably marked, returned not only for three years in succession, but one of the number was caught in the same locality at the expiration of seven years. Here, then, are displayed effects of memory and perception—in fine, a wondrous manifestation of intellect, which, under the vague name of instinct, has been applied, we think too indiscriminately, to such-like mental phenomena among the lower animals.

None of the eagles of Europe seem to cross the great inland sea, or perform regular migrations. The osprey and peregrine falcon wander over the south of Europe and north Africa in increased numbers during the winter months. Flocks of honey-buzzards, orange-legged falcons, and lesser kestrels, together with numbers of marsh harriers, kestrels, sparrow-hawks, and in a less proportion the hobby, merlin, and Montagu's and Swainson's harriers, follow the migratory birds to and from Africa—some in hot pursuit of the warblers and quail, which they feed on when they cannot procure more choice food. Thus flocks of hawks may be seen hovering over the fields in spring, and along the southern shores of the Mediterranean, where the birds of passage are assembling before they commence their voyage northward,—all driven hence by the hot blasts of the desert, which, under such local names as harmattan, sirocco, kamsin, simoom, and samiel, soon wither verdure, and compel birds of passage to turn their faces northward, and fly with all speed to more genial climes. A naval officer informed us that one spring evening, when a hundred miles off the coast of Africa, the rigging of his vessel was covered by small birds, which were seen arriving in scattered flocks from the south; among them were many hawks and a few small-sized owls, possibly the Scop's eared owl, which migrates in great numbers at that season. No sooner had the little birds settled down on the yards than the hawks commenced to prey on them, and were seen actually devouring their captives within a few yards of the officers, who attempted to put a stop to the slaughter by shooting the depredators, but in vain; they continued pursuing the unfortunate small birds from rope to yard-arm and around the vessel, until night put an end to the scene, when friend and foe went to roost, and at break of day all sped their way northward.

The short-eared and Scop's owls are migratory species; both pass and repass the Mediterranean in great numbers every spring and autumn, not in flocks, but singly; the latter is much in request as an article of food, and killed in several of the islands in large numbers; during its passage through Malta dozens of this handsome little owl may be seen in the poultry market. As beetles, moths, and the larger insects constitute the favorite food of the Scop's owl, and bats enter largely into the fare of its short-eared congener, it may be supposed neither can have much inducement to prolong its stay in Europe after September.

The night-jar, although late in arriving in the north of Europe, crosses the Mediterranean in March; the nocturnal habits of the bird, by restricting its movements to night and twilight, will account for its slow progress; it is also much esteemed by the natives {62} of the south as an article of food. None of the swallow tribe are more exact in their times of arrival and departure than the swifts, which seem to proceed further southward than any of the others; whether from sudden failure of food or change of climate, or both, it is seldom the black swift tarries on its way; for, not content with the climate of the southern shores of the great inland sea, it pushes on with little delay to Abyssinia, Nubia, and even Timbuctoo. The Alpine swift passes to and from Europe in small numbers; compared with the last-named species, this is a hardy bird; we have seen it and the house marten sporting around Alpine glaciers at the latter end of August, when there was a hoar frost every night, and occasional heavy falls of snow; many Alpine swifts spend the entire year on the Himalayan ranges. The chimney, house, and sand swallows make their first appearance in spring, and leave Europe in the order here given; none seem to pass the winter in any of the islands, and on their arrival in Africa move steadily southward to more genial regions. The rock swallow and rufous swallow make regular migrations from Asia Minor to south-eastern Europe, few venturing westward of Greece. Owing to the strong N.E. winds that prevail during the cold months, and sweep along the Mediterranean basin with great violence, many birds are blown from one coast to another, and turn up in districts in every way uncongenial to their habits and wants: thus are recorded by C. A. Wright, Esq., in his admirable catalogue of "Birds observed in Malta," the appearance of the diminutive golden and fire-crested wrens among the woodless tracts of these bare islands; supposing them to have come from the nearest point of Sicily, they must have flown at least fifty miles! Along the shores of the Mediterranean the approach of spring is heralded by flocks of gaudy bee-eaters, which may be seen advancing northward in scattered hosts emitting their characteristic call-note. We have watched them approaching Malta during the calm and delightful weather at that season, when a few, attracted by the verdure, would break off from the rest and descend, whilst the majority continued steering their course in a northerly direction. Luckless is the bird wanderer that makes a temporary resting-place of Malta at any time, especially on Sunday, for no sooner is an individual recognized than a dozen guns are put in requisition, and soon the fair forms of the bee-eater, oriole, etc., are seen stretched in rows on the benches of the poulterer. The weird-like form of the hoopoe may constantly be seen drifting before a south wind in spring, or hastening southward in August, seldom in flocks, but so numerous that on one occasion, on a projecting rock in the island of Gozo, we saw in the course of half an hour no less than ten hoopoes arrive, one after another. None of the woodpeckers, neither the creeper, nuthatch, nor the wren, seem to migrate. The warblers no doubt constitute by far the greatest minority of the birds of passage, and may be said to be most punctual in their time of arrival and departure. As with other groups, many entirely abandon their summer or winter residences at the migratory seasons, whilst others leave a few stragglers behind. The sedge, willow, garden, the chiffchaff, whitethroat, Sardinian, Dartford, subalpine, Vieillot's warblers, and the blackcap annually cross and recross the Mediterranean with undeviating regularity, some in enormous numbers, especially the garden warbler and whitethroat, which being then plump and in good condition are in great request, and constitute the Italian's much relished beccafico. The nightingale appears in considerable numbers and shares the same fate with the last-named species. The two redstarts, wheatear, whin, and stone-chats, with the redbreast, come and go to Africa regularly, leaving a few stragglers on the islands during winter, which, {63} however, unite with their brethren from north Africa in spring, when all proceed to Europe. The blue-throated warbler repairs to Egypt in winter, from the south-eastern countries of Europe and western Asia. A small migration takes place of the russet and eared wheat-ears annually to southern Europe in summer, and back again to the African deserts in autumn. As the song thrush and blackbird are plentiful throughout the year along the Atlas range, it is probable few of them return in spring, and whatever do cross in autumn and winter remain with the residents. The golden oriole passes through Malta regularly on its way northward, and in small flocks returns to Africa immediately after the harvest and fruit are collected in autumn. The ring ousel is also migratory; and although a few missal thrushes and redwings appear on the islands and southern shores during the cold season, neither can strictly speaking be called birds of passage, as their numbers seem entirely dependent on the state of the weather in Europe and local gales. The tree, meadow, red-throated and tawny pipits cross and recross regularly, and often in large flocks. The meadow pipit is another illustration of a bird which remains all the year in northern Europe, but is migratory in the southern parts. As soon as the hot weather has fairly set in in Africa, flocks of the short-toed lark proceed to southern Europe and distribute themselves over wastes; like other desert-living birds, it is very sensible of cold, and accordingly quits Europe before the regular migratory season. The sky, crested, and Calandral arks go southward late in October and the following month; the two last-named are extremely abundant in north Africa during winter. The woodlark repairs to southern Europe during the winter, but a few also regularly push further southward, and cross again in spring. The pied wagtail and its northern variety, called after the late Mr. Yarrell, repair to southern Europe on the approach of winter, and many also cross the great inland sea and proceed a long way into Africa; we found the former very common up the Nile to the second cataract. The grey wagtail, although nowhere so common, follows the same course and pushes northward at the same time with its congener in spring. The yellow wagtails of Europe have been so frequently confounded and misnamed, that until the student has carefully examined specimens of each he will be almost sure to become confused. There is, first, the yellow wagtail of the British islands, called also Ray's wagtail, that migrates to the continent in winter, but we opine not to southern Europe; this bird has been mistaken for the yellow wagtail of the continent, first described by Linnaeus. Enormous flocks of the last-named bird cross regularly to and from Africa annually: probably not a straggler remains in either country after the migratory seasons are over. We have repeatedly noticed varieties of this wagtail with grey and black-colored heads, which many naturalists consider as specific differences, whilst others appear to class them under the head of a race or variety of the Motacilla flava of Linnaeus. We are enabled so far to strengthen the latter opinion, by the fact that in a large series of skins collected from flocks of yellow wagtails during their migrations across the Mediterranean, we could make out a gradual transition from the one state of plumage to the other, and we frequently found the grey, black, and olive-headed (or yellow wagtail proper) all in one flock and constantly associating together, and with the same call-note; the only difference was the call-note in autumn in some was noticed to be harsher; these, however, we ascertained to be birds of the year. The rook is migratory in south-eastern Europe, and repairs to the delta of the Nile in large flocks; sometimes it is driven by stress of weather to the islands of the mid and western Mediterranean. {64} The northern portion of Africa is a favorite resort for the starling in winter, when flocks may be constantly seen all over the south of Europe; they quit, however, in spring and go northward. The jay has been recorded as migratory, and said to frequent north Africa, Malta, and Egypt. We cannot, however, find any authentic confirmation of this statement. All the European flycatchers cross the Mediterranean very punctually. The spotted bird is by far the most numerous, next the pied, and in a much less proportion, the white-necked flycatcher. The first has a very extensive geographical range, embracing the whole continent of Africa and Europe, and breeds in great numbers even in North Britain, where we have seen large flocks in autumn pursuing their retrograde coarse southward. The woodchat shrike seems to be the only representative of the family that regularly leaves Europe in winter; its red-backed congener has been said to migrate to north Africa. The finches are always late in migrating in autumn, and leave north Africa long before the other birds of passage; at all times much depends on the severity of the weather, their numbers increasing or diminishing accordingly. No doubt, like the thrushes and other species indigenous to temperate climes, many individuals extend their range during the winter months, not so much from failure of food, as the cold weather allows them to wander over regions inimical to their constitutions and wants in summer; from this cause and the state of the climate in north and mid Europe, together with the transporting power of gales, may be attributed the pretty regular appearance of flocks of the following finches on the islands and southern shores of the great inland ocean. The linnet is plentiful in Egypt and north Africa in winter; small flocks of the chaffinch, greenfinch, goldfinch, common buntings, sirinfinch, grosbeak, and ortolan may be seen among the tamarisk and olive groves of north Africa at the same season, whilst a few solitary individuals of the crossbill, scarlet grosbeak, reed and meadow buntings, cirl and bramble finches, tree and rock sparrows, find their way in winter to the islands and southern shores of the Mediterranean. The cuckoo and wryneck are among the foremost birds of passage that cross to and from Africa, and both seem to have much the same geographical distribution. We have heard the cuckoo's welcome note among the carol trees of Malta in March; in the north of Europe in May; among the stunted birch trees on the confines of perpetual snow on the Himalayan mountains in July; and often recognized its handsome form among the orange groves on the torrid plains of India as late as November.

Many wood and stock pigeons migrate to Africa in winter; their headquarters, however, would seem to be located in the south of Europe; not so with the turtle dove, of which flocks of thousands may be seen steering their course southward in autumn and vice versa in spring; very few, if any, remaining in Europe or in Africa at the termination of their migrations. At these seasons they are caught in great numbers, by means of clapnets and decoy birds. The quail invariably flies within a few feet of the sea when crossing.

As soon as the cold weather has fairly set in along the shores of the Mediterranean, a partial migration of the following plovers takes place. The Norfolk plover disperses in winter over the islands, and penetrates far south to central Africa. During November flights of golden plovers arrive on the northern exposures of the Maltese islands; also a few of the grey and a good many of the lapwing plovers, all of which go to Africa. The dotterel, with its two-winged allies, and the Kentish plover, pursue much the same course, perhaps if anything more of all these pass in autumn than recross in spring, for the reason that several of the species are resident {65} in Africa, and extensively distributed over the entire continent. The common heron and crane repair southward to the African lakes and rivers, and may be seen during the winter months flying at great heights; neither is attracted by the mere appearance of land, whist the purple heron Egret squacco, night heron, little bittern, glossy ibis, whimbrel, common and slender-billed curlews, fly at lower levels, and tarry on the islands on their way.

The frosts of October and the following months drive across the inland sea myriads of greenshanks, wood, the common and little sandpipers, stilts, water-rails, the common, spotted Baillons, and little crakes, and the coot. In smaller numbers come black-tailed godwits, common and jack-snipes, common and spotted redshanks, marsh and green sandpipers, with ruffs, the great snipe, knot, curlew sandpiper, dunlin turnstone. Now and then the woodcock wanders across, but as a rule its migration is mostly confined to the south of Europe. The Adriatic gull extends its range over the western Mediterranean in winter. Many northern gulls and terns, to wit, the herring, lesser, and black-backed gulls, Sandwich, common, the little, the black, the white-winged, and the whiskered terns, spread themselves over the sea, and wander up the Nile and to the lakes of north Africa. Of the duck tribe nearly all go north in spring. Among others, we have noticed the bean goose, shoveller, shelldrake, mallard, pintail, gadwall, widgeon, teal, gargany, and castaneous ducks; the red-breasted merganser, and the cormorant; the crested, horned, eared, and little grebes.

Translated from Etudes Religieuses, Historiques et Littéraires, par des Pères de la Compagnie de Jésus.


It is remarkable with what perseverance Protestants have ever labored to bring about a reconciliation and union between themselves and the schismatical churches of the East.

When one compares the terms between which it is desired to effect this union, it is difficult to conceive of two which are more opposed, and between which there is a more complete contrast. Protestants reject the authority both of tradition and of the hierarchy; the veneration of saints, images, and relics; outward ceremonial, and all that which may be considered as composing the external side of religion. The Greeks, on the contrary, so far from rejecting these, have rather exaggerated their importance. It seems impossible that they should ever reach a uniformity of sentiment; but yet the endeavor to effect it has been steadily persevered in.

As far back as 1559 Melancthon tried to bring about an understanding with Joseph II., the patriarch of Constantinople; and on sending him the confession of Augsburg, he wrote, with rather more cunning than fairness, "that the Protestants had remained {66} faithful to the Holy Scriptures, to the dogmatic decisions of holy councils, and to the teaching of Athanasius, Basil, Gregory, Epiphanius, etc., the fathers of the Greek Church; that they rejected the errors of Paul of Samosata, of the Manichees, and of all the heresiarchs condemned by the Holy Church, as well as the superstitious practices introduced by ignorant monks into the Latin Church, wherefore he besought the patriarch to give no heed to the evil reports which were in circulation against Protestants."

It seems the patriarch was not to be caught by these plausible professions, for he made no reply. The Protestants were not discouraged, and fifteen years later a fresh attempt was made by the Lutheran university of Tübingen. The ambassador of the German emperor at Constantinople was a Protestant, and had brought with him a minister of his own denomination, named Gerlach. It was he who carried on the negotiations between the university of Tübingen and the Patriarch Jeremias. The whole of this correspondence is before the public. The patriarch refutes the Protestant doctrines with great ability and clearness, and concludes by requesting the professors of Tübingen to trouble him no longer and to send him no more letters. They were not to be discouraged by a trifle like this; but write what they would, the patriarch made them no further reply. This negotiation began in 1573 and lasted until 1581, but nothing came of it.

Fifty years after the Lutherans had failed, in their turn the Calvinists made another effort, which seemed to promise better success. The ambassadors of Holland, England, and Sweden took the most active and energetic part in the matter. The patriarch, of Constantinople, Cyril Lucar, himself a Calvinist at heart, so far from opposing their designs, favored them with all his power. Success seemed certain. After various vicissitudes Cyril Lucar died in 1638. [Footnote 2] A few weeks after his death the synod of Constantinople pronounced sentence of censure upon his propositions, and anathema upon himself. In 1642 a second council was held under the Patriarch Parthenius, who was very hostile both to Rome and to Catholics, which confirmed the previous condemnation of Cyril. Among others, Peter Mogila, metropolitan of Kief, signed this fresh censure. Last of all, these condemnations of 1638 and 1642 were confirmed by a council held at Jerusalem in 1672, over which the Patriarch Dositheus presided.

[Footnote 2: He was thrown into the Bosphorus by the sultan, at the request of his brother bishops.—Ed. C.W.]

The creation of a bishopric at Jerusalem may be regarded, also, as an attempt at reunion between the Protestants and the schismatic churches of the East. Frederick William IV., king of Prussia, assisted by M. de Bunsen, was the promoter of this idea, but it was too ingenious and too complicated to be practical. It proposed to labor for the conversion of the Jews; to prepare the way for the union of the schismatical churches of the East with, the Anglican; and, by means of the evangelical church of Prussia, to induce the various sects of Protestantism to conform in matters of doctrine and discipline to the Church of England. The archbishop of Canterbury favored the plan; but, as was to be expected, there were many Protestants who were very far from giving it their approbation. As to the Oriental Christians, they were exceedingly astonished, as Dr. Bowring humorously related before Parliament, at the arrival, not only of a bishop (un vescovo), but of a lady-bishop (una vescova) and baby-bishops (vescovini). After an existence of twenty years, no pretence is yet made that the bishopric of Jerusalem has succeeded in effecting any reconciliation whatever with the Oriental churches, or that it has in any measure prepared the way for the uniting of {67} Protestantism itself. The Anglican Church is herself more divided than ever, and demonstrates more conclusively from year to year how impossible it is for her to keep fast hold upon any creed whatever. Perhaps this manifestation of internal division and doctrinal anarchy may contribute somewhat to turn the eyes of Anglicans toward the ancient and immovable Church of the East.

However this may be, we have before us in our own day a fresh attempt at reunion about which we must say a few words. The facts are as follows: Three or four years ago Dr. Troll, [Footnote 3] bishop of the Episcopalian Church in San Francisco, discovered that there were in his diocese some four hundred persons belonging to the Greek Church, who, while they recognized his authority up to a certain point, yet refused to receive communion from his hands. Dr. Troll referred the matter to the convention of the Episcopal Church in the United States, who appointed a committee to examine and report on the relation in which the two churches stood toward one another. The Church of England took part in the investigation, and convocation met at Canterbury in 1863, appointing a commission whose duty it should be to have an understanding with the Episcopal Church in America and co-operate with her. In the month of February, 1865, this commission presented their report before convocation at Canterbury. The American committee published a series of works designed to prepare the way for union by making known the dogmas and rites of the Greco-Russian Church. The English commission formed an association whose object it was to make the Oriental churches known to Englishmen, and in turn to make the Anglican Church understood by the Christians of the East. The Anglican archbishop of Dublin, many other bishops of the same church, and the archbishop of Belgrade, were among the patrons of this association.

[Footnote 3: There is some mistake here. Dr. Kip is the Protestant Bishop of California.—Ed. C.W.]

In 1864, Dr. Young of New York made a visit to Russia, where he put himself in communication with the more prominent members of the Russian episcopate. The Episcopalian bishop of San Francisco visited Georgia, Servia, and Bulgaria, and more recently Nice, where he frequented the Russian chapel.

Messrs. Popof and Wassilief, chaplains of the Russian ambassadors at London and Paris, were present at the sittings of the English commission and took part in its deliberations. By the very last news from America we are informed that divine service [i.e.,mass.—Ed.] was solemnly celebrated, according to the Oriental rite and in the Sclavonic language, in one of the principal Episcopalian churches of New York city. According to the American newspapers, the celebrant was F. Agapius, recently come to America, having been appointed by the Russian Church to the spiritual charge of his co-religionists in the United States. The "Union Chrétienne," Paris paper, informs us that Father Agapius Honcharenko is a deacon of the Russian Church who was ordained priest by a bishop of the Greek Church, which ordination was irregular; and that F. Agapius acted without any authority from the Russian Church; and lastly, that he was associated with M. Alexander Herzen at London and took part in the publication of the "Kolokol" (the "Clock"). This last fact is of a character to make a deep impression upon the members of the synod of St. Petersburg, but it is not so clear that it exercised the same influence upon the mind of the Americans. The "Union Chrétienne" appears to think that when this valuable information about Agapius Honcharenko reaches New York, the Episcopal Church will have nothing more to do with him. This is possible, but as yet it is mere conjecture. However this may be, this little incident is not calculated to {68} kindle in the synod of Russia any great zeal for the proposed reunion.

The "Den" (Day), a periodical in Moscow, has also an account of the celebration of this mass in New York, in its fourteenth number, 1865. Evidently the Moscovite journal has none of the information as to this individual, P. Honcharenko, which was given by the "Union Chrétienne;" but it makes up for this by the important fact that although this priest may have received no mission from the Russian Church, he was endowed with at least equal power and authorization by the metropolitan of Athens and the synod of the kingdom of Greece, which is easy of explanation, since from Athens he embarked for America.

The April number, 1865, of the "Otetchestrennyja Sapiski," or "Patriotic Annals," also speaks of the attempt at reunion, and it repeats the conditions proposed by the theologians of the Episcopal churches of England and America. These conditions no doubt constitute matter of much interest, but as we have not been able to procure this number of the St. Petersburg review, we can say nothing about them.

On the whole, up to the present time but one bishop of the Oriental schismatic church has shown himself favorable to this project, viz., Monsignor Michel, archbishop of Belgrade, or, rather, metropolitan of Servia, under which title he presides over the church in Servia. This prelate made his theological studies at Kief, has held the see of Belgrade since 1859, and is not yet forty years of age. Those persons whose privilege it has been to have access to him, represent him as a man of a high order of intelligence, very pleasing and attractive in his personal appearance, dignified in his manners, and very exemplary in his life. If one may rely upon the testimony of Protestant travellers who have been in communication with him, it would appear that he has shown himself very favorable to a reconciliation between the Church of England and the schismatical churches of the East, and that for his own part he would not hesitate to express in warm terms his gratitude to the Protestants for their profitable investigations regarding the Greek Church. In fine, it is possible that Monsignor Michel might allow himself to be induced to take up again, in an underhand way, the scheme of Cyril Lucar. This is no small undertaking. Before it is possible to blend these two churches into one, a perfect understanding must be had on a great number of points which are of the highest importance. It will suffice to mention such, e.g., as the mass, the sacraments, the procession of the Holy Ghost, devotion to the Blessed Virgin and the saints, and the honor to be paid to relics and images. In addition to these must be settled the question as to the validity of the Anglican orders. As to Monsignor Michel personally, he would have an additional difficulty to contend with. Everybody knows that the people of Servia have very little sympathy with the people of England, and they would undoubtedly manifest very little inclination to follow their metropolitan should he try to induce them to do so.

It must be admitted, however, that the endeavor to reunite the two churches has far more hope of success in the nineteenth than it had either in the sixteenth or seventeenth centuries. On the one hand, the teaching of the Puseyites has spread widely among the Anglican clergy. Men of distinction who have made their studies at Oxford and Cambridge are beginning more and more to suspect that apostolicity is an essential note of the church of Jesus Christ, and that it is very difficult to discover this in a church which dates only from the time of Henry VIII.; they are gradually giving up the principle of private judgment, and are learning to appreciate more and more the value of tradition, of the fathers, and of the general councils of the Church. On the other hand, adherence to {69} orthodoxy has, in the East, lost somewhat of its deep, sincere, and inflexible character. Some years since we had occasion to show, in the pages of this review, that in her theological teaching the Russian Church had been materially affected by Protestant influence. This is no longer so in our own day, if we may judge by the public writings of the Russian bishops, and there has been a very general return to doctrines much more in harmony with the traditions of the churches of the East. But at the same time one must admit that rationalism and infidelity have made fearful ravages in the East as well as in the West. Talk with young men from Russia, Greece, Romania, and Servia who have made their studies in either Russian or German universities, who have attended the course of lectures given by professors from either Athens or Paris, and you will see how feeble, cold, and wavering their faith has become. The result has been a prevailing atmosphere, both intellectual and moral, which enervates the firmness of convictions, and generates a certain laxity in one's hold on the teachings of the faith. People have become more ready to conform to public opinion, and I should be greatly surprised if an attempt similar to that made by Cyril Lucar should find in the East of to-day an equally universal and prompt condemnation.

Moreover, the working of Protestant missions in the East has not been so completely unsuccessful as many persons are pleased to report As a general thing Protestant missionaries are men of intelligence, education, and good breeding; they make a thorough study of the country in which they reside; they erect schools and printing presses, and put in circulation a large number of books. It is impossible to admit that all this can be absolutely without effect. These schools and those books must be the germ of an influence which time cannot fail to develop. I am very well assured that Protestantism has very few attractions for the people of the East in any point of view, least of all on the side of externals, and that the difficulty of making Protestants of the people of the East would be very great; still, one must not conclude from this that it would be impossible to bring about a certain kind of union; that an arrangement might not be made which would introduce a different spirit into the schismatical churches of the East while they yet preserved their external form. I grant you the liturgy of the East, eminently dogmatical as it is, would contrast most singularly with Protestant notions; but remember, we are not now speaking of Protestantism in its pure development, but of the Anglican phase of it, and of Anglicanism leavened by Puseyism.

In conclusion, I have no faith myself in this attempt; but still a person would have a false idea of the state of the case who should regard the move as a purely fanciful one, and one unworthy the attention of serious-minded men.

But, now, supposing this effort should be successful, have we Catholics any cause for alarm? I think rather the contrary. The Church of England is as clearly wanting in apostolicity as the Greek Church is in catholicity. The one has need to link herself on to the chain of past time; the other to extend her boundaries, that she may no longer feel herself to be enclosed within a part of the world; that she may not have the appearance of identifying herself with only a few of the many races of men. Even admitting that by means of this alliance the English could congratulate themselves upon having won back their title to apostolicity, and the Greeks in turn theirs to catholicity, the need of unity would be felt all the more, which neither can ever attain to, apart from that rock upon which our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ has built his Church, and against which the gates of hell shall never prevail.

J. GAGARIN. [Footnote 4]

[Footnote 4: F. Gagarin is a Russian prince, a convert from the Greek schism, and a member of the Society of Jesus.—Ed.]


From The Sixpenny Magazine.


  When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
    And the school for the day is dismissed,
  The little ones gather around me
    To bid me "good night," and be kissed.
  Oh, the little white arms that encircle
    My neck in their tender embrace;
  Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,
    Shedding sunshine of love on my face.

  And when they are gone, I sit dreaming
    Of my childhood—too lovely to last—
  Of joy that my heart will remember
    While it wakes to the pulse of the past:
  Ere the world and its wickedness made me
    A partner of sorrow and sin,
  When the glory of God was about me,
    And the glory of gladness within.

  I ask not a life for the dear ones
    All radiant, as others have done;
  But that life may have just enough shadow
    To temper the glare of the sun;
  I would pray God to guard them from evil;
    But my prayer would bound back to myself:
  Ah, a seraph may pray for a sinner.
    But a sinner must pray for himself^

  I shall leave the old house in the autumn,
    To traverse its threshold no more;
  Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones
    That meet me each morn at the door;
  I shall miss the "good-nights" and the kisses,
    And the gush of their innocent glee;
  The group on the green, and the flowers
    That are brought every morning for me.


From The Lamp.




The next morning Winny presented herself at the breakfast-table, looking more attractive and more tidily dressed, her rich glossy hair better brushed and smoothed down more carefully than was usual at that hour of the day. Her daily custom, like all other country girls who had household concerns to look after, was not to "tidy herself up" until they had been completed. She was not ignorant, however, of the great advantage which personal neatness added to beauty gave a young girl who had a cause to plead. And although the man upon whom she might have to throw herself for mercy was her father, she was not slow on this occasion to claim their advocacy for what they might be worth. But she had also prayed to God to guide her in all her replies to the parent whom she was bound to honor and obey, as well as to Love. She had not contented herself with having set out her own appearance to the best advantage, but she had also set out the breakfast-table in the same way. The old blue-and-white teapot had been left on the dresser, and a dark-brown one, with a figured plated lid, taken out of the cupboard of Sunday china. Two cups and saucers, and plates "to match," with two real ivory-hafted knives laid beside them. There was also some white broken sugar in a glass bowl, which Winny had won in a lottery at Carrick-on-Shannon from a "bazaar-man." There was nothing extraordinary in all this for persons of their means, though, to tell the truth, it was not the every-day paraphernalia of their breakfast-table. Winny had not been idle either in furnishing the plates with a piping hot potato-cake, a thing of which her father was particularly fond, and which she often gave him; but this one had a few carraway-seeds through it, and was supposed to be better than usual. Then she had a couple of slices of nice thin bacon fried with an egg, which she knew he liked too. All this was prepared, and waiting for her father, whose fatigue of the day before had caused him to sleep over-long.

While waiting for him, it struck Winny that he must think such preparations out of the common, and perhaps done for a purpose. Upon reflection she was almost sorry she had not confined her embellishments to her own personal appearance, and even that, she began to feel, might have been as well let alone also. But she had little time now for reflection, for she heard her father's step, as he came down stairs.

She met him at the door, opening it for him.

"Good morrow, father," she said; "how do you find yourself to-day? I hope you rested well after your long walk yesterday."

"After a while I did, Winny; but the tea you made was very strong, an' I didn't sleep for a long time after I went to bed."

"Well, 'a hair of the hound,' you know, father dear. I have a good cup for you now, too; it will not do you any harm in the morning when you have the whole day before you. And I have a nice potato-cake for you, for I know you like it."

"Troth I b'lieve you have, Winny; an' I smell the carraways that I like. But, Winny, sure the ould blue teapot's not broken, is it?"


"No, father; but I was busy with the potato-cake this morning, and had not time to wash it out last night, so I took out number one to give it an airing; and I put down the other things to match."

The portion of this excuse which was true was far greater than that which was not; and Winny, who as a general rule was truthful, was satisfied with it—and, reader, so must you be.

"Never mind, Winny, you are mistress here, an' I don't want any explanation; it wasn't that made me spake; but I'd be sorry th' ould blue teapot was bruck, for we have it since afore you were well in your teens. You're lookin' very well this mornin', Winny agra."

"Hush, father; eat your cake, and don't talk nonsense. There's an egg that black Poll laid this morning, and here's some butter I finished not five minutes before you came in yesterday evening. Shall I give you some tea?"

"If you please, Winny dear." And the old man looked at his daughter with undeniable admiration.

They then enjoyed a neat and comfortable breakfast, which indeed neither of them seemed in a hurry to bring to an end. The old man was constrained and silent, and left all the talk to Winny, who, it must be admitted, never felt it more difficult to furnish conversation. Old Ned looked at her once or twice intently, as if wondering at her being much finer than usual; and then he looked at the breakfast gear; and the expression of his face was as if he suspected something. These looks, both at herself and the table, did not escape Winny's notice, but she never met them, always interrupting any exclamation which was likely to follow them with some question or remark of her own, such as, "Do you like that cake, father?" "That is the muil cow's butter; I always keep her milk by itself, and churn it in the small chum for you, father; you said you liked it." "Here, Bully-dhu, is a piece of cake for you."

With some such heterogeneous questions or remarks as these, she managed to parry his looks, or at all events the observations which were likely to follow them, and direct for the moment—ah, Winny, it was only for the moment!—his thoughts from whatever was upon them, and which Winny believed she knew right well.

But this suspense on both sides must come to an end. Old Ned, from his conversation with Mick Murdock, had determined not to speak to his daughter until he knew Tom had done so. But Winny did not know this, and dreaded every moment a thunder-clap would come which she was herself preparing for her father, and she was anxious, if it was only for the sake of propriety, to tell her story unprovoked.

The old man now stood up from the table, saying he would be likely to be out all day, as he was preparing to get down some wheat. But Winny, when it came to the point, could only stammer out in a feeble voice, that she wanted to speak to him before he went.

"Now's your time, Winny dear, for I have a great dale to do before dinner-time; an' I must be off to the men."

"Father dear, I may as well tell you at once—I'm in trouble—about —about—about—Tom—Murdock." And she threw her arms round his neck, and laid her cheek upon his shoulder.

"An' is that all, mavourneen? Ah, Winny, Winny, I knew it would come to this!—mavourneen macree, I knew it would. But there, Winny jewel, don't be crying—don't be crying; sure you know I'm not the man to cross your wishes; no—no, my own girl, I'd neither oppose you nor force you for 'the world; aren't you the only one I have on airth? an' sure isn't your happiness mine, Winny dear? There, Winny, don't cry; sure you may do as you like, mavourneen macree, you may."

Winny knew that all this was uttered under a misconception, and it gave her but little comfort. There was {73} one part of it, however, she would not forget.

"Oh, father," she sobbed out upon his breast, "Tom Murdock has asked me to marry him." And the tears rolled down her cheeks.

"Why then, Winny dear, dhry up them tears; sure I know they're on my account, at the thoughts of partin' me; but won't you be livin' at the doore with me while I last? Isn't it what I always hoped an' prayed for?—och, Winny, Winny, but you're the lucky girl this day, an' I'm the lucky man, for it will add ten years to my life."

And he kissed her yielding lips over and over again. But she did not speak; while the big tears continued to course themselves down her pale but beautiful cheeks.

"Don't—don't, Winny asthore; don't be crying on my account; sure I may say we'll not have to part at all. Mick an' I have it all settled, mavourneen; he's to build you a grand new house where th' ould one stan's, an' I'm to furnish it from top to toe; and Mick an' I will live here, not three hundred yards from the pair of you. Oh, Winny, Winny, but it's I is the happy man this day! There, don't be cryin', I tell you; sure I would not gainsay you for the world;" and he kissed her again. But still she did not speak.

"There, Winny, there; don't be sobbin' an' cryin', I tell you. Why, what's the matther with you, Winny mavrone?"

"Oh, father, father, it never can be!" she exclaimed in broken sobs, and clinging to his neck closer than ever.

"Nonsense, Winny! what's the matther, I say? why can't it be? Of course you did not refuse Tom's offer?"

"I'd, father—indeed I did. I never can care for Tom Murdock; father, I could never be happy with that man. Don't ask me to marry him."

"Is the girl mad? To be sure I will, Winny. There's but the two of you in it an' with Mick's farm an' mine joined,—the leases are all as one as 'free simple,'—you'd be as grand as many ladies an' gentlemen in the county;" and he disengaged himself from her arms, and strode toward the door.

Winny thought he was going; but he had no notion of it at so unsettled a point. She rushed between him and the door.

"Father, don't go!" she cried; "for God's sake don't leave me that way!"

"Winny, it's what I'm greatly surprised at you, so I am. My whole life has been spent in puttin' together a dacent little fortun' for you; I never had one on airth I loved but yourself an' your poor mother—God rest her sowl! I never spoke a cross word to you, Winny jewel, since I followed her to the grave, four days after you were born; an' now, in my old days, when I haven't long to last, you're goin' to break my heart, an' shorten them same. Oh, Winny, Winny, say it's only jokin' you are, an' I'll forgive you, cruel as it was."

"No, father, I'm telling you the real truth; people seldom joke with the tears running down their cheeks; look at them, father. I know all you say is true; and indeed it will break my own heart to oppose you, if you do not yield. But listen here, father dear; sure after all your love and kindness to me for the last eighteen or twenty years, I may say, you won't go now and spoil it all by crossing my happiness without any necessity for it. Tom put all the grandeur and wealth before me himself, that the joining of the two farms and marrying him would bring to me. But it is no use, father; I never liked that man, and I never can. Oh, don't ask me, father asthore; I'm contented and happy as I am."

"Winny, I never found you out in a lie since you could first spake, an' I'm sure you won't tell me one now. Listen to me, Winny. Tom Murdock is a fine, handsome young fellow, an' {74} well to do in the world, with a grand education, an' fit to hould his own anywhere; and I say he's any young girl's fancy, or ought to be, at any rate. You an' he have been reared at the doore with each other. What you are yourself, Winny asthore, I need not say, for every one that sees you knows it; and well they may, for sure you spake for yourself. It seldom happens—indeed, Winny, I never knew it—that a boy an' girl like you an' Tom, reared at the doore that way, fail but what they take a likin' to each other. It seems Tom done his part, both as to the likin' an' spakin', as he ought to do in both; but you, Winny, have done neither. Now, Winny, I can't but think that's very strange, an' I have but the one way to riddle it. Tell me now, honestly and plainly, is there any one that cum afore Tom in his request? Answer me that, Winny?"

"I win, father, honestly and truly. It is not that any one has come between me and Tom that made me refuse him. The very thing that you say, of our being reared at the door with one another, has made me dislike him. I have seen too much of his ways, and heard too many of his words, ever to like him, father; there is no use in trying to make me, for I never can."

"But, Winny jewel, you have hardly answered my question yet. Are you secretly promised, Winny, to any other young man that you're afeard I wouldn't like? that's the plain question. The truth now, Winny,—the truth, Winny!"

"No, father, certainly not. Tom Murdock is the only man that ever asked me."

"Was there ever anything betune you an' young Lennon, Emon-a-knock, as I have heard you call him myself?"

"Never, father; Emon never spoke to me upon such a subject, and further than that, he has paid me less compliments and spoken less to me upon any subject than fifty young men in the parish."

It so happened, however, that the name had hightened Winny's color, and her father, looking at her with an admiring and affectionate smile, said:

"Fifty, Winny! well, in throth, I don't wonder at it, or a hundred an' fifty, if they were in the parish."

Winny took advantage of his smile.

"There, father dear, don't be angry with your poor colleen; she'll do better than to marry riches with misery. Thank God, and you, father, she will have more than enough without coveting Tom Murdock's share." And she held up her beautiful lips, and looked in the old man's face with eyes swimming in tears.

Old Ned had fought the battle badly, and lost it. He bent down his head to meet his daughter's caress, and pressed her to his heart.

"There, Winny mavourneen," he exclaimed; "I have not loved you as the apple of my eye, since your poor mother died, for me to thwart you now. You shall never marry Tom Murdock except with your own free will and consent, asthore. As you say, Winny dear, we neither want nor covet his share. But sure, Winny dear, I thought you were for him all along."

"Oh, thank you, thank you a thousand times, father dear; that is so like you. I knew you would not break your Winny's heart."

But Winny Cavana was too honorable, even toward the man she hated, to tell her father of the conversation she had overheard between old Murdock and his son at the gate. She had gained her cause without that.


Tom Murdock had no fixed purpose in anywhere he went after Winny Cavana left him discomfited upon the road. He wandered on past Kate Mulvey's, on toward Shanvilla, but not with any hope or wish to come {75} across Edward Lennon. His intentions of "dealing with him" were yet distant and undefined. What naturally occupied his thoughts was the humiliation he felt at Winny Cavana having refused him. Although he had complained to his father "that he did not think she was for him," yet upon a due consideration of his personal appearance, and his position in the country, he felt persuaded in his own mind that his father was right, and that nothing was required to secure success but to go boldly and straightforward to work. Tom had hinted to his father, although the old man had not observed it, or if so, had taken no notice of it, that there were more reasons than he was aware of for his wishing to secure Winny Cavana's ready money at all events; and his exclamation when his father spoke of only the interest, might have awakened him to the dread, at least, that there really was some cause, with which he was unacquainted, why he dwelt so much more on the subject of her fortune than the land. The fact was so. Tom Murdock was a worse young man than any one—except his immediate associates—was aware of. In addition to his other accomplishments, perhaps I should rather say his attributes, he possessed a degree of worldly cunning which would have sufficed to keep any four ordinary young men out of trouble. But he required it all, for he had four times more villany—not to answer for, for it was unknown, but on his conscience—than any young man of like age in the parish.

One great keeper of a secret—for the time being, at least—is plenty of money. With plenty of money you can keep people in the dark, or blind them with the brightness of the glare. You can keep them in the country, or you can send them out of it, as circumstances require. You can bribe people to be silent, or to tell lies, as you like. But a villain who has not plenty of money cannot thrive long in his villany. When his money fails, his character oozes out, until he becomes finally exposed.

Tom Murdock had practically learned some of the above truths by his experience in life, short as it was, better than anything he had learned at Rathcash national school. The later part of it was what he now feared, but did not wish to learn.

Tom could not have been in the habit of going to Dublin, to Armagh, and Sligo (no one knew in what capacity), three or four times a year, where he played cards and bet high, without money of his own; supposing even that his expenses of the road (which was shrewdly suspected) had been paid. He could not have sent half-a-dozen young friends to America, and compromised scores of actions ere they came before a court of law, without money. He could not have kept a brace of greyhounds, and a race-mare, at Church's hotel in Carrick-on-Shannon, as "Mr. Marsden's," without money; and more money in all these cases, from the secrecy which was required, than almost the actual cost might involve. There were other smaller matters, too, which increased the necessity for Tom Murdock to be always in possession of some ready cash. This, from his position as heir to Rathcashmore, and heir presumptive, if not apparent, to Rathcash alongside of it, he had as yet found no difficulty in procuring upon his own personal security; and to do him justice, he had hitherto avoided mixing up his father's name or responsibility in any of his borrowing transactions. Then there was the usurious interest which these money-lenders, be they private or public, charge upon loans, to be added to Tom's liabilities. If he was pressed by Paul, he robbed Peter to pay him; and when (after long forbearance) he was pressed by Peter, he robbed Paul back again. Upon all these and such-like occasions, Winny Cavana's fortune, which he said would be paid down, was the promptest guarantee he could hold out for payment; for {76} ultimately, he said, they could not lose, as he must some day or other "pop into the old chap's shoes," and in the meantime he was paying the interest regularly.

Winny Cavana's instinct had not deceived her; but had she known one-half as much as some of Tom Murdock's bosom friends could tell her, she would have openly spurned him, and not have treated his advances with even the forced consideration she had done.

He wandered on now toward Shanvilla, without, as we have seen, any fixed purpose. Personally humiliated as he had been by Winny's refusal of him, his thoughts dwelt more upon the fact that he could no longer reckon upon her fortune to pay off the tormenting debts which were every day pressing more heavily upon him; for he could not but believe that her refusal of him would get abroad. The Peters had been robbed often enough, and they would now let the Pauls fight their battle the best way they could with Tom Murdock himself; they were safe now, and they would keep themselves so. They had told Tom this,—"not that they doubted him, but their money was now otherwise employed." Tom began to fear, therefore, that an exposure must soon break out.

How could he face his father, too? He would undoubtedly lay his failure to the score of his own impetuous and uncouth manner of seeking her favor; for he had often charged him with both, particularly toward Winny Cavana. One or two of his creditors had given up even the pretence of being civil, and had sworn "they would go to his father for payment, if not promptly settled with."

It was no great wonder if Tom wandered through the country with no fixed purpose, and finally arrived, tired and ill-humored, at his father's house.

The old man had missed him "from about the place" all the forenoon, and had naturally set down his absence to the right cause. He had been candid in his advice to his son, "to spake up bowldly, and at wanst, to Winny;" and he was sincere in his belief that she would "take him hoppin." This day, suspecting he was on the mission, he had "kep' himself starvin'," and delayed the dinner for his return. He had ordered Nancy Feehily to have "a young roast goose, an' a square of bacon, an' greens, for dinner agen misther Tom cem home." He anticipated "grand chuckling" over Tom's success, of which he made no more doubt than he did of his own existence.

"At last, Tom a wochal, you're cum," he said, as his son entered the door. "But where the sorra have you been? I think Winny's at home this betther nor two hours, for I seen her going in. Well, Tom, you devil! didn't I tell you how it id be?—dhitidtch!" he added, making an extraordinary noise with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and giving his son a poke in the ribs with his forefinger.

"No, but did not I tell you how it would be? There, father! that bubble's burst, and I'm sorry I ever made an onshiough of myself."

"Faix, an', Tom, you must be an onshiough if that bubble burst, unless it's what you blew it out yourself. Di ye mane to say you spoke to her plain, as I tould you to do, Tom avic?"

"As plain as the palm of my hand, father. I put the whole thing before her in the kindest and fondest manner ever a man spoke. I told her how my whole heart and soul was waiting for her this three or four years past—God forgive me for the lie."

"Amen, Tom, if it was one; but maybe it wasn't, man. You're vexed now, Tom agra; but it won't be so. I tell you she only wants to see if you'll folly her up afther she giving you one refusal. What did she say, agra?"

Here Nancy Feehily brought in the roast goose and square of bacon, with a dish of smoking "Brown's fancies" {77} in their jackets, and a check was given to the conversation. The old man, as he had said, had "kep' himself starvin'," and Tom could not keep himself from a like infirmity in his ramble through the country. He was not one of those who permitted a mental annoyance to produce a physical spite in return; he did not, as they say, cut his nose to vex his face, nor quarrel with his bread and butter; so, between them, they did ample justice to Nancy Feehily's abilities as a cook.

"You don't mane to say she refused you, Tom?" said the old man, after the girl had left, and while he was waiting for his son to cut him another slice of bacon.

"She did, father; but let me alone about her now: I'll tell you no more until I make myself a rousing tumbler of punch after dinner. She shall not take away my appetite, at all events."

Nor did she. Tom never ate a better dinner in his life, and his father followed his example. Old Mick had taken the hint, and said no more upon the subject. There was nothing but helping of goose, and slices of bacon, and cutting large smiling potatoes through the middle, with a dangerous sound of the knife upon the cloth, until the meal was ended.

Then, when the things had been removed, and Tom had made his rouser to his satisfaction, and his father had done the same, Tom told him precisely what had taken place between him and Winny Cavana.

Old Murdock listened with an attentive stare until his son had told him all. He then put out his tongue and made another extraordinary sound, but very different from the one already alluded to; and exclaimed, "Bad luck to her impidence, say I!"

"And I say amen, father."

"Tell me, Tom, do you think that fellow Lennon is at the bottom of all this? Did you put that to her?"

"I did, father, and she was not a bit puzzled or flustrificated about him. She spoke of him free and easy; but she denied that there was ever a word between them but common civility."

"An' maybe it's the thruth, Tom avic. You'll find anyhow that she'll change her tune afther her father gets spakin' to her on the subject. He'll be as stout as a bull, Tom; I know he will. He tould me he'd never give in, and that he'd threaten to cut her fortun' off, and make over his interest in the land to the church for charitable purposes, if she tuck up the smallest notion of that pauper,—that scullion, he called him. Don't be down about it, Tom. They say that wan swallow makes no summer; an' I say, wan wild goose makes no winter. My advice to you now, Tom, is, to wait a while; don't be goin' out at all, neither here nor there for some time. I'll let on I don't know what can be the matther with you; an' you'll see she'll come an' be hoppin' round you like a pet robin."

"I hope you are right, father, but I don't think so; I never saw a woman more determined in my life—she took her oath."

"Pshaw, Tom, that's nothin'. Don't torment yourself about it now; mark my words, her father will soon bring her to her senses."

"I do not much care whether he does or does not as to herself; only for that six hundred pounds, the most of which I want badly. I would not envy any man that was tied to the like of her."

"Arra, Tom jewel, what would you want wid the most of six hundred pounds; sure if you got it itself, you oughtn't to touch a penny of it."

Tom had not intended to say what he had said; it slipped out in his vexation. But here his worldly cunning and self-possession came to his aid, and he replied.

"Perhaps not, indeed, father; but there is a spot of land not far off which will soon be in the market, I hear, and it would be no bad speculation to buy it. I think it would pay six or seven per cent interest." Tom knew his father's weakness for {78} a bit of land, and was ready enough.

"Oh, that's a horse of another color, Tom. Arra, where is it? I didn't hear of it."

"No matter now, father. I cannot get the money, so let me alone about it. I wish the d—l had the pair of them."

"Whist, whist, Tom avic; don't be talking in that way. Sure af it's a safe purchase for six per cent., the money might be to be had. Thanks be to God, we're not behouldin' to that hussey's dirty drib for money."

Here a new light dawned upon Tom. Might he not work a few hundreds out of his father in some way or other for this pretended purchase, and then say that it would not be sold after all; and that he had relodged the money, or lost it, or was robbed—or—or—something? The thought was too vague as yet to take any satisfactory shape; but the result upon his mind at the moment was, that his father was too wide awake to be dealt with in that way.

"Well, father," he said, "I shall be guided by your advice in this business still, although I have done no good by taking it to-day; but listen to me now, father."

"An' welcome, Tom. I like a young man to have a mind of his own, an' to be able to strike out a good plan; an' then, if my experience isn't able to back it up, why I spake plainly an' tell him what I think."

"My opinion is, father, that I ought to go away out of this place altogether for a while. You know I am not one that moping about the house and garden would answer at all. I must be out and going about, father, or I'd lose my senses."

This was well put, both in matter and manner, and the closing words told with crowning effect. Tom had said nothing but the fact; such were his disposition and habits that he had scarcely exaggerated the effects of a close confinement to the premises, while of sound bodily health.

"Begorra, Tom, what you say is the rale thruth; What would you think of going down to your aunt in Armagh for a start?"

"No use, father,—no use; I could be no better there than where I am. Dublin, father, or the continent, for a month or six weeks, might do me some good."

"Bedads, Tom, that id take a power of money, wouldn't it?"

"Whether you might think so or not, father, would depend upon what you thought my health and happiness would be worth; here I cannot and will not stay, that is one sure thing."

"Well, Tom, af she doesn't cum round in short, afther her father opens out upon her, we'll talk it over, and see what you would want; but my opinion is, you won't have to make yourself scarce at all—mind my words."

Here Tom fell into such a silent train of thought, that all further conversation was brought to an end. Old Mick believed his son to be really unhappy "about that impideut hussey;" and having made one or two ineffectual efforts "to rouse him," he left him to his meditations.

At the moment they were fixed upon a few of his father's closing words, "see what you'll want." "Want—want!" he repeated to himself. "A dam' sight more than you'll fork out, old cock."

Old Mick busied himself about the house, fidgeting in and out of the room—upstairs and downstairs; while Tom was silently arranging more than one programme of matters which must come off if he would save himself from ruin and disgrace.

His father had ceased to come into the room; indeed his step had not been heard through the house or on the stairs for some time, and it was evident he had gone to bed. But Tom sat for a full hour longer, with scarcely a change of position of even hand or foot. At length, with a sudden sort of snorting sigh, he stood up, stretched himself, with a loud and weary moan, and went to his room.



From The Dublin Review.


Souvenirs et Correspondance tirés des Papiers de Madame Récamier, Paris: Michel Lévy Frères. 1859.

We took occasion in our number of last January to trace the fortunes of that distinguished lady who became consort of the greatest, though not the best, of the kings of France. We saw her rise from obscurity to eminence, without being giddy through her elevation; resisting the fascinations of a licentious court; imbibing celestial wisdom from hidden sources in proportion to the difficulties of her position; exerting great influence without abusing the delicate trust; and at length, bowed with age, retiring into the conventual seclusion of the establishment her piety had reared, and there breathing her last amid the love and admiration, the prayers and blessings, of a thousand friends.

We have now another portrait to hang beside that of Frances de Maintenon—the portrait of one who in some respects resembled her; who, rising, like her, from an inferior condition, was courted by an emperor, and betrothed, or all but betrothed, to a royal prince; withstood innumerable temptations at a period of boundless corruption; conciliated the esteem and friendship of the best and wisest men, and then glided into the vale of years through the peaceful shade of the Abbaye-aux-Bois. The first of these ladies was resplendent in talents, the second in beauty; the one excelled in tact, the other in sweetness and grace; the one in the sphere of politics and public life, the other in the realm of letters and the private circle. If Madame de Maintenon was the most admired, Madame Récamier was the most loved. Each appeared under a sort of disguise, for one spoke and acted as if she were not the wife of her own husband, and the other as if she were the wife of him who was her husband only in name. Both have had violent detractors; both are best known by their letters; and thus, where they agreed and where they differed, they remind us of each other. Of both France is proud, and both, as years pass on, are rising into purer and brighter fame. At the same time it can by no means be said of Madame Récamier, as it may most truly of Madame de Maintenon, that religion was the one animating principle of her life; yet the facts which we have to recount will show—not, indeed, that religion supplied her with the main ends of her existence, but that it enabled her in a corrupt age to follow the objects of her choice in habitual submission to God's actual commandments.

Julie Bernard, the subject of the present memoir, was born at Lyons, on the 4th of December, 1777. Her father, a notary of that city, was remarkable for his handsome face and fine figure, and Madame Bernard was a noted beauty. She had a passion for show, and during the long illness which ended in her death in 1807, found her chief amusement in dress and ornaments. When Julie was seven years old, her father was appointed to a lucrative post in Paris, and left his little daughter at Villefranche, under the care of an aunt. Here the first of her numberless admirers, a boy of her own age, made a deep impression on her susceptible mind, and here, too, she received her earliest education in the convent of La Déserte. The memory of that hallowed spot, its clouds of incense, its processions in the garden, its hymns and flowers, abode with her, {80} she said, through life like a sweet dream, and to the lessons there taught she ascribed her retention of the faith amid the host of sceptical opinions she encountered in after years. It was not without regret and tears that she bade farewell to the abbess and sisters, and turned her face toward Paris and the attractions of her parents' home. Nothing but accomplishments were thought of to complete her education. The brilliant capital was to supersede the "Déserte" in her affections, and her mother took great pains to make Juliette as frivolous as herself. Her chief attention was given to music, she was taught to play the harp and piano by the first artists, and took lessons in singing from Boïeldieu. This was a real gain, though in a different way from that which was intended. We shall see further on how the skill thus acquired was afterward employed in the service of religion, and how the habit of playing pathetic airs and pieces soothed many a sad moment when she was old and blind.

Her first contact with royalty was by accident. Her mother had taken her to see a grand banquet at Versailles, to which, as in the days of Louis XIV., the public were admitted as spectators. Juliette was very beautiful, and the queen, struck by her appearance, sent one of her ladies to ask that she might retire with the royal family. Madame Royale was just of the same age as Juliette, and the two children were measured together. Madame Royale also was a beauty, and not over-pleased, it seems, by this close comparison with a girl taken out of a crowd. How little could either foresee the strange fortunes that awaited the other!

Madame Bernard, with her love of display, took a pride also in gathering clever men around her. Laharpe, Lemontey, Barrère, and other members of the legislative assembly, frequented her drawing-room, and M. Jacques Récamier, an eminent banker of Paris, and son of a merchant at Lyons, was a constant guest. His character was easy and jovial; he wrote capital letters, spouted Latin, made plenty of money, spent it fast, and was often the dupe of his generosity and good humor. He had always been kind to Juliette, and had given her heaps of playthings. When, therefore, in 1793, he asked her hand in marriage, she consented without any repugnance, though Madame Bernard explained to her the inconveniences which might arise from their disparity of age, habits, and tastes—M. Récamier being forty-two and Juliette only fifteen. The wedding took place; but their union is a mystery which has never been solved with certainty. To her nominal husband she was never anything but a daughter. Her niece, Madame Lenormant, says she can only attest the fact, which was well known to all intimate friends, but that she is not bound (chargée) to explain it. Madame M——, another biographer, believes, as did many beside, that she was in reality M. Récamier's daughter; that, living, as every one did during the reign of terror, in fear of the guillotine, he wished to be able to leave her his fortune in case of his death, and, in the meantime, to place her in a splendid position; that Madame Récamier, made aware of her real parentage, would of course be the last to reveal and publish her mother's shame; and that this story, carefully borne in mind, explains all the anomalies of her life.

To this strange alliance, however, is due the formation of the most remarkable literary salon of the present age. It represented more perfectly than any other those of the Hôtel Rambouillet and of Madame de Sablé in the seventeenth century; of Madame Geoffrin, Madame d'Houdetot, and Madame Suard, in the eighteenth; [Footnote 5] and it surpassed in solid attractions those of Madame de Staël at Coppet, and of Madame d'Albany of {81} Florence, of which it was the contemporary. She was herself its life, and diffused over it a charm no biographer can seize. So young and fair, so fascinating yet so innocent, she riveted every gaze, and attracted all hearts without yielding to any. Like the coloring of a landscape which changes every hour, she defied description, and found no adequate reflex save in the fond esteem and faithful memory of those who knew her. Yet her nearest and dearest friends felt that she was above them; and it might be said of her, as Saint-Simon said of the Duchess de Bourgogne, that she walked like a goddess on clouds. Her beauty made her popular, and she was talked of everywhere; for the Parisians at this time, like refined pagans, affected the worship of beauty under every form. She seemed, therefore, by general consent, to have a natural mission to restore society, which a series of revolutions had completely disorganized, and her power of drawing people together and harmonizing what party politics had unstrung, became more apparent every day. By birth she belonged to the people, by tastes and manners to the aristocracy, and had thus a double hold over those who, with republican principles, were fast returning to early associations of rank and order.

[Footnote 5: "Causeries du Lundi," par Sainte-Beuve. Tome i, pp. 114, 115.]

It was a happy day when the churches were re-opened in Paris, and the soft swelling notes of the O Salutaris Hostia filled the crowded fanes once more. It was as the paean of the faithful over the scattered army of unbelief. Madame Récamier was in request. She held the plate for some charitable object at Saint-Roch, and collected the extraordinary sum of 20,000f. The two gentlemen who attended her could scarcely cleave a way for her through the crowd. People mounted on chairs, on pillars, and the altars of the side chapels, to see her. In these days, dancing was her delight. She was the first to enter the ball-room, and the last to quit it. But this did not last long. She soon gave up the shawl-dance, for which she was famous, though nothing could be more correct and picturesque than the movements she executed while, with a long scarf in her hands, she made it by turns a sash, a veil, and a drapery—drooping, fluctuating, gliding, attitudinizing, with matchless taste. Her reign was absolute. In the promenades of Longchamps, no carriage was watched like hers; and every voice pronounced her the fairest.

Twice only in her life did she meet Bonaparte, and to most persons in her position and at that period those moments would have proved fatal. His eye was as keen for female charms as for weak points in the enemy's line. He saw her first in 1797, during a triumphal fête given at the Luxembourg palace in his honor. He had just returned from his marvellous campaign in Italy and genius was reaping the laurels too seldom bestowed on solid worth. Madame Récamier was not insensible to his military prowess. She stood up to observe his features more plainly, and a long murmur of admiration filled the hall. The young conqueror turned his head impatiently. Who dared to divide public attention with the hero of Castiglione and Rivoli? He darted a harsh glance at his rival, and she sank into her seat. But the beautiful vision rested in his memory. He saw her once again, about two years later, and spoke with her. It was at a banquet given by his brother Lucien, then minister of the interior. Madame Récamier as usual was all in white, with a necklace and bracelets of pearls. The First Consul paid her marked attention, and his words, though insignificant in themselves, meant more than met the ear. His manners, however, were simple and pleasing, and he held a little girl of four years old, his niece, by the hand. He chid Madame Récamier for not sitting next him at dinner, fixed his gaze on her during the music, sent Fouché to express to her his admiring regard, and told her himself that he {82} should like to visit her at Clichy. But Juliette, though respectful, was discreet. Time flowed on; Napoleon became emperor, and from the giddy height of the imperial throne bethought him of the incomparable lady in white. He had a double conquest to make. Her château was the resort of emigrant nobles who had returned to France, and whose sympathies were all with the past. To break up her circle, to gain her over to his interests, to enhance by her presence the splendor of his dissolute court, were objects well worthy of his plotting, ambitious, and unscrupulous nature. Fouché was again employed as tempter. He remonstrated with her on the species of opposition to the emperor's policy which was fostered in her salons, but found her little disposed to make concessions, or avow any liking for the despot. His genius and exploits, she admitted, had dazzled her at first, but her sentiments had entirely changed since her friends had been persecuted, the Duc d'Enghein put to death, and Madame de Staël driven into exile. In spite of these frank avowals, which were equally respectful and fearless, Fouché persisted in his design, and in the park around Madame Récamier's elegant retreat, urged her, in the emperor's name, to accept the post of dame du palais to the empress. His majesty had never yet found a woman worthy of him, and it was impossible to say how deep might be his affection for one like her; how wholesome an influence she might exert over him; what services she might render to the oppressed of all classes; and how much she might "enlighten the emperor's religion!" Madame Murat, to her shame, seconded these proposals, and expressed her earnest desire that Madame Récamier should be attached to her household, which was now put on the same footing as that of the empress. To these reiterated advances, Madame Récamier returned the most decided refusal, alleging, by way of courtesy, her love of independence as the cause. At last, foiled and irritated, Fouché—the Mephistopheles of the piece—quitted Clichy, never to return.

The consular episode in Madame Récamier's life has made us anticipate some important events. We must return to the first years of her marriage. It was in 1798 that some negotiations between her husband and M. Necker, the ex-minister of Louis XVI., brought her in contact with that statesman's celebrated daughter, Madame de Staël. At their first interview a sympathy sprung up between the two ladies, which ended in a lasting friendship. Madame Récamier lived in her friends, and her circle was a host ever increasing, for she always talked much and fondly of the friends of former years. She could say, like the Cid, "five hundred of my friends." Yet she had her degrees of attachment. They were, to use the beautiful simile of Hafiz, like the pearls of a necklace, and she the silken cord on which they lay. The chief of this favored circle were four—Madame de Staël among womankind, and for the rest Chateaubriand, Ballanche, and Montmorency.

M. Necker's hôtel in the Rue du Mont-Blanc having been purchased by M. Récamier, no cost was spared in its decoration. It was a model of elegance, and every object of furniture down to the minutest ornament was designed and executed expressly for it. Here the opulent husband was installed, while the fair hostess held her court at the château of Clichy. M. Récamier dined with her daily, and in the evening returned to Paris. No political distinction prevailed in her assemblies, but the restored emigrants were peculiarly welcome. Like Madame de Staël, Chateaubriand, and almost all reflective persons in our age, she thought monarchy had better be limited by a parliament than, as Talleyrand said, by assassination. Yet revolutionary generals and military dukes gathered round her, side by side with the Duc de Guignes, Adrien and {83} Mathieu de Montmorency, and other representatives of the fallen aristocracy. In her presence they forgot their difference at least for awhile, and lost insensibly the asperity of party prejudice.

Duc Mathieu de Montmorency was Madame Récamier's senior by seventeen years. He had served in America in the regiment of Anvergne, of which his father was colonel, and on his return to France abandoned himself to all the pleasures and fashions of the world. His residence in the land of Penn and Washington had imbued him with republican notions, which he shared with a clique of young noblemen like himself. Such persons, as is well known, were among the earliest victims of the revolution they hurried on. Duc Mathieu emigrated in 1792, and soon afterward learned in Switzerland that his brother, the Abbé de Laval, whom he tenderly loved, had been beheaded. Remorse filled his breast, and drove him almost to madness. He charged himself with his brother's death. It was he who had proposed in the states general the abolition of the privileges of nobility, approved the sequestration of church property, and strengthened the hands of Mirabeau and the power of that assembly which paved the way for regicide and the reign of terror. Madame de Staël was his intimate friend. She had shared his political enthusiasm, and did all in her power to soothe him. But religion alone could pour balm into his smarting wounds. His conversion was complete and lasting. The impetuous, seductive, and frivolous young man became known to all as a fervent and strict Christian. Sainte-Beuve speaks of him as a "saint." Extreme delicacy of language indicated the inward discipline he underwent; while the warmth of his feelings and the solidity of his judgment inspired at the same time confidence and regard. His friendship for Madame de Staël continued, though their religious convictions differed, and he was alive to the imperfections of her character. He hoped one day to see her triumph over herself, and his solicitude for Madame Récamier was equal, though in another way. Over her he watched continually like a loving parent. He trembled lest she should at last fall a victim to the gay world which so much admired her, and which she sought to please. To shine without sinning is difficult indeed. Montmorency's letters prove the depth and purity of his affection. His intimacy with his amiable amie lasted unbroken during seven-and-twenty years, and ended only with his death.

Montmorency's death was the fitting sequel of a holy and useful life. It happened in 1826. He had recently been elected one of the forty of the French Academy, and had also been appointed governor to the Duc de Bordeaux, the grandson and heir of Charles X. He had gone to the church of St. Thomas d'Aquin on Good Friday, apparently in perfect health, and was kneeling before the altar and the "faithful cross on which the world's salvation hung," when his head bowed lower, and in a moment the bitterness of death was past.

Laharpe was another distinguished man to be numbered among the lovers of Madame Récamier's society. He had known her from a child, and when his exquisite taste in literature had obtained for him the title of the French with his regard was not lessened for one whose reputation was as flourishing as his own. He passed weeks at Clichy, and when he reopened his course of lectures on French literature at the Atheneum she had a place reserved for her near his chair. The letters she received from him are equally affectionate and respectful. He too had been converted through the excesses of that revolution which he had in the first instance encouraged. After suffering imprisonment in 1794, his ideas and conduct underwent a total change, and he resolved to devote his pen for the rest of his days to the service of religion. {84} The energy with which he denounced "philosophers" and demagogues drew upon him proscription, and it was only by concealing himself that he escaped being transported. Of all revolutions, that of France in the last century has, by the horror it excited and the reaction it produced, tended more than any other to consolidate monarchy, discredit scepticism, and promote the salvation of souls. It is a beacon-fire kindled to warn nations of the rocks and shoals—the faults of rule and the crimes of misrule—by which society may suddenly be broken up and civilization retarded.

Montmorency was a statesman, Laharpe a man of letters; let us now turn to another friend of Madame Récamier's, who from a private soldier rose to be a king and leave a dynasty behind him. This was Bernadotte. In 1802, M. Bernard was postmaster-general, and suspected of complicity in a royalist correspondence that menaced the government. Madame Récamier was one day entertaining a few guests at dinner, and Eliza Bonaparte, afterward Grand Duchess of Tuscany, was present by her own invitation. On rising from table a note was placed in the hands of the hostess announcing the arrest and imprisonment of M. Bernard. To whom should she have recourse at such a moment but to the First Consul's sister? She must see him, she said, that very evening. Would Madame Bacciocchi procure her an interview? The princess was cold. She would advise Madame Récamier to see Fouché first. "And where shall I find you again, madam, if I do not succeed?" asked Madame Récamier. "At the Théâtre Français," was the reply; "in my box with my sister."

Nothing could be gained from Fouché except the alarming information that the affair was a very serious one, and that unless Madame Récamier could see the First Consul that night it would be too late. In the utmost consternation she drove to the Théâtre to remind Madame Bacciochi of her promise. "My father is lost," she said, "unless I can speak with the First Consul to-night." "Well, wait till the tragedy is over," replied the princess, with an air of indifference, "and then I shall be at your service." Happily there was one in the box whose dark eyes, fixed on the agonized daughter, expressed clearly the interest he felt in her position. He leant forward, and explaining to the princess that Madame Récamier appeared quite ill, offered to conduct her to the chief of the government. Madame Bacciocchi readily assented, and gladly resigned the suppliant to Bernadotte's charge. Again and again he promised to obtain that the proceedings against M. Bernard should be stopped, and repaired immediately to the Tuileries. The same night he returned to Madame Récamier, who was counting the moments till he re-appeared. His suit had been successful, and he soon after procured the prisoner's release. Madame Récamier accompanied him to the Temple on the day M. Bernard was delivered. He was deprived of his post, for, though pardoned, he had undoubtedly been guilty of a treasonable correspondence with the Chouans.

This was the foundation of Bernadotte's friendship with Madame Récamier. "Neither time," he wrote to her, when adopted by Charles XIII., as his son and heir—"neither time nor northern ice will ever cool my regard for you." He had many noble qualities, and did much for Sweden. We could forgive him for joining the coalition against France, if he had not embraced Lutheranism for the sake of a crown.

During the short peace of Amiens, in 1802, Madame Récamier visited England, where she received the kindest attentions from the Duchess of Devonshire, Lord Douglas, the Prince of Wales, and the Duc d'Orleans, afterward king of the French. Those who can refer to the English newspapers of that year will find that {85} all the movements of the beautiful stranger were regularly gazetted.

But where is Madame de Staël? In the autumn of 1803 she was exiled by Bonaparte, who feared her talents and disliked her politics. As the daughter of Necker and the friend of limited monarchy, she was particularly obnoxious to one who represented both democracy and absolutism. Madame Récamier, with her habitual generosity, offered her an asylum at Clichy, which she accepted, under the impression that her further removal from Paris would not be insisted on. Junot, afterward the Duc d'Abrantes, their mutual friend, interested himself in her behalf, but without success. Her sentence of exile was confirmed; she was not to approach within forty leagues of the capital. So she wandered through Germany, and collected materials for her "Allemagne" and "Dix années d'Exil." At Weimar she studied German literature under Goethe, Wieland, and Schiller, and in 1805 held her court at Coppet in the Canton de Vaud. Here occurred, as we shall presently see, one of the most singular episodes in Madame Récamier's life. She, with Madame de Staël in Switzerland, and Madame d'Albany in Florence, divided the empire of literary salons on the continent; and each of these ladies felt in turn the weight of the despot of Europe's sceptre. [Footnote 6] In 1810 the writer of "Corinne" became the guest of Mathieu de Montmorency, near Blois, and within the prescribed distance from Paris. In the château of Catherine de Medici she collected round her a few friends, who were fearless of annoyance and exile. But her work on Germany abounded with allusions to the imperial police. The whole edition of ten thousand copies was seized, and she received an order from the Duc de Rovigo to return immediately to Switzerland Madame Récamier, faithful and courageous, followed her, though timid advisers prophesied that no good would come of such imprudence. She stayed there only a day and a half, and then pursued her way in haste to Paris. But the sentence of exile had already gone forth against her. The calm and religious Duke Mathieu had just before expiated in like manner the crime of visiting the illustrious exile. Her book on Germany did not contain a line directly against the emperor; but it was enough that the authoress's heart beat with the pulses of rational freedom, and the Corsican's tyranny became minute in proportion to the territory over which it spread. Thus the ladies, who so loved each other, were not only exiled, but separated. Rivers rolled and Alps rose between them; lest, perchance, they should combine their elegant and harmless pursuits.

[Footnote 6: "Comtesse d'Albany," par M. St. Réne Taillandier, p. 229.]

The limits allowed us in this article do not admit of our tracing the events of Madame Récamier's life in strict chronological order, and bringing out by degrees the character and history of her several friends. Each of them in turn will lead us away from the main thread of our story, and we hope that our readers will follow us with indulgence when we are obliged to take it up again rather awkwardly. We cannot do otherwise than mass together many things which had better be kept apart.

One day, in the autumn of 1806, Monsieur Récamier brought some dismal news to Clichy. The financial condition of Spain and her colonies, combined with other untoward events, had placed his bank in such jeopardy that, unless the government could be induced to advance him £40,000 on good security, he must stop payment within two days. A large party had been invited to dinner; and the hostess, suppressing her emotions with extraordinary self-command, did the honors of her house in a manner calculated to obviate alarm. It was a golden opportunity for imperial vengeance, and it was not lost. All aid from the Bank of France was {86} refused, and the much-envied Maison Récamier was made over, with all its liabilities, to the hands of its creditors. So cruel a reverse was enough to try the fortitude of the most Christian. Nor was Madame Récamier found wanting in that heroic quality. Indeed, there are few women who, taken all in all, would serve better to enforce Eliza Famham's ingenious arguments for the superiority of her sex. [Footnote 7] While her husband's spirit was almost broken under the blow, she calmly, if not cheerfully, sold her last jewel, and occupied a small apartment on the ground floor of her splendid mansion. The rest of the house was let to Prince Pignatelli, and ultimately sold. The French have their faults—great faults; what nation has not?—but let us do them the justice to say that in their friendships they are faithful. The poor wife of the ruined banker was as much honored and courted by them in her adversity as she had been when surrounded with every luxury and every facility for hospitable entertainments. Let those who would form an idea of the sympathy expressed by her friends read that touching letter of Madame de Staël which Chateaubriand has preserved. [Footnote 8] The opulent and gay, the learned, the brilliant, the serious, came in troops to that garden of the hotel in the Rue du Mont Blanc, where the unsullied and queenly rose was bending beneath the storm. The jealous emperor, at the head of his legions in Germany, heard of the interest she excited; for Junot, just returned from Paris, could not refrain from reporting at length what he had seen. But Napoleon interrupted him with impatience, saying, "The widow of a field-marshal of France, killed on the battle-plain, would not receive such honors!" And why should she? Is there no virtue but that of valor? Are there no conquests but those of the sword?

[Footnote 7: "Woman and Her Era." 2 vols. New York.]

[Footnote 8: In the "Mémoires d'Outre-Tombe."]

The trial which Juliette bore so patiently was fatal to her mother. Madame Bernard's health had long been declining; laid on a couch, and elegantly attired, she received visits daily; but her strength gave way altogether when her daughter fell from her high estate. She little knew that Madame Récamier was on the very point of having a royal prince for her suitor. Only three months after the failure of the bank Madame Bernard passed away, deeply lamented by her loving daughter, whom filial piety made blind or indulgent to her imperfections.

Prince Augustus of Prussia was a nephew of Frederick the Great. Chivalrous, brave, and handsome, he united very ardent feelings with candor, loyalty, and love, of his country. He had, in October, 1806, been made prisoner at the battle of Saalfeld, where his brother, Prince Louis, had fallen fighting at his side. The mourning he still wore added to his dignity, and the society and scenery in the midst of which Madame Récamier first met him, deepened the charm of his presence and devoted attentions.

It was in 1807, on the banks of the lake of Geneva, hallowed to the thoughtful mind by so many historic associations, and encircled by all the gorgeous loveliness of which nature is so lavish in the valleys of the Alps. There in the château of Madame de Staël, Juliette listened during three months to his earnest conversation, and heard him propose that she should be his bride. Her marriage with M. Récamier presented no real difficulty; it was a civil marriage only; the peculiar case was one in which the Catholic Church admits of declaration of nullity; and for which, in Protestant Germany, legal divorce could very easily be obtained. Madame de Staël's imagination was kindled by this romantic incident, and she did not fail to second the prince's suit. Juliette herself was fully alive to the honors that were proposed her. It was no impoverished refugee that sought her hand. Though a prisoner {87} for the moment, he would, doubtless, soon be set at liberty, and he was as proud as any of his exalted rank. Yielding, therefore, to the sentiments he inspired, Madame Récamier wrote to her husband to ask his consent to a separation. This he could not refuse; but, while granting it, he seems to have appealed to her feelings with a degree of earnestness which profoundly touched her heart. He had, he said, been her friend from childhood; and, if she must form another union, he trusted it would not take place in Paris, nor even in France. His letter turned the current of her desires. She thought of his long kindness, his age, his misfortune, and resolved not to abandon him. Religious considerations may also have weighed with her, for Prince Augustus did not hold the true faith. He had, moreover, two natural daughters, the countesses of Waldenburg, and this circumstance also may have indisposed her to the match. [Footnote 9] He had, as she once said, many fancies. Would a morganatic marriage bind his wandering heart, or could she endure the pain of being expatriated for ever? They parted without any definite engagement, but he repaired to Berlin to obtain his family's consent. Madame Récamier returned to Paris; and, though she declined the honor of his hand on the ground of her responding imperfectly to his affection, she sent him her portrait, which he treasured till the day of his death. A ring which she also gave him was buried with him, and they never ceased while on earth to correspond in terms of the warmest friendship. In 1815 the prince entered Paris with the victorious legions of allied Europe, having written to his friend from every city that he entered; and in 1825 they had their last interview in the Abbaye-aux-Bois.

[Footnote 9: "Madame Récamier," by Madame M——]

We must now follow her into exile. It was in the latter part of 1811 that she took up her abode in the dreary town of Châlons-sur-Marne, which happened to be just as far from Paris as she was required to live, and no further. The prefect was an amiable man, and retained his post during forty years, enjoying the confidence of each government in succession. But that which alleviated most the dulness of Châlons was its neighborhood to many beloved friends, particularly Montmorency. In June, 1812, however, she quitted it for Lyons, being unwilling to compromise those who were most ready to console her in exile. Many a château round had claimed the happiness of entertaining her; but to be kind to those who are suspected is always to draw suspicion on one's self. Renouncing many delights within her reach, she had sought one of the purest in playing the organ in the parish church, both during the week and on Sundays at high mass and vespers. She did the same at Albano during her stay there in the ensuing year.

Italy, and above all Rome, attracts sooner or later whatever is most cultivated in mind and taste. Thither, in 1813, Madame Récamier turned her steps. She was attended by her niece and her maid. Montmorency accompanied her as far as Chambery, and her carriage was well supplied with books, which M. Ballanche had selected to beguile the tedium of the way. This gentleman was the son of a printer at Lyons, and his genius became his fortune. His prose writings were considered a model of style, and ultimately obtained him a place in the French Academy. Neglecting subjects of the day, he uniformly indulged his fondness for abstract speculation, and in several works ingeniously set forth his ideas on the progress of mankind through alternate periods of revival and decay. [Footnote 10] He was profoundly Christian at heart, but coupled his belief in the fall and redemption with peculiar notions respecting human perfectibility.

[Footnote 10: "Institutions Sociales," 1818. "Palingénésis Sociale." 1830]

{88} His mind was dreamy, his system mystical, but he realized intensely the existence of things unseen, and declared that "he was more sure of the next world than of this present." He mistrusted, indeed, the reality of material phenomena, and rested in the thought of two, and two only, luminously self-evident beings, himself and his creator. But genius is a dangerous gift to the student of theology, and perhaps Ballanche would have been more sound if he had been less clever. From the moment he saw Madame Récamier, he became ardently attached to her society. Her praise was his richest reward, and the prospect of reading his essays and poems to her more than doubled the pleasure of composing them. The first time he conversed with her a curious incident occurred. After getting over the difficulty he experienced in talking on ordinary topics, he had risen to a higher strain, and expatiated in glowing language on philosophical and literary subjects, till Madame Récamier, who had for some time been much incommoded by the smell of the detestable blacking with which his shoes had been cleaned, was obliged to tell him timidly that she really could not bear it any longer. M. Ballanche apologized humbly, left the room, and, returning a minute later without his shoes, took up the conversation where he had dropped it, and was soon in the clouds again. But his shoes were not his only drawback. He was hideously ugly, and that by a cruel mishap. A charlatan, like the one who practiced upon Scarron, had prescribed such violent remedies for his headaches that his jaw had become carious, and a part of it was removed by trepanning. A terrible inroad was made on one of his cheeks by this operation; but his magnificent eyes and lofty forehead redeemed his uncomely traits, and amid all his awkwardness and timidity his friends always discerned an expression of tenderness and often a kind of inspiration breathing from his face. Madame Récamier's talents were of a high order, for she could appreciate those of others. She soon forgot Ballanche's shoes, forgot his ungainly movements and ghastly deformity, and fixed her gaze on that inner man which was all nobility and gentleness, glowing with poetry, and steeped in the dews of Hermon. Let us leave him now at Lyons; we shall meet him again before long.

There was a vast and dreary city toward the south of Italy which had once been called Rome. It was now the capital of the department of the Tiber. Without the Caesars or the Pope, it was Rome no more. No foreigners thronged its streets and fanes, its prelates were scattered, and its scanty inhabitants looked sullenly on the Frank soldiers who turned its palaces and sanctuaries into barracks. Hither came Madame Récamier, and her apartment in the Corso was soon hailed as an oasis in the wilderness. All the strangers in the deserted capital, and many of the Romans, paid their court to this queen of society; and Canova, one of the few stars left in the twilight, visited her every evening, and wrote to her every morning. He chiselled her bust as no hand but his could chisel it, and seized ideal beauty while copying what was before him. He called it "Beatrice," and it was worthy of the name. Ballanche, too, came all the way from Lyons to visit the universal favorite. He travelled night and day, and could remain at Rome only one week. The very evening of his arrival Madame Récamier began to do the honors of the Eternal City. Three carriages full of friends drove from her house to St. Peter's and the Coliseum, where they all alighted. Ballanche moved solemnly, with his hands beside him, overpowered by the grandeur of all around. On a sudden his parfaite amie looked back. He was not without his shoes this time, but without his hat. "M. Ballanche," she said, "where is your hat?" "Ah!" replied the philosopher, "I have left it at Alexandria." And so it was—so {89} little did his thoughts dwell on external life.

From Rome the travellers proceeded to Naples. A cordial welcome awaited Madame Récamier from Caroline Bonaparte, whom she had known of old. A page from the royal palace brought her a magnificent basket of fruit and flowers immediately on her arrival, and she soon became the confidante of both king and queen. Joachim Murat sat on a usurped throne, and was reaping the bitter fruits of a false position. Duty bound him to Napoleon, interest to the allies. First he was perfidious to his master, next to his colleagues. One day he entered his wife's saloon in great agitation, and finding Madame Récamier, avowed to her that he had signed the coalition. He then asked her opinion of his act, taking it for granted that it would be favorable. But, though not an imperialist, she was a Frenchwoman. "Sire!" she replied, "you are French, and to France you should be faithful." Murat turned pale. "I am a traitor then," he exclaimed, and, opening the window in haste, pointed to the British fleet sailing into the bay. Then burying his face in his hands, he sunk upon a sofa and wept. The year after, faithless alike to Europe and to the empire, a tempest cast him on the shore of Pizzo, and he was taken and shot like a brigand.

A dense crowd was collected in the Piazza del Popolo to see the entry of Pius VII., after the Apollyon of kingdoms had been sent to Elba. The Roman nobles and gentleman headed the procession, and their sons drew the pontiff's carriage. In it he knelt, with his hair unsilvered by age, and his fine face expressing deep humility. His hand was extended to bless his people, but his head bowed before the almighty disposer of human events. It was the triumph of a confessor rather than of a sovereign—of a principle, not of a person. Never did such a rain of tears fall on the marble paving at St. Peter's as when at last he traversed the church and prostrated himself before the altar over the tomb of the apostles. Then the Te Deum rose and echoed through those gorgeous arches, and Madame Récamier was not insensible to the affecting scene. Before leaving Rome the second time, she paid a farewell visit to General Miollis, who had commanded the French forces. He was extremely touched by this civility, and received her in a villa he had bought, and which still bears his name. He was quite alone, with an old soldier for his servant. She was, he said, the only person who had called upon him since he had ceased to govern Rome.

After three years' absence she returned to Paris, and, still radiant with beauty and overflowing with gladness, resumed her undisputed empire over polite society. Her husband had regained his lost ground, and was again a prosperous banker, while she possessed in her own right a fortune inherited from her mother. The restoration of Louis XVIII. had changed the face of her salon and of society in general. Her friends were once more in power, and those who had vexed her and them were banished or forgotten. The Duke of Wellington often visited her, and she presented him to Queen Hortense. He shocked her, however, after the battle of Waterloo, by saying of Napoleon, "I have well beaten him!" She had no love for the ex-emperor; but France was her country, and she could not exult over its defeat. Her niece declares that Wellington was not free from intoxication with his success, and that nothing but the indignant murmurs of the pit prevented him from entering the royal box with his aides-de-camp. [Footnote 11] Madame de Staël died in 1817, and her friend, Mathieu de Montmorency, gathered up with piety and hope every indication of a religious spirit which she had left behind. She never raised her eyes to heaven without thinking of him, and she believed that {90} in his prayers his spirit answered hers. [Footnote 12] Prayer, she wrote, was the bond which united all religious beings in one, and the life of the soul. Sin and suffering were inseparable, and she had never done wrong without falling into trouble. During the long sleepless nights of her last illness she repeated constantly the Lord's prayer to calm her mind, and she learned to enjoy the "Imitation of Jesus Christ."

[Footnote 11: "Souvenirs de Madame Récamier," vol. i., p.268.]

[Footnote 12: "Dix années d'Exil." ]

The void she left in Madame Récamier's circle was filled by one whose writings were, the talk and admiration of Europe. This was Chateaubriand. Professor Robertson has lately brought him very agreeably to our remembrance in his able and interesting lectures on modern history. The Duc de Noailles, that contemporary, as he has been called, of Louis XIV., pronounced his eulogy when taking his place in the French Academy, and he has left us his biography in the most charming form in which that of any one can be read, viz., written by himself. The portrait a man draws of himself in writing rarely deceives; for the very attempt to falsify would betray the real character. Chateaubriand's vanity escapes him in his memoirs as frequently as it did in his conversation, yet there cannot be a doubt that he had great qualities, and has built himself an enduring name. That extreme refinement of thought which is inseparable from genius makes him difficult to appreciate, and the phases of society through which he passed were so conflicting as to be fatal to the consistency of almost all public men. Yet he was on the whole faithful through life to his first principles. At one time he defended monarchy, at another freedom, pleading most eloquently for that which for the moment seemed most in danger. He knew the value of their mutual support, and, like all who move on a double line, he was often misunderstood. Born of an ancient and noble family, he chose at the same time the profession of arts and arms. The popular excesses of 1791 drove him from Paris, and he embarked for America. There, in the immense forests and savannas of Canada and the Floridas, often living among savages, he stored up materials for his early romances, and acquired that grandeur and depth of coloring in descriptions of natural scenery for which he is so remarkable. He was near the tropics, in the land of the fire-fly and hummingbird, when he heard of the flight of Louis XVI. and his arrest at Varennes. Hastening back to rejoin the standard of his royal master, he again took arms, and was seriously wounded at the siege of Thionville. From Jersey he was transported to London, where he lived in extreme want, taught French, and translated for publishers. Here, too, he produced his first work, which was tainted with the infidelity of the day. The death of his pious mother recalled him to a better mind, and awakened in him a train of thought which issued at length in the "Génie du Christianisme." "Atala" and "René," likewise under the form of romance, serving as episodes to his great work, avenged the cause of religion, and powerfully aided in producing a reaction in favor of Christianity. The First Consul hailed the rising star, and attached him as secretary to Cardinal Fesch's embassy at Rome. In 1804 he had just been appointed to represent France in the republic of Valais, when he heard of the odious execution of the Duc d'Enghien, and immediately sent in his resignation. He could serve a ruler who had brought order out of chaos, but not an assassin. From that day he never ceased to be hostile to the empire. After wandering, as Ampère did later, along the classic shores of Greece and the monuments of Egypt, and kissing the footprints of his Redeemer on the mount of Calvary, he returned to France, and in the Vallée-aux-Loups composed his prose poem, the "Martyrs," in {91} which, as in "Fabiola" and "Callista," the glowing imagery of pagan art is blended with the ethical grandeur of the religion of Christ. A place was awarded him in the French Academy, which he was not permitted to take till the Bourbons were restored. Their return filled him with joy, and a pamphlet he had written against Bonaparte was said by Louis XVIII. to have been worth an army to his cause. On the escape of Napoleon from Elba he accompanied the king to Ghent, and, on re-entering Paris, was raised to the peerage and made minister of state. In 1816, having published his "Monarchy according to the Charter," he lost the royal favor and his honorary title. His work, however, continues to this day "a textbook of French constitutional law." [Footnote 13]

[Footnote 13: Robertson's "Lectures," p. 291.]

Such was the statesman, apologist, philosopher, and poet who, in his forty-ninth year, obtained an ascendancy over Madame Récamier's imagination so complete that the religious Montmorency trembled, and the thoughtful Ballanche dreamed some ill. They thought, too, that her manners changed toward them, but she soon restored their confidence. It would be vain, indeed, to deny that her regard for Chateaubriand caused her many anxious thoughts and secret tears, particularly when, after a few years, he neglected her for the din of political debate and the society of beings less exalted and pure. But this estrangement was only temporary, and both before it and after it, till he died, her daily task was to soothe the irritability to which poets are said to be especially subject; to amuse him herself, as Madame de Maintenon amused Louis XIV.; and to surround him with those who, for her sake as well as for his, labored for the same charitable end.

Another reverse befel her in 1819. M. Récamier fouled again, and £4,000, which his wife had invested in his bank, went with the rest. Trusting in the security of his position, she had shortly before purchased a house in the Rue d'Anjou and furnished it handsomely. There was a garden belonging to it, and an alley of linden-trees, where Chateaubriand tells us he used to walk with Madame Récamier. But the house and garden were sold, and the occupant removed to a small apartment in the quaint old Abbaye-aux-Bois. She placed her husband and M. Bernard with M. Bernard's aged friend in the neighborhood, and dined with them, her niece, Ballanche, and Paul David every day. In the evening she received company, and her cell soon became the fashion, if not the rage. It was an incommodious room, with a brick floor, on the third story. The staircase was irregular; and Chateaubriand complains of being out of breath when he reached the top. A piano, a harp, books, a portrait of Madame de Staël, and a view of Coppet by moonlight, adorned it. Flower-pots stood in the windows; and in the green garden beneath nuns and boarders were seen walking to and fro. The top of an acacia rose to a level with the eye, tall spires stood out against the sky, and the hills of Sèvres bounded the distant horizon. The setting sun used to gild the picture and pierce through the open casements. Birds nestled in the Venetian blinds, and the hum of the great city scarce broke the silence.

Here Madame Récamier received every morning a note from Chateaubriand, and here he came at three o'clock so regularly that the neighbors, it is said, used to set their watches by his approach. Few persons were allowed to meet him, for he was singular and exclusive; but, when evening closed, the élite of France and half the celebrities of Europe found their way here by turns. The Duchess of Devonshire and Sir Humphrey Davy, Maria Edgeworth, Humboldt, Villemain, Montalembert, Alexis de Tocqueville, and Sainte-Beuve were frequent guests, and so also was one who {92} deserves more special notice, Jean Jacques Ampère.

It was on the 1st of January, 1820, that his illustrious father presented him, then in his twentieth year, to the circle of friends who met at the Abbaye-aux-Bois. [Footnote 14] The enthusiasm with which he spoke, the gentleness of his disposition, the nobility of his sentiments, and the brilliancy of his talents, soon secured him a high place in Madame Récamier's esteem. He attached himself to her with an ardor that never cooled, and that appeared quite natural to the elder guests who had long experienced her magical influence. During the career of fame which he ran her counsels were his guide, and her goodness his theme. However deep his studies, however distant his wanderings, among the surges of the Categat or the pyramids of the Pharaohs, his thoughts always reverted to her, and letters full of respect and devotion proved how amiable was his character, how observant and gifted his mind.

[Footnote 14: Le Correspondant, Mai, 1864, p. 46.]

In November, 1823, he and the faithful Ballanche accompanied her to Italy. Her niece, whom she treated as a daughter, was suffering from a pulmonary complaint, and change was thought desirable for her. Chateaubriand's visits had grown less frequent. A political rivalry also had sprung up between her dearest friends, Chateaubriand having, in December, 1822, accepted the office of minister of foreign affairs vacant by the resignation of Mathieu de Montmorency. They disdained alike riches and honors, but each was bent on the triumph of a conviction, and on linking his name with a public act. Many thorns beset her path in consequence of their disunion, and absence for a time from France seemed to offer several advantages. She fully possessed the confidence of Madame de Chateaubriand, and all who knew the capricieux immorel, as that lady called her husband, were of opinion that by going to Italy she might avoid many occasions of bitterness, and recall him to a calmer and nobler frame.

Nearly a month was passed in the journey from Paris to Rome. The travellers paused in every town, and explored its monuments, churches, and libraries. During the halt at midday, and again in the evening, they talked over all they had seen, and read aloud by turns. Ballanche and his young friend Ampère discussed questions of history and philosophy, and Madame Récamier gave an air of elegance to an apartment in the meanest inn. She had her own table-cloth to spread, together with books and flowers; and her presence alone, so dignified, so graceful, invested every place with the charm of poetry. Ballanche and Ampère projected a guide-book, and thus the latter was unconsciously laying up stores for that graphic "Histoire Romaine à Rome," [Footnote 15] on which his reputation as an author mainly rests. The year was just closing when they arrived in Rome. It was here that he met Prince Louis Bonaparte, the present emperor, who was then a boy, and here he had long and frequent conversations with Prince Napoleon, his elder brother, while Queen Hortense, then called the Duchess of Saint-Leu, was walking with Madame Récamier in the Coliseum, or the campagna around the church of St. John Lateran or the tomb of Cecilia Metella. Rome was then the asylum of the Bonapartes, as it has ever been the home of the outcast and the consolation of the wretched. The aspect was greatly changed since the former visit Pius VII. had lately yielded up his saintly spirit to God, and Leo XII. sat on his throne. The fêtes and ceremonies that attended his elevation were all over except that of the pontifical blessing given from the balcony of St Peter's. Madame Récamier took her place beside the Duchess of Devonshire in joint sovereignty over society at Rome. {93} The Duc de Laval, Montmorency's cousin, who was then the French ambassador, placed his house, horses, and servants at her disposal, and began or ended every evening with her. The duchess just mentioned was in her sixty-fourth year, and preserved the traces of remarkable beauty. Her eyes were full of fire, her skin was smooth and white. She was tall, erect, queenly, and thin as an apparition. Her skeleton hands and arms were like ivory, and she covered them with bracelets and rings. Her manners were distinguished, and she seemed at the same time very affectionate and rather sad.

[Footnote 15: Published in the Revue des Deux Mondes, 1866-67.]

The long friendship which subsisted between this English Protestant lady and Cardinal Consalvi was not the least singular feature in her history. Her intimacy with Adrien and Mathieu de Montmorency was such that they always called her the duchesse-cousine, though they were not related to her at all. The Duc de Laval, whom she had known in England, writes thus of her to Madame Récamier, in May, 1823:

"The duchess and I are agreed in admiring you. She possesses some of your qualities, and they have been the cause of her success though life. She is of all women the most attaching. She rules by gentleness, and is always obeyed. What she did in her youth in London, that she now recommences here. She has all Rome at her disposal—ministers, cardinals, painters, sculptors, society, all are at her feet."

Her days, however, were dwindling to a close, as were those also of Cardinal Consalvi. Just seven months after the decease of Pius VII. that eminent statesman followed him to the tomb. All Rome went to see him laid in state—all except Madame Récamier, who, full of the sorrow which the duchess would feel for his loss, and imagining that she would only be pained by such idle curiosity, drove to the solitude of the villa Borghese. On alighting from her carriage, she saw the tall and elegant figure of the duchess in deep mourning, and looking the picture of despair. To her astonishment the latter proposed that they should go and see the lifeless cardinal. It was, indeed, a solemn scene. The chaplains had retired for a brief space to dine, and the public were excluded. The ladies only entered to take their last look of human greatness. There he lay—the steady foe of the French revolution and the imperial despot, the minister of two popes during five-and-thirty years, the able and successful nuncio at the congress of Vienna. There he lay in the sleep of death, with his purple round him, and with his features still beautiful, calm, and severe.

Madame Récamier and her niece fell on their knees, praying fervently for the departed, and still more so for the lonely friend beside them, who had survived all the affections of her youth. She did not long survive. In March, 1824, she expired after a few days' illness. No one had been allowed to approach her till the last moment and for this extraordinary exclusion different reasons are assigned. Madame Récamier and the Duc de Laval believed that it was through fear lest she should declare herself a Catholic. They were admitted just before the vital spark was extinguished, and she died while they knelt beside her, and Madame Récamier held her wan hand, and bathed it with tears. After again visiting Naples, after excursions round the gulf, and reading as she went the glowing descriptions of Chateaubriand and de Staël, while the ardent Ampère and the meditative Ballanche supplied their living comments, Madame Récamier returned to spend her second winter in Rome, and enjoy the society of the Duc de Noailles and Madame Swetchine. The duke was in his twenty-third year, and she used to say that he was the last and youngest of those whom she called her real friends. His subsequent history of Madame de Maintenon proves how just a claim he had to be so regarded.


Madame Swetchine, when she arrived in Rome, was imbued with some prejudices against Madame Récamier, but they vanished at the first interview, and the love that sprang up between them was of the holiest kind:

"I feel the want of you (she wrote in 1825) as if we had passed a long time together, as if we had old associations in common. How strange that I should feel so impoverished by losing what a short time since I did not possess! Surely there is something of eternity in certain emotions. There are souls—and I think yours and mine are among the number—which no sooner come in contact with each other than they throw off the conditions of their mortal existence, and obey the laws of a higher and better world."

After an absence of eighteen months, Madame Récamier returned to Paris. It was in May, 1825. Charles X. was being consecrated at Rheims, and both Chateaubriand and Montmorency were there for the ceremony. When the former received a line to inform him that the cell in the Abbaye was again occupied, he lost no time in paying his usual visit at the same hour as before. Madame Récamier's residence in Italy had produced the desired effect on him. His fitful mood was over. Not a word of explanation or reproach was heard, and from that day to his death, twenty-three years later, the purest and most perfect harmony existed between them. He had again fallen from power, and had been rudely dismissed. His only crime had been silence. He would not advocate the reduction of interest on the public debt, which appeared to him an act of injustice. How many would be half ruined by the change from five to three per cent! He abstained from voting. De Villèle was incensed, and a heartless note informed one of the greatest men in France that his services were no longer needed. By a strange mishap he did not receive it at the right time, went to the Tuileries, attended a levee, and was going to take his place at a cabinet council, when he was told that he was no longer admissible. He had ordered his carriage for a later hour, and was now obliged to walk back in his full court robes through the streets of Paris. He long and bitterly remembered this ungenerous treatment. In his opposition to the Villèle ministry he displayed prodigious talent; and in January, 1828, it gave place to that of Martignae, and he was himself appointed ambassador at Rome.

Among the letters he wrote during his embassy, there is one very brief and touching, addressed to the little Greek Canaris, then educated in Paris by the Hellenic committee. The emancipation of the Christians of the East, whether Catholic or schismatic, was an object dear to Chateaubriand's heart, as well as to the royalists in general. The question was not embarrassed by those false views of freedom which make many who love it afraid to speak its praise lest they should seem to countenance its abuse. "My dear Canaris," he says, "I ought to have written to you long ago. Pardon me, for I am full of business. My advice to you is this: Love Madame Récamier. Never forget that you were born in Greece, and that my country has shed its blood for the freedom of yours. Above all, be a good Christian; that is, an honest man submitting to the will of God. Thus, my dear little friend, you will keep your name on the list of those famous Greeks of yore where your illustrious father has already inscribed it. I embrace you.—Chateaubriand." How delighted must the young Athenian have been to carry this note to the Abbaye-aux-Bois the next time he went to visit Madame Récamier, as he did on almost every holiday!

We have already spoken of Mathieu de Montmorency's singular death. Madame Récamier was one of the first to hear of it. She hastened to sit beside the corpse of her revered friend, and mingled her tears with those of his mother and widow. The {95} latter, who had always been attached to her, now became her intimate companion, and, when she came to Paris, stayed at the Abbaye expressly to be near her. Even Chateaubriand, who had been Montmorency's political rival, joined the train of mourners, and composed a prayer on the occasion for Madame Récamier's use. It is somewhat inflated, and breathes the language of a poet rather than of a Christian. It ends thus: "O miracle of goodness! I shall find again in thy bosom the virtuous friend I have lost! Through thee and in thee I shall love him anew, and my entire spirit will once more be united to that of my friend. Then our divine attachment will be shared through eternity." These expressions are overstrained; but they illustrate the character of Madame Récamier's affection for her male friends. Of these Chateaubriand became henceforward the chief, and his letters to her from Rome, together with his subsequent intercourse with her in Paris, form the most important part of her remaining history. Everything was summed up in him,—diplomacy, politics, literature: he was to her, and not to her only, their chief representative. His correspondence, as preserved by her niece, is sparkling and pointed, full of incident, and especially interesting to those who remember Rome during the last years of Leo XII. and the pontificate of Pius VIII. Three letters a week reached her while his embassy lasted, and he has inserted several of them in his "Mémoires," though not without dressing them up a little for posterity. Veneration and regard for her is their key-note. Mille tendres hommages, he writes. Que je suis heureux de vous aimer! But French politeness always sounds strange and fulsome when dissected in English. In May, 1829, he obtained leave to return to Paris for a time, and he was welcomed at the Abbaye by numerous admirers. There he read aloud his "Moise," in the presence of Cousin, Villemain, Lamartine, Mérimée, and a host of literati beside. There he expressed all his fears for the ancient dynasty under the guidance of Prince Polignac. He had no personal feeling for the minister, save that of friendship. But he could discern the signs of the times. He sought an audience of the king, to warn him of the reefs on which he was being steered; but he was no favorite with Charles X., and his request was refused. Yet he might, if his counsels had been listened to, have saved his master from exile and France from the revolution of July. The crown was in his idea above all things except the law. He would neither abandon the charter for the king, nor the king for the charter. The ordinances of July were subversive of the constitution, but the moment they were recalled he was on the monarch's side.

It was too late to stem the tide of insurrection. A ducal democrat was called to the throne. His partisans and those of the dethroned sovereign did not usually mix in society; but the salon in the Abbaye was an exception to every rule. There and at Dieppe, in the bathing season, the royalists Grenarde and Chateaubriand constantly met Ballanche, Ampère, Lacordaire, and Villemain, who welcomed the new regime. Madame Récamier, with admirable tact, kept them in social harmony, and her efforts in this direction were the more praiseworthy because she was not indifferent to their respective bias. She had always loved the old dynasty, both because of its hereditary rights and the glorious associations attached to it in history. She lamented the shortsightedness of the Polignac ministry; but she lamented still more the accession of Louis Philippe, which drove the greater part of her friends into the obscurity of private life.

In April, 1830, her husband died. He was then in his eightieth year, and during his last illness was removed to the Abbaye, that he might be surrounded by every sort of attention. In taste, character, and understanding he differed from Madame Récamier {96} as widely as possible. They had but one quality in common: each was good and kind. Notwithstanding the singularity of their tie, they lived together thirty-five years without any disagreement. M. Bernard and his old friend Simonard were also gone. Madame Lenormant was married, and though the family circle that used to dine at the Abbaye was no more, some faithful friends, such as Ballanche and Paul David, met daily at the widow's hospitable board. The former of these was especially disappointed by the fall of the elder Bourbon branch. He had hoped to see its alliance with that moral, political, and social progress which was the dream of his existence. Elective monarchy now seemed to hold out better prospects of his palingénésie sociale.

The attitude assumed by Chateaubriand at this period was such as to command general respect. He attempted, but in vain, to procure the recognition of Henry V., and to place his rights under the protection of the Duke of Orleans. Then, declining to take the oath of allegiance to Louis Philippe, he retired from the peerage, and gave up his pension. The friends, however, from whom he differed were delighted to perceive that his cordiality with them in private was in no degree lessened. But there was a circle within the circle that frequented the Abbaye, and it was in 1832 that the Duc de Noailles became enrolled among the select few. This was owing in part to the sympathy which existed between him and Chateaubriand, and the high estimate which the latter formed of his judgment. Neither was he so dazzled by the future of society as to forget or despise its past. Both found in the history of the kings of France the sources of all subsequent improvement. The Duc de Noailles did not come alone to the Abbaye. His regard for Madame Récamier was such that he brought with him every member of his family whom he thought most worthy of her acquaintance, and invited her in turn and her friends to grace with their presence the fair domain of Maintenon. Here, surrounded by souvenirs of Louis XIV., Chateaubriand took notes for a chapter in his "Memoirs," which was not inserted, but given in manuscript to Madame Récamier. It fills seventeen pages, and forms one of the most striking parts of the volume under review. The writer recalls the delicious gardens he has visited in Greece, Ithaca, Grenada, Rome, and the East, and compares them with the surroundings of the château of Maintenon. He touches on many salient points in the history of that remarkable lady who bought it in 1675, and whose corpse had, in his own day, been dragged round the sacred enclosure of St. Cyr with a halter round the neck. He then passes to the night spent in the château by Charles X., when the king, driven from the seat of government, dismissed his Swiss Guards, and placed himself almost in the condition of a prisoner. It was in Madame Récamier's drawing-room that the auto-biography for which this description was intended was first published, and that in the way so fashionable among the ancient Romans and still common in France—by the author's reading it aloud to an assembly of friends. Thus Statius read his "Thebais," [Footnote 16] thus Alfieri his tragedies, at Rome. The readings of the "Mémoires d'outre Tombe" spread over two years, and his fame extended so fast that it was difficult to find room for those who craved admittance. Publishers, also, were eager to purchase the manuscript, to be printed at the writer's death; and some royalist friends availed themselves of this circumstance to obtain for him a pension for life. The excitement attending the recitals relieved his ennui, and literary labor helped to pay his debts. The work itself, though intensely interesting to all who heard it and felt personally interested in the events it recorded, is too lengthy, detailed, peevish, {97} and egotistic to add much to Chateaubriand's fame. Any theme he handled was sure to call forth eloquence and genius; but himself was the very worst subject he could choose,—the worst, not, perhaps, for the entertainment of his readers, but for the reputation of the writer.

[Footnote 16: Juvenal, Sat. VII., 82-86.]

In October, 1836, Louis Napoleon made his attempt at Strasburg, and having been arrested, was brought to Paris for trial. His mother, the ex-queen Hortense, fearing lest her presence there might only add to his danger, paused at Viry, and allowed her devoted follower, Madame Salvage, to proceed. This lady, relying on Madame Récamier's fidelity to her friends, repaired immediately to the Abbaye, and, with a portfolio of treasonable correspondence, sought an asylum there. On the morrow, Madame Récamier visited the queen, or, to speak more correctly, the Duchess of St. Leu, at Viry, and found her in extreme distress. Her worst fears, indeed, were over. The prince's life was spared, but, before his trial was concluded, he was shipped off to New York. The prospect of thus losing him afflicted the duchess greatly, for she had a mortal malady, and knew that her time on earth could not be long. The next year, in fact, Louis Napoleon, informed of her dangerous illness, hastened to Europe to see her once more. In 1840 he again asserted, at Boulogne, his claim to the throne. He was tried by the chamber of peers, and Madame Récamier, though she had been obliged to appear and answer some questions before the juge d'instruction, was not deterred by this annoyance from asking permission to visit the prisoner. She saw him at the Conciergerie, not through attachment to his cause, but for his departed mother's sake. Two years after, when imprisoned in the fortress of Ham, he sent her his "Fragmens Historiques. " In writing to her, he said: "I have long wanted to thank you, madam, for the kind visit you paid me in the Conciergerie, and I am happy to have the opportunity now of expressing my gratitude. . . . . You are so accustomed to delight those who approach you, that you will not be surprised at the pleasure I have felt in receiving a proof of your sympathy, and in learning that you feel for my misfortunes." Enclosed in this letter was another for Chateaubriand, much longer, and highly creditable to the prince's talents and good taste. In it he declared his intention of beguiling his prison hours by writing a history of Charlemagne as soon as he should have collected the necessary materials. The prominent place which that prince held in his thoughts is strikingly brought before us in the preface to his "Julius Caesar." In 1848, when fortune smiled, and he arrived in Paris already elected deputy, one of his first visits was to the Abbaye-aux-Bois. It was just after the death of Chateaubriand, and Madame Récamier had not the pleasure of seeing him. In another year, she had entered into her rest, and he was far on the turbulent way to an imperial throne.

We must not forget to mention among her friends one with whom we may be excused for having more sympathy than with Napoleon III. This was Frederic Ozanam. He was born in 1813, and was still a student, and in his twentieth year, when first presented by Ampère to Madame Récamier. Chateaubriand was much struck by him, and he was present at several readings of the "Mémoires. " But he came to the Abbaye rarely, and when his friend Ampère asked him the reason, he replied: "It is an assembly of persons too illustrious for my obscurity. In seven years, when I become professor, I will avail myself of the kindness shown me." With rare modesty, the young man kept his word. In seven years, and no less, he took his place in the renowned circle. His talents were already appreciated, and though timid and all but awkward, his conversation often {98} broke through the restraints of habit, and swept along its shining course as if he were surrounded by his pupils in the lecture-room. Every year added to his celebrity. His character, his philosophy, his scholarship, were all Christian, and his professional life was devoted to one end. He vindicated the moral and literary attainments of the middle ages against modern detractors—against those who mean by the dark ages the ages about which they are in the dark. He traced in all his works the history of letters in barbarous times, and showed how, through successive periods of decadence and renaissance, the Church has ever been carrying forward the civilization of mankind. [Footnote 17] His publications have been edited by friends of whom he was worthy—Lacordaire and Ampère; and who would come to lay a votive wreath on Madame Récamier's tomb, without having one also for the grave of Ozanam?

[Footnote 17: "La Civilisation au Ve Siècle," etc.]

The winter of 1840-41 was a disastrous one for Lyons and its neighborhood. The swollen waters of the Rhone and Saone rising, overflowed their banks, and ravaged the surrounding country with resistless violence. The government was not slow to relieve the sufferers, and public as well as private charity poured in from every quarter. Madame Récamier felt deeply for her native city, and resolved on making an extraordinary to aid it in its distress. She organized a soirée to which persons were to be admitted by tickets. These were sold at twenty francs each, but were generally paid tor at a higher rate. Lady Byron gave a hundred for hers. Rachel recited Esther; Garcia, Rubini, and Lablache sang; the Marquis de Vérac placed his carriages at their disposal; and the Duc de Noailles supplied refreshments, footmen, and his maître d'hôtel. The Russians residing in Paris were especially active in disposing of tickets; Chateaubriand from eight o'clock to the end of the soirée did the honors of the saloon by which the company entered. Reschid-Pacha sat on the steps of the musician's platform, half buried beneath waves of silk and flowers. The rooms were adorned with exquisite objects of art, and 4,390 francs were received and transmitted to the mayor of Lyons. Sixty poor families were selected by the curés to receive this bounty; Madame Récamier having requested that it might not be broken up into petty sums. In the midst of the glittering throng that assembled in the old Abbaye that evening, it is said that she eclipsed them all in beauty and grace. This may appear fabulous to many, for she was then in her sixty-third year; yet her niece would hardly assert it if it had not been the general opinion.

In 1842, Madame Récamier had the satisfaction of seeing Ballanche take his place in the French Academy. His friends, indeed, were more elated on the occasion than the philosopher himself. Literary honors were little in his eyes compared with the exertion of a moral and philosophic influence. His passion for machinery had nearly ruined him; and his generosity was always beyond his narrow means. Like Socrates in the basket, he lived above the earth, and the trivial concerns of daily life dried up the sap of his sublime speculations. [Footnote 18] Chateaubriand used to call him the hierophant; for he had a small sect of followers whom he initiated in his mysticism.

[Footnote 18: Aristophanes. "The Clouds." ]

A cloud was gathering over his existence, and over the gladness of all who frequented the Abbaye. Since the year 1839, Madame Récamier's health had been growing feebler, and a cataract was perceived slowly forming on her eyes. She bore the affliction with her usual calm, and the fear of becoming less able to amuse Chateaubriand was her chief distress. When her blindness became confirmed, her eyes were still brilliant; and her ear being {99} fine, she knew all who approached her by their voice. The valet took care to set everything in her apartment in its fixed place, so that she could move about without stumbling. In this way she often dissembled her loss of sight, and many who visited her came away with the impression that she saw pretty well. Long intercourse with Chateaubriand had made her habits as methodical as his. He still came to her daily at half-past two. They took tea together, and talked for an hour. Then the door opened to visitors, and the good Ballanche was always the first. This would have been mere dissipation, but for the more serious occupations of the morning. She rose early, had the papers read to her rapidly, then the choicest of new works, and afterward some standard author. Modern literature had always been her delight; and it cheered her even in her darkness. When she drove out, it was generally with some charitable purpose; for the time was passed for paying other visits. Never, since Montmorency had recommended it, did she forget to read or hear read, daily some work of piety; and as age advanced and sorrow weighed more heavily, she derived from the practice increasing solace and strength.

Now came what Ballanche called "the dispersion," from which afterward he dated his letters. Prince Augustus of Prussia died in 1845, and charged Humboldt to execute his last commands with regard to her whom he had never ceased to respect and love. Her portrait, by Gerard, which she had given him, and her letters, were returned when he could no longer treasure them. His death affected her deeply; for other flowers also were fading from life's garden, and the winter of age was freezing everything but her affections. From Maintenon she passed into Normandy with her niece and Ampère, who had just returned from Egypt, weary and sick with travel. Wherever she went, the blind beauty of the first empire wanted no one claim to respectful and devoted attention. By the use of belladonna, she sometimes dilated the pupil, and acquired for a few hours the sense of sight. In this way she saw and admired Ary Scheffer's beautiful picture of St. Augustine, which he brought from the exhibition to the Abbaye-aux-Bois, on purpose that Chateaubriand and herself might inspect it. But such brief enjoyment only made returning darkness more gloomy; and an operation offered the best prospect of permanent relief. Meanwhile, Chateaubriand having broken his collar-bone in stepping from his carriage, a delay occurred. Madame Récamier would not deprive herself of the pleasure of diverting him during his confinement to the house. Her friends often assembled under his roof; and when he visited the Abbaye again, he was always carried into the roam by two domestics. Indeed, he never walked any more. Nor in her case did the operation for cataract succeed, for the patient did not enjoy that composure which was indispensable for a cure. Ballanche had been seized with pleurisy, and was dangerously ill. The blind lady to whom he had so long been devoted, breaking through all her surgeon's instructions, and braving the light she should have shunned, crossed the street which separated her from the dying man, and sat by his pillow to the last.

One who has often looked on death declares that she never saw it present so grand a spectacle as in Ballanche. All his philosophy was heightened into faith; all his poetry was wrapt into devotion. Serenely trusting in the divine goodness, he realized intensely the mysteries of the unseen world; and, with the holy viaticum on his lips, quitted his earthly tabernacle with joy, whilst she who watched at his side lost all hope of sight in her streaming tears. Ballanche's mortal remains lie in the vault of the Récamier family; and his life has been written by Ampère. He and Madame Récamier {100} together selected the choicest passages from his works; and beneath the shade of beech-trees, amid the calm of nature, her niece's daughters read aloud to her Ballanche's long-treasured letters. She would scarcely have survived her grief had not Chateaubriand's infirmities still given a scope to her existence. Madame de Chateaubriand died in the winter of 1846-7. She abounded in charitable works, and the poor loved her name. The desolate widower proposed that Madame Récamier should take her place. He pressed his suit, but she persisted in her refusal. She thought the little variety caused by his daily visits to her essential for his comfort; and that if she were always with him, he would be less consoled. "What end," she asked, "could marriage answer? At our age there is no service I may not reasonably render you. The world allows the purity of our attachment; let it remain unaltered. If we were younger, I would not hesitate a moment to become your wife, and so consecrate my life to you."

A second operation was performed, with no better result than before. The hope of being enabled to serve Chateaubriand more effectually alone induced her to submit to it. His end was fast approaching, and society itself seemed about to be dissolved. Without were contests; within were fears. The revolution of February, 1848, undid the revolution of July, 1830. The streets of the capital flowed with blood, and the roar of cannon in the insurrection of June shook the chamber of the expiring poet, and brought tears to his eyes. He heard with keen interest of the death of Monseigneur Affre, the good shepherd who gave his life for his sheep. The intrepid courage of that glorious martyr lent fresh nerve to his jaded spirit; and though his brilliant intellect had for some time past lost its lustre, his thoughts were perfectly collected to the last. He was heard to mutter to himself the words he had written in 1814: "No; I will never believe that I write on the tomb of France." The chill waters of the river of death could not extinguish the patriotism that burned in his breast. The Abbé Guerry, his confessor and friend, stood near him with the consolations of religion; his nephew, Louis de Chateaubriand, and the superioress of the convent of Marie-Therése, which he and his wife had founded. After receiving the blessed sacrament, he never spoke again; but his eyes followed Madame Récamier with an expression of anguish whenever she left the room. This was her crowning sorrow, that she could not see the sufferer she sought to relieve. When the worst was over, the calm of despair spread over her face, and a deathly paleness, which nothing could remove. She gratefully assented to everything which was proposed for her comfort; but her sad smile proved how vain was the effort to restore her to gladness. Those affectionate beings alone who live on friendship can comprehend the extent of her desolation.

Chateaubriand's obsequies were performed in the church of the Missions étrangères, where a large concourse assembled, notwithstanding the city and the state were still in the agony of a social crisis. But his ashes were transferred to his own Brittany, where a solitary rock in the bay had long before been granted him by the municipality of St. Malo, as a place of burial. More than 50,000 persons were present at this strange and solemn interment. They seemed to represent France mourning his loss. The sea was covered with boats; the roofs of the houses, and the shores beneath, were crowded with spectators; banners floated from rock and tower; while mournful canticles and booming cannon broke the stillness of the air. The coffin was laid in a recess of the steep cliff, and surmounted by a granite cross. Ampère was deputed by the French Academy to pronounce his eulogy on the occasion; and he concluded his report to that body in these {101} words: "It would seem that the genius of the incomparable painter had been stamped on this last magnificent spectacle; and that to him alone among men it had been given to add, even after death, a splendid page to the immortal poem of his life."

On Easter day in the following year Madame Récamier was persuaded to remove from the Abbaye-aux-Bois to the National Library, where her niece and nephew resided. The cholera had broken out in the neighborhood of the Abbaye; and though she did not fear death, she had a peculiar horror of that dreadful pestilence. But her flight was vain; the scourge pursued her, and fell with sadden violence on her enfeebled frame. The day before, Ampère and Madame Salvage had dined with her, and on the morning of her seizure her niece's daughter Juliette had been reading to her the memoirs of Madame de Motteville. During twelve hours she suffered extreme torture, but spoke with her confessor, and received the sacrament of extreme unction. Continual vomiting prevented the administration of the eucharist. Ampère, Paul David, the Abbé de Cazalès, her relations and servants, knelt around her bed to join in the prayers for the dying. Sobs and tears choked their voices, and "Adieu, adieu, we shall meet again; we shall see each other again," were the only words her agony allowed her to utter.

Madame Récamier breathed her last on the 11th of May, 1849. The terrible epidemic, which generally leaves hideous traces behind, spared her lifeless frame, and left it like a beautiful piece of sculptured marble. Achille Devéria took a drawing of her as she lay in her cold sleep, and his faithful sketch expresses at the same time suffering and repose.

Such was the end of her who, without the prestige of authorship, was regarded by her contemporaries as one of the most remarkable women of her time. We will not indulge in any exaggerated statement of her piety. Great numbers, no doubt, have attained to more interior perfection. Her ambition to please was undoubtedly a weakness. Religion did not make her what she was; yet she would never have been what she was without it. It was the ballast which steadied her when carrying crowded sail. It was the polar star that directed her course amid conflicting currents and adverse storms. It raised her standard of morality above that of many of her associates. It taught her how to be devout without dissimulation, a patroness of letters without pedantry, a patriot and a royalist without national disdain or political animosity. It made her charitable to the poor, kind to the aged and sorrowful, gracious and unassuming with all, at the very time that the proudest of emperors invited her presence at his court, and his brother Lucien made her the idol of his verse. Its golden thread guided her aright through the intricate mazes of social life—through a matrimonial position equally strange and unreal—an engagement to a royal prince who was the foe of France—through friendships with Bernadotte and Murat on their thrones, with the queens of Holland and of Naples when fallen, and with the third Napoleon when plotting to regain the sceptre of the first. It so lifted her above intrigue and cabals that she could give her right hand to the disaffected General Moreau and her left to the devoted Junot—could be made the confidante of all parties without betraying the secrets of any. It inclined her to be chary of giving advice, but to make it, when asked for, tell always on the side of virtue. It enabled her to exhort the sceptical with effect, and dispose the philosophic to accept the faith. [Footnote 19]

[Footnote 19: See her letters to Ampère in the Correspondant, 1864.]

Her autobiography has unfortunately been destroyed by her own direction, because blindness would not allow her to revise it and cancel its {102} defects. But many fragments of it have been preserved, and a thousand personal recollections, collected from those who knew her, have been wrought by her niece and other biographers into a lasting monument.

From The Fortnightly Review



I was gathering together some examples of the strange opinions held by the Chinese as to "outer nations," when I fell upon a curious official document, presented to the emperor by a great mandarin, who occupies a very prominent place in the modern history of China, Keshen, once viceroy of the two Kwang. His name brought immediately to my recollection, by a very natural association, that of my old acquaintance, Father Huc, whose contributions to our knowledge of China, Tartary, and Tibet are among the most original authentic, and instructive that we possess.

It is a matter much to be regretted that only a small part of Father Huc's personal adventures has ever been communicated to the public. I first met with him on one of the Chusan islands, dressed as a Chinaman, and living in every particular as the natives live—his food was rice—his drink was only tea. He was recognized as the director and instructor of no less than five Catholic communities. I had heard of the existence of professors of the Tien-choo (heavenly master) religion, and, going some way into the interior, found the Lazzarist doctor instructing the people. He had an extraordinary mastery of the colloquial Chinese; spoke and wrote Manchoo, and was not unacquainted with the Mongolian tongue. I enjoyed his company as a fellow traveller, having given him a passage in a vessel which was at my disposal, and I fell in with him in five different and distant parts of China. I have no doubt of the general veracity of his narrative, of his sincere love of truth—perhaps not wholly separated from a certain credulity and fondness for the marvellous, with which, I have observed, oriental travellers are not unfrequently imbued. It would be interesting to learn how Father Huc got to Peking, lived for many years in the city and its neighborhood, no one knowing or supposing him to be a foreigner—what were the arrangements by which, departing on his mission to Manchuria, he managed to escape from the scrutinizing eye of the police, at a period, too, when the determination to repel the intrusion of "barbarian strangers" was at its height. Of his interviews with Keshen, after the discovery of the objects of his journey, and the determination of the mandarin envoy to drive him out of the country, he gives many interesting particulars in his "Souvenirs," but he does not mention that Keshen, who had been stripped at Peking of some millions sterling, the gatherings of profits and peculations in the high offices he had filled, and who managed to amass a considerable sum of money in Tibet, confided his sayings in that country to the keeping of the Lazzarist missionary; and at the very time when the decree was issued for his banishment, Keshen obtained from him a promise that he would, when he passed into the {103} territory of China, deliver over "the silver" to the parties whom Keshen designated. Huc was a delightful companion; he had no asperity; on the contrary, he was full of jokes and merriment. Courageous, too, when in the presence of danger, his ready wit furnished him with every appliance necessary to his safety and protection. His familiarity with Chinese character was remarkable; he knew when and where and how to domineer and command, where it was safe to assume authority. In China, one of the common instruments of government is to send from the court secret spies, whose persons are unknown, and the object of whose mission is to report confidentially to the emperor on the shortcomings or misdoings of the great mandarins. It was often Huc's fortune to be thought one of these mysterious but redoubtable visitants, and he turned the suspicion to excellent account. The fact of his speaking Manchoo, and being well acquainted with Tartar forms and usages, very naturally strengthened the conclusion that it was most desirable to obtain his patronage and favorable opinion in the confidential communications to be made to the Tartar dynasty. No doubt many a functionary has trembled, self-condemned, in the presence of the missionary, and has courted his indulgent judgment by those attentions which are supposed to conciliate. Bribes, large and attractive, representing the estimated value of the service to be rendered, are constantly offered and frequently received by the traveller who is believed to have the ear of the supreme authority. I have heard that from twenty to thirty thousand pounds sterling are sometimes collected in a district circuit, the collection being made at the risk of either the bribed or the briber, or of both, each being necessarily at the mercy of the other in case of betrayal. But, at the same time, Father Huc possessed all the arts of prostration and deference when the circumstances of the case required them. There was, however, less of assumption in his lowliness than in his loftiness; his was never "a pride that aped humility." The acting was when he played the part of a ruler. He was altogether a natural man—unobtrusive, but fluent in the presence of those interested—and who could fail to be interested in his strange adventures? He never recovered the free use of his limbs after he returned to Europe; and died in France, leaving much undone—the doing of which would have been most useful to his race.

One of the great grievances of which the Chinese complained, in the time of the East India Company monopoly, and down to the Pottinger war, was the "oozing out" of the silver in China for the payment of a poisonous drug to the "outer barbarians." It was, however, then the fact, as it is the fact now, that the poppy is widely cultivated, and opium largely manufactured, by the Chinese themselves in several of the provinces of the empire. It used to be the belief in China that there alone was the pure metal produced, and that the coins brought from afar would in process of time be converted, by natural process, into base metal, or something worse. I recollect a person being charged with stealing his master's money; he did not deny having had the custody of the dollars, but swore they had been eaten by white ants. Keshen was directed to give his opinion to the emperor as to the quality of the silver brought to China by foreigners, and these are his words:

"The foreign money brought from these outer nations is all boiled and reduced by quicksilver. If you wrap it up and lay it aside for several years without touching it, it will be turned into moths and corroding insects, and the silver cups made from it by these strangers will change into feathers."

After stating that the coins show their impurity when submitted to the crucible, he adds:

"Yet we find that in Kiangnan and by the course of the river Hwac, and {104} all along the rivers to the south, foreign dollars are used in trade and circulated most abundantly; we even find them of more value than Sycee silver; this is really what I cannot understand!" Truly it passeth all understanding if the premises of the mandarin be correct. Some one suggests that Keshen had read in our sacred book of our treasures "that moth and rust do corrupt" (Matt. vi. 19), and of the "riches" which "make to themselves wings and fly away" (Prov. xxiii. 5).

As was said of old time, "An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth," so the Chinese still recognize the principle that the penalty to be paid for crime need not be visited on the criminal himself, but that the substitution of an innocent for a guilty person to bear the award of the law may satisfy all the demands of justice. In the embarrassments of the imperial treasury during the last war, proclamations of the emperor frequently appeared in the Peking Gazette, authorizing the commutation of the judicial sentences which inflicted personal punishment by the payment of sums of money, to be estimated according to the gravity of the offence, and the rank or opulence of the offender. Men are to be found as candidates for the scaffold when a large remuneration is offered for the sacrifice of life—to such a sacrifice posthumous honor is frequently attached—a family is rescued from poverty, and enters on the possession of comparative wealth. The ordinary price paid for a man's life is a hundred ounces of pure silver, of the value of about £33 sterling. In the Buddhist code such an act of devotion and self-sacrifice ranks very high in the scale of merits, and would ensure a splendid recompense in the awards of the tribunal which is, after death, to strike the balance of good and evil, when every individual's mortal history is to be the subject of review.

Some illustrations may not be unwelcome. In the history of the intercourse of the East India Company with the Chinese, it will be found that the authorities were never satisfied with the averment that the individual charged with offences could not be found; they always insisted that some English subject could be found and delivered over to the penalties of the law. They invariably took high ground; asserted that the laws of China must be respected in China, and that those laws provided a certain and always applicable punishment by which the demands of justice might and ought to be satisfied. They turned a deaf ear to the representation that, according to European law, the individual who had committed a crime was the only proper person to be punished for that crime, and considered it a sort of "barbarian" notion that any crime should be passed over without being followed by the appropriate penalty visiting somebody or other. The theory fills the whole field of penal legislation. Households, villages, and even districts are made responsible for offences committed within their boundaries; and it is not unusual for high functionaries to be called upon to suffer for misdeeds not their own, which no vigilance could prevent and no sacrifices repair. There ought, say the sages, to be no wrong without a remedy, no sin without consequent suffering; and it is better that an innocent man should now and then be sacrificed than that guilt should not necessarily and inevitably be followed by penal consequences.

There is every reason to believe that on one occasion, to prevent the stoppage of trade, which was the menaced consequence of non-obedience, an innocent man was delivered over to the authorities (but not by the British), and executed at Canton. During the administration of Sir John Davis, six Englishmen were brutally murdered at Kwan Chuh Kei, a small village on the Pearl river. The English government insisted on the punishment of the murderers, and six men were publicly beheaded. It is quite certain they had nothing to do with {105} the crime; they were brought gagged to the place of execution, and English gentlemen, under the instructions of the consul, witnessed the decapitation; but everybody was satisfied that the criminals were allowed to escape, and that guiltless men were beheaded in their stead; and Lord Palmerston most properly directed that no British authority should be present at such executions, lest their presence might be deemed to imply approbation of the administration of justice in China.

It once occurred to me to have to make representations to the governor of Kiangsoo in consequence of some Chinese troops having fired upon the British settlement of Shanghai. No injury was done, but the act was of a character which might have led to serious consequences. An interview was asked, and, accompanied by the British admiral, I went to the tent of the great mandarin. On being introduced, we found six soldiers kneeling by his side. Close at hand was an executioner, and we saw as we passed the huge heavy swords which are employed by him in his wonted work. "It was quite right to complain," said the mandarin; "it was quite fit those who had committed the outrage should be visited with the punishment. Inquiries had been made, and it was very likely the men present were guilty; at all events, they had been in the neighborhood. Utter the word, and their heads shall fall at your feet." We informed his excellency that such abrupt and sudden action did not accord with our notions of justice, and we requested that the men might be relieved of their terrors and released on the spot This was done, and the governor, who was also the military commander-in-chief, merely told the trembling soldiers that they owed their lives to our clemency—a clemency they little anticipated from "outside barbarians."

Baron Gros informed me that when the French embassy was going up the Peiho—which, by the way, is not the real name of the river, and only means a river in the north, by which the Tientsing stream is usually designated in the south—an outrage was committed on a French sailor by a Chinaman, who was arrested and condemned to death. A deputation waited on the ambassador from the offender's native village, bringing with them an old man whom they wished to be hanged instead of him who had committed the offence. They represented that the condemned man was young, that his mother was dependent upon his labor, and would have no means of support if deprived of her son; that it would be very hard if she were made the victim. And, moreover, it could make no difference to his excellency (the minister) whether the old man or the young were executed. The death of either would show that punishment would assuredly follow injuries done to the subjects of "the great man's nation." They were informed that European usages demanded that the criminal should suffer for the crime. They returned next day to offer "a better bargain" to the ambassador. They brought down two men to suffer in expiation of the offence of one. Surely two Chinamen might be accepted for the wrong committed upon the stranger. The mission, of course, failed; the delegates departed sorely disappointed, and greatly wondering at the strange notions which the "red-haired outer men" had of what is right and what is wrong.

There is a Chinese aphorism, Puh tá, puh chaou ("No blows, no truth"), whose universal recognition will best illustrate the general character of the administration of justice. Torture is not employed on criminals alone in order to elicit confession, but constantly to witnesses when their evidence does not suit the foregone conclusions of the judge, who, in very many cases, is bribed beforehand, and desirous that the statements made should be such as to warrant his predetermined verdict. Truth is a virtue little appreciated among Orientals, and especially among the Chinese. They are afraid {106} of truth. It gives the authorities accurate information as to their whereabouts which may involve them in difficulties. They do not know what may have happened in a particular locality, and therefore prefer saying where they were not than where they were, in order to avoid compromising themselves by putting the runners upon a true scent. Then again, habits of mendacity and a constant disregard of truth lead to inaccuracy of observation. I remember a case in which three sets of witnesses gave three separate versions as to the time of the day on which an important event had occurred—that it was in bright daylight; that it was in utter darkness; that it was neither light nor dark; and in that case I had reason to believe there was no intended perjury. Against perjury there is really no protection but in the dread of punishment. We tried in Hong Kong different usages which were expected to give some security for obtaining the "truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." Cocks' heads were cut off by or in the presence of the witnesses, and they pronounced denunciations and consented to have their blood shed if there was falsehood in their testimony. Sometimes an earthenware plate was broken, and the parties offered themselves to be shattered and broken to bits as was the plate if they did not tell the truth. Others favored the writing of an aphorism of the sages on a piece of paper, burning it at a lamp, and requiring the witness to swear that as he hoped not to be burned and tormented he would say all that was true. But every experiment failed. Oaths, however enforced, with whatever forms invested, were discovered to be utterly worthless; and it was wisely decided that the penalties of perjury should attach equally to the sworn and the unsworn man. It occurred to me to consult a person of some eminence as to the possibility of administering any form of an oath which would be held binding. He said that there was one temple within the city which was held sacred to truth, and that promises made and contracts entered into within that particular sanctuary were deemed better guaranteed than any other. But he said the place was inaccessible to Europeans; and he thought that nothing but the dread of punishment for falsehood gave any security, and even that security was most insufficient, for the elucidation of truth.

A case, which it was my duty to investigate, connected with the smuggling of British property, came before the chief judge at Canton. I had come to a conclusion as to the guilt of certain parties, which conclusion was different from that formed by the Chinese official. One day several Chinamen were brought to me in a dreadfully mutilated state—their faces and arms covered with wounds and bruises inflicted by heavy blows of the bamboo. It appeared their evidence confirmed the opinion I had formed, and was altogether opposed to the theory of the mandarin, and they were bastinadoed until they declared that all they had said was false, and their testimony was made to accord with the views of the magistrate. Sentence was delayed; new and irresistible evidence was brought forward—meanwhile, perhaps, the mandarin had been bribed; but certain it is the witnesses were again summoned before him. They were informed they must be punished for the lies they had told while under torture; and I heard, but I did not see the men a second time, that they were again beaten until they declared that their first and not their last story was the true one; the mandarin reporting that his early impressions had been removed on further investigation. [Footnote 20]

[Footnote 20: The Emperor Paul, of Russia, once published a decree requiring that every one who passed in front of his palace should wear short breaches and silk stockings, under penalty of a flogging. In the cold weather people took care to avoid the neighborhood of the palace, and went to their business by various circumambulations. Being annoyed at the absence of the multitude, whom he was fond of looking at from the palace windows, he published a second edict, in which he ordered that any person wearing the before-enforced costume should receive the same sort of castigation. It was said that an unfortunate foreigner, who did not understand Russian—and had he understood it, might not have escaped the penalty—was flogged on two following days for disobeying the imperial mandate—for not wearing, and for wearing, the obligatory and the interdicted costumes.]


I was once engaged in correspondence with the Taeping chiefs, while they were in possession of Nanking. The fact that they had printed and circulated a portion of the Old Testament in Chinese created a wonderful interest in the religious world, while the belief that they were banded together for the patriotic purpose of replacing an intrusive and oppressive dynasty by a national and liberal government, led to much sympathy even beyond the field of missionary action. I sent a ship of war to Nanking in order to ascertain, by direct intercourse with its traders, the exact character of the insurrection. They put forward the most monstrous pretensions. One of the kings called himself "The Holy Ghost, the Comforter"—the third person of the Trinity; and demanded our recognition of his authority, advising us that we knew his coming had been foretold in our own Scriptures. Another claimed to be the "Uterine, younger brother of Jesus Christ;" and gave an account of mutual invitations which had passed between them; of the visits of the king to paradise, where his "heavenly brother" had introduced him to his wives and family; and he reported specially a personal intervention of Jesus, who came down to earth in order to settle the number of stripes which were to be given to a woman of the harem who had offended her master. Our people on landing were called "ko-ko" (brothers) by the insurgents, who inquired whether we had brought them tribute, and were willing to recognize the universal authority of the celestial king. It was only on this condition that they would allow us to obtain the coal we desired to purchase for the use of the steamer—a condition of course not complied with; so that the evidence of brotherhood was not of a very complete or satisfactory character.

In a very elaborate communication which I received from the Taeping sovereigns, they desired a personal description of "God the Father," that they might compare our notions of the Deity with their own—the color of his hair, the size of his abdomen; and inquired particularly whether we had any poetry—as they had—written with his own hand. That there was, and is, in this extraordinary movement an element of well-warranted discontent and resistance to the exactions, extortions, and corruptions of the Manchoo authorities cannot be doubted; but, strange to say, not a single man of mark, not one literary graduate, not an individual either known to or possessing the confidence of the higher or the middle classes, ever joined the rebellion. Lamentable as is the general ignorance of the Chinese as to remote nations, the ignorance exhibited by the Taepings was the grossest of all. It will be no wonder that "the rebels," most of whom came from the interior of China, and had never had any communication with western nations, should display such a want of knowledge, when even books of authority give such confirmation as will be found in a popular geography, written by a man who had visited the Dutch archipelago, and on his return gave to his countrymen the results of his observation and experience: [Footnote 21]

[Footnote 21: Dr. Medhurst published a translation of this work of Wang Tac Lai, Shanghai, 1849.]

"European countries are originally on the outside verge of civilization, and their being now assimilated to the villages of our inner land is entirely owing to the virtuous influences of our august government, which transforms these distant and unknown regions by the innate force of its own majesty."

European nations are thus described:

"The Dutch share the sovereignty of Europe with the English, or 'red-haired nation,' and the French.

"The English nation is poor but powerful; and being situated at a most {108} important point, frequently attacks the others.

"The Hollanders are like the man who stopped his ears while stealing a bell. Measuring them by the rules of reason, they scarcely possess one of the five cardinal virtues (which, according to the Chinese, are benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and truth). The great oppress the small, being overbearing and covetous. Thus they have no benevolence. Husbands and wives separate with permission to marry again; and before a man is dead a month his widow is permitted to go to another. Thus they have no rectitude. They are extravagant and self-indulgent in the extreme, and so bring themselves to the grave without speculating on having something to tranquillize and aid their posterity. Thus they have no wisdom. Of the single quality of sincerity, however, they possess a little.

"The dispositions of the French are violent and boisterous. Their country is poor and contains but few merchants; hence they seldom come to Batavia. Whenever the Dutch are insulted by the English, they depend upon the French for assistance. The kingdom of France is large and the population numerous, so that the English are somewhat afraid of them.

"The dependent countries of Europe are intermixed and connected without end. Some of the places can be visited by ships when they become a little known; and some are held in subjection by the Dutch, and governed by them. The rest live in hollow trees and caves of the earth, not knowing the use of fire, and wander about naked or in strange and uncouth attire. They cannot all be fully known, nor are there any means of inquiring about them. We have heard of such names as Tingli (English), Po-ge (Pegu?) Wotsie (Bussorah?), China (which is not supposed to mean the celestial empire); but have no opportunity of knowing anything of their manners and customs."

He says of Mekka (Mohia) that "its walls are extremely high, and the whole ground splendid with silver and gold and beautiful gems, guarded by a hundred genii, so that the treasures, cannot be taken away. The true cultivators of virtue may ascend to Mekka and worship the real Buddha, when, after several years of fasting, they return and receive the title of Laou Keun—doctor; they can then bring down spirits, subdue monsters, drive away noxious influences, and defeat demons."

He mentions a sea-dog on the loadstone sea (tze-she-yang), where there are so many magnets, that if a vessel with iron nails gets into the neighborhood it is inevitably absorbed. Hence, those who navigate it employ only bamboo pegs. He reports the existence of a sea-horse (hai ma) at Malacca, which comes out of the ocean in pursuit of a mare. The horse has a fine black skin, a very long tail, and can travel hundreds of miles a day; but when on shore, if he be allowed only to see a river, off he goes to his native element; nothing can control him. He describes a sea-mare attached to the rocks at the bottom of the sea by a stalk from her navel many hundred yards long. "When discovered," he, says, and this is no doubt true, "male and female appear together, so that they are never solitary. The Dutch pay the fishermen liberally for catching a sea-mare, but she never lives after separation from her root. When caught, the Dutch, who are 'envious people,' put them into spirits, and preserve them." "I never saw," he says, "the flying head, but have heard of it, and that it abounds in Amboyna, and resembles a native woman. Its eye has no pupil, and it can see in the dark. It flies about; nothing but the head enters houses and eats human entrails; but if it meet anything sour it cannot open its eyes. Drops from a piece of linen sprinkled upon it will be security against its mischief." He says there "is an animal somewhat like a man, {109} but with a mouth from ear to ear. Its loud laughs indicate a storm its name is the hai-ki-shang, or sea priest; its appearance prognosticates evil."

He speaks of a race of men called wei tan, "dwelling among the hills, with ugly faces and tattooed bodies, who have tails five or six inches long, at the end of which are several bristles, about an inch or two in length. These savages frequently engage themselves as sailors, and come to Batavia, but as soon as they are discovered, run away and conceal themselves, and if examination be insisted on, they change countenance and violently resist." He gives a description of sundry European instruments; calls the telescope "a cunning invention of supernatural agents." He recommends his countrymen not to believe that the "large eggs" (no doubt ostriches) sometimes brought to China are "mares' eggs," which he is sure they are not. He thinks there may be fishes large enough to swallow ships, as he himself saw a mortar capable of holding five pecks, which he was told was the vertebral bone of a fish.

Of Manilla he gives a tolerably sensible account, having, as he says himself, traded there. He adds: "Since the withdrawal of the English there has been general tranquillity, peace, and joy in the regions beyond sea. He humbly conceives this is due to the instruction diffused by the sacred government of China, which overawes insulated foreigners, soaking into their flesh, and moistening their marrow, so that even the most distant submit themselves."

It is not an unusual practice for opulent Chinamen from the interior to visit their friends at the ports opened to trade, and to seek introductions to "the merchant outer people" who buy their silks, teas, and rhubarb, and pay them dollars or opium in exchange. As Chinese habits, Chinese costumes, and Chinese opinions are all moulded to the same type—as all read the same language, study the same books, and have done so for a hundred generations—the contrast between European and Chinese life is startling. That a guest or visitor should be placed on the right hand, shows that one of the first requirements of courtesy is unknown or disregarded; that a lady with large feet should by possibility be of "gentle birth," no Chinese woman of quality dares to believe; that the magnetic needle should point to the north, instead of the south, shows a strange unacquaintance with elementary science; but, above all, that civilized and adjacent nations should have written languages so imperfect that they cannot read the letters on the books of their neighbors, is wholly unintelligible to a Chinese literate. I remember showing a picture of the Crystal Palace to a mandarin from the interior. He at first denied that such a building could ever have been erected; he was sure it was only a picture—a fancy; he had never seen anything like it at Peking. Was it possible there should be an emperor out of China with so beautiful a palace as this? He was told this was the palace built by and for the people. This was quite sufficient to convince him that we were practising upon his credulity; and though Chinese courtesy would not allow him to call us liars, it was very clear he had come to the conclusion that we were nothing better.

They have manufacturers of false noses in China, but none of false teeth. There are practitioners who profess to cure the tooth-ache instantaneously, and people worthy of credit have assured me they succeed in doing so. The works of European dentists are among the most admired examples of the skill of foreigners. A mandarin who was anxious to learn something about the making of teeth, once produced to me a box fall of artificial noses of various sizes and colors, with which he supplied the defects of his own; he said he used one sort of nose before and another after his meals, {110} and insisted that Chinese ingenuity was greater than our own. What, in process of time, will be the action of western civilization on the furthest eastern regions—whether, and in what shape, we shall make returns for the instruction our forefathers received from thence—is a curious and interesting inquiry—more interesting from the vast extent of the regions before us. The fire-engine is almost the only foreign mechanical power which has been popularized in China. There is scarcely a watch or clock maker in the whole empire, though opulent men generally carry two watches. The rude Chinese agricultural and manufacturing instruments have been nowhere supplanted by European improvements. No steamship has been built by the Chinese; the only one I ever saw would not move after it was launched; it was said a Chinaman, who had only served on an English steamer as stoker, was required by the authorities to construct the vessel. There is neither gold nor silver coinage; the only currency being a base metal, chien, whose value is the fifth of a farthing. The looms with which their beautiful silk stuffs are woven are of the most primitive character. Yet they have arts to us wholly unknown. They give to copper the hardness and the sharpness of steel; we cannot imitate some of their brightest colors. They have lately sent us the only natural green which is permanent, which has been known to them, as printing, wood engraving, the use of the compass, artillery practice, and other great inventions, from immemorial time. Paper was made from rags long anterior to the Christian era, and promissory notes were used at a still earlier period. The Chinese may be proud of a language and a literature which has existed for thirty centuries, while in Europe there is no literary language now written or spoken which would have been intelligible seven hundred years ago. If, then, this singular people—more than a third of the whole human race—look down with some contempt on the "outside races," let them not be too harshly judged, or too precipitately condemned.

From The Month.



In one of my summer rambles through the north of France, I came across a little seaside village which possessed so many charms that it was the greatest difficulty in the world to tear myself away from it.

It was indeed a lovely spot. The village, situated on a noble cliff, was enclosed almost in a semicircle of richly wooded hills, which stretched, as far as the eye could see, into the very heart of noble Normandy.

At your feet the glorious sea came dashing in to a shore over which great masses of bold rock were liberally scattered, and round which the waves used to play in the summertime, however little obstacle was afforded to their fury when fierce winds blew up a storm in the cruel winter-time.

But perhaps the most attractive feature of the place to me was a splendid river, within a mile's walk of the village, which was plentifully supplied with fish, and afforded me many and {111} many day's amusement, and not a little excellent sport.

My time was pretty well my own, and I had made up my mind for a tolerably long spell of idle enjoyment; so, under these circumstances, it may not appear strange that I resolved to take up my quarters at——.

The inhabitants of the place were mostly poor fishermen, who used to ply their trade nearly the whole of the week, and by great good luck frequently got back to their wives and families toward its close.

A very pretty cottage, with a bay-window commanding a splendid view of the sea, took my fancy immensely, and though it was rather a humble sort of place, I determined if possible to make an impression on its possessors, in order to secure two rooms for my use during my stay. Alphonsine was certainly not the most sweet-tempered woman I have ever met, in fact rather the contrary; at the same time I fully persuaded myself that a great many disagreeables would be counteracted by the possession of my much-coveted bay-window.

Alphonsine evidently ruled the establishment with a rod of iron. She was a tall, thin, ill-favored looking woman, who was always prepared for a wrangle, and who looked uncommonly sharp after her own interests. However, by paying pretty liberally and in advance, I soon won her heart, and flatter myself that it was by excellent generalship on my part that I contrived very soon to be entirely in her good books. Her hard face used sometimes actually to relax into a grim kind of smile in my presence, and I fancied her harsh voice used almost imperceptibly to soften in addressing me. Beside, she was accustomed to bustle about in a rough kind of way in order to get things straight and comfortable, and I really think tried to do her best to make me feel at home. What more could I want than this? And then she had two delightful children, a boy and a girl, with whom I was very soon especially friendly, and who tended to enliven me up a bit whenever I chanced to be at all dull. The boy was about thirteen years old, and his sister, who looked a year or so younger, was indeed a lovely child. She was as fair as a lily, and had that sweet expression of countenance which is so often found among the peasants in Normandy; her eyes were large and exquisitely blue, and with all this she had a decided will of her own. But then she was the daughter of Alphonsine.

It was some little time before I made the acquaintance of the master of the establishment; for he was always busy fishing, and, as I have said before, the fishermen who lived in the village seldom got home before Saturday evening, and had to be off again either on Sunday evening or by daybreak on Monday.

However, Saturday soon came round, and with it Pierre Prévost.

He was about five-and-thirty years old, very dark and singularly handsome. His hair, which was thick, fell about his head in ringlets; he was short, and had most expressive eyes. I was not long in perceiving that he was in every way a great contrast to Alphonsine. His expression was sad, and he seldom or never smiled; and I noticed he seemed to shrink rather nervously from the piercing look with which he was very frequently favored by "la belle Alphonsine." His sweet and handsome face soon disposed me favorably toward him, notwithstanding that there were circumstances which occurred on our first acquaintance which would otherwise have tended to prejudice me entirely against him.

I was smoking a pipe and chatting quietly to Alphonsine in the great chimney-corner on the evening I allude to, when all at once the two children came tearing in from school with their books under their arms.

"He is come!" cried they, in their shrill treble voices. "We saw his boat just coming near the shore. He will be on the sand almost in a {112} moment We may go and meet him, may we not, mother?"

"What's the use?" said she, in rather a more disagreeable tone than usual. "I am sure he would much prefer to come alone. Beside, I want you both. Go into the garden to get me something to make a salad of. Come now!"

These last two words settled the matter, and the children were soon off, without another word about the expedition to the sea-shore.

"That's strange," thought I to myself; "I wonder if this Pierre can be a bad father, or at any rate a bad husband?"

A few minutes afterward he came in.

As if to strengthen this bad impression of mine, I noticed that Alphonsine never moved when he entered, and did not attempt to offer her hand or cheek to him. She did not even welcome him with a smile.

No, she contented herself with taking a slate down from the wall, the pencil belonging to which was already in her hand:

"How much?" said she, coolly.

Pierre Prévost pulled out of his pocket a great leather purse, and detailed, day by day, how much he had made by the sale of his fish. After which, he put down the money upon the corner of the table.

All this time the woman was eagerly dotting down the various sums on the slate. Then she gravely added them all up, and determinedly counted out every sou.

By great good luck the figures tallied with the money. Then Alphonsine shut up the money in a drawer, and locked it very securely.

Meanwhile Pierre repocketed his leather purse, which he had just emptied, never attempting to grumble in the least, and going through the task as methodically as possible.

"I was quite wrong in forming so hasty an opinion," thought I to myself, as I witnessed this peculiar scene; "Pierre is not such a bad fellow, after all."

It was not long before the young ones made a second burst into the room, making rather more noise than they did on the first occasion.

They were not long in scrambling on to Pierre's knees, and smothering him with kisses, and it was all done so heartily, with such warmth, and so naturally, that I could not help exclaiming to myself, "Why, he's a capital father, after all!"

But, judge, of my astonishment when I heard their pretty voices call out,

"Oh! we're so glad to see you back again, dear uncle Pierre!"

Then he was their uncle, after all, and he was not married to Alphonsine. But was he her brother, or merely a brother-in-law? And yet she seemed so entirely to have the upper-hand over him. It certainly was a very remarkable coincidence.

But what surprised me most of all was the fatherly affection that Pierre Prévost seemed to have for the two children.

He took them on his knees, and played with them, and appeared to make so much of them, that I, who was a silent spectator of this little scene, became really quite interested.

This lasted for about five minutes, and then all at once it seemed as if the old pain came over him, for he turned quite sad again, and turned deathly pale, and I could see the tears starting to his eyes. And then he got up, and looking steadily into the young innocent faces of his nephew and niece, said, in an extremely soft voice,

"Go and play on the sand. Go along, my pretty ones!"

The poor children, who seemed quite astonished at the sudden change in his demeanor, hesitated for a moment. However, another beseeching look from their uncle, and an angry word or so from Alphonsine, soon persuaded them what to do; whereupon they set out very slowly for the sea-shore.


"They know perfectly well how little you care for them," said Alphonsine, very bitterly; "and it would be just as well if you would not go out of your way to show it."

Pierre made no answer. He shut his eyes, and put his hand to his heart as if to express the pain he was suffering.

Then taking a spade from the corner,

"I am going to work in the garden," said be, gently.

And then he went out, looking very sorrowful.


Things seemed to be taking quite a dramatic turn, and I made up my mind to try hard and unravel the plot.

I followed Pierre, and having secured myself in a convenient hiding-place, determined to watch.

He walked quietly on, but soon stopped at a little vegetable garden, quite at the end of the village. At first he pretended to set to work vigorously, but his eyes kept wandering to a little rose-covered cottage within a stone's-throw of the garden. He soon left off working, and leaning listlessly on his spade, he kept his eyes firmly fixed on one of the windows, which was almost covered with the luxuriant growth of roses and honeysuckle.

As the wind played fitfully with the curtain of green which darkened the window, I fancied I recognized the shadow of a woman.

Immovable as a statue, Pierre Prévost remained where he was, and though night drew on, he did not leave his post till the heavens were bright with myriads of stars; and then swinging his spade over his shoulder, he began to retrace his steps to the village.

But, just before he left the garden, I thought I heard a bitter sigh borne on the wind from the cottage window.

The next day, when I was coming away from early mass, I saw Pierre standing in the porch of the church. The two children were clinging to one of his hands, while the other, still wet with holy water, was gently extended to a young woman who was in the act of passing before him. She was a lovely creature, with golden hair, large expressive blue eyes, and a face like one of Fra Angelico's angels. Although she could not have been less than thirty years old, she appeared to have all the lightness and vivacity of a girl of eighteen.

When their fingers met, an almost imperceptible thrill seemed to affect them both, and as they gazed into one another's faces they both turned deathly pale.

Could it have been the shadow that I recognized through the roses the evening before?

The tide came up very early that evening, and necessitated the departure of all the fishermen before night came on.

Pierre Prévost was one of the first to start, but he went a long way round to get to the sea-shore, and passed before the windows of the rose-covered cottage.

A flower fell at his feet. He picked it up eagerly, and kissing it passionately, thrust it into his bosom and hastened away.

As the evening wore on, and while the little boats were just fading away in the distance, I watched again, and distinctly saw a white handkerchief waving from the window of the pretty cottage.

I was naturally anxious to find out about this little romance, and was continually puzzling my poor brains to discover the truth of the story.

There were hundreds of people I might have asked, and, of course, Alphonsine would have been only too happy to have enlightened me. But I determined, if possible, to hear it all from Pierre's own lips, and accordingly made up my mind to stifle my idle curiosity.



Pierre and I soon became firm friends, and I persuaded him on one occasion to take me on one of his fishing expeditions.

It was a lovely night, the heavens were ablaze with stars, and the little boat tossed idly on the waves which scarcely rippled against its keel. Pierre's companions were asleep down in the cabin, waiting for a breeze to spring up before they could throw in their nets. As for myself, I was smoking quietly on deck, having my back against a coil of rope, and revelling in the delicious quiet which reigned around, when Pierre joined me, and having lighted his pipe, sat down by my side, and spoke, as far as I can remember, as follows:

I believe, monsieur, you are anxious to know why I am such a sad looking fellow? Perhaps you will laugh at me, but that can't be helped. I am sure you are sincere, and wish me well, and therefore I have no hesitation in opening my heart to you.

I love Marie! There is hardly any need, perhaps, to tell you that. And yet this love is the foundation of all my sorrow. But I firmly believe that the good God willed that we should love one another, and so I am content. Ever since our earliest childhood we have gone through life hand in hand. When we were little ones we always played together on the sand; and there has hardly been a pang of sorrow or a feeling of joy which has not been felt by both alike. I used to think once that we were one both in body and soul, and there are old folks in the village who have said it over and over again. We made our first communion on the same day, and at the same hour, side by side; and these little matters are bonds of union indeed, and are not easily forgotten. When I first began to seek my bread on the sea, she always offered up a little prayer for me at the cross in the village and she was ever the first to rush waist-deep into the sea to greet me on my return. And then I used to carry her on my shoulders back again, and kiss off the tears of joy which flowed down her pretty cheeks. Ah! we were happy indeed in those childish days, which are passed and gone. Why are we not always children?

And the years that followed were hardly less happy for either of us. In the cold winter-time we were always side by side in the chimney-corner. Spring saw us wandering over the fresh meadows gathering the early violets. We worked together in the harvest-field under the summer sun, and went off nutting when the brown leaves told us of the approaching autumn. And then came the time when we were both old enough to marry. We had neither of us dreamed of such a thing, and could not be persuaded that we were not still children. We were quite happy enough without troubling our heads about marriage.

However, others thought of it for us, and good Father Hermann began to be anxious that we should make up our minds.

But the matter was not so easily settled, and several obstacles soon presented themselves. To begin with, Marie's mother was rich. I was far from it, and an orphan into the bargain. I had been brought up by my brother Victoire—a splendid fellow. It was he who went with Father Hermann to Marie's mother, in order boldly to talk over our marriage, which they were all so anxious about.

"I had always made up my mind that Marie should never marry any one who had not quite as much as herself," replied she, "and that was her dear father's wish. However, I am sure you speak truly when you say that they both love one another very dearly. Let it be as you say."

The old lady had a kind warm heart

[As he said these last words, Pierre's voice thickened, and I noticed a tear trickling down his honest brown face. But my sailor was a {115} brave fellow, and I had hardly time to shake him warmly by the hand before he had quite mastered his grief, and was able to go on with his story.]

Marie and I were not the only happy ones then, I can assure you. Victoire, my brother. Father Hermann, the whole village in fact, for we were both very popular, rejoiced with us. It was the week before the marriage. Of course I had not gone to sea. Victoire was also very anxious to remain; however, his wife persuaded him to go. Several in the village found fault with her for doing so, on the pretext that working at a festal time was very bad luck; but they had no right to say so. Victoire's children were very young, and had to be provided for; and so Victoire went. In the evening great black clouds darkened the sky. We were evidently threatened with a dreadful storm. But we were enjoying ourselves too much to think of storms or friends at sea. All at once there was a vivid flash of lightning and then a peal of thunder, which seemed to shake every cottage to its foundation. And then came piercing cries:

"A boat in distress, and threatened with instant destruction!"

It was Victoire's boat!

I was on the shore in an instant What an awful storm! Never in my whole life had I seen its equal.

All that was in a man's power I did, you may be quite sure. Three times I dashed madly into the waves, only to be thrown back by the fury of the sea. The last time I was all but lost myself. However, I was rescued and brought back to the shore, bruised and insensible. Some thought me dead. Would that I had been, and had out side by side with that other body stretched lifeless on the rocks!

It was Victoire!

When I came to myself he was near me, quite still, and covered with blood; but with just enough breath left to whisper in my ear:

"Pierre, my boy, be a brother to my wife, a father to my children. God bless you, boy."

"Victoire," answered I, "I swear it."

And then he died without a murmur.


Of course you will guess, monsieur, that this awful affair was the means of putting off our marriage. Marie and I neither of us complained, but consoled ourselves with the reflection that all would soon be well. I took up my position in my brother's house, and warmly kissed my brother's children, now mine. Alphonsine tried to show her gratitude as well as she could. And so six months slipped away, and the villagers began talking again about our marriage. I don't know how it was, but I began to feel very nervous and uneasy about the matter, and I did not so much as dare broach the subject either to Alphonsine or Marie's mother. In a little time the latter began the subject herself.

"Pierre," said she, "you have adopted your brother's children, have you not?"

"Yes, mother."

"And his wife also?"

"Yes; I must take care of his wife quite as much as her children."

"You have quite made up your mind?"


"Am I to understand that you never mean to leave them?"

"I swore I would not to my brother before he died."

Then there was a silence, and my heart beat very quick.

"Listen, Pierre," said the old woman; "don't think that I wish to deprive the widow or the orphans of one morsel of the sustenance you intend to set aside for them. Even if I did, your good heart would hardly listen to me. But you must understand that I know Alphonsine. {116} My daughter can never live with Alphonsine; and Alphonsine can never live with me. Never!"

This last word seemed to open an abyss before my very feet. I too knew Alphonsine. I too began now to understand that either of these arrangements would be perfectly impracticable.

"Mother," I began—

"I don't wish to hinder jour marriage," replied the old lady, very slowly; "I simply impose one condition. You must be quite aware that in this matter my will must be law."

Still I hesitated.

"It will be for you then to decide your own fate," added she; "and my daughter's as well."

I raised my head. Marie was there, and our eyes met. I must break my oath or lose her for ever.

It is absolute torture to recall those fearful moments. My head seemed to swim round, and when I tried to speak, there was something in my throat which nearly choked me. And still Marie looked at me; and oh, how tenderly!

"Pierre," said the old lady again, "you must answer; will you remain alone with Alphonsine, or will you come here alone? Choose for yourself."

I looked at Marie again, and was on the point of exclaiming, "I must come here!" but the words again stuck in my throat, and my tongue refused to speak. And then I began to ease my conscience with the thought that I could still work for Victoire's wife and children, and tried to think they would be equally happy, although I was not always with them. But then I thought of that dreadful night, and the storm, and the pale face, and the whisper in my ear came back again, and I fancied I heard my brother say, "It was not that you promised me, my brother; it was not that!"

At last the bitter words rose to my mouth, and in a hollow voice I answered:

"I must keep my oath!" And then, like a drunken man, I fell prostrate on the floor.

When I recovered she was near me still, and her sweet voice whispered in my ear,

"Thank God, Pierre, you are an honest man!"

Those words were my only comfort in the long dreary year which followed that fearful day. I was never myself again. I tried to rouse myself up, and take some interest in my daily work, and did my best to appear cheerful and contented at home, but I was not the same man that I used to be. The children were a great comfort to me when I was at home; but the long hopeless days and the dark dreary nights were miserable enough, God knows. I seemed to dream away my life.

I thought it best to keep away from Marie, as a meeting would be painful to both. And so we never met.

At last a report got about the village that Marie was going to be married.

I could no longer keep away from her now, and she, too, appeared anxious that we should meet. In a very few days we were once more side by side.

There was no need of me to speak. She read my question in my eyes: of her own accord she answered:

"Yes, Pierre, it is quite true."

"But, Pierre," added she in tears, "I am yours, and must be yours for ever. Unless I can get you to say, Marry Jacques, I will remain single all my life. But my mother begs me to get married; and what can I do? She is very old, and very ill just now. I feel I too have got a duty to fulfil."

I uttered a cry of despair.

"Pierre," said Marie, still weeping, "you must know how dearly I love you. My fate is that I must love you still. But, for all that, Pierre, I cannot let my mother die."

I could not bear to hear her weep; but what comfort could I give? At last the devil entered into my heart, {117} and I broke forth in bitter curses at my fate, and what I chose to call her inconstancy.

"I don't deserve this," said Marie very softly; "and I hardly expected that I should ever hear these words from your lips. Still, I believe you love me, after all. I hope you will feel, when you think over all that has passed, that I am not heartless, and that I deserve some answer to the question which my lips almost refuse to ask. You will give me an answer, I am sure, by-and-by."

And then she left me, half-mad as I was, lying coiled up in a heap at the roadside.

During the next few days I did reflect. If I could not marry Marie myself, had I any right to hinder her marriage with another? Was I justified in preparing for her a life of solitude, and in depriving her of a mother's care? And then, again, I began to perceive that no one was at all inclined to take my part in the village. My popularity was fast declining, since no one could look into my heart, or could have the least idea what I had suffered, or knew what had actually taken place. I was pitied, but considered very selfish. I was continually told that Marie's mother was ailing sadly, and that she had deserved better treatment at my hands.

At last Father Hermann comforted me, and benefitting by his good advice and by the help of our holy religion, I began to be in a better frame of mind.

I made up my mind to give Marie her freedom. But I could not bear to see her again, and so I wrote.


The marriage between Jaques and Marie was soon arranged, and soon the second festal day came round.

In the morning I put out to sea as usual; but as the evening wore on, I found I was under the influence of a spell and that it was quite impossible for me to remain where I was. Accordingly I returned; and, led on by the spell and attracted like a moth to the candle, wended my way to the rejoicings, in order that I might torture myself for the lost time.

I have heard of the agonies of the rack, of the thumb-screw, of saints being boiled in oil and crucified, and many other dreadful horrors; but I very much doubt if any martyr ever suffered the agony that I did that night.

It was in the dusk of the evening, and Marie was just finishing a song, while all were resting from the dances which had followed one another in quick succession. She was just singing the last verse, in which my name was accidentally introduced, when a sailor who was just behind me struck a match in order to light his pipe. The light exposed me to the view of the whole company. Directly Marie saw me, she uttered a piercing cry and fainted away. I rushed toward her, not thinking what I was doing. But Jaques was at her side before me. Instead, however, of showing the least jealousy or putting himself in a passion, he grasped me warmly by the hand, and then looked tenderly at Marie, who now began to revive.

"Never fear, and keep up a good heart," said he, in a strange kind of voice. You would never guess what he did, and perhaps will hardly believe when I tell you.

Ordinarily a very temperate, steady man, he astonished the company by giving out that he intended to throw a little life into the fête. On this he ordered wine and cider, and lastly a plentiful supply of brandy.

In a very little time he was helplessly drunk, or at least pretended to be so. As the evening wore on, he got from bad to worse, insulted and quarrelled with the men, and fairly disgusted the women. The village was in an uproar, and there was not a soul who did not speak in strong terms of the disgraceful conduct of Jaques. At the earnest entreaty of the worthy {118} fellow we kept our counsel, and accordingly the new marriage was at once broken off.

The rest of my story you know almost as well as I do myself. You see my life from day to day. You can picture to yourself my sorrow and my unhappy position. You can see how little she has changed.

And yet we can never be more to one another than we are now. Never. Never! We are married, and yet we are not. We are separated, alas, here on earth, but we must be united in heaven. Think of the years that have passed, and think how happy we might have been, and what a thread there was between our present existence and the life we long to lead. God's will be done!

Poor Pierre here let his head fall into his hands, and wept in silence.

How could I comfort the poor fellow?

It was not the kind of grief that needed consolation, and so I let him weep on.

All at once a breeze sprung up and filled the sails. Pierre immediately roused himself, but soon relapsed into his accustomed calm quiet manner.

Both the other sailors now came on deck, the nets were thrown over, and the business of the night began.


Three years afterward, by the merest accident in the world, I happened to return to my favorite little village. There was evidently some excitement going on, and as I chanced to recognize my old friend Father Hermann, I went up and renewed our acquaintance.

"What is the matter?" said he; "why you do not mean to say you don't know?"

"Not in the least."

"Why your old friend Alphonsine has been dead six months."

"I really don't see why the worthy inhabitants of the village should rejoice at that," said I.

"A great obstacle has been removed," said the father; "don't you remember?"

"Of course; and what has followed?"

"The marriage of Pierre Prévost and Marie!"

I was not long in accompanying Father Hermann to the cottage in which my old friends were receiving the warm congratulations of their friends and neighbors.

They recognized me at once, and insisted that I should be present at the entertainment which was to follow in the course of the day. Of course I accepted the invitation. I never remember having enjoyed myself so much, and am quite certain that I spoke from my heart when I proposed, in my very best French, the healths of la belle Marie and Pierre Prévost.


From The Popular Science Review.



There are few spectacles more affecting—and there were few more hopelessly distressing—than that which many have seen, of the blind man, with eyes unaltered in their human aspect of beauty, searching vainly to penetrate the unchangeable darkness of a noonday, bright to others, and replete with the splendor of light and color. There have always been many of these sufferers from a disease which claims the most profound sympathy, and which seemed bitterly to reproach our science that it could not timely penetrate the mystery of that obscure chamber which lies behind the iris, and had found no means for enabling us to see through the clear but darkened space of the pupil. That reproach, at least, exists in part no longer. Since some few years now we have learnt how to explain the obscurity of the interior of the eye, and by what optical contrivances we can overcome this darkness and look into the depths of the ocular globe; thus inspecting with ease, and quite painlessly to the individual, the lenses and humors of the eye, the nerve of sight and its transparent retinal expansion, and even the vascular tissue which lies behind and surrounds this. This is a great triumph of physical science, and it is no barren triumph. The insight which we gain into the host of affections of the refracting media and deep membranes of the eye has given to our diagnosis and therapeutical treatment of the most obscure forms of disease leading to blindness, a certainty and precision to which we were formerly strangers.

The optical instrument by which we are able to effect this inspection is known by the fitting title of the Ophthalmoscope ( the eye; I survey). With this instrument, the manner of using it, and its valuable applications, I am necessarily professionally much occupied in daily work; and as the editor of the "Popular Science Review" has requested me to give some plain account of the matter, I will endeavor to afford an untechnical statement of what the ophthalmoscope is, and what are some of the most useful results which have been obtained by its use. Let me first remind the general reader that in the human eye, behind the pupillary aperture of the colored iris, which presents to the unaided eye of the observer the mere aspect of black darkness, lies, first, a clear bi-convex lens; and behind this, filling the eye, and giving to it the character of a solid ball, a transparent globular mass, known as the vitreous body, or humor. It is into a depression in the front of this that the aforesaid lens is fitted, so that the whole space of the eye behind the iris is filled by the lens and vitreous body. The optic nerve, or nerve of sight, which pierces the tunics of the eye at the back and near the centre, spreads out and forms an expanded tunic of nerve-structure which enwraps the vitreous body as far as its most forward edge, where the colored iris descends in front of it. Enwrapping again this nerve-tunic or retina is a vestment, chiefly made of blood-vessels, connected by fine tissue and thickly coated with black pigment, having its own optical uses. This second outer pigmented vascular tunic is the choroid. This again is enclosed within the external strong fibrous membrane, which includes and protects all the sclerotic membrane {120} ( hard). These are the two humors and three tunics of the eye which can to a greater or less extent be examined during life by the aid of the ophthalmoscope. They can all be more or less investigated in the living eye by the aid of the ophthalmoscope, because by the aid of this instrument we are able to see through the pupillary space. If one considers what is the reason of the apparent darkness of the pupillary aperture and the chambers of the eye behind it, it is not difficult to gain an idea of the means by which this optical condition may be altered so as to enable us to see where all seem to the unaided vision obscure.

Doctor looking through ophthalmoscope.


This darkness of the pupillary aperture is attributable partly to obvious causes, such as the natural contraction of the pupil or iris which occurs under light—this contraction limiting the number of rays which can enter the eye. Then that black pigment which lines the iris absorbs a great deal of light; and thus, as in the case of albinos, whose eyes are deficient in pigment, or where the pupil is dilated, either through disease or by artificial agents, these obstacles for seeing into the living eye are removed. But still the main difficulties are not cleared away; and if you take for example an albino animal, such as one of those beautiful little white-furred rabbits, whose rosy eyes look like fiery opals edged with swan's down, and dilate the pupils with atropine, it is still not possible to see clearly the details of the structure within and at the back of the eye. This is by reason of the structure of the eye as an optical instrument, and because the rays of light in entering and in emerging from it undergo refraction, according to definite laws. The light which penetrates the eye traverses the transparent retina, producing the impression necessary for sight, and is partly absorbed by the black pigment of the choroid; but a great number of the rays are reflected; for here there is no exception to the general rule that some of the rays of light falling upon any substance are always reflected. These rays, in returning, are refracted through the vitreous body and lens, just as they were in entering the eye, with the object then of causing them so to converge as to produce upon the retina a clear and definite image of whatever external object they started from. Similarly, then, on their emergence they are refracted chiefly by the lens and cornea, so as to form an image in the outer air, the emergent rays coinciding in their path with that which they took when entering, and the image formed in the air being conjugated with the retinal image; being formed, therefore, on the same side, varying with the position of the lens and object, and the accommodation of the eye. Thus, then, to perceive this aerial image, derived from the retinal reflection, the eye of the observer needs to be placed in the axis of the converging rays; but since this is also the axis of the entering rays, he will of necessity in that position cut off those rays altogether of the light proceeding, say, from a lamp, or the source of light opposite to the eye to be illuminated.

The problem to be solved consists, then, in the simple illumination of the eye to be observed by a source of light so arranged that the observer can be placed in the axis of the rays entering and emerging without intercepting those rays. This may be most conveniently effected by placing the source of light aside of the eye to be observed, and observing through a pierced concave mirror, which reflects that light into the eye. We can then, by looking through the central aperture of this mirror, place ourself in the path of the entering and emerging rays. The mirror becomes the source of light to the observed eye; the rays which it flashed into the eye emerge {122} in part, and return along the same path, forming the aerial image at a distance and under circumstances regulated by the optical conditions of the eye observed, and within view of the observer who is looking through the mirror. A very simple diagram will suffice to explain this: r a is the circle of diffusion of the retina, and the lines indicate how the reflected rays will pass through the media of the eye, and form at r' a' real enlarged but inverted image of the fundus of the eye. This will be placed at the distance of distinct vision of the subject, and has relation to the accommodation of the eye.

Diagram of preceding discussion.

As these are variable quantities, the practice of ophthalmoscopy demands a little address, which habit quickly gives. It is for want of understanding this, and from impatience of these preliminary difficulties, that many have been discouraged at the outset, and have abandoned unwisely the attempt to learn the use of the ophthalmoscope.

The image obtained in the way mentioned is not so distinct as to give that full perception of details which is necessary for scientific and medical purposes. A more defined image is obtained by interposing, for example, a bi-convex lens on the path of the luminous rays emerging from the eye observed. The effect of holding such a lens of short focus before the observed eye whilst examining it with a concave ophthalmoscopic mirror is to cause the rays emerging from the eye to undergo a further refraction, and to modify the actual image which they form, producing one which is smaller, more defined, but still inverted. This is the most simple and one of the most satisfactory methods of exploring the eye with the ophthalmoscope. It is that of the most general and easy application, and I will, therefore, add a few words to explain how it may most conveniently be practised.

We will suppose that it is the human eye which is to be examined. The room is to be made dark; the person to be seated; a light—the white flame of an oil-lamp or an Argand gas-burner—to be placed near his head, on the side, and at the level of the eye to be observed. The observer takes then the concave mirror in the hand of the side toward the lamp, and placing it against the front of his eye, so that the upper edge rests against his eyebrow, brings his head to the level of that of the person seated, looks through the central perforation at the eye to be observed, and by a little careful change in the direction of the mirror casts, by its aid, upon the eye examined the light of the lamp.

He will now perceive that the pupillary aperture is illuminated, and, no longer black, shines with a silvery or reddened light. He takes now the bi-convex lens of short focus in the hand hitherto free, and places it in front of the examined eye, and at such a distance as to make the focus of the lens coincide with the pupil of that eye —distance varying from two to three inches. He himself will usually need to be at a distance from twelve to eighteen inches. This is for normal eyes. The slight movements backward and forward necessary to adjust these distances correctly, are effected very easily and precisely after practice; but at first it is a little difficult to avoid changing the direction of the mirror while thus slightly advancing or retiring the head; and this is a point on which it is well to give a warning, for it is a frequent source of discouragement to beginners, who find that at every movement they interfere with the illumination of the eye, and so suffer from a series of little failures at the outset. The first thing, in fact, that every one sees amounts to a little more than a red, luminous disc; those who begin by seeing nothing more, therefore, need not to be discouraged; a little patience and time will enable them to see what more practised persons describe. The eye to be examined may be more fully observed by dilating the pupil {123} with atropine—a drop of a solution, one grain to a pint of water, or one of the atropized gelatines prepared for me by Savory and Moore, each of which contains one hundred thousandth of a grain of atropine, and will maintain dilation during several hours. This acts also perfectly well with rabbits or cats.

Doctor examining patient.

The first thing seen is the red reflection of the choroidal vessels showing through the transparent retina; and when the eye observed is directed upward and inward, we see the usually circular disc of the optic nerve, encircled by a double ring, cream-colored, or very faintly roseate or grey, and surrounded by the red choroid. The two rings are the apertures in the choroid and sclerotic, of which the former is the smaller. From out this disc we see springing the retinal artery and retinal veins, sometimes centric, at others excentric, in their passage. The artery is easily recognized as being somewhat smaller in calibre, and of a lighter red. The artery usually divides into a superior and inferior branch, each of which subdivides forthwith into two secondary branches, and these again continue to subdivide, dichotomously, running forward to the anterior limits of the retina. The veins, which are somewhat larger and deeper colored, usually pierce the disc of the optic nerve in two trunks. Pulsation may occasionally be detected in the veins by watching carefully their color, which seems to change at each impulse just where they pass over the edge of the optic disc and bend to pierce the nerve.

Fuller details of the ophthalmoscopic appearances of healthy eyes, both human and animal, will be found in Zander's treatise, excellently edited and translated by Mr. R. B. Carter, of Stroud. In the healthy eye the aqueous humor, lens, and vitreous humor are clear, and do not in any way obstruct the passage of the light. It is otherwise in disease; and this brings us to the discussion of some of the practical applications of the ophthalmoscope. Here, perhaps, I may be permitted to quote some of the {124} paragraphs of a paper which I read lately on the subject before the Hanveian Society:

Interior of eye.

"Taking up the diagnosis of the various forms of disease any of which would have been held to constitute the condition known as amaurosis, it may be noted, first of all, that even in the hands of the novice ophthalmoscopic examination supersedes those chapters in ophthalmology which were formerly devoted to the means of distinguishing between incipient cataract and amaurosis. In the past, and even at present, with those surgeons who are content to treat deep-seated diseases of the eye by guessing at their nature, and have not adopted the systematic use of the ophthalmoscope into their practice, the functional annoyances which commonly occur at the outset of the formation of lenticular cataract, have been, and are, fertile sources of deception. The patient complains of frontal pain, of confused vision, stars of light, and some other vague symptoms which characterize the outset alike of many forms of deep-seated disease of the eye, and of the fatty degeneration of the lens which commonly gives rise to lenticular cataract, probably from coincident swelling of the lens. An error arising from this source has many times condemned the unfortunate subject of a commencing cataract to the severe treatment thought appropriate to the unhappy class of amaurotics. The kind of alteration in the lens, imperceptible by any other means than the ophthalmoscope, is the slightly opaque striation of the substance of the lens sometimes seen in an early stage. These opaque striae may occupy either the anterior or the posterior segment of the lens, and spring from the centre of the crystalline or converge toward the centre from the circumference. In order to see the latter, the pupil must be fully dilated with atropine; as, indeed, for the purposes of complete ophthalmoscopic examination it always needs to be; and then, just as the greatest expert cannot discover them except by ophthalmoscopic illumination, so, neither with its aid, can they be passed over with ordinary care. In order to be quite sure in any delicate case, it is well to lower the light a little, and use only a feebly illuminating power, as a very strong light may overpower a {125} commencing opacity, and render us unable to detect the striae. This practical caution applies equally to all other conditions of opacity in the transparent media. In two cases, lately, I have been able to set at rest doubts of this kind, which happened to be in the persons of medical men, who were much disquieted by the symptoms—one a member of this society. In a third case I have recently detected incipient cataract (peripheric striae) in a gentleman supposed to be suffering from commencing glaucoma.

"It is of frequent occurrence to find the capsule of the lens stained with black spots; these are stains left by the uveal pigment, and occur usually after an attack of iritis, when the iris has been in contact with the lens. When the iris has been adherent, a complete ring of pigment may often be seen on the surface of the lens. A day's experience at any ophthalmic clinique can mostly show examples of this condition; but it is only when these deposits are numerous, and in the central line of vision, that they become troublesome. They are then met with as the sequences of severe choroido-iritis, and usually coincide with further mischief in the vitreous and choroid.

"The vitreous, under the influence most commonly of choroiditis, and usually syphilitic choroiditis, presents alterations of the most striking character for ophthalmoscopic observation. The patients who offer these changes complain usually of considerable dimness of sight, which on examination is found to include both diminution in the acuteness of visual perception, and restriction in the field of vision, or extent of any object seen at once. The great source of trouble to them is, that when they lift the eye or move the head, black corpuscles, or streaks, or webs float before their eyes, and obscure the object at which they are looking; and when the eyes are kept still, these fall again and disappear. Examine now the eyes of such an one, and you will see that the phenomena described are due to the existence of actual shreds, corpuscles, or webs of fibrous and albuminous exudation, which float in the vitreous, and at each motion of the eye rise in clouds and obscure the fundus, so that you can barely see it, or perhaps not at all. These conditions, I say, are mostly specific, but not invariably. They are sometimes the result of scrofula, and probably of other forms of choroiditis."

Here, then, are a large number of cases in which the ophthalmoscope transports us at once from the regions of the known to the unknown. There are other classes of cases equally striking. Let me take illustrative examples. Two persons apply for advice, complaining that the sight has been gradually growing more and more dim, perhaps in one eye,—it may be in both. The progress of the disease has been insidious and nearly painless. The eyes are to all external appearance healthy, except probably that in both patients the pupils are partially dilated and sluggish. The ophthalmoscope helps us to solve the problem.

The one is a case, it may be, of slow atrophy of the optic nerve, proceeding from central disease of the brain—from pressure on the optic tracts of nerve within the skull, or from defective nutrition following losses of blood. We find the nerve glistening white and slightly cupped, the arteries small, the fundus otherwise healthy. In the other we recognize at once, in the fulness of the veins, their pulsation, and the marked excavation of the optic disc, the indications of excessive tension of the eyeball and undue pressure of the nerve. The first requires careful constitutional treatment and a long course of studied hygiene and medication; the second calls for direct and immediate interference, with the view of relieving the intra-ocular pressure. In the diagnosis of this great class of glaucomatous disease of the eye—disease {126} characterized of loss of vision, sometimes slow and sometimes rapid, but always characterized by definite ophthalmoscopic signs: cupping of the disc, pulsation, fullness of the veins, and it may be more or less haziness of the transparent media—ophthalmoscopy has rendered a most brilliant and inestimable service. Prior to the introduction of the use of this instrument the disease was of an unknown pathology; its results were fatal to vision, but there were no means of diagnosing the conditions attending the earlier stages, and blindness followed almost certainly and inevitably. The investigation of the disease has brought us a remedy in the excision of a portion of the iris—a practice introduced by Von Gräfe, of Berlin, and of which the success is in suitable cases most gratifying.

Another series of examples may be chosen to illustrate the application of ophthalmoscopy. I avoid giving details here, but it is perhaps right to say that these are not fanciful sketches, but notices of cases in my experience and taken from my note-books of practice. Two persons are asking for advice as to the management of their eyes for short-sightedness. Are both to receive the same advice? The ophthalmoscope alone can furnish positive data. With this we may discover a staphylomatous condition of the back of the eye, a bright excentric margin around the optic disc and edge with black pigment. Examining it closely, we may find that this pigmented edge gives evidence of progressive inflammation at the back of the eye, and extending to continuous and increasing atrophy and retrocession of the coats of the eye. This person is in danger of becoming rapidly made short-sighted or of losing sight altogether. We must prohibit the use of concave glasses for a certain length of time, and must adopt active and effectual measures for subduing the atrophic inflammation. In the other patient the ophthalmoscope may show us but little stretching or waste, and that not progressive, and will enable us then to calm his fears, to prescribe appropriate glasses, and to dismiss him to his occupation with ease of mind and safety. So with sudden lose of sight from intra-ocular haemorrhage, the ophthalmoscope gives us information which could never have been guessed at without it, and guides us, not only to the local knowledge, but to the constitutional information essential for cure.

There are certain conditions of the eye which may warn any one that it is desirable that the condition of the vision ought to be investigated by the ophthalmoscope. Rapidly increasing short-sightedness is one of the most marked, and when this becomes associated with weakness of sight and loss of acuteness in the perception of small objects, the warning is very urgent. A diminution in the field of vision is another important indication of internal changes in the eye, of which only the ophthalmoscope can detect the true nature. It would be difficult, perhaps, to say whether more mischief is done and more suffering is caused by the total neglect of such symptoms or by their ignorant palliation by the aid of common spectacles, chosen empirically, because they facilitate vision for the time. The great use of the ophthalmoscope, then, is this: that it arms us with an instrument of precision, by which we can determine the precise local condition of the parts of the eye in which the function of sight is resident and through which it is regulated. If it cannot do all that we might ask, it is because the sense of sight is in truth a cerebral function, of which the eye is only an instrument; and in dealing with cerebral affections of the sight, it can indeed give us information which without it we should lack, but it leaves still to be desired more intimate acquaintance with first causes, which at present we can only discuss inferentially. To the amateur in science, and to the lover of nature, it discloses an exquisite spectacle, unknown till now, that carries {127} observation into the inner chambers of the living eye, and displays its wonders and its beauties. The observation is perfectly painless, and may easily be effected: rabbits, for example, submit to it with great calmness and composure, and at the College of Physicians' soirée last year, a little pet white rabbit of mine sat up calmly in a box which I had made for the purpose, and was examined, by the aid of a modification which I devised of Liebreich's demonstrating ophthalmoscope, by many score of observers. Mine has the advantage of being adapted for use even amid a blaze of light, and it cannot easily be disarranged; two qualities valuable in an instrument for demonstration.

From The Lamp.



  The mother stood at the window.
    The son he lay in bed;
  "Here's a procession, Wilhelm;
    Wilt not look out?" she said.

  "I am so ill, my mother,
    In the world I have no part;
  I think upon dead Gretchen,
    And a death-pang rends my heart."

  "Rise up; we will to Kevlaar;
    Will staff and rosary take;
  God's Mother there will cure thee,—
    Thy sick heart whole will make."

  The Church's banner fluttered,
    The Church's hymns arose;
  And unto fair Cöln city
    The long procession goes.

  The mother joined the pilgrims,
    Her sick son leadeth she;
  And both sing in the chorus,
    "Gelobt seyst du, Marie!"    [Footnote 22]

[Footnote 22: "Praised be thou, Mary!"]


  The holy Mother in Kevlaar
    To-day is well arrayed,—
  To-day hath much to busy her.
    For many sick ask her aid.
  And many sick people bring her
    Such offerings as are meet;
  Many waxen limbs they bring her,
    Many waxen hands and feet.

  And who a wax hand bringeth,
    His hand is healed that day;
  And who a wax foot bringeth,
    With sound feet goes away.

  Many went there on crutches
    Who now on the rope can spring;
  Many play now on the viol
    Whose hands could not touch a string.

  The mother she took a waxen light.
    And shaped therefrom a heart;
  "Take that to the Mother of Christ," she said,
    "And she will heal thy smart."

  He sighed, and took the waxen heart,
    And went to the church in woe;
  The tears from his eyes fell streaming,
    The words from his heart came low.

  "Thou that art highly blessed,
    Thou Mother of Christ!" said he;
  "Thou that art queen of heaven,
    I bring my griefs to thee.

  I dwell in Cöln with my mother;
    In Cöln upon the Rhine,
  Where so many hundred chapels
    And so many churches shine.

  And near unto us dwelt Gretchen;
    But dead is Gretchen now.
  Marie, I bring a waxen heart,—
    My heart's despair heal thou.

  Heal thou my sore heart-sickness;
    So I will sing to thee
  Early and late with fervent love,
    "Gelobt seyst du, Marie!"

  The sick son and the mother
    In one chamber slept that night;
  And the holy Mother of Jesus
    Gild in with footsteps light

  She bowed her over the sick man's bed,
    And one there hand did lay
  Upon his throbbing bosom,
    Then smiled and passed away.

  It seemed a dream to the mother,
    And she had yet seen more
  But that her sleep was broken,
    For the dogs howled at the door.

  Upon his bed extended
    Her son lay, and was dead;
  And o'er his thin pale visage streamed
    The morning's lovely red.

  Her hands the mother folded.
    Yet not a tear wept she;
  But sang in low devotion,
    "Gelobt seyst du, Marie!"


From The Reader.


Ancient Laws of Ireland.
Vol. I. Printed for Her Majesty's Stationery Office.
(London: Longman. Dublin: Thorn.)

This is a curious book, throwing some glimmerings of light upon a very remote and obscure period of Irish history. In 1852 a government commission, called the "Brehon Law Commission," was issued to the Lord Chancellor of Ireland, Lord Rosse, Dean Graves, Dr. Petrie, and others, appointing them to carry into effect the selection, transcription, and translation of certain documents in the Gaelic tongue containing portions of the ancient laws of Ireland, and the preparation of the same for publication. In pursuance of this, the commissioners employed Dr. O'Donovan and Professor O'Curry, two Gaelic scholars of high distinction, to transcribe and translate various law tracts in the Irish language in the library of Trinity College, Dublin, of the Royal Irish Academy, of the British Museum, and in the Bodleian Library at Oxford. The transcriptions occupy more than 5,000 manuscript pages, including all the law tracts which it was thought necessary to publish, and have nearly all been translated; but the two chosen scholars did not live to complete and revise their translations. The portion now published was prepared for the press by W. Neilson, Hancock, LL.D., first in conjunction with Dr. O'Donovan, and, after his death, with the Rev. Mr. O'Mahony, professor of Irish in the university of Dublin. It is a volume of some 300 pages, the Irish on one page and the translation opposite, containing the first part of the Senchus Mor (we are not told how much is to follow), treating of the law of distress or distraint, with an Irish introduction, and various Irish glosses and commentaries on the text.

The title Senchus Mor (pronounced "Shanchus Môr") for which seven or {130} eight different derivations are suggested, appears to mean "the great old laws," or "the great old decisions." The chief manuscripts of it which are known to exist are three in Trinity College, Dublin, and one in the Harleian collection in the British Museum, and the earliest of these is assigned to circa A.D. 1300. But quotations from the Senchus Mor are found in "Cormac's Glossary," the greater part of which was probably composed in the ninth or tenth century, and the date of the original compilation is put by good judges, on various evidence, at A.D. 438 to 441. It is, in short, a codification and revision, under the direction of St. Patrick, of the judgments of the pagan Brehons. Three kings, three poets, and three Christian missionaries (of whom Patrick was one) were combined in this work, and the code then established remained the national law of Ireland for nearly twelve centuries. The pagan laws embodied in this revised code were in force during a period of unknown antiquity, prior to the introduction of Christianity to the island.

"The Senchus Mor has been selected by the commissioners for early publication as being one of the oldest and one of the most important portions of the ancient laws of Ireland which have been preserved. It exhibits the remarkable modification which these laws of pagan origin underwent, in the fifth century, on the conversion of the Irish to Christianity.

"This modification was ascribed so entirely to the influence of St. Patrick that the Senchus Mor is described as having been called in after times 'Cain Patraic,' or Patrick's law.

"The Senchus Mor was so much revered, that the Irish judges, called Brehons, were not authorized to abrogate anything contained in it.

"The original text, of high antiquity, has been made the subject of glosses and commentaries of more recent date; and the Senchus Mor would appear to have maintained its authority among the native Irish until the beginning of the seventeenth century, or for a period of 1,200 years.

"The English law, introduced by King Henry the Second in the twelfth century, for many years scarcely prevailed beyond the narrow limits of the English pale (comprising the present counties of Louth, Meath, Westmeath, Kildare, Dublin, and Wicklow). Throughout the rest of Ireland the Brehons still administered their ancient laws amongst the native Irish, who were practically excluded from the privileges of the English law. The Anglo-Irish, too, adopted the Irish laws to such an extent that efforts were made to prevent their doing so by enactments first passed at the parliament of Kilkenny in the fortieth year of King Edward III. (1367), and subsequently renewed by Stat. Henry VII., c. 8, in 1495. So late as the twenty-fourth and twenty-fifth years of the reign of King Henry VIII. (1534) George Cromer, archbishop of Armagh and primate of Ireland, obtained a formal pardon for having used the Brehon laws. In the reign of Queen Mary, 1554, the Earl of Kildare obtained an eric of 340 cows for the death of his foster-brother, Robert Nugent, under the Brehon law.

"The authority of the Brehon laws continued until the power of the Irish chieftains was finally broken in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and all the Irish were received into the king's immediate protection by the proclamation of James I. This proclamation, followed as it was by the complete division of Ireland into counties, and the administration of the English laws throughout the entire country, terminated at once the necessity for, and the authority of, the ancient Irish laws.

"The wars of Cromwell, the policy pursued by King Charles II. at the restoration, and the results of the revolution of 1688, prevented any revival of the Irish laws; and before the end of the seventeenth century the whole race of judges (Brehons) and professors (Ollamhs) of the Irish laws appears to have become extinct."


Portions of the text of the Senchus Mor, as we now have it, are held by Gaelic scholars to be in the language of the fifth century, in what was called the Bérla Feini dialect; other portions translated from that ancient form into Gaelic of the thirteenth century. Various ancient Irish glosses and commentaries accompany the text, and also an introduction of high antiquity, giving an account of the origin of the Senchus Mor.

"Patrick came to Erin to baptize and to disseminate religion among the Gaeidhil—i.e., in the ninth year of, the reign of Theodosius, and in the fourth year of the reign of Laeghairè [pronounced Layorie or Layrie], son of Niall; king of Erin." The combination of the Roman pagan laws with Christian doctrine in the Theodosian code received imperial sanction in A.D. 438, and was at once adopted both in the eastern and western empires. St. Patrick, Dr. Hancock remarks, a Roman citizen, a native of a Roman province, and an eminent Christian missionary, would be certain to obtain early intelligence of the great reform of the laws of the empire and of the great triumph of the Christian church. Having now been six years in Erin, and established his influence there, he attempted successfully a similar reform in that remote island, and the composition of the Senchus Mor was accordingly commenced in that same year, 438, and completed in about four years.

"In ancient Irish books the name of the place where they were composed is usually mentioned. The introduction to the Senchus Mor contains this information, but is very peculiar in representing the book as having been composed at different places in different seasons of the year: 'It was Teamhair in the summer and in the autumn, on account of its cleanness and pleasantness during these seasons; and Rath-guthaird was the place during the winter and the spring, on account of the nearness of its fire-wood and water, and on account of its warmth in the time of winter's cold.'

"Teamhair, now Tara, was, at the time the Senchus Mor was composed, the residence of King Laeghairè, the monarch of Erin, and of his chief poet Dubhthach Mac ua Lugair, who took such a leading part in the work.

"Teamhair ceased to be the residence of the kings of Ireland after the death of King Dermot, in A.D. 565, about a century and a quarter after the Senchus Mor was composed. Remains are, after the lapse of nearly 1,400 years, to be still found, the most remarkable of their kind in Ireland, which attest the ancient importance of the place."

In the introduction a curious account is given of St. Patrick's manner of dealing with the existing "professors of the sciences," and his admission of the claim of inspiration on behalf of his pagan predecessors.

"Patrick requested of the men of Erin to come to one place to hold a conference with him. When they came to the conference the gospel of Christ was preached to them all; and when the men of Erin heard of the killing of the living and the resuscitation of the dead, and all the power of Patrick since his arrival in Erin, and when they saw Laeghairè with his Druids overcome by the great signs and miracles wrought in the presence of the men in Erin, they bowed down, in obedience to the will of God and Patrick.

"Then Laeghairè said: 'It is necessary for you, O men of Erin, that every other law should be settled and arranged by us, as well as this.' 'It is better to do so,' said Patrick. It was then that all the professors of the sciences in Erin were assembled and each of them exhibited his art before Patrick, in the presence of every chief in Erin.

"It was then that Dubhthach was ordered to exhibit the judgments and all the poetry of Erin, and every law which prevailed among the men of Erin, through the law of nature, and {132} the law of the seers, and in the judgments of the island of Erin, and in the poets.

"They had foretold that the bright word of blessing would come—i.e., the law of the letter; for it was the Holy Spirit that spoke and prophesied through the mouths of the just men who were formerly in the island of Erin, as he had prophesied through the mouths of the chief prophets and noble fathers in the patriarchal law; for the law of nature had prevailed where the written law did not reach.

"Now the judgments of true nature which the Holy Ghost had spoken through the mouths of the Brehons and just poets of the men of Erin, from the first occupation of this island down to the reception of the faith, were all exhibited by Dubhthach to Patrick. What did not clash with the Word of God in the written law and in the New Testament, and with the consciences of the believers, was confirmed in the laws of the Brehons by Patrick and by the ecclesiastics and the chieftains of Erin; for the law of nature had been quite right, except the faith and its obligations, and the harmony of the church and the people. And this is the Senchus Mor.

"Nine persons were appointed to arrange this book—viz., Patrick, and Benen, and Cairnech, three bishops; Laeghairè, and Corc, and Dairè, three kings; Rosa—i.e., Mac-Trechim, and Dubhthach—i.e., a doctor of the Bérla Feini, and Fergus—i.e., a poet.

"Nofis, therefore, is the name of this book which they arranged—i.e., the knowledge of nine persons—and we have the proof of this above."

And in one of the ancient commentaries on the introduction we are told:

"Before the coming of Patrick there had been remarkable revelations. When the Brehons deviated from the truth of nature, there appeared blotches upon their cheeks; as first of all on the right cheek of Sen Mac Aige, whenever he pronounced a false judgment, but they disappeared again when he had passed a true judgment, etc.

"Connla never passed a false judgment, through the grace of the Holy Ghost, which was upon him.

"Sencha Mac Col Cluin was not wont to pass judgment until he had pondered upon it in his breast the night before. When Fachtna, his son, had passed a false judgment, if, in the time of fruit, all the fruit of the territory in which it happened fell off in one night, etc.; if in time of milk, the cows refused their calves; but if he passed a true judgment the fruit was perfect on the trees; hence he received the name of Fachtna Tulbrethach.

"Sencha Mac Aililla never pronounced a false judgment without getting three permanent blotches on his face for each judgment. Fitliel had the truth of nature, so that he pronounced no false judgment. Morann never pronounced a judgment without having a chain around his neck. 'When he pronounced a false judgment the chain tightened around his neck. If he passed a true one it expanded down upon him."

Corc and Dairè were territorial chieftains, or minor kings. Laeghairè, son of Niall of the Nine Hostages, was monarch of Erin; his reign commenced A.D. 428, four years before the arrival of Patrick, and ended with his life in 458, one year after the foundation of Armagh by that great Christian missionary. Laeghairè is usually called the first Christian king of Ireland, but it seems more likely from the evidence we have that he himself did not become a Christian, although he acknowledged the merit of St. Patrick, and gave him permission to preach and baptize, on condition that the peace of the kingdom should not be disturbed. Travellers in our time, by mail-steamers from Holyhead and the Island of Druids, may some of them not know that Kingstown is a name given, but a few years ago, to "Dunleary"—that is, the fortress of King Laeghairè, when George IV., by graciously landing there, supplanted the {133} memory of the ancient king. Dubhthach, Fergus, and Rossa, or Rosa, were eminent poets and learned men; they exhibited "from memory what their predecessors had sung"—for much of the ancient law was preserved in the form of verse, and Dubhthach, "royal poet of Erin," at the compilation of the Senchus Mor, put a thread of poetry round it for Patrick. Many parts of the work as we have it are in verse.

The subject of that part of the Senchus Mor which is contained in the volume before us is the "Law of Distress"—that is, the legal rules under which distraint was to be made of persons, cattle, or goods, in a great variety of cases. To a general reader, the legal verbosity and trivial repetitions make the book hard to read; but imbedded in it, so to speak, are many curious little fragments of a very remote and obscure social system, and some of these we shall proceed to set before our readers.

Fines in cases of death, bodily hurt, insult, or injury of whatever kind were arranged according to the dignity of the parties concerned. The "honor-price" is the same for a king, a bishop, a chief law-professor, and a chief poet who can compose a quatrain extemporaneously.

At a feast, "his own proper kind of food" is assigned to persons of different rank—as, for example, the haunch for the king, bishop, and literary doctor; a leg for the young chief; a steak for the queen; the heads for the charioteers; and a croichet [unknown part] for "a king opposed in his government."

Should a person have property, it shall not increase his honor-price, unless he do good with it.

A king with a personal blemish was allowed with difficulty, if at all.

In case of distress by or on a person of distinction, fasting was a necessary legal form—the creditor had to "fast upon" his debtor until a pledge was given for the claim. Something very similar to this curious process is found in the ancient Hindoo laws, and appears to be practised in India to the present day, under the name of "dherna," According to Sir William Jones, the creditor sat at the debtor's door, abstaining from food, till, for fear of becoming accountable for the man's death, the debtor paid him. As to the Irish mode of "fasting upon" a debtor of the chieftain grade, exact particulars are not given; but it would seem that on presentation of the claim of distraint at the residence of the debtor the "fasting" began, and if the debtor did not pay or give a pledge, but allowed his creditor to go on fasting (it is not said for how long), he became liable to double the debt, and other penalties.

If one of inferior grade comes to sue one of the chieftain grade, he must be accompanied, on his part, by one of the chieftain grade.

Among articles enumerated as coming under various rather puzzling rules and exemptions in cases of distraint, we find, weapons for battle; a racehorse; a harp-comb, and other requisites for music; toys for the children—viz., "hurlets, balls, and hoops," and also "little dogs and cats;" the "eight parts which constitute a mill;" the fork and cauldron; the kneading-trough and sieve; the bed-furniture— i.e., plaids and bolsters; the reflector or mirror; the chess-board; the seven valuable articles of the house of the chieftain—viz., "cauldron, vat, goblet, mug, reins, horse-bridle, and pin;" the cattle-bells, the griddle, the "branch-light of each person's house;" the lap-dog of a queen, the watch-dog, the hunting hound; implements of weaving and of spinning.

Fines and penalties were provided, among other cases, for withholding the food-tribute from a king or chief; for the deficiency of a feast; for neglecting the due clearing of roads in war, or in winter, or at time of a fair; for neglecting the due preparation of a fair-green; for neglecting any persons or things cast ashore by the sea (in this case the "territory" was liable); {134} for neglecting "the common net of the tribe;" for breaking the laws of rivers and fishing; for neglecting the due maintenance and medical treatment of the sick; for not helping in the erection of the common fort of the tribe; for not blessing a completed work. This last is a curious offence. "It was customary," we read in a note to p. 132, "for workmen, on completing any work, and delivering it to their employer, to give it their blessing. This was the 'abarta,' and if this blessing was omitted, the workman was subject to a fine, or loss of a portion of his fee, equal to a seventh part of his allowance of food while employed—the food to which a workman was entitled being settled by the law in proportion to the rank of the art or trade which he professed. And it would appear that the first person who saw it finished and neglected the blessing was also fined." To the present day, among Irish peasants, it is thought a marked omission if, in transferring or praising, or even taking notice of, any possession, especially if it be a living creature, one neglects to say "God bless it!" or "I wish you luck with it!" or some such good word; and where you see any work going on, it is right to say, "God bless the work!"

Distress was levied on defaulters for share in building "the common bridge of the tribe;" for beef to nourish the chief "during the time that he is making laws;" for the "cow from every tribe," sent on demand, "when the king is on the frontier of a territory with a host." "Now, the custom is that this cow is taken from some one man of them for the whole number. They make good that cow to him only." Also for the victualling of a fort; for guarding and feeding captives; for the maintenance of a fool, or of a madwoman, or of an aged person, or of a child. "Five cows is the fine for neglecting to provide for the maintenance of the fool who has land, and power of amusing; and his having these is the cause of the smallness of the fine. Ten cows is the fine for neglecting to provide for the maintenance of every madwoman; and the reason that the fine is greater than that of the fool is, for the madwoman is not a minstrel, and has not land. If the fool has not land, or has not power of amusing, the fine for neglecting to provide for his maintenance is equal to that of the madwoman who can do no work." "A 'cumhal' of eight cows is the fine for neglecting to maintain any family senior who has land after his eighty-eighth year. As to each man of unknown age after his ninetieth year, his land shall pass from the family who have not maintained him to an extern family who have maintained him. As to every senior of a family and man of unknown age without land, a 'cumhal' of five 'seds' is the fine for not maintaining him."

There are fines for evil words, false reports, slander, nicknames, and satire. The poets were supposed to have the power of turning a man's hair gray by force of satire, or even of killing him. There are also fines for "failure of hosting," "the head of every family of the lay grades is to go into the battle;" "every one who has a shield to shelter him, and who is fit for battle, is to go upon the plundering excursion." "Three services of attack" are enumerated—on pirates, aggressors, and wolves; and "three services of defence"—to secure "promontories [hills?], lonely passes, and boundaries."

"Distress of three days for using thy horse, thy boat, thy basket, thy cart, thy chariot, for wear of thy vessel, thy vat, thy great cauldron, thy cauldron; for 'dire'-fine in respect of thy house, for stripping thy herb-garden, for stealing thy pigs, thy sheep; for wearing down thy hatchet, thy wood-axe; for consuming the things cast upon thy beach by the sea, for injuring thy meeting-hill, for digging thy silver mine, for robbing thy bee-hive, for the fury of thy fire, for the crop of thy sea marsh, for the 'dire'-fine in respect to thy corn-rick, thy turf, thy ripe {135} corn, thy ferns, thy furze, thy rushes, if without permission; for slighting thy law, for slighting thy inter-territorial law, for enforcing thy 'Urradhus' law; in the case of good fosterage, in the case of bad fosterage, the fosterage fee in the case over fosterage for cradle clothes; for recovering the dues of the common tillage land, for recovering the dues of joint fosterage, for recovering the dues of lawful relationship, for unlawful tying, over-fettering of horses, breaking a fence to let cows into the grass; breaking it before calves to let them to the cows. The restitution of the milk is in one day."

There are also fines for quarrelling in a fort; for disturbing the meetinghill; for stripping the slain; for refusing a woman "the longed-for morsel;" for scaring the timid, with a mask or otherwise; for causing a person to blush; for carrying a boy on your back into a house so as to strike his head; for love-charms and "bed-witchcraft;" for neglect in marriage; for "setting the charmed morsel for a dog—i.e., to prove it;" for failure as to "the safety of a hostage;" for "withholding his fees from the Brehon."

For mutilation and for murder, the "eric-fine and honor-price" varied according to circumstances.

Distress of five days' stay is "for not erecting the tomb of thy chief;" "for false boasting of a dead woman;" for satirizing her after her death; for causing to wither any kind of tree; for the eric-fine for an oath of secret murder.

In certain cases, persons were exempted from distress for a longer or shorter period. For example: "A man upon whom the test of the cauldron is enjoined—i.e., to go to a testing cauldron—and he shall have exemption until he returns;" "a man whose wife is in labor;" "a man who collects the food-tribute of a chief."

The bodies and bones of the dead are protected by penalties. There is a fixed fine and "honor-price" for carrying away the remains of a bishop out of his tomb (as relics?); also breaking bones in a churchyard, "to take the marrow out of them for sorcerers." "The bone of a king drowned in the stream, or of a hermit condemned to the sea and the wind," belongs to the people of the land where it happens to be cast, until the tribe of the deceased pay for its redemption.

There are penalties for "lookers-on" at an ill deed; and these are divided into three classes: "a looker-on of full fine" is one who "instigates, and accompanies, and escorts, and exults;" of half fine, one who does not instigate, but does the other acts; of quarter-fine, one who "accompanies only, and does not prohibit, and does not save." Clerics, women, and boys are exempt.

One is accountable (in different degrees) for one's own crime, the crime of a near kinsman, the crime of a middle kinsman, and the crime of a kinsman in general.

"There are four who have an interest in every one who sues or is sued"—the tribe of the father, the tribe of the mother, the chief, the church; also the tribe of the foster-father.

"Every tribe is liable after the absconding of a member of it, after warning, after notice, and after lawful waiting."

The notes to this volume are few and unimportant, and further elucidations on many points are much to be desired. The printing of the original Gaelic along with the translation must add greatly to the cost of the work, but the value of the text to philologers may perhaps make this worth while. Only we hope that this laudable and interesting undertaking, of the publication of the ancient laws and institutes of Ireland, will not, like other Irish schemes that could be named, make a costly and elaborate beginning, and then, exhausting its means in the outset, break down altogether. This first volume gives us a strong desire to see the proposed plan carried into {136} completion without undue delay. It would appear that all the heavy part of the literary work of it is already done.


The Transparency of the Sea. —At a late meeting of the French Academy of Science, M. Cialdi and Father Secchi sent the result of some observations they have made "On the Transparency of the Sea." The experiments were made at the end of April, on board a vessel, near Civita Vecchia, from six to twelve miles from land, and at depths varying from 90 to 300 metres, the sea being perfectly clear and tranquil. Discs of different diameters and colors attached to wires being plunged horizontally under water, showed that the maximum depth at which the largest (a white disc 3-1/4 metres in diameter) could be seen was 42-1/2 metres, the sun being elevated 60-1/4° above the horizon. With a vertical sun the depth of visibility shall be 45 metres. The color of the disc appeared at first a light green, then a clear blue, which became darker as it was lowered, until it could no longer be distinguished from the surrounding medium. Discs of a yellow or sandy color disappeared at less than half the depth of the white discs—that is to say, between 17 and 24 metres. The height of the sun and the clearness of the sky greatly influence the depth at which objects may be seen. Viewing the light reflected from a submerged white disc through a spectroscope, the red and yellow colors were found to be rapidly absorbed. As it was sunk deeper in the sea a portion of the green became absorbed, the other colors remaining unaltered. The authors remark that this luminous absorption of the more refrangible rays is what would be expected from the calorific opacity and the actinic transparency of water. From the foregoing results, they doubt whether the bottom of the sea has ever been seen at a depth of 100 metres, as it is more probable that the mud and sand brought up by waves has been mistaken for such: the fact that the bottom of the sea is a worse reflector than the white disc, strengthens this supposition.

Irish Limestone Caverns.—At a late meeting of the Cork Cuvierian Society, Professor Harkness, so well known for his investigations of Scottish rocks, announced the discovery of the bones of mammals in a limestone quarry at Middleton, County Cork. The rock consists of the ordinary limestone of the district, in one part much fissured, and under this fissured portion there is a mass of brown clay, the thickness of which cannot be determined, as its base is not seen. This reddish-brown clay under the limestone is the deposit which furnishes the fossil bones, and which, doubtless, fills the space which was once a natural grotto. Beside the bones, which are in a fragmentary condition, there are also present teeth and antlers. The latter are much broken, and do not afford sufficient character to enable the species to be accurately determined. They seem, however, to belong to two forms, one of which had the beam and branches smooth and sub-compressed, features which indicate the antlers of the reindeer; and the other with the horns rounded and rough, a form of surface which marks the antlers of the common stag. Of these antlers two portions which appear to belong to the reindeer have been cut while in the fresh state; and the faces of the cuts being almost smooth, this cutting appears to have been effected by a fine regular-edged instrument rather than, by a serrated tool. The leg bones which appear in this clay have all been broken, for the most part longitudinally, except the carpal and tarsal, and other small bones of the extremities. This longitudinal fracturing of the long bones of the leg is not known to occur in any mammalian remains which belong to a period previous to that where we have evidence of the existence of {137} the human race; and these broken bones afford evidence of the occurrence of man, who, for the purpose of obtaining the marrow, divided them in the direction most available for this object. Beside the evidence afforded by the cut antlers and longitudinally divided bones, there are other circumstances indicating the occurrence of man in connection with these remains; one of these is the presence of charred wood, which is equally disseminated through the clay with the bones and teeth. This charred wood is the remains of the ancient fires by means of which former human beings cooked their food.

Is there an Open Arctic Sea?—Sir Roderick Murchison, who answers this question in the affirmative, gives the following arguments in support of his opinion:—(1.) The fact has been well ascertained by Scoresby and others, that every portion of the floating pack-ice north of Spitzbergen is made up of frozen sea-water only, without a trace of terrestrial icebergs like those which float down Baffin's Bay, or those which, carrying blocks of stone and débris, float northward from the land around the South Pole. (2.) The northern shores of Siberia tell the same tale; for in their vast expanse the absence of icebergs, or erratic blocks, or anything which could have been derived from great or lofty masses of land, has been wen ascertained. (3.) As a geologist, Sir R. Murchison could point out that this absence of erratic blocks in northern Siberia has existed from that remote glacial period when much larger tracts of northern Europe were occupied by glaciers than at the present day. (4.) The traveller Middendorf found the extreme northern promontory of Siberia, Taimyr, clad with fir trees, while the immense tract of country to the south of it was destitute of trees, showing a milder climate at that point of Siberia nearest the pole.

Food as a Means of Preventing Disease,—It seems not at all improbable that, as has been shown by Liebig in the case of plants, most of those diseases which we at present attribute to the presence of some morbid substance in the blood, are produced in the first instance by the absence of some of the proper constituents of the blood. The blood when abnormally composed will allow vegetable and other growths to take place in it, thus producing painful symptoms; but if it contained its suitable components, it is most probable that it would be then enabled to resist the development of the materials we refer to. In the case of the potato disease, there can hardly be a doubt that the sap becomes deteriorated, owing to the absence of the proper proportion of potash, prior to the development of the oïdium which commits such ravages. The idea which we have given has not had many advocates in this country, and we are glad to find that Mr. Erasmus Wilson has in some measure lent his support to the theory. Although Mr. Wilson does not go as deeply into the question as we should wish, still he shows that food may well be employed not only in preventing but in curing disease. If, he says, it be admitted that food is the source of the elements of which the body is composed, what kind of body can be expected in the case of a deficient supply of food, whether that deficiency proceed from actual want, or from some perverse theory of refinement, founded on a false conception of the nature and objects of food, and ignorance of its direct convertibility into the flesh and blood of man? We think Mr. Wilson is too determined a supporter of flesh-eating tastes. If he had his way, he would convert man into a decidedly carnivorous animal, and we do not think that either experience or an appeal to the anatomy of the human masticatory and digestive organs would bear out his views.—Vide "On Food as a Means of Prevention of Disease."

Are the Flint Implements from the Drift Authentic?—A pamphlet has appeared from the pen of Mr. Nicholas Whitley, of the Royal Institution of Cornwall, in which it is attempted to be proved that the so-called flint implements are not the result of workmanship. The Popular Science Review gives the following abstract of Mr. Whitley's argument: (1.) The "implements" are all of flint. The tools employed by men of the recognized archaeological stone age are made of stones of various kinds, of which there are examples of serpentine, granular greenstone, indurated claystone, trap greenstone, claystone, quartz, syenite, chest, etc. Why, therefore, {138} should the only weapon in the drift deposit be manufactured from flint solely? (2.) The "implements" are all of one class—axes. Were they then a race of carpenters? Man is a cooking animal; and if ten thousand axes have been found, surely one seething-pot or drinking-cup ought to have turned up. He needs shelter, but no remnant of his clothing or hut has been found. Almost everywhere where there are chalk flints we find axes, and nothing but axes. (3.) There is a gradation in form from the very rough fracture of the flint to the perfect almond-shaped implement. Let the most enthusiastic believer in their authenticity examine carefully the one thousand implements in the Abbeville museum, and he would probably reject two-thirds as bearing no evidence of the work of man. But it would be impossible for him to say where nature ended and art began. (4.) Some of the implements are admirable illustrations of the form produced by the natural fracture of the egg-shaped flint nodule. (5.) It is supposed that these weapons were used for cutting down timber and scooping out canoes. But it should be remembered that the gravels in which they are found were formed during a severe Arctic climate, in which no tree but a stunted birch could have grown, certainly none large enough to form a canoe. (6.) Their number. The implements are found by thousands in small areas, and in numbers quite out of proportion to the thinly scattered population that must have (if at all) then existed.

The Sponge Fishery.—The main industry of the island of Crete is the sponge fishery which is pursued on its coasts. It is chiefly carried on by companionships of from twenty to thirty boats, for mutual support and protection. The mode of operation preparatory to a dive is very peculiar and interesting. The diver whose turn it is takes his seat on the deck of the vessel, at either the bow or stern, and placing by his side a large flat slab of marble, weighing about 25 lbs., to which is attached a rope of the proper length and thickness (1-1/2 inch), he then strips, and is left by his companions to prepare himself. This seems to consist in devoting a certain time to clearing the passages of his lungs by expectoration, and highly inflating them afterward; thus oxidizing his blood very highly by a repetition of deep inspirations. The operation lasts from five to ten minutes, or more, according to the depth; and during it the operator is never interfered with by his companions, and seldom speaks or is spoken to; he is simply watched by two of them, but at a little distance, and they never venture to urge him or distract him in any way during the process. When from some sensation, known only to himself, after these repeated long-drawn and heavy inspirations, he deems the fitting moment to have arrived, he seizes the slab of marble, and, after crossing himself and uttering a prayer, plunges with it like a returning dolphin into the sea, and rapidly descends. The stone is always held during the descent directly in front of the head, at arm's-length, and so as to offer as little resistance as possible; and, by varying its inclination, it acts likewise as a rudder, causing the descent to be more or less vertical, as desired by the diver. As soon as he reaches the bottom he places the stone under his arm to keep himself down, and then walks about upon the rock, or crawls under its ledges, stuffing the sponges into a netted bag with a hooped mouth, which is strung round his neck to receive them; but he holds firmly to the stone or rope all the while, as his safeguard for returning and for making the known signal at the time he desires it. The hauling up is thus effected: The assistant who has hold of the rope awaiting the signal, first reaches down with both hands as low as he can, and there grasping the rope, with a great bodily effort raises it up to nearly arm's-length over his head; the second assistant is then prepared to make his grasp as low down as he can reach, and does the same; and so the two alternately, and by a fathom or more at a time, and with great rapidity, bring the anxious diver to the surface. A heavy blow from his nostrils to expel the water and exhausted air indicates to his comrades that he is conscious and breathes, a word or two is then spoken by one of his companions to encourage him if he seems much distressed, as is often the case; and the hearing of the voice is said by them to be a great support at the moment of their greatest state of exhaustion. A few seconds' rest at the surface, and then the diver returns into the boat to recover, generally putting {139} on an under-garment or jacket, to assist the restoration of the animal heat he has lost, and to prevent the loss of more by the too rapid evaporation of the water from his body.—Travels in Crete.

The Sun's Spots.—Father Secchi writes from Rome, under date of Aug. 8, to the Reader as follows: I thank you for the interest you take in the observations of the sun. The last large spot has been very interesting for science, and I hope to be able to publish all the drawings we have made of it by projection. Meanwhile I send you two of them, photographed on a large scale. You will see in the printed article which I send you, that I have been able to see the prominences and depressions produced by the spot at the edge of the sun; not only myself but also M. Tacchini. I regret that the shortness of time does not allow me to copy the drawings made on that occasion, but I send a copy of them to Mr. De la Rue, and you will see them. As to the willow-leaves and rice-grains question, I think, as you say, we are all right and all wrong. I will state clearly what I see. On first placing the eye to the telescope, and in very good moments of definition, the surface of the sun appears certainly to me made up of many oblong bodies, which I think are the willow-leaves of Mr. Nasmyth; their orientation is in every direction, but they take a converging direction in the neighborhood of the spots, where they form the tongues, currents, and such like. But this view is, as I said, rather difficult to obtain, and many times I have looked for it quite without success. Is this a defect of vision, or caused by the sun's changements? If by willow-leaves other things than these are understood, I have not seen them. M. Airy seems to understand other things, and then I am quite at a loss. This, therefore, is a matter very problematic, and to be better studied. By projection on a large scale in some beautiful moments of definition, these oblong bodies on the general surface of the sun have been seen by my assistant also; but generally they are not visible, but the sun appears like clouds. As to the mobility of the solar surface, you can judge from the two photographs that I send you; they have been made only at an interval of twenty-four hours. I think we assisted at the outbreaking of the spot, and at its arrangement from a great confusion of movements into a regular transformation of an ordinary group of spots. The appearance which I have seen is quite like that which takes place when a great movement is excited in a stream of running water, which finally resolves itself into some vortices which take their course independently. The movement of these spots even alone is capable of demonstrating materially what Mr. Carrington has found with great labor—that there is in the sun a real drift of matter, since without this it would be impossible to explain how the spot has been increased in two days to a length twice as great as its breadth, this remaining almost constant. But more of this in a particular memoir.



By John Henry Newman, D.D., of the Oratory of St. Philip Neri. London: Longman, Green, Longman, Roberts & Green. 1865. 8vo., pp. 379.

Under this title, Dr. Newman has republished the charming autobiography which originally appeared as an answer to the calumnies of Charles Kingsley, and was entitled "Apologia pro Vita Sua," republished in a neat and attractive manner by the Appletons. We earnestly recommend all our readers, whether they be Catholics or not, who have not procured and read the "Apologia," to do so without delay, if they wish to give themselves a rich intellectual treat. The American edition is decidedly to be preferred, on account {140} of the complete history it furnishes of the controversy with Mr. Kingsley which led to the composition of the book. In England, this controversy is already well-known to the entire religious and literary world, and may be supposed by this time to have lost its interest. Dr. Newman's autobiography will never lose its interest and value while the English language remains; and for this reason, it was no doubt a wise thought in the author to prepare it for posterity in a form wherein the local and personal controversy which occasioned its being written should no longer be connected with its proper subject-matter. No doubt, too, the author felt some reluctance to perpetuate, in close connection with his own personal history, the memory of the severe castigation which he administered to his opponent. This is honorable to his delicate and charitable sentiments. At the same time, the castigation was necessary, it was just, it was not one whit too severe, and we owe a debt of gratitude to Dr. Newman for having applied the terrible lash which he possesses, but which he employs so seldom and usually so lightly, in this case with all his strength to the shoulders of a delinquent. There is a certain small class of writers in the English Church, some of whom are Puseyites, others more or less broad in their views, who violate all the laws of honorable and courteous warfare in their attacks on the Catholic Church. They take the line of charging fraud, forgery, lying, and utterly unprincipled and wicked motives and maxims upon the hierarchy, priesthood, and other advocates of the Catholic cause. One of the first and foremost of these was Mr. Meyrick, of Oxford, the author of a disingenuous work against Catholic morals, and one of Mr. Kingsley's defenders. This work of Mr. Meyrick's was republished in this country with a more offensive preface, by the Rev. A. C. Coxe, now the bishop of Western New York, a person who has abjured all regard to the rules of common civility, both in his public writings and speeches concerning the Catholic clergy, and also in his private demeanor when he has happened to be thrown into contact with them personally. This class of writers adopt what Dr. Newman happily styles a mode of warfare which consists in "poisoning the wells." That is, they seek to forestall all debate on the merits of the Catholic question, by accusing the advocates of the Catholic side of being liars by principle and on system; infamous persons, who have no claim to decent treatment or even to a hearing. There is but one course to be taken with opponents of this sort. Argument, explanation, courtesy, are alike thrown away upon them. They must be treated like guerrillas, and summary justice must be done up on them, as the only means of self-defence, and as a salutary example to others. They must be taught that they cannot have free license to calumniate and vituperate the Catholic Church or its members with impunity. How effectually this lesson was read to them by Dr. Newman, is shown by the hearty applause which his book received from all England, the evidence of which may be seen in the review of it which appeared in the principal English periodicals.

We wish to be understood that the language we have used above has no application to any but a few offending individuals, whose spirit and manner are even more severely condemned by a large class of the non-Catholic public than by Catholics themselves. It is very gratifying to observe the respectful, moderate, and courteous tone which many of the most illustrious of the recent advocates of the Protestant side maintain toward the Church of Rome and her distinguished and worthy members. Copying after Leibniz, the greatest genius which the Protestant confession can boast of, we have, among others, Guizot, Ranke, Dr. Pusey, Palmer; and in this country, William R. Alger, who, albeit he has inadvertently repeated some of the current misstatements of Catholic doctrine, has always shown a fairness and generosity of spirit and a readiness to correct mistakes which make him conspicuous among our honorable opponents. In this species of candor and courtesy the most eminent writers of the continent are still far before the most of those in England and America. Dr. Newman himself and his compeers in the early Oxford movement, even in their strongest and most pronounced expressions of opinion against Rome and against various form of dissent, furnished the most perfect specimens of the truly Christian and gentlemanly style of polemics which English literature had yet {141} seen. Never was there a man who kept his intellect and his varied gifts as a writer more completely under the discipline of a strict conscience, one who was more scrupulously just and fair, truthful and frank, yet guarded and cautious, than John Henry Newman. He has the soul of knightly chivalry in him; religious, fearless, modest, and compassionate; loyal to the death to every sacred obligation, and scorning a mean or deceitful act more than common men do treason and perjury. Such a man ought to have been secure of honorable treatment; and yet he has not been spared in the strife of tongues; and if he has at last triumphed over calumny, it has only been by overpowering his enemies with the superior weight of his armor and strength of his arm, and not because his holy retirement and spotless name have been respected. However, after long years, during whose lapse the English people have disdained and slighted the man of genius and the pure Christian who is one of the greatest ornaments of their literature, on account of their intense hostility to his religion, their love of fair play, and admiration for intellectual greatness and prowess, has gained a signal victory, and we give them due credit for it. The demand for the "Apologia" on its first publication in successive numbers was so great that the Longmans were unable to keep up with it. That it has not been unappreciated also in this country is proved by the fact that four editions of the American reprint have been exhausted. Of the book itself, it is almost superfluous to speak at this late day. It will bear to be read and re-read, and the repeated perusal, instead of wearying, only brings out new charms and occasions an increasing delight. We have read and admired Dr. Newman's writings for more than twenty years, but have never so fully appreciated the wonderful subtlety and vigor of his intellect as we have done since reading his last book. It is like the keen, bright, dexterously wielded, and irresistible scimeter of Saladin. At his conversion Anglicanism lost a champion far more capable than any other of coping with its stoutest antagonists, and the Catholic Church gained over the most formidable of her foes who wields an English pen. Even as now reproduced by himself, as a mere history of the past, his method of defending the Church of England against Rome appears to us so much more subtle and plausible, and adroitly managed, not through any designed artifice on his part, but from the acuteness with which his mind detects all the most defensible points of his own position and the most assailable ones of the opposite, than that of any other writer, that we instinctively say, no man but John Henry Newman could fully refute himself. Each successive post at which he pauses in his gradual approach to the Catholic Church seems as defensible as the others which he has abandoned as untenable. At his very last halting place, he has the air of a man who is about to defend himself there to the last, and is not to be driven further. Indeed, he was not driven by any mind more powerful than his own; for although the arguments of Cardinal Wiseman had considerable weight with him, neither he nor any other Catholic writer really answered the difficulties which were in his own mind, or fully refuted, in a manner consonant to his intellectual convictions, the plausible arguments by which he justified to himself and recommended to others a continuance in the Anglican communion. He was driven only by his innate love of truth, his conscientiousness, his logical fidelity to his own first principles, and the grace of God. Humanly speaking, his conversion was one of the most unlikely events which has ever taken place. Ten years before it occurred he was at an immense distance from the Catholic Church, and advancing toward it by a most circuitous route, with the greatest apparent, reluctance. We rise from the perusal of his own record of his journey with a sentiment of astonishment that he ever reached his destination. When we remember the light in which Dr. Newman was regarded by his own school in the days of his leadership at Oxford, it appears to us that the estimate formed of him was both singularly just and singularly incorrect. It was just in one way, inasmuch as, whatever his modesty may suggest to the contrary, he was more than any other man the leader of the movement. It was incorrect, inasmuch as a far greater originative force in causing this movement and a far greater comprehension of its principles were attributed to him than he or any other man possessed. The {142} movement itself created its own agents, and bore them on with a power infinitely greater than they possessed of themselves. Dr. Newman was a master to inferior and more backward scholars; but was himself only a scholar, who began with the first and simplest rudiments of Catholicity. His merit consisted in this, that while many paused at various stages of elementary and partial knowledge, he pushed on to the mastery of final results and completed his curriculum. Considering what he had to learn, and that he had in great measure to be his own teacher, the space of ten years was really a short rather than a long period for the process.

The history of this process constitutes the direct object and the principal value and charm of the "Apologia," and the "History of My Religious Opinions." The mind of the author is, however, one of those full streams that overflows its bounds, and whose obiter dicta are frequently the richest and most precious of its effusions. There are several passages in this work falling within the scope of this remark. We can only call attention to two, without quoting them. One is found on pp. 266-273 of the American edition of the "Apologia," and relates to the doctrine of original sin. Another, on pp. 275-291, concerns the question of the relations between faith and science and reason and authority. In the very act of giving a reason for avoiding the discussion of these questions, the author has given in a short compass, one of the most admirable disquisitions we have ever read. There is no passage in all his writings which exhibits better the fine discrimination of his thought, and the perspicuity and beauty of his style, and in both these respects it is a specimen of the most perfect logical and rhetorical art.

We feel bound, however, to enter one caveat against a part of Dr. Newman's philosophy, which we regard not so much as being a positive error as a defect, and which has been quite distinctly brought out by the Westminster Review, as a part of his defence of Catholicity which presents a weak side to the infidel. This defect is one originating in the philosophy which has prevailed in England, and in which Dr. Newman was educated; one which has always been conspicuous in the writers of the Oxford school, and which appears to us to leave a great hiatus in their theology. This defect may be described, though it is not defined, as the doctrine probability, We have no hesitation in agreeing with Dr. Newman in the maxim, that in most matters "probability is the guide of life." We have heretofore thought, however, that he extended this principle into the domain of natural and revealed religion so far as to agree with those writers who consider their fundamental verities as being merely more probable than their logical contradictories. After carefully weighing his words, we have come to the conclusion that he does not use the word in this sense, when he speaks of the great truths of religion. That is, he does not admit that there is any real probability, though a lesser one, in the infidel negations, but only a metaphysical possibility. He allows of a moral certainty which admits of no prudent doubt to the contrary, but does not reach to a metaphysical certainty. Here again we agree with him partially, and if we understand rightly the ecclesiastical decisions on the point, we think his doctrine is one that has official sanction. That is, we regard, with him, the evidence of revealed religion and of the authority of the Catholic Church, as apprehended by the light of our natural intelligence in that act which theologians call "the preamble to faith," as being in the order of probability and incapable of generating more than a moral certainty. That certitude of belief which excludes possibility of error, we regard as an effect of the gift of faith imparting a supernatural firmness to the intellectual assent. We dissent from Dr. Newman, when he extends this doctrine to our ultimate belief in God, and we think it necessary, in order to give a firm basis even to a true probability, that we should affirm the absolute intuition of that idea of God, from which we are able to deduce his attributes; and, moreover, affirm also the perfect metaphysical demonstrability of all these attributes as expressed in the Christian conception of God. We dislike very much any form of expression which implies that we believe in God on a probability, which is tantamount to saying that "it is probable there is a God." Even if we say that the being of God is morally certain, we still leave it possible that there is no God. If we deduce {143} the being of God from the ultimate principle of the certainty of our own existence, we make our self-consciousness, our reason, the laws of our own being, the standard of right and truth which we establish within ourselves, more certain, and to us more ultimate than God. We become our own centre and stand-point, our own ultimate judge, a light and a law to ourselves, really subsisting in an intellectual independence of God. This is ceding, in our view, to the pure infidel rationalist all the ground he wants, which is simply liberty for every one to speculate about the cause of all things, and their procession to the ultimate end, as he lists. It is true he will do it without our leave, whatever our way of stating Christian truth; but if we admit, or do not clearly repudiate, his first principles, he will point out a logical defect in our argument, and show that we are inconsistent; and then the philosophical proof of Christianity, which consists in demonstrating the conception of God from first principles intuitively certain, and showing that none of the Christian doctrines which we received from testimony are incompatible with these first principles, will, in our hands, be defectively managed.

It is proper to state, however, that Dr. Newman does not propose anything dogmatically on this important question, but rather indicates that he has not yet obtained a solution which satisfies him.

By M. l'Abbé J. E. Darras; First American from the last French edition. With an Introduction and Notes by the most Rev. M. J. Spalding, D.D., Archbishop of Baltimore. Vol. I. 8vo., pp. 675. New York: P. O'Shea.

The appearance of this volume realizes very fully all we were led to expect from its prospectus. The first impression made upon us by its exterior dress is that this is an attractive and readable book; two qualities of a work on history which, whatever be the learning, accuracy, and completeness displayed in its more intimate perusal, are not to be despised. We are glad to meet with a life of the Church which does not look like a catalogue of dried and dead specimens for a scientific museum. The majority of the volumes which issue from the press now-a-days like a literary flood, owe their success a vast deal more to their beautiful typography, chaste binding, and other general attractive features, than to the solid merit of their contents. As there are certain orators whose appearance alone captivates their auditory, and excites in us a curiosity to hear what fine things such a fine-looking man has to say, so there are books which feel well to the touch, look good to the eyes, and prejudice one's judgment in their favor. We will listen to a stupid-looking speaker, or read a commonplace featured book, on the testimony of their friends, provided they give us strong recommendations; but a speaker "of a commanding presence and a winning air," or a book that is well gotten up, we think worthy of notice at the first introduction.

It is difficult to write an interesting history. Simple facts of the past stated in dry statistical style, like the reports of an insane asylum or a poor-house, are about as interesting as they, and appear to the general reader to be of about equal importance. We may be thought weak in judgment to say it, but we should like to read history for the same reason we like to read the last novel by Dickens, in which the author wields his magic pen to paint life-pictures of the events of the world before our mind, and compels us to be living witnesses of the past in the realm of imagination. To insure a deep interest and a lasting impression all the faculties of the mind should be engaged. Our imagination must not be told to step out of doors or go to sleep whilst our memory takes an inventory of facts consigned to its storehouse by a historian. The senses of sight and of taste are given to man that he may be guided in supplying his stomach with the proper quantum and quality of the food it craves. What these senses are to the stomach, the imagination is to the mind, and if it have no hand in the choice of mental food there cannot help but be an indigestion; the brain, indeed, holding the crude mass, but unable to make any use of it.

We may sum up in a few sentences the application these remarks may have to the history before us. The volume {144} comes to us with uncut edges. Let the reader open it at random. He finds before him a fair page, printed in large cool type, with broad generous margins, looking as a page ought to look, like a goodly field of wheat or corn, and not like a stiff, prim, pinched, and gravelled parterre. Let him read down one page, and he will surely bring his paper-cutter into requisition and follow the author to the beginning of the next paragraph. He will find the style, if we mistake not, like one of those charming, shady, winding, country roads, which always entice you to go just as far as the next turning; an agreeable contrast to the ordinary page of history, which to us is so like a grievous paved military road in France, straight enough, wide enough, and direct enough, but lamentably monotonous, dry, dusty, and tiresome. There is a little stiffness and dull regularity about the division of the subject-matter; but this is inevitable to any history of a long period, and may be regarded as the signboards and finger-posts on the road, making up in convenience what they detract from the romance.

As to the character of the work of M. Darras as a history—as one in which we can learn the actual life of our mother, the Church; one which we can quote with confidence in public, and not be obliged to contradict to its back as it stands on our shelves; one which we can give to our friends, of all classes and opinions, as a good, reliable, and respectable Church history—we are content to take it as such upon the warm approbation it has received at the hands of the Holy Father, the use that is made of it in colleges and seminaries in Europe, the approval it has obtained from the Rt. Rev. bishops there and in the United States, and the good opinion universally expressed concerning it by scholars whose critical judgment is worthy of reliance. Certainly we have no Church history equal to it in the English language, and we bid this translated French one welcome, and hope it may receive an hospitable reception amongst us.

The dissertation on the perpetuity of the Church, and the immortality of the Papacy, from the pen of the Most Rev. Archbishop Spalding, which embellishes this edition under the form of an introduction, is both appropriate and well deserving of perusal. The learned prelate puts us at once on reading acquaintance with the work of M. Darras, and enkindles in us the desire to know more of the eventful course of the existence of Holy Church.


CAPE COD. By Henry D. Thoreau. Boston: Ticknor and Fields. 1865. 12mo., pp. 252.

COMPLETE WORKS OF THE MOST REV. JOHN HUGHES, D.D., late Archbishop of New York. Comprising his Sermons, Letters, Lectures, Speeches, etc. Carefully compiled from the best sources, and edited by Lawrence Kehoe. Two vols. 8vo., pp. 670 and 810. New York: Lawrence Kehoe.

PASTORAL LETTER OF THE MOST RET. J. B. PURCELL, D.D., Archbishop of Cincinnati, to the Clergy and Laity of the archdiocese, on the late Encyclical Letter of his Holiness Pius IX. promulgating the Jubilee of 1865, with the Bull of Pius IX. authorizing the Jubilee of 1846. Printed at the "Cincinnati Catholic Telegraph" Office.

NATURAL HISTORY. A Manual of Zoology for Schools, Colleges, and the General Reader, by Sanborn Tenney, A.M. Illustrated. New York: Charles Scribner & Co. 12mo., pp. 540.

From D. & J. Sadlier and Co., New York, we have received the following: BANIM'S COMPLETE WORKS. PARTS 1, 2, 3, AND 4; THE OLD HOUSE BY THE BOYNE, by Mrs. Sadlier; CATHOLIC ANECDOTES. Part 1. Translated from the French by Mrs. Sadlier; THE LIVES OF THE POPES, from the French of Chevalier d'Artaud, Parts 1 and 2; CAECILIA, a Roman Drama, and THE SECRET, a Drama, by Mrs. J. Sadlier.



VOL, II., NO. 8.—NOVEMBER, 1865,

From Revue Générale, Bruxelles.


The events of which the United States have, during late years, been the theatre of action, have revived in the recollection of the editors of the Historisch-politische Blätter of Munich the name of Loretto, a small and unpretending town of Pennsylvania, the founder of which was Prince Demetrius Angustin Gallitzin, the son of the remarkable woman of whom Germany has a right to be proud. The occasion has suggested to them a biographical sketch, which, full of interest and appositeness, will unquestionably be read in Belgium and France with as much avidity as in Germany.

Twenty years have elapsed since Prince Gallitzin, who had exchanged the luxuries of princely courts for the poverty of those who herald the glad tidings, slept in the Lord, after forty years of apostleship in the wild regions of the Alleghany mountains. The work set up by the pious missionary yet remains, marked by all the elements of thrifty life, and the little oasis will long continue to be what it was at its origin—the cradle of a Christian civilization, which will go on spreading its blessings to the remotest boundaries, still retaining the unobtrusive modesty which moved its founder's thought. Indeed, had the matter rested with Gallitzin's own wishes, his very name would have passed into vague tradition in those extended regions. It might even have slept in oblivion; for the prince, so careful was he to avoid anything that could attract the attentions of the world, lived and exercised his holy ministry for many years under the borrowed name of Schmidt.

In Father Lemcke, however, and fortunately too, a canon of the abbey of the Benedictines of St. Vincent in Pennsylvania, was found a man who, better than any other, had it in his power to preserve the reminiscences of the noble missionary, and accurately to depict for us the traits of his manly character. Not only did the biographer of the prince know him personally, but he was also his friend, his confidant, his confessor, and his co-laborer in the missions. After Gallitzin's death, Father Lemcke came into possession of his papers, letters, and memoranda, which supplied him with desirable data on the period of life preceding their ministerial connection. He, and he alone, therefore, was in a condition to write a true biography of the prince, and he deemed it a duty to {146} rescue from oblivion the memory of this distinguished man. In connection with this subject, Father Lemcke indulges in a judicious remark: "The life of Gallitzin," says he, "is so intimately inwoven with the events which occurred during his own times, that it holds out to future generations an interest like to that which is offered to us in the life of a Bonifacius or of an Ansgarius, by reason of the facts which have characterized the epochs in which they lived."

Gallitzin belonged to the phalanx of missionaries who, in the United States, scattered the seeds of spiritual life. When the prince stepped on the soil of that vast territory, there was but one prelate, Rt. Rev. John Carroll of Baltimore, the first bishop of the United States, who, from the circumstances of the Church, had been obliged to seek Europe for his episcopal consecration. [Footnote 23] He had been but two years installed—from 1790—and had but uncertain and broken intercourse with his flock. His surroundings, restricted in numbers, but devoted to the holy cause, were mainly composed of, French priests. In this infant church Gallitzin was the second priest consecrated by the Bishop of Baltimore, and missioned, as a true pioneer of civilization, to carry the cross through the untouched forests of the New World, There is an unvarying likeness in all great undertakings; yet it required but a short time—a relatively short time—considerably to increase the number of those men who had devoted themselves to the task. In contrast with the bishop, who, in the course of five years, could ordain and rely on two priests only to feed the flock of the Lord, "The Catholic Almanac" of the day exhibits to us, for the United States, seven archbishops, thirty-six bishops, and four apostolic vicars, with the ministry of two thousand priests, with the addition of convents of various orders, of seminaries, of colleges, of numberless benevolent institutions, with over 4,000,000 of Catholics living under the protection of the laws, in the practice and enjoyment of their faith.

[Footnote 23: There are new details on this distinguished man in a recently published work: "Die Katholische Kirche in den Vereinigten Staatm von Nord Amerika," etc., etc. Regensburg. 1864.]

The Germans delight in recalling to mind that one of those who helped to lay the foundations of the Church in North America was the offspring of a princely house of the Fatherland. Gallitzin was a German on the maternal side; and the noble parent could well claim both the spiritual and natural motherhood of her son, the latter of which was, perhaps, glory enough. How magnificent a mission was that of Princess Amelia Gallitzin! While gathering around her circle the choice spirits which seemed destined to keep bright the torch of faith in Germany, and its living convictions in the midst of a superficial society without belief and without its guiding lights, the princess was rearing for the New World a son who was about to turn aside from a career which his birth and his wealth justly reserved for him, and take up the arduous and thankless labors of the apostleship. This very son it was who, through the work of faith, was destined to be the founder and civilizer of a now flourishing colony.

Strangely enough, nothing in young Gallitzin gave earnest of such a vocation. His almost feminine nature had marked him for a timid, shrinking child; but what was still worse, and a source of deep anxiety to his mother, to this was added a lack of decision, which seemed so deeply rooted in him that not even the iron will of the princess could, during the course of many years, draw out any perceptible results. We have a letter of the princess of the date of 1790, two years before the departure of Demetrius for America, in which she reiterates on this ground her former complainings, her exhortations, and her admonitions. It is proper, however, to advert that the incipient {147} method of training pursued by the princess herself was not free from defect; for, daring the nonage of her son, she herself wavered and hesitated between various systems of philosophy—a course which necessarily must have drawn her into many an error.

There was, therefore, a defectiveness in the main foundation of the training of young Gallitzin, who was reared in a sort of religious indifferentism. But a complete revulsion took place when, after leaving Münster, the princess was led to rest her convictions, not on this or the other system of philosophy, but on the rock of Christian faith—when, from her relations with such men as Furstenberg and Overberg, she herself had gained a greater degree of firmness and steadfastness. This reacted on the education of the son, in the greater decision and authority exerted by the mother; and it was not without fit intention that Demetrius, in the sacrament of confirmation, received the surname of Angustin.

Born on the 22d of December, 1770, at the Hague, where his father, a favorite of the Empress Catherine, was accredited as ambassador of Russia, young Gallitzin saw before him the opening of a career bound to lead to the highest dignities of either military or administrative service. Nothing, therefore, was spared in giving him a complete education, according to the requirements of the world. This education, developed and closed under his mother's eyes, must be perfected by travel; but whither to direct it was a question of moment. The aristocratic banks of the Rhine were ravaged by the revolutions and war had converted Europe into a vast battle-field. It opportunely happened, at that time, that a young priest, by the name of Brodius, whom the princess had known through the family of the Droste, and who had been admitted to her circle, was about crossing the Atlantic as a missionary to America. The princess had had occasions to value the rare endowments of this priest, and knew how justly her confidence in him could extend. She therefore proposed to him the companionship of her son in a journey which seemed to her to be the only practicable one warranted by the times. The princess, fortunately, met with no opposition on the part of the prince, her husband. An admirer of Washington, and still more so of the philosophic Jefferson, he readily agreed that his son should devote a couple of years to a visit to the United States, so as to judge for himself of the institutions all that country. He earnestly charged him to be introduced to these two great men; while the princess on her part armed him with a letter of recommendation to the Right Reverend Bishop Carroll.

In August, 1792, when twenty-two years of age, young Gallitzin took ship at Rotterdam on his way to America. No one could, certainly, have then stirred him with the idea that the land of America was marked out as a theatre for the evolutions of his existence. Was there a presentiment in that parting hour which, he could not know, was to mark an eternal farewell? Was it a last return of the original indecision of character which made him linger at the roadstead to which his mother had accompanied him? No one can now tell; but what we can say is that when, on the crests of the foaming billows, he caught sight of the yawl which was to carry him on board, his heart failed him, and he turned back to retrace his steps. Then did his mother turn back to him and, with a look of disappointment, "Dimitri," said she, "I blush for thee"—and, grasping his arm, she urged him on to the boat. In a moment, and how no one could tell, the young prince was engulfed in the waves. As quick as thought the practised hands of the sailors fished him up from the waters, and wafted him to the vessel that was to bear him away. Such was his farewell to Europe; but this sea baptism had regenerated him into a new man, as, at a later period, he told the story to his biographer.


On the whole, a noted change had taken place in young Gallitzin. In him every weakness and every irresolution had disappeared, and made room for a firmness, a determination, and an inflexibility which, to his family, became a source of greatest astonishment. Two months had hardly passed by in the intimacies of life with the Bishop of Baltimore, when he already felt, within himself, what soon became a clearly defined resolve. With the close of the year 1792 he wrote to Münster that he had devoted himself, body and soul, to the service of God and to the salvation of souls in America. He wrote that this resolution had been determined by the urgent call for laborers in the vineyard of the Lord; for in the country in which he was then sojourning, his priests had to travel over a hundred and fifty miles of territory, and more, to bring to the faithful the word and the means of salvation.

These were the first news of him received in Münster, and they were disseminated with the rapidity of lightning. From all sides sprang up objections, doubts, and remonstrances against the scheme of the young prince and the boldness of his undertaking. His mother, however, who had at first been alarmed and steeped in agony at the idea of such a vocation, soon reasserted her unerring judgment, and looked into the matter with her wonted greatness of soul. From the moment that, from letters of distinguished persons, and especially from those of the Bishop of Baltimore, as well as from those of her son, she became satisfied that his was a real and substantial calling, she felt perfectly secure, and all human considerations vanished from her sight. She therefore wrote to Dimitri that if, after having tried himself, he was sure that he had really obeyed his vocation, she willingly accepted the reproaches and troubles which could not fail to shower upon him; and that, for herself, she could not desire a consummation dearer to her heart—a greater reward—than to see the child of her affections a minister at the altar of God. And, indeed, not light was the burden of reproaches and afflictions which she had to bear for the love of that son—especially on the part of her husband, it was anything but light. Her letters to Overberg more than amply inform us on that subject Gallitzin, however, seemed to have left his European friends to the indulgence of their astonishment. Heedless of his former social relations, in firmness and resoluteness he trod the path which he had marked for himself, and prosecuted his theological studies with such fervency that his superiors, in view of his failing health, deemed it their duty to interpose. After two years of study, however, he became a sub-deacon, and, on the sixteenth of March, 1795, he was ordained to the priesthood.

There was no lack of labor, however, in the vineyard of the Lord, and the young Levite, the second one who came out of the first Catholic seminary in North America, was immediately put to work. At Port Tobacco, on the Potomac, Gallitzin entered his apostolical career. His fervor, no doubt, carried him too far into those proverbially malarial regions; for, stricken down by a spell of fever, he was ordered by his bishop to return to Baltimore, where Gallitzin was subsequently directed to ascend the pulpit and preach to the German population which had settled that portion of the state of Maryland.

The democratic spirit of American manners, which, with its innumerable abuses, had permeated even religions existence itself, was diametrically opposed to the just conceptions of the priesthood and of the organization of the Church which Gallitzin had formed in his mind. For the primitive morals of which he was then in quest he turned to the unsettled portions of Pennsylvania. "I went there," he tells us at a later period, "to avoid the trustees and all the irregularities which they beget. For success, I had {149} no other warrant than the building of something new, that could escape the routine of inveterate custom. Had I settled where the hand had already been put to the plough, my work would have been endangered, for it had been soon assailed by the spirit of Protestantism."

In the apostolic trips which frequently took him into the then far West, on the table lands of the Alleghany range, near Huntington, where the waters of the Ohio fork away from those of the Susquehanna, Gallitzin had alighted on a settlement made up of a few Catholic families. In the midst of this Catholic nucleus he resolved to establish a permanent colony, which he destined in his mind as the centre of his missions. Several poor Maryland families, whose affections he had won, resolved to follow him; and, with the consent of his bishop, he took up his line of march with them in the summer of 1799, and travelled from Maryland with his face turned to the ranges of the Alleghany mountains. And a rough and trying journey it was;—hewing their way through primitive forests, burdened at the same time with all their worldly goods. So soon as the small caravan had reached its new home, Gallitzin took possession of this, as it were, conquered land; and, without loss of time, all the settlers addressed themselves to the work before them, and worked so zealously that, before the end of the year, they had already erected a church. The following is Father Lemcke's account of the humble origin of this establishment:

"Out of the clearings of these untrodden forests rose up two buildings, constructed out of the trunks of roughly hewn trees; of these, one was intended for a church—the other, a presbytery for their pastor. On Christmas eve of the year 1799, there was not a winking eye in the little colony. And well there might not be! The new church, decked with pine and laurel and ivy leaves, and blazing with such lights as the scant means of the faithful could afford, was awaiting its consecration to the worship of God! There Gallitzin offered up the first mass, to the great edification of his flock, that, although made up of Catholics, had never witnessed such a solemnity, and to the great astonishment of a few Indians, who, wrapped up in the pursuit of the chase, had never, in their life, dreamed of such a pageantry. Thus it was that, on a spot in which, scarcely a year previous, silence had reigned over vast solitudes, a prince, thenceforward cut off from every other country, had opened a new one to pilgrims from all nations, and that, from the wastes, which echoed no sounds but the howlings of the wild beast, welled up the divine song which spoke: 'Glory to God in the highest, and peace, on earth, to men of good will!'"

The cost of this spiritual and material colonization was at first individually borne by Gallitzin. Captain McGuire, an Irishman, one of the early settlers of the country, had acquired 400 acres of land, which he intended for the Church. These he conveyed to Gallitzin, who divided into small tracts the lands, which he had purchased with his own means, and distributed them among the poorer members of his colony, on condition of reimbursement, by instalments, at long periods—a condition, however, which, in a majority of cases, never was complied with.

The wilderness soon put on a new aspect. The settlers followed the impulses of the indefatigable missionary, who kept steadfastly in view the improvement of his work. His first care was to set up a grist-mill; then arose numerous out-buildings; additional lands were purchased, and in a short time the colony was notably enlarged.

In carrying out his work, Gallitzin received material assistance from Europe. In its origin, sums of money were regularly remitted to him by his mother; for he kept up a correspondence, which his devotion to her made {150} dear to his heart In these relations his father took little, if any, interest, as the determination of his son—his only son—had proved to him a source of bitter disappointment. Still he anxiously desired to see him return to Europe. So engrossed, however, was the young missionary by his work, that such a trip seemed next to an impossibility. Several years had thus glided by, when the idea of visiting Europe earnestly engaged his mind.

In the month of June, 1803, he wrote to his mother, in apology for a long silence; telling her that he is seriously contemplating seeing her once more, but that he is trammelled in his desire by the want of a priest to take his place;—indeed, that his work has so grown under his hands, that he doubts whether he will ever again be privileged to clasp his mother in his arms. "I may not think of it," he adds; "my heart is fraught with affection for you, and it seems to me that I should absolutely see you once more, so as to borrow courage to follow the path which is marked out for me in this perverse world." The letters from Overberg are witnesses of the tears shed by the mother, so anxious again to look upon her son, as well as of the unmurmuring mournfulness of her resignation.

The announcement of his father's death again brought up the subject of his visit to Europe. Indeed, his presence was required in the settlement of his inheritance; but now, as before, the joy of once more treading his native soil, and the happiness of embracing his mother, had to yield to what he considered his duty to his infant colony. The just and plausible reasons which he alleges to his mother for his course, allow us at the same time fairly to appreciate the extent of his work, and the hopes built upon its success. Hence he suggests the consideration due to those families that his advice had influenced, for the greater honor of religion, to follow him in the wilderness;—the money obligations, contracted with various friends, who had trusted him with large sums to speed the development of his scheme, and whose confidence, therefore, might be seriously wronged by his departure;—the interests of so many others, who had committed all their worldly hopes into his hands and whom his absence might leave an easy prey to heartless speculators;—and, finally, the pending questions, started by the scheme of erecting into a county the territory to which the lands of the colony belonged. All these motives, to which others were added, were sufficiently weighty to press on the conscience of Demetrius the duty Of remaining at his post. This final resolution his mother learned with the firmness of Christian heroism. She wrote to the prince: "Whatever sorrow may have panged my motherly heart at the idea of renouncing a hope that a while seemed within reach, I owe it to truth to tell thee that thy letter has afforded me the greatest consolation that I can look for upon earth." It is a touching picture to behold, in the sequel, this zealous mother continuing her interest in the mission founded by the prince, and providing for its success in keeping with the inspirations of her heart. Thus it was that, through the channel of the Bishop of Baltimore, she transmitted to her son a bill of exchange for a considerable amount, a box of books—a treasure in those days—rosaries for the settlers, linen for himself and friends, garments, and even baby-clothes, for the poorer members of the settlement, sacerdotal vestments, embroidered by the princess herself, by her daughter, and by Countess de Stolberg, and, lastly, a magnificent present, which the missionary during his life valued beyond all price, and with which, in accordance with his wishes, he was laid to slumber in the tomb.

In the meantime Gallitzin's colony, settled in the midst of those wild wastes, had expanded and become a town, to which he gave the name of Loretto, the beginning of which are {151} thus described by our missionary's successor: "The colony was composed of individuals who generally purchased considerable tracts, varying from one to four hundred acres in extent, which they cleared and converted to cultivation. In proportion as the population increased, they gradually emerged from the savagery of the earlier periods, and soon experienced the wants of a growing civilization. The indication of those wants suggested to Gallitzin's mind the necessity of converting the humble settlement into a town. Mechanics, of every useful trade, rapidly gathered around the nucleus—blacksmiths, millers, carpenters, shoemakers, with even storekeepers, and Loretto soon assumed the position which its founder had designed.

"Here, then, stands the town; but, with its new dignity, came a host of vexations. It marked for Gallitzin a period of struggle against every imaginable difficulty, which brought his firmness to the sorest trials, and which indeed might have jeoparded the very existence of his work. In fact, the means of reducing, under the control of a single hand, the heterogeneous components of such a colony was no easy problem to be solved. Gallitzin efforts to bring it under a normal organization had to meet many an antagonizing element, whilst the peculiar American spirit, which had even then permeated those solitudes, reared up obstacles to his scheme. Gallitzin, however, proved unshakable, and exhibited an unbending energy of character. At one time there was an actual crisis in the prospects of the colony. A member of the community, with a fair allotment of the goods of this world, with the excitable American brain and a marked tendency to speculation, suddenly conceived the idea to set up a competition with the growing colony and to lay the foundations of a rival one in the neighborhood. He went to work accordingly, and, with the assistance of a few Irishmen, actually laid the foundations of village, which he named Munster, after one of the provinces of Ireland. This rival of Loretto immediately became the headquarters of the propagators of light, in other words, of those who had little relish for the zeal of Gallitzin and the inconvenient discipline of the Church. Satisfied not only with putting the prosperity of Loretto in evident peril, the seceders also assailed the character of Gallitzin, and through these means derived an unexpected help. It happened fitly for their purposes that at the time two German vagabonds—one a priest of most questionable character, and the other a nobleman, whom the crime of forgery had driven from the Old World—presented themselves to Gallitzin, and anything but pleased, no doubt, with the welcome which they received, resolved to swell the party of malcontents. With cunning malice, they soon disseminated reports injurious to their countryman, gave a pretended substance to unfounded suspicions, feeding the animosities of the common herd. The fact, also, of Gallitzin's having assumed a borrowed name was a means of shaking the settlers and sowing distrust in their minds. Things went on from bad to worse, and a catastrophe seemed to be imminent, when came the upshot, so much the more ludicrous because the less expected. The Gordian knot, after the expeditious American fashion, was cut by an Alexander who rejoiced in the name of John Wakeland. He was an Irishman, a giant in stature and strength, famed in the settlement as a wolf and bear killer; and in reality one of the kindest men in the world, and one of the hardest to stir from his natural proprieties. These miserable intrigues and base machinations aroused his indignation, and he immediately came to the conclusion to put an end to them by the interposition of the logic of the strong hand. The agitators had concocted a plan, which was devised to extort from Gallitzin some sort of an assent, and the {152} prince could hardly have escaped their intended violence had he not sought sanctuary in the chapel of Loretto. But the mob had merely adjourned their intended excesses; and they were preparing for extreme means to achieve their ends when John Wakeland, brandishing a sturdy hickory in the midst of the infatuated mob, declared that, he would "settle," on the spot, any one who durst threaten the good priest. There was a magical spell in the hickory. The timidly good men, who there, as everywhere else, had shrunk into a circle of impassive inaction, feeling the influence of a sturdy support, borrowed courage from the hour; and had it not been for the interference of Gallitzin, his detractors, to use an American phrase, would have had 'a rough time of it' From that moment, a complete revulsion of feeling took place in behalf of the missionary; while the bishop succeeded in ultimately restoring order and peace in the little parish. He carefully inquired into all the facts, and then addressed to the parishioners a letter which was posted at the church door, and recalled the faithful to the regular order of things.

"Difficulties, however, of another kind, and of a more serious import, waited on Gallitzin. From the death of his father, he had been suddenly cut off from the pecuniary assistance which he had periodically received from Europe. He himself, as a Catholic priest, had been, by the laws of Russia, excluded from his paternal heritage; while his mother, who had exhausted her means in litigations, was compelled to forego the assistance which, from time to time, she had extended to her son. In satisfying his boundless charities, and in the achievements of his plans, the founder of Loretto had somewhat relied on this inheritance, which thus passed away from his hands. This disappointment, therefore, brought upon him a new burden of anxiety and cares. Destitution and poverty might have been easily borne by him; but he could not make up his mind to give up the idea of founding an imposing Catholic colony—to abandon the undertaking which he had initiated—to be compelled to relinquish lands which had been reclaimed by so much toil and so much care—and, especially, to face impatient creditors, who might accuse him of thoughtlessly going into debt, and from such an accusation justify their expression of contempt."

As a crowning development to all of these tribulations, the European mail brought to Gallitzin the news of his beloved mother's death. On the 17th of April, 1806, in the city of Münster, the excellent princess had closed her eyes for ever, comforting her disappointment that she had not been permitted to see her son on earth by the hope that she would surely meet him in heaven. The narrative of the last moments of the Princess Gallitzin, received, by the stout-hearted missionary, through the letters of his sister, of Overberg, and of Count de Stolberg, supplied a fund of inexpressible comfort; but from that hour the temporal claims and requirements of his position bore terribly on his endurance. It required unheard-of efforts to save his undertaking from the burden of indebtedness, and if, at the hour of his death, he quit-claimed the property of the Church and left it free from all and every charge, the blessed consummation came with the sunset of life only, and that, too, after miracles of constant energy. And here, especially, looms up the secondary phase of Gallitzin's character, which had not escaped his father's more searching eye. In fact, and in answer to a letter of his wife, in which she bitterly complained of the inertness of their son, then sixteen years of age, he wrote to her that "deep waters run still; that, to his mind, she misconceives the disposition of Demetrius, and that he is ever running against wind and tide." And indeed, to struggle against the torrent of time and of events was the whole work of his life. And against this torrent he heaved up the bulk of {153} his writings that have come down to us. It is easy to conceive that it required no common reason to induce a man of his temper of mind to write. We have the motive of this reason in the fact that a Presbyterian preacher of Huntington had thought fit to assail and calumniate the Catholic Church as an institution dangerous to the country and to its liberties. Gallitzin immediately took up the pen in answer, and the necessities of the controversy turned him into a polemica writer.

There are in America, no less than in other countries, fanatical sectarians who follow their congenial instincts in sounding the alarm-cry whenever the Catholic Church marks out new limits of lawful conquest. In this instance, the state was declared to be in peril; but Gallitzin lost no time in confounding the slanderers of Catholicity by the publication of his "Defense of Catholic Principles," which appeared in Pittsburgh in the year 1816. This work, written in English—for the author wielded the English with as much facility as he did the German language, his mother tongue—was, on both shores of the ocean, greeted with success. Father Lemcke made a German translation of the "Defense of Catholic Principles," of which two editions were published in Ireland and four in the United States, ranking "in popularity with 'Cobbett's History of the Reformation,' to which it bears a resemblance in putting a probing finger on the plague-spot of Protestantism."

The start being once made, Gallitzin followed up his first work with other publications of an entirely practical character, directed against certain prevalent moral diseases of the day, which mark an epoch in the monography of American ideas. Gallitzin was perfectly familiar with the mode of treatment of the feverish exuberance of American notions, and he handled them with all the cautious skill of a prudent practitioner. Everything which he published on these matters, both in elucidation of his views and as a muniment against the evils which he denounced, is written in the winning and popular style which was familiar to his pen. Hence his works were crowned with success, even amongst the higher classes of society. "Gallitzin's publications," says his biographer, "exerted an immense influence in the period when he lived, but especially so among the humbler members of the community, for whom they were destined. They were found, and they may still be found, in the form of unpretending pamphlets, in the hotels and steamboats of the West, for he had them printed at his own expense and distributed as the Protestant colporteurs disseminate their Bibles and tracts. The curiosity of the readers enlarged their circulation everywhere; and I myself have found them as perfectly thumbed as any spelling-book in spots where I never dreamed of meeting with them."

In the meantime, Gallitzin, who had hitherto labored under the protecting shadow of his humility, had begun to attract the attention of the American world around him. The manner in which he had marked his entrance in social life—not so much by the power of genius as by that integrity of character which commanded the respect of public opinion—had carried his reputation far beyond the limits of the frontiers, and secured for him an esteem, the proofs of which came back to him in numerous testimonials gathering from all sides. It was at this time that he published various pamphlets signed with his real name: "Demetrius Augustin Gallitzin, Catholic curate of Loretto."

It was natural, when the question of creating a new bishopric came up, that all eyes should turn to such a man as Gallitzin. There was a desire, therefore, more than once expressed to see him called to the episcopal chair; but he persistently repelled the intended dignity, and exerted his every power to counteract the efforts of {154} those who were anxious to have it conferred upon him. He asked for one favor only—that of remaining at Loretto; and, with this view, he consented to accept the functions of vicar-general to the Bishop of Philadelphia, which had been recently raised into a diocese.

Since the earlier period when Gallitzin entered on the discharge of the holy ministry, those regions had witnessed a great development of the Catholic faith. From all sides arose new parishes, while the field of labor went on enlarging under the tireless zeal of our missionary. "It may be safely affirmed," says his biographer, "that during the protracted years through which he administered to the district of country which now constitutes the sees of Pittsburg and Erie, he filled the place and discharged the duties of a bishop." In order to form a correct judgment as to the importance of his labors, we must go back, in imagination, to the exordium of the Catholic Church in those countries, where the pastors were cut off from all sustaining advice—from all diocesan organization—and where elements the most discrepant, and prejudices the most stubborn, were found in daily conflict. How many difficulties, therefore, to be encountered and overcome in the discrimination, in certain cases, between falsehood and truth! What prudence of action was required! How many and delicate problems presented to the decisions of a tender conscience! Gallitzin, however, was the man for the situation. "The writings," says his friend, "which his charge as vicar-general had compelled him from time to time to publish, bear witness not only to his vigilance and zeal, but also to the great charity which characterized the performance of his duties." His was a peculiar solicitude for the persecuted and the oppressed, because he knew from experience how readily, in America, they may be made the sport of falsehood, of malevolence, and of that thirst of revenge which exists everywhere. Hence the not inconsiderable number of persons, both ecclesiastics and laymen, who looked up to him for protection, and who might, but for its interpositions, have been for ever lost. His benevolent bearing won for him the confidence of the other priests who, like himself, had consecrated their lives to the salvation of souls. The pastor who from among them became at a later period the archbishop of Baltimore, having been in 1830 appointed coadjutor and administrator to the diocese of Philadelphia, immediately wrote to Gallitzin—whom he styled the propagandist of the faith—to ask the assistance of his experience and of his prayers, and to advise him that he not only confirmed his existing powers, but that he also authorized him to use, without the necessity of any previous application, those with which, as coadjutor, he was himself invested. These two men were bound till death by the closest ties of friendship.

All of Gallitzin's actions were stamped with the characteristics of candor and uprightness. Should the honor of the Church, or the dignity of her priesthood, be called into question, he knew no such word as compromise. He shrank from familiarity with that species of half education of which presumption is a leading feature; and ever, and everywhere, stood unshaken in his love and assertion of truth—a persistency which, on more than one occasion, called down upon him the imputation of an aristocratic and domineering spirit. Those, however, who, admitted to the closer intimacies of his life, were best qualified to judge, soon became convinced of the futility of the charge. If there were any note of distinction about him, it was to be traced in the loftiness of his conceptions; for he had long cast off all princely frippery; and the privileged society in which he especially delighted was that of the poor and the lowly, with whom he would kindly converse after possessing himself of their wishes and needs. {155} In the circuit of his missions, it was his pleasure to pass by the dwellings of opulence and seek the hospitalities of the humble cottage. There would the prince sit down to rest, surrounded by joyous children, distributing pictures among them and sharing in their humble fare.

Such was Gallitzin, shepherd of souls, polemic and vicar-general, at Loretto, whence the peaceful work of Christian civilization went on quietly progressing and gradually enlarging the circle of its benefits. Years had thus passed on, and the pioneer could already mark the slanting shadows of declining life, when a young missionary came over from Europe to share in his toils. This was Father Lemcke, a Benedictine, who, after having been his assistant, became his successor. Gallitzin was then sixty-four years of age. Father Lemcke has left us a picturesque account of his first meeting with the venerable missionary. He had set out from Philadelphia, and after several days of rough traveling reached Münster, where an Irish family gave him hospitality. From that village he procured a guide, and at this point of his narrative we find him with an Irish lad piloting him to Loretto. "As we had gone," says he, "a couple of miles through the woods, I caught sight of a sled, drawn by a pair of vigorous horses; and in the sled a half recumbent traveler, on every lineament of whose face could be read a character of distinction. He was outwardly dressed in a sort of threadbare overcoat; and, on his head, a peasant's hat, so worn and dilapidated that no one would have rescued it from the garbage of the streets. It occurred to me that some accident had happened to the old gentleman, and that he was compelled to resort to this singular mode of conveyance Whilst I was taxing my brains for a satisfactory solution of the problem, Tom, my guide, who was trotting ahead, turned round and, pointing to the old man, said: "Here comes the priest" I immediately coaxed up my nag to the sled. "Are you, really, the pastor of Loretto?" said I. "I am, sir." "Prince Gallitzin?" "At your service, sir," he said with a laugh. "You are probably astonished"—he continued, after I had handed him a letter from the Bishop of Philadelphia—"at the strangeness of my equipage? But there's no help for it. You have no doubt already found out that in these countries you need not dream of a carriage-road. You could not drive ten yards without danger of an overturn. I am prevented, since a fall which I have had, from riding on horseback, and it would be impossible for me now to travel on foot Beside, I carry along everything required for the celebration of holy mass. I am now going to a spot where I have a mission, and where the holy sacrifice has been announced for to-day. Go to Loretto and make yourself at home, until my return to night; unless, indeed, you should prefer to accompany me. You may be interested in the visit."

Father Lemcke accordingly followed Gallitzin, and after a ride of several miles they reached a sort of a hamlet, where there stood a good Pennsylvania farm, in which all the Catholics of the vicarage had gathered as on a festive day. The cabin had been transformed into a chapel, and the good people were there, crowding; some standing, others kneeling under the projecting shed; and others again, in small huts or under the foliage of the grand old trees, were awaiting the appointed hour. All had their prayer-books in their hands. At a sign from Gallitzin, Father Lemcke proceeded within to receive the confessions of the faithful; after which the prince celebrated mass, preached, and administered the sacrament of baptism. For his pious and good people it was a very festive day. The dinner which followed, and in which all shared, was a repast marked by the cheerfulness and the charity of the agapae of the primitive Christians.


By nightfall both priests had reached Loretto. On The Sunday following, Gallitzin introduced his assistant to his German parishioners, and then, with a quizzical smile, invited him, without any further ceremony, to ascend the pulpit. Father Lemcke had to undergo the ordeal, and it proved not to his disfavor. He had naturally supposed that the same roof which sheltered Gallitzin would also protect him. The old priest, however, could not see things in that light; and a few days after, he took him to Ebensburg, the principal county town, and there installed him as the pastor of the parish.

Each of the two missionaries who had thus halved the goodly work still had a respectable circuit to perform. There were stations fifty and even seventy miles apart, and over this immense extent of territory, which now constitutes the Pittsburg and Erie bishoprics, there were, with them, but three or four priests to attend to the work of the Lord. To Gallitzin was reserved the deep gratification of witnessing the branching off, from Loretto, of various Catholic parishes, which were formed in the very manner in which Loretto had been. Twelve miles north of the primitive colony, up to the head-waters of the Susquehanna, where lay cheap and rich lands, some of the more prosperous members of his parish purchased tracts for themselves and their families, and there laid the grounds of a settlement, to which they gave the name of St. Joseph, borrowed from the invocation of the church which Gallitzin had consecrated on that spot. It is now known on the maps as Carrollton. Among the early settlers and the heads of families were sturdy John Wakeland, whom the reader may not have forgotten, and his six sons, as tall and as stalwart as himself, and all, like him, devoted to the Catholic faith. On the very road to Loretto, and before the death of the prince, sprang up a rural parish under the name of St. Augustin. Another was formed with the appellation of Gallitzin—after the death of the missionary, be it understood; for his humility during his lifetime never could have consented to this endowment.

In 1836, Father Lemcke fixed his residence at St Joseph—urged somewhat to this course by Gallitzin, whose favorite idea had, for some time, been to witness on that spot the rise and growth of another Loretto. The old priest, growing into closer intimacy with the younger missionary, periodically came in his sled to St. Joseph, rejoicing to behold "a second edition of what he himself had created thirty years before." So thoroughly had he become linked to this new friend from far-off Europe, that he never but reluctantly parted from him, and even shed bitter tears on once hearing that the bishop contemplated changing Father Lemcke's residence.

Thus was it given to Gallitzin, in the decline of life, to behold trackless forests converted into fruitful fields. The transient cares and annoyances of life had disappeared, and a numerous Catholic population grew around him in the joys of contented toil. The early settlers who with him had shared the sweat and borne the burden of the day, had long bidden farewell to their humbler log-cabins. Well appointed farms, substantial barns, commodious dwellings, surrounded by beautiful gardens and smiling meadows, wooed the eye as the rewarding product of their privations and their toils.

In 1839 the old missionary's health began to fail. The load of years much less than the thousand hardships inseparably connected with the devotions of apostolic life, weighed heavily on a frame attenuated indeed, but still erect and resisting. Yet the burden went on pressing still—the body gradually bent—the step unsteady—the divine fire which always kindled still animated him; but the voice would refuse the assistance of its sounds, and the close of his sermons turn into a peroration of silent {157} tears a thousand times more eloquent then his spoken words. And yet, with all these warnings, he rejected every suggestion of precaution and care of himself. To this he would answer, in his own energetic language, that "as the days had gone by when, by martyrdom, it was possible for us to testify to God's glory upon earth, it was our duty, like the toil-worn ox, to remain hitched to the plough in the field of the Lord." And the event harmonized with his wish. On Easter Sunday, 1840, Gallitzin, being then seventy years of age, had early in the morning taken his seat in the confessional. After the discharge of its duties, he had braced up the remnants of his strength to ascend the altar for holy sacrifice. He was, however, compelled to forego the sermon of the day to betake himself to his bed, from which he was destined never again to rise. The attentive care of Dr. Rodriguez, his intimate friend, prolonged his existence for a few weeks; but it was soon ascertained that the noble missionary was fast sinking under exhausted energies. With the rapidity of lightning, the sad news was carried abroad. From far and near, old and young gathered around his dwelling, once more to receive the blessing of the man whom they revered. So great was the affluence of the people, that in order to secure a few quiet moments for the glorious veteran of faith, absorbed in the last meditations and prayers of earth, it became necessary to warn away the increasing throng of visitors—and this without his knowledge; for it was his wish to receive every one of them, and to each to speak the last farewell which welled up from his loving heart. Yet some did come for whom no such words passed his lips, which on the contrary moved in utterances of reproof and blame. Among others came in one of the parishioners, to whom the dying pastor had been particularly kind. He, however, had proved ungrateful, and had, indeed, been a cause of much annoyance to the missionary by habits of drunkenness and other excesses of an unregulated life. As he entered the room, the venerable pastor turned to him with a reproachful look and shook his head. This silent sermonizing produced a deeper impression than had any previous admonition of Gallitzin. The self-accusing culprit fell upon his knees, melted to tears, confessed his errors, and promised thenceforward to amend. The evidence of his sincerity is found in the statement of Gallitzin's successor, who informs us that he stoutly held to his promise.

The last scene of this eventful life closed on the sixth of May, when the missionary prince left this world, accompanied by the prayers of his parishioners gathered around him; for every apartment of the house, and every portion of the chapel attached to it, was literally thronged by a wailing, weeping, and praying community. This supreme hour revealed the depth and the sincerity of the love which dwelt in every heart for this man of God. On the day of his burial, whole populations swarmed from every point—from distances ranging fifty and sixty miles—to pay to the good father a last tribute of that affectionate respect which had attended him through life.

The most respectable men of the parish contended for the honor of bearing his body to the cemetery. In the body of the church, it was a perfect contest among the congregation to look for the last time on the feature of him who was thenceforward for ever lost to earth. Those who were lucky enough, through the pressure of the crowd, to reach the coffin, kissed in tearful love the icy hands of the missionary; while the attendants were compelled to resort to force in order to close the coffin for the final rites of the Church.

It were no easy task, without reference to the work of his biographer—an ocular witness of Gallitzin's labors—to convey a just conception of their bearing and extent "When," he says, "we come to consider the {158} theatre on which Gallitzin inaugurated his immense labors in so obscure and modest a manner, we realize the amount of substantial good that can be achieved by an apostolic missionary in America when, like Gallitzin, he conceives the practical sense of things and leads them on to their crowning development with the zeal and perseverance which marked his course. The small county of Cambria, in Pennsylvania, created in 1807, which is indebted to Gallitzin for a majority of its settlers, is everywhere, and with every reason, characterized as the Catholic county. Indeed, when the traveller on business, or the tourist for pleasure, strikes this point from other districts of Pennsylvania more controlled by Protestant influences, it seems to him that he has passed from a comparative desert into a smiling oasis. This may be easily understood. For all their journeyings for whole days, over counties twice and thrice more opulent than this little Catholic county, there is no indication to tell them what religion is there professed. Not till they have pressed the soil of Cambria county do they feel that they are in a truly Christian land, as they catch sight of ten Catholic churches and three monasteries—all of which cropped out of Loretto under Gallitzin's creative and fostering hands."

From all these results we can frame an accurate judgment of the prince's career, which was but one continuous struggle—a glorious struggle, teeming with usefulness. When Gallitzin opened his mission, the vicar of Christ was persecuted and proscribed. A prisoner, torn away from his spiritual family, Pius VI. heard the voices of a philosophic world applauding his abduction, as, ten years later, it applauded the violence inflicted on the person of Pius VII. It was just at that dark period which overshadowed the Holy See that the Church inaugurated her peaceful labors in the United States, and, at the end of ten years, had marked her beneficent influences by a progress so rapid that its result could not escape the eye of even the least observant. While Europe was organizing a settled persecution of the papal power, the Church in America was growing up and expanding in influence. Her very adversaries were compelled to bear even reluctant witness to her triumphs. In one of the meetings of a Bible society some years ago. Lord Barclay exhibited a summary, in which he lamented the spread of Catholicity in a country in which he said that in the year 1790 there was not even a bishop. "Strange," he said, "that while, in Europe, the power of the see of Rome is overthrown, the Pope is a prisoner, and Rome is declared to be the second city of the French empire—strange, I say, that, at this very moment, the power of the Pope should be rooted in America in this still stranger manner." Ay! strange indeed, my Lord Barclay; but in no way strange for those who know that martyrdom is the life of the Church, and that she woos triumph in persecution. Gallitzin's life is a living, convincing proof of her triumphs and her hopes.


From The Sixpenny Magazine.



  My soul was restless, and I sought
    The elf's wild haunt, and breath'd sweet airs:
  I track'd the river's devious route:—
    In vain!—my heart was vext with cares.

  I wandered from the noble park,
    The trimly gay parterre to view;
  Thence pluck'd a rose, without one mark
    To rob it of its faultless hue;

  And, home returning, quaintly placed
    My trophy in a tiny tray
  Of antique silver curious traced;
    Then, charg'd with odor, turn'd away.

* * * * *

  I enter'd yestermorn the room
    Where, all forgotten, dwelt my flower
  Unhappy fate! that tender bloom
    Fell, fainting for the genial shower.

  Vanish'd all vigor had; and now—
    The perfume fled—the tints grown dull—
  It had been sin, I did allow,
    For this so choice a bud to pull.

  Then, with sore heart, I brought a stream
    Of clearest water to its cup.
  What wonder if new life 'gan gleam,
    And care restored what hope gave up?

  Lo! leaf by leaf was slowly raised,
    Till olden flashes came at length:
  Each plaintive petal oped, and gazed.
    And thank'd me with its growing strength.

* * * * *

  Our hearts are like thee, little Rose;
    They quicken what time love-beams shine;
  But under dismal clouds of woes
    How can they choose but droop and pine?

  If sympathy with lute attend
    To lull with some resistless psalm,
  Misfortune's darts can never rend:
    Friends soothe, hope cheers, and heaven anoints with balm!


From The Month.





Then methought was witnessed (I speak of the time when Sir Hammond l'Estrange made the savage speech which caused his lady and me to exchange affrighted looks) a rare instance of the true womanly courage which doth sometimes lie at the core of a timid heart. The meek wife, which dared not so much as to lift up her eyes to her lord if he did only frown, or to oppose his will in any trifling matter; whose color I had seen fly from her cheek if he raised his voice, albeit not in anger against herself, now in the presence of those at table, with a face as pale as ashes, but a steady voice, and eyes fixed on him, thus addressed her husband:

"Sir, since we married I have never opposed your will, or in anything I wot of offended you, or ever would if I could help it. Do not, therefore, displeasure me so much, I beseech you, in this grave instance, as to make me an instrument in the capture. And God knoweth what should follow of one which came to me for help, and to whom the service I rendered him would prove the means of his ruin if you persist therein."

"Go to, madam, go to," cries Sir Hammond; "your business doth lie with poor people, mine with criminals. Go your way, and intrude not yourself in weightier matters than belong to your sex."

"Sir," she answers, braving his frowning looks, albeit her limbs began to tremble, "I humbly crave your patience; but I will not leave you, neither desist from my suit, except thereunto compelled by force. I would to God my tongue had been plucked out rather than that it should utter words which should betray to prison, yea, perhaps to death, the poor man whose wounds I tended."

The cloud on Sir Hammond's brow waxed darker as she spoke. He glanced at me, and methinks perceived my countenance to be as much disturbed as his lady's. A sudden thought, I ween, then passed through his mind; and with a terrible oath he swore that he misliked this strenuous urging in favor of a vile popish priest, and yet more the manner of this intercession.

"Heaven shield, madam," he cried, "you have not companied with recusants so as to become infected with a lack of zeal for the Protestant religion!"

The color returned for a moment to Lady l'Estrange's cheeks as she answered:

"Sir, I have never, from the time my mother did teach me my prayers, been of any other way of thinking than that wherein she then instructed me, or so much as allowed myself one thought contrary to true Protestant religion; or ever lent an ear, and with God's help never will, to what papists do advance; but nevertheless, if this priest do fall into any grievous trouble through my speeches, I shall be a most unhappy woman all my life."

And then the poor soul, rising from her seat, went round to her husband's side, and, kneeling, sought to take his hands, beseeching him in such moving and piteous terms to change his purpose as I could see did visibly affect some present. But I also noticed in Sir Hammond's face so resolved an intent as if nothing in earth or heaven should alter it. A drowning wretch {161} would as soon have moved a rock to advance toward him as she succeeded in swerving his will by her entreaties.

A sudden thought inspired me to approach her where she had sunk down on her knees at her husband's feet, he seeking angrily to push her away. I took her by the hand and said:

"I pray you, dear lady, come with me. These be indeed matters wherein, as Sir Hammond saith, women's words do not avail."

Both looked at me surprised; and she, loosing her hold of him, suffered me to lead her away. We went into the parlor, Mrs. l'Estrange following us. But as I did try to whisper in her ear that I desired to speak with her alone, the bell in the dining-room began to ring violently; upon which she shuddered and cried out:

"Let me go back to him, Mistress Sherwood. I'll warrant you he is about to send for the constables; but beshrew me if I die not first at his feet; for if this man should be hung, peace will be a stranger to me all my life."

Mistress l'Estrange essayed to comfort her; but failing therein, said she was very foolish to be so discomposed at what was no fault of hers, and she should think no more thereon, for in her condition to fret should be dangerous; and if people would be priests and papists none could help if they should suffer for it. And then she left the parlor somewhat ruffled, like good people sometimes feel when they perceive their words to have no effect. When we were alone, "Lady l'Estrange," I said, "where is Master Rugeley's house?"

"One mile, or thereabouts, across the heath," she answered.

"And the way to it direct?" I asked.

"Yea, by the footpath," she replied; "but much longer by the high road."

I went to the window and opened the shutter and the lattice also. The moon was shining very brightly.

"Is it that cottage near to the wood?" I inquired, pointing to a thatched roof nigh unto the darksome line of trees against the sky.

"Yea," she answered, "how near it doth seem seen in this light! Constance, what think you to do?" she exclaimed, when I went to her cupboard and took out the keys she had showed me that morning opened the doors of the kitchen garden and the orchard.

"Did you not say," I answered, "that the gentleman now in so great peril did lodge with Master Rugeley?"

"Would you go there?" she said, looking aghast. "Not alone; you durst not do it!"

"Twenty times over," I answered, "for to save a man's life, and he—he a—" But there I stopped; for it was her fellow-creature she desired to save. Her heart bled not like mine for the flock which should be left without a shepherd; and albeit our fears were the same, we felt not alike. I went into the hall, and she pursued me—one-half striving to stay me from my purpose, one-half urging me to fulfil it; yet retracting her words as soon as uttered.

"When I issue from the door of the orchard unto the heath," I said, the while wrapping round me a cloak with a hood to it, "and pursue the path in front, by what token may I find Master Rugeley's house if the moon should be obscured?"

"Where two roads do meet," she said, "at the edge of the heath, a tall oak doth stand near to a gate; a few steps to the right should then lead to it. But verily, Mistress Constance, I be frightened to let you go; and oh, I do fear my husbands's anger."

"Would you, then, have a man die by your means?" I asked, thinking for to cure one terror by another, as indeed it did; for she cried,

"Nay, I will speed you on your way, good Constance; and show so brave a face during your absence as God shall help me to do; yea, and open the door for you myself, if my husband should kill me for it!"


Then she took the keys in her hand, and glided like unto a pale ghost before me through the passage into the hall, so noiselessly that I should have doubted if aught of flesh and blood could have moved so lightly, and undid the bars of the back door without so much as a sound. Then she would fetch some thick shoes for me to wear, which I did entreat her not to stay me for; but nothing else would content the poor soul, and, as she had the keys in her hand, I was forced to wait her return with so much impatience as may be guessed. I heard the voices of the gentlemen still carousing after supper; and then a servant's below in the hall, who said the constables had been sent for, and a warrant issued for the apprehension of a black papist at Master Rugeley's. Then Milicent returned, and whilst I put on the shoes she had brought, and she was tying with trembling fingers the hood of my cloak, the rustling of Mrs. l'Estrange's silk gown was heard on the stair above our heads, from whence we were like to be seen; and, fear awakening contrivance, I said aloud,

"Oh, what a rare pastime it should be to dress as a ghost, and frighten the good lady your sister-in-law! I pray you get me some white powder to pale my face. Methinks we need some kind of sport to drive away too much thinking on that dismal business in hand."

The steps over our head sounded more hurried, and we heard the door of the parlor close with a bang, and the lattice also violently shut.

"Now," I whispered, "give me the keys, good Lady l'Estrange, and go to your sister yourself. Say I was ashamed to have been overheard to plan so rank a piece of folly (and verily you will be speaking no other than the truth), and that you expect I shall not so much as show my face in the parlor this evening; and lock also my chamber-door, that none may for a surety know me for to be absent."

"Yea," answered the poor lady, with so deep a sigh as seemed to rend her heart; "but, God forgive me, I never did think to hide anything from my husband! And who shall tell me if I be doing right or wrong?"

I could not stay, though I grieved for her; and the sound of her voice haunted me as I went through the garden, and then the orchard, unto the common, locking the doors behind me. When this was done, I did breathe somewhat more freely, and began to run along the straight path amidst the heath. I wot not if my speed was great—the time seemed long; yet methinks I did not slacken my pace once, but rather increased it, till, perceiving the oak, and near it the gate Lady l'Estrange had mentioned, I stopped to consider where to turn; and after I had walked a little to the right I saw a cottage and a light gleaming inside. Then my heart beat very fast; and when I knocked at the door I felt scarce able to stand. I did so three times, and no answer came. Then I cried as loudly as I could, "Master Rugeley, I beseech you open the door." I heard some one stirring within, but no one came. Then I again cried out, "Oh, for our Blessed Lady's sake, some one come." At last the lattice opened, and a man's head appeared.

"Who are you?" he said, in a low voice.

"A friend," I answered, in a whisper; "a Catholic. Are yon Master Rugeley?"

"Yea," he answered.

"Oh, then, if Mr. Tunstall is here, hide him quickly, or send him away. I am a friend of Lady l'Estrange's and staying in her house. Sir Hammond hath received tidings that a priest is in this neighborhood, and a warrant is issued for to apprehend him. His lady unwittingly, and sorely troubled she is thereat, showed by her speeches touching your guest, that he is like to be Mr. Tunstall; and the constables will soon be here."

"Thank you," he replied whom I was addressing; "but Mr. Tunstall is not the name of my friend."

Then I feared he did take me for a spy, and I cried out, greatly moved, "As I do hope to go to heaven one {163} day, and not to hell, Master Rugeley, I speak the truth, and my warning is an urgent one."

Then I heard some one within the house, who said, "Open the door, Master Rugeley. I should know that voice. Let the speaker in."

Methought I, too, knew the voice of the person who thus spoke. The door was opened, and I entered a room dimly lighted by one candle.

"Oh, for God's sake," I cried, "if a priest is here, hide him forthwith."

"Are you a Catholic, my child?"

I looked up to the person who put this question to me, and gave a sudden cry, I know not whether of terror or joy; for great as was the change which the lapse of years, and great inward and outward changes, had wrought in his aspect, I saw it was my father.

"I am Constance," I cried; "Constance Sherwood! Oh, my dear father!" and then fell at his feet weeping.

After an instant's, astonishment and fixed gazing on my face, he recognized me, who was, I doubt not, more changed than himself, and received me with a great paternal kindness and the tenderest greeting imaginable, yet tempered with reserve and so much of restraint as should befit one who, for Christ's sake, had dissevered himself from the joys, albeit not from the affections, of the natural heart.

"Oh, my good child, my own dear Constance," he said; "hath God in his bounty given thy poor father a miraculous sight of thee before his death, or art thou come verily in flesh and blood to warn him of his danger?"

"My dear and honored father," I replied, "time presses; peril is indeed at hand, if you and Mr. Tunstall are the same person."

"The wounds in my hands," he answered, "must prove me such, albeit now healed by the care of that good Samaritan, Lady l'Estrange. But prithee, my good child, whence comest thou?"

"Alas!" I said; "and yet not alas, if God should be so good to me as by my means to save you, I am Sir Hammond's guest, being a friend of his lady's. I came there yesterday."

"Oh, my good child, I thought not to have seen thee in these thy grown-up years. Master Rugeley," he added, turning to his host, "this is the little girl I forsook four years ago, for to obtain the hundredfold our Lord doth promise."

"My very dear father," I said, "joy is swallowed up in fear. God help me, I came to warn a stranger (if so be any priest in these times should be a stranger to a Catholic), and I find you."

"Oh, but I am mightfully pleased," quoth he, "to see thee, my child, even in this wise, and to hear thee speak like a true daughter of Holy Church. And Lady l'Estrange is then thy friend?"

"Yea, my dear father; but for God and our lady's sake hide yourself. I warrant yon the constables may soon be here. Master Rugeley, where can he be concealed, or whither fly, and I with him?"

"Nay, prithee not so fast," quoth he. "Flight would be useless; and in the matter of hiding, one should be more easily concealed than two; beside that, the hollow of a tree, which Master Rugeley will, I ween, appoint me for a bed-chamber to-night, should hardly lodge us both with comfort."

"Oh, sir," said Rugeley, "do not tarry."

"For thy sake, no; not for more than one minute, Thomas; but ere I part from this wench, two questions I must needs ask her."

Then he drew me aside and inquired what facilities I continued to have in London for the exercise of Catholic religion, and if I was punctual in the discharge of my spiritual duties. When I had satisfied him thereon, he asked if the report was true which he heard from a prisoner for recusancy in Wisbeach Castle, concerning my troth-plight with Mr. Rookwood.

"Yea," I said, "it is true, if so be you now do add your consent to it."


He answered he should do so with all his heart, for he knew him to be a good Catholic and a virtuous gentleman; and as we might lack the opportunity to receive his blessing later, he should now give it unto me for both his most dear children. Which he did, laying his hand on my head with many fervent benisons, couched in such words as these, that he prayed for us to be stayed up with the shore of God's grace in this world; and after this transitory life should end, to ascend to him, and appear pure and unspotted before his glorious seat. Then he asked me if it was Lady l'Estrange who had detected him; whereupon I briefly related to him what had occurred, and how sore her grief was therein.

"God bless her," he answered; "and tell her I do thank her and pray for her with all mime heart."

And more he would have added, but Master Rugeley opened the door impatiently. So, after kissing once more my father's hand, I went away, compelled thereunto by fears for his safety, if he should not at once conceal himself.

Looking back, I saw him and his guide disappear in the thicket, and then, as I walked on toward Lynn Court, it did almost seem to me as if the whole of that brief but pregnant interview should have been a dream; nor could I verily persuade myself that it was not a half habitant of another world I had seen and spoken with rather than mine own father; and in first thinking on it I scarcely did fully apprehend the danger he was in, so as to feel as much pain as I did later, when the joy and astonishment of that unexpected meeting had given way to terrifying thoughts. Ever and anon I turned round to gaze on the dark wood wherein his hopes of safety did lie, and once I knelt down on the roadside to pray that the night should be also dark and shield his escape. But still the sense of fear was dulled, and woke not until the sound of horses' feet on the road struck on my ear, and I saw a party of men riding across the common. The light in the cottage was extinguished, but the cruel moon shone out then more brightly than heretofore. Now I felt so sick and faint that I feared to sink down on the path, and hurried through the orchard-door and the garden to the house. When I had unlocked the back door and stood in the hall where a lately kindled fire made a ruddy light to glow, I tried again to think I had been dreaming, like one in a nightmare strives to shake off an oppressive fancy. I could not remain alone, and composed my countenance for to enter the parlor, when the door thereof opened and Mrs. l'Estrange came out, who, when she perceived me standing before her, gave a start, but recovering herself, said, good-naturedly:

"Marry, if this be not the ghost we have been looking for; now ashamed, I ween, to show itself. I hope, Mistress Sherwood, you do not haunt quiet folks in their beds at night; for I do, I warn you, mislike living ghosts, and should be disposed to throw a jug of water at the head of such a one." And laughing, she took my hand in a kind manner, which when she did, almost a cry broke from her: "How now, Milicent! she is as cold as a stone figure. Where has she been chilling herself?"

Milicent pressed forward and led me to my chamber, wherein a fire had been lighted, and would make me drink a hot posset. But when I thought of the cold hollow of a tree wherein my father was enclosed, if it pleased God no worse mishap had befallen him, little of it could I force myself to swallow, for now tears had come to my relief, and concealing my face in the pillow of the bed whereon for weariness I had stretched myself, I wept very bitterly.

"Is that poor man gone from Rugeley's house?" Milicent whispered.

Alas! she knew not who that poor man was to me, nor with what anguish I answered: "He is not in the {165} cottage, I hope; but God only knoweth if his pursuers shall not discover him." The thought of what would then follow overcame me, and I hid my face with mine hands.

"Oh, Constance," she exclaimed, "was this poor man known to thee, that thy grief is so great, whose conscience doth not reproach thee as mine doeth?"

I held out my hand to her without unshading my face with the other, and said: "Dear Milicent! thou shouldst not sorrow so mach for thine own part in this sore trial. It was not thy fault. He said so. He blest thee, and prays for thee."

Uncomforted by my words, she cried again, what she had so often exclaimed that night, "If this man should die, my happiness is over."

Then once more she asked me if I know this priest, and I was froward with her (God forgive me, for the suspense and fear overthrew better feelings for a moment), and I cried, angrily, "Who saith he is a priest? Who can prove it?"

"Think you so?" she said joyfully; "then all should be right."

And once more, with some misdoubting, I ween, that I concealed somewhat from her, she inquired touching my knowledge of this stranger. Then I spoke harshly, and bade her leave me, for I had sorrow enough without her intermeddling with it; but then grieving for her, and also afraid to be left alone, I denied my words, and prayed her to stay, which she did, but did not speak much again. The silence of the night seemed so deep as if the rustling of a leaf could be noticed; only now and then the voices of the gentlemen below, and some loud talking and laughter from some of them was discernible through the closed doors. Once Lady l'Estrange said: "They be sitting up very late; I suppose till the constables return. Oh, when will that be?"

The great clock in the hall then struck twelve; and soon after, starting up, I cried, "What should be that noise?"

"I do hear nothing," she answered, trembling as a leaf.

"Hush," I replied, and going to the window, opened the lattice. The sound in the road on the other side of the house was now plain. On that we looked on naught was to be seen save trees and grass, with the ghastly moonlight shining on them. A loud opening and shutting of doors and much stir now took place within the house, and, moved by the same impulse, we both went out into the passage and half way down the stairs. Milicent was first. Suddenly she turned round, and falling down on her knees, with a stifled exclamation, she hid her face against me, whisperings "He is taken!"

We seemed both turned to stone. O ye which have gone through a like trial, judge ye; and you who have never been in such straits, imagine what a daughter should feel who, after long years' absence, beholdeth a beloved father for one instant, and in the next, under the same roof where she is a guest, sees him brought in a prisoner and in jeopardy of his life. Every word which was uttered we could hear where we sat crouching, fearful to advance—she not daring to look on the man she had ruined, and I on the countenance of a dear parent, lest the sight of me should distract him from his defence, if that could be called such which he was called on to make. They asked him touching his name, if it was Tunstall. He answered he was known by that name. Then followed the murtherous question, if he was a Romish priest? To which he at once assented. Then said Sir Hammond:

"How did you presume, sir, to return into England contrary to the laws?"

"Sir," he answered, "as I was lawfully ordained a priest by a Catholic bishop, by authority derived from the see of Rome" (one person here exclaimed, "Oh, audacious papist! his {166} tongue should be cat out;" but Sir Hammond imposed silence), "so likewise," he continued, "am I lawfully sent to preach the word of God, and to administer the sacraments to my Catholic countrymen. As the mission of priests lawfully ordained is from Christ, who did send his apostles even as his Father sent him, I do humbly conceive no human laws can justly hinder my return to England, or make it criminal; for this should be to prefer the ordinances of man to the commands of the supreme legislator, which is Christ himself."

Loud murmurs were here raised by some present, which Sir Hammond again silencing, he then inquired if he would take the oath of allegiance to the queen? He answered (my straining ears taking note of every word he uttered) that he would gladly pay most willing obedience to her majesty in all civil matters; but the oath of allegiance, as it was worded, he could not take, or hold her majesty to possess any supremacy in spiritual matters. He was beginning to state the reasons thereof, but was not suffered to proceed, for Sir Hammond, interrupting him, said he was an escaped prisoner, and by his own confession condemned, so he should straightway commit him to the gaol in Norwich. Then I lost my senses almost, and seizing Lady l'Estrange's arm, I cried, "Save him! he is mine own father, Mr. Sherwood!" She uttered a sort of cry, and said, "Oh, I have feared this, since I saw his face!" and running forward, I following her, affrighted at what should happen, she called out, "It shall not be! He shall not do it!" and with a face as white as any smock, runs to her husband, and perceiving the constables to be putting chains on my father's hands and feet, which I likewise beheld with what feelings you who read this may think, she falls on her knees and gasps out these words in such a mournful tone, that I shuddered to hear her, "Oh, sir! if this man leaves this house a chained prisoner, I shall never be the like of my-self again. There shall be no more joy for me in life." And then faints right away, and Sir Hammond carries her in his arms out of the hall. Mine eyes the while met my father's; who smiled on me with kind cheer, but signed for me to keep away. I stretched my arms toward him, and with his chained hand he contrived yet once more for to bless me; then was hurried out of my sight. Far more time than I ever did perceive or could remember the length of I remained in that now deserted hall, motionless, alone, near to the dying embers, the darkness still increasing, too much confused to recall at once the comforts which sacred thoughts do yield in such mishaps, only able to clasp my hand and utter broken sentences of prayer, such as "God, ha' mercy on us," and the like; till about the middle of the night, Sir Hammond comes down the stairs, with a lamp in his hand, and a strange look in his face.

"Mistress Sherwood," he says, "come to my lady. She is very ill, and hath been in labor for some time. She doth nothing but call for you, and rave about that accursed priest she will have it she hath murthered. Come and feign to her he hath escaped."

"O God!" I cried, "my words may fall on her ear, Sir Hammond, but my face cannot deceive her."

He looked at me amazed and angry. "What meaneth this passion of grief? What is this old man to you, that his misfortune should thus disorder you?" And as I could not stay my weeping, he asked in a scornful manner, "Do papists so dote on their priests as to die of sorrow when they get their deserts?" This insulting speech did so goad me, that, unable to restrain myself, I exclaimed, "Sir Hammond, he whom you have sent to a dungeon, and perhaps to death also (God pardon you for it!), is my true father!—the best parent and the noblest gentleman that ever breathed, which for many years I had not seen; and here under your roof, myself your guest, I {167} have beheld him loaded with chains, and dared not to speak for fear to injure him yet further, which I pray God I have not now done, moved thereunto by your cruel scoffs."

"Your father!" he said amazed; "Mr. Sherwood! These cursed feignings do work strange mishaps. But he did own himself a priest."

Before I had time to answer, a serving woman ran into the hall, crying out, "Oh, sir, I pray you come to my lady. She is much worse; and the nurse says, if her mind is not eased she is like to die before the child is born."

"Oh, Milicent! sweet Milicent!" I cried, wringing my hands; and when I looked at that unhappy husband's face, anger vanished and pity took its place. He turned to me with an imploring countenance as if he should wish to say, "None but you can save her." I prayed to Our Lady, who stood and fainted not beneath the Rood, to get me strength for to do my part in that sick chamber whither I signed to him to lead the way. "God will help me," I whispered in his ear, "to comfort her."

"God bless you!" he answered in a hoarse voice, and opened the door of the room in which his sweet lady was sitting in her bed, with a wild look in her pale blue eyes, which seemed to start out of her head.

"Sir," I heard her say, as he approached, "what hath befallen the poor man you would not dismiss?"

I took a light in my hand, so that she should see my face, and smiled on her with such good cheer, as God in his mercy gave me strength to do even amidst the two-fold anguish of that moment. Then she threw her arms convulsively round my neck, and her pale lips gasped the same question as before. I bent over her, and said, "Trouble yourself no longer, dear lady, touching this prisoner. He is safe (in God's keeping, I added, internally). He is where he is carefully tended (by God's angels, I mentally subjoined); he hath no occasion to be afraid (for God is his strength), and I warrant you is as peaceful as his nearest friends should wish him to be."

"Is this the truth?" she murmured in my ear.

"Yea," I said, "the truth, the very truth," and kissed her flushed cheek. Then feeing like to faint, I went away, Sir Hammond leading me to my chamber, for I could scarce stand.

"God bless you!" he again said, when he left me, and I think he was weeping.

I fell into a heavy, albeit troubled, sleep, and when I awoke it was broad daylight. When the waiting-maid came in, she told me Lady l'Estrange had been delivered of a dead child and Sir Hammond was almost beside himself with grief. My lady's mind had wandered ever since; but she was more tranquil than in the night. Soon after he sent to ask if he could see me, and I went down to him into the parlor. A more changed man, in a few hours, I ween, could not be seen, than this poor gentleman. He spoke not of his lady; but briefly told me he had sent in the night a messenger on horseback to Norwich, with a letter to the governor of the gaol, praying him to show as much consideration, and allow so much liberty as should consist with prudence, to the prisoner in his custody, sent by him a few hours before, for that he had discovered him not to be one of the common sort, nor a lewd person, albeit by his own confession amenable to the laws, and escaped from another prison. Then he added, that if I wished to go to Norwich, and visit this prisoner, he would give me a letter to the governor, and one to a lady, who would conveniently harbor me for a while in that city, and his coach should take me there, or he would lend me a horse and a servant to attend me. I answered, I should be glad to go, and then said somewhat of his lady, hoping she should now do well. He made no reply for a moment, and then only said,

"God knoweth! she is not like herself at the present."

The words she had so mournfully {168} spoken the day before came into my mind, "I shall never be like myself again, and there shall be no more joy in this house." And, methinks, they did haunt him also.

I sat for some time by her bedside that day. She seemed not ill at ease, but there was something changed in her aspect, and her words when she spoke had no sense or connection. And here I will set down, before I relate the events which followed my brief sojourn under their roof, what I have heard touching the sequel of Sir Hammond and his wife's lives.

In that perilous and sorely troubled childbirth understanding was alienated, and the art of the best physicians in England could never restore it. She was not frantic; but had such a pretty deliration, that in her ravings there was oftentimes more attractiveness than in many sane persons' conversation. They mostly ran on pious themes, and she was wont to sing psalms, and talk of heaven, and that she hoped to see God there; and in many things she showed her old ability, such as fine embroidery and the making of preserves. One day her waiting-woman asked her to dress a person's wounds, which did greatly need it, and she set herself to do it in her accustomed manner; but at the sight of the wounds, she was seized with convulsions, and became violently delirious, so that Sir Hammond sharply reprehended the imprudent attendant, and forbade the like to be ever proposed to her again. He gave himself up to live retired with her, and ceased to be a magistrate, nor ever, that I could hear of, took any part again in the persecution of Catholics. The distemper which had estranged her mind in all things else, had left her love and obedience entire to her husband; and he entertained a more visible fondness, and evinced a greater respect for her after she was distempered than he had ever done in the early days of their marriage. Methinks, the gentleness of her heart, and delicacy of her conscience, which till that misfortune had never, I ween, been burdened by any, even the least, self-reproach, and the lack of strength in her mind to endure an unusual stress, made the stroke of that accidental harm done to another through her means too heavy for her sufferance, and, as the poet saith, unsettled reason on her throne. For mine own part, but let others consider of it as they list, I think that had she been a Catholic by early training and distinct belief, as verily I hope she was in rightful intention, albeit unconsciously to herself (as I make no doubt many are in these days, wherein persons are growing up with no knowledge of religion except what Protestant parents do instill into them), that she would have had a greater courage for to bear this singular trial; which to a feeling natural heart did prove unbearable, but which to one accustomed to look on suffering as not the greatest of evils, and to hold such as are borne for conscience sake as great and glorious, would not have been so overwhelming. But herein I write, methinks, mine own condemnation, for that in the anguish of filial grief I failed to point out to her during those cruel moments of suspense that which in retrospection I do so clearly see. And so, may God accept the blighting of her young life, and the many sufferings of mine which I have still to record, as pawns of his intended mercies to both her and to me in his everlasting kingdom!

When I was about to set out for Norwich, late in the afternoon of that same day, Sir Hammond's messenger returned from thence with a letter from the governor of the gaol; wherein he wrote that the prisoner he had sent the night before was to proceed to London in a few hours with some other priests and recusants which the government had ordered to be conveyed thither and committed to divers prisons. He added, that he had complied with Sir Hammond's request, and shown so much favor to Mr. Tunstall as to transfer him, as soon as he {169} received his letter, from the common dungeon to a private cell, and to allow him to speak with another Catholic prisoner who had desired to see him. Upon this I prayed Sir Hammond to forward me on my journey to London, as now I desired nothing so much as to go there forthwith; which he did with no small alacrity and good disposition. Then, with so much speed as was possible, and so much suffering from the lapse of each hour that it seemed to me the journey should never end, I proceeded to what was now the object of my most impatient pinings—the place where I should bear tidings of my father, and, if it should be possible, minister assistance to him in his great straits. At last I reached Holborn; and, to the no small amazement of my uncle, Mrs. Ward, and Muriel, revealed to them who Mr. Tunstall was, whose arrival at the prison of Bridewell Mrs. Ward had had notice of that morning, when she had been to visit Mr. Watson, which she had contrived to do for some time past in the manner I will soon relate.


One of the first persons I saw in London was Hubert Rookwood, who, when he heard (for being Basil's brother I would not conceal it from him) that my father was in prison at Bridewell, expressed so much concern therein and resentment of my grief, that I was thereby moved to more kindly feelings toward him than I had of late entertained. He said that in the houses of the law which he frequented he had made friends which he hoped would intercede in his behalf, and therein obtain, if not his release, yet so much alleviation of the hardships of a common prison as should render his condition more tolerable, and that he would lose no time in seeking to move them thereunto; but that our chief hope would lie in Sir Francis Walsingham, who, albeit much opposed to papists, had always showed himself willing to assist his friends of that way of thinking, and often procured for them some relief, which indeed none had more experienced than Mr. Congleton himself. Hubert commended the secrecy which had been observed touching my father's real name; for if he should be publicly known to be possessed of lands and related to noble families, it should be harder for any one to get him released than an obscure person; but nevertheless he craved license to intimate so much of the truth to Sir Francis as should appear convenient, for he had always observed that gentlemen are more compassionate to those of their own rank than to others of meaner birth. Mr. Congleton prayed him to use his own discretion therein, and said he should acquaint no one himself of it except his very good friend the Portuguese ambassador, who, if all other resources failed, might yet obtain of the queen herself some mitigation of his sentence. Thereupon followed some days of weary watching and waiting, in which my only comfort was Mistress Ward, who, by means of the gaoler's wife, who had obliged her in the like manner before, did get access from time to time to Mr. Watson, and brought him necessaries. From him she discovered that the prisoner in the nearest cell to his own was the so-called Mr. Tunstall, and that by knocks against the wall, ingeniously numbered so as to express the letters of the alphabet, as one for a, two for b, and so to the end thereof, they did communicate. So she straightway began to practice this management; but time allowed not of many speeches to pass between them. Yet in this way he sent me his blessing, and that he was of very good cheer; but that none should try for to visit him, for he had only one fear, which was to bring others into trouble; and, for himself, he was much beholden to her majesty, which had provided him with a quiet lodging and time to look to his soul's welfare; {170} which evidence of his cheerful and pious spirit comforted me not a little. Then that dear friend which had brought me this good comfort spoke of Mr. Watson, and said she desired to procure his escape from prison more than that of any other person in the same plight, not excepting my father. "For, good Constance," quoth she, "when a man is blest with a stout heart and cheerful mind, except it be for the sake of others, I pray you what kind of service do you think we render him by delaying the victory he is about to gain, and peradventure depriving him of the long-desired crown of martyrdom? But this good Mr. Watson, who as you well know was a zealous priest and pious missioner, nevertheless, some time after his apprehension and confinement in Bridewell, by force of torments and other miseries of that place, was prevailed upon to deny his faith so far as to go once to the Protestant service—not dragged there by force as some have been, but compelled thereunto by fear of intolerable sufferings, and was then set at liberty. But the poor man did not thus better his condition; for the torments of his mind, looking on himself as an apostate and traitor to the Church, he found to be more insupportable than any sufferings his gaolers put upon him. So, after some miserable weeks, he went to one of the prisons where some other priests were confined for to seek comfort and counsel from them; and, having confessed his fault with great and sincere sorrow, he received absolution, and straightway repaired to that church in Bridewell wherein he had in a manner denied his faith, and before all the people at that time therein assembled, declared himself a Catholic, and willing to go to prison and to death sooner than to join again in Protestant worship. Whereupon he was laid hold of, dragged to prison, and thrown into a dungeon so low and so straight that he could neither stand up in it nor lay himself down at his full length to sleep. They loaded him with irons, and kept him one whole month on bread and water; nor would suffer any one to come near him to comfort or speak with him."

"Alas!" I cried, "and is this, then, the place where my father is confined?'

"No,", she answered; "after the space of a month Mr. Watson was translated to a lodging at the top of the house, wherein the prisoners are leastways able to stretch their limbs and to see the light; but he having been before prevailed on to yield against his conscience touching that point of going to Protestant worship, no peace is left to him by his persecutors, which never cease to urge on him some sort of conformity to their religion. And, Constance, when a man hath once been weak, what security can there be, albeit I deny not hope, that he shall always after stand firm?"

"But by what means," I eagerly asked, '"do you forecast to procure his escape?"

"I have permission," she answered, "to bring him necessaries, which I do in a basket, on condition that I be searched at going in and coming out, for to make sure I convey not any letter unto him or from him; and this was so strictly observed the first month that they must needs break open the loaves or pies I take to him lest any paper should be conveyed inside. But they begin now to weary of this strict search, and do not care at ways to hearken when I speak with him; so he could tell me the last time I did visit him that he had found a way by which if he had but a cord long enough for his purpose, he could let himself down from the top of the house, and so make his escape in the night."

"Oh," I cried, "dear Mistress Ward, but this is a perilous venture, to aid a prisoner's escape. One which a daughter might run for her father, oh, how willingly, but for a stranger—"

"A stranger!" she answered. "Is he a stranger for whom Christ died, and whose precious soul is in danger. {171} even if not a priest; and being so, is he not entitled to more than common reverence, chiefly in these days when God's servants minister to us in the midst of such great straits to both soul and body?'

"I cry God mercy," I said; "I did term him a stranger who gave ghostly comfort to my dear mother on her death-bed; but oh, dear Mistress Ward, I thought on your peril, who, he knoweth, hath been as a mother to me for these many years. And then-if you are resolved to run this danger, should it not be possible to save my father also by the same means? Two cords should not be more difficult to convey, methinks, than one, and the peril not greater."

"If I could speak with him," she replied, "it would not be impossible. I will tell Muriel to make two instead of one of these cords, which she doth twine in some way she learnt from a Frenchman, so strong as, albeit slight, to have the strength of a cable. But without we do procure two men with a boat for to fetch the prisoners when they descend, 'tis little use to make the attempt. And it be easier, I warrant thee, Constance, to run one's self into a manifest danger than to entice others to the like."

"Should it be safe," I asked, "to speak thereon to Hubert Rookwood? He did exhibit this morning much zeal in my father's behalf, and promised to move Sir Francis Walsingham to procure his release."

"How is he disposed touching religion? she asked, in a doubtful manner.

"Alas!" I answered, "there is a secrecy in his nature which in more ways than one doth prove unvestigable, leastways to me; but when he comes this evening I will sound him thereon. Would his brother were in London! Then we should not lack counsel and aid in this matter."

"We do sorely need both," she answered; "for your good uncle, than which a better man never lived, wanes feeble in body, and hence easily overcome by the fears such enterprises involve. Mr. Wells is not in London at this tune, or he should have been a very palladium of strength in this necessity. Hubert Rookwood hath, I think, a good head."

"What we do want is a brave heart," I replied, thinking on Basil.

"But wits also," she said.

"Basil hath them too," I answered, forgetting that only in mine own thinking had he been named.

"Yea," she cried, "who doth doubt it? but, alas! he is not here."

Then I prayed her not to be too rash in the prosecution of her design. "Touching my father," I said, "I have yet some hope of his release; and as long as any remaineth, flight should be methinks a too desperate attempt to be thought of."

"Yea," she answered, "in most cases it would be so." But Mr. Watson's disposition she perceived to be such as would meet a present danger and death itself, she thought, with courage, but not of that stamp which could endure prolonged fears or infliction of torments.

Since my coming to London I had been too much engaged in these weighty cares to go abroad; but on that day I resolved, if it were possible, to see my Lady Surrey. A report had reached me that the breach between her and her husband had so much deepened that a separation had ensued, which if true, I, which knew her as well almost as mine own self, could judge what her grief must be. I was also moved to this endeavor by the hope that if my Lord Arundel was not too sick to be spoken with, she should perhaps obtain some help through his means for that dear prisoner whose captivity did weigh so heavily on my heart.

So, with a servant to attend on me, I went through the city to the Chapter-house, and with a misgiving mind heard from the porter that Lady Surrey lodged not there, but at Arundel House, whither she had removed soon after her coming to London. {172} Methought that in the telling of it this man exhibited a sorrowful countenance; but not choosing to question one of his sort on so weighty a matter, I went on to Arundel House, where, after some delay, I succeeded in gaining admittance to Lady Surrey's chamber, whose manner, when she first saw me, lacked the warmth which I was used to in her greetings. There seemed some fear in her lest I should speak unadvisedly that which she would be loth to hear; and her strangeness and reserve methinks arose from reluctance to have the wound in her heart probed,—too sore a one, I ween, even for the tender handling of a friend. I inquired of her if my Lord Arundel's health had improved. She said he was better, and like soon to be as well as could be hoped for now-a-days, when his infirmities had much increased.

"Then you will return to Kenninghall?" I said, letting my speech outrun discretion.

"No," she replied; "I purpose never more to leave my Lord Arundel or my Lady Lumley as long as they do live, which I pray God may be many years."

And then she sat without speaking, biting her lips and wringing the kerchief she held in her hands, as if to keep her grief from outbursting. I dared not to comment on her resolve, for I foresaw that the least word which should express some partaking of her sorrow, or any question relating to it, would let loose a torrent weakly stayed by a mightful effort, not like to be of long avail. So I spoke of mine own troubles, and the events which had occasioned my sudden departure from Lynn Court. She had heard of Lady l'Estrange's mishap, and that the following day I had journeyed to London; but naught of the causes thereof, or of the apprehension of any priest by Sir Hammond's orders. Which, when she learnt the manner of this misfortune, and the poor lady's share therein, and that it was my father she had thus unwittingly discovered, her countenance softened, and throwing her arms round my neck, she bitterly wept, which at that moment methinks did her more good than anything else.

"Oh, mine own good Constance," she said, "I doubt not nature riseth many passionate workings in your soul at this time; but, my dear wench, when good men are in trouble our grief for them should be as noble as their virtues. Bethink thee what a worst sorrow it should be to have a vile father, one that thou must needs love,—for who can tear out of his heart affection strong as life?—and he should then prove unworthy. Believe me, Constance, God gives to each, even in this world, a portion of their deserts. Such griefs as thy present one I take to be rare instances of his favor. Other sorts of trials are meet for cowardly souls which refuse to set their lips to a chalice of suffering, and presently find themselves submerged in a sea of woes. But can I help thee, sweet one? Is there aught I can do to lighten thy affliction? Hast thou license for to see thy father?"

"No, dear lady," I answered; "and his name being concealed, I may not petition as his daughter for this permission; but if my Lord Arundel should be so good a lord to me as to obtain leave for me to visit this prisoner, without revealing his name and condition, he should do me the greatest benefit in the world."

"I will move him thereunto," my lady said. "But he who had formerly no equal in the queen's favor, and to whom she doth partly owe her crown, is now in his sickness and old age of so little account in her eyes, that trifling favors are often denied him to whom she would once have said: 'Ask of me what thou wilt, and I will give it unto thee.' But what my poor endeavors can effect through him or others shall not be lacking in this thy need. But I am not in that condition I was once like to have enjoyed." Then with her eyes cast on the ground she seemed for to doubt if she should {173} speak plainly, or still shut up her grief in silence. As I sat painfully expecting her next words, the door opened, and two ladies were announced, which she whispered in mine ear she would fain not have admitted at that time, but that Lord Arundel's desire did oblige her to entertain them. One was Mistress Bellamy, and the other her daughter, Mistress Frances, a young gentlewoman of great beauty and very lively parts, which I had once before seen at Lady Ingoldsby's house. She was her parents' sole daughter, and so idolized by them that they seemed to live only to minister to her fancies. Lord Arundel was much bounden to this family by ancient ties of friendship, which made him urgent with his granddaughter that she should admit them to her privacy. I admired in this instance how suddenly those which have been used to exercise such self-command as high breeding doth teach can school their exterior to seem at ease, and even of good cheer, when most ill at ease interiorly, and with hearts very heavy. Lady Surrey greeted these visitors with as much courtesy, and listened to their discourse with as much civility and smiles when called for, as if no burthensome thoughts did then oppress her.

Many and various themes were touched upon in the random talk which ensued. First, that wonted one of the queen's marriage, which some opined should verily now take place with Monsieur d'Alençon; for that since his stealthy visits to England, she did wear in her bosom a brooch of jewels in a frog's shape.

"Ay," quoth Mistress Frances, "that stolen visit which awoke the ire of the poor soul Stubbs, who styled it 'an unmanlike, unprincelike, French kind of wooing,' and endeth his book of 'The Gaping Gulph' in a loyal rage: 'Here is, therefore, an imp of the crown of France, to marry the crowned nymph of England,'—a nymph indeed well stricken in years. My brother was standing by when Stubbs' hand was cut off; for nothing else would content that sweet royal nymph, albeit the lawyers stoutly contended the statute under which he suffered to be null and void. As soon as his right hand is off, the man takes his hat off with the left, and cries 'God bless the queen!'"

"Here is a wonder," I exclaimed; "I pray you, what is the art this queen doth possess by which she holdeth the hearts of her subjects in so great thrall, albeit so cruel to them which do offend her?"

"Lady Harrington hath told me her majesty's own opinion thereon," said Mrs. Bellamy; "for one day she did ask her in a merry sort, 'How she kept her husband's good-will and love?' To which she made reply that she persuaded her husband of her affection, and in so doing did command his. Upon which the queen cries out, 'Go to, go to, Mistress Moll! you are wisely bent, I find. After such sort do I keep the good wills of all my husbands, my good people; for if they did not rest assured of some special love toward them, they would not readily yield me such good obedience.'"

"Tut, tut!" cried Mistress Frances; "all be not such fools as John Stubbs; and she knoweth how to take rebukes from such as she doth not dare to offend. By the same token that Sir Philip Sydney hath written to dissuade her from this French match, and likewise Sir Francis Walsingham, which last did hint at her advancing years; and her highness never so much as thought of striking off their hands. But I warrant you a rebellion shall arise if this queen doth issue such prohibitions as she hath lately done."

"Of what sort?" asked Lady Surrey.

"First, to forbid," Mrs. Bellamy said, "any new building to be raised within three thousand paces of the gates of London on pain of imprisonment, and sundry other penalties; or for more than one family to inhabit in one house. For her majesty holds it {174} should be an impossible thing to govern or maintain order in a city larger than this London at the present time."

Mistress Frances declared this law to be more tolerable than the one against the size of ladies' ruffs, which were forsooth not to exceed a certain measure; and officers appointed for to stand at the comers of streets and to clip such as overpassed the permitted dimensions, which sooner than submit to she should die.

Lady Surrey smiled, and said she should have judged so from the size of her fine ruff.

"But her majesty is impartial," quoth Mrs. Bellamy; "for the gentlemen's rapiers are served in the same manner. And verily this law hath nearly procured a war with France; for in Smithfield Lane some clownish constables stayed M. de Castelnau, and laid hands on his sword for to shorten it to the required length. I leave you to judge. Lady Surrey, of this ambassador's fury. Sir Henry Seymour, who was tidying the air in Smithfield at the time, perceived him standing with the drawn weapon in his hand, threatening to kill whosoever should approach him, and destruction on this realm of England if the officers should dare to touch his sword again; and this with such frenzy of speech in French mixed with English none could understand, that God knoweth what should have ensued if Sir Henry had not interfered. Her majesty was forced to make an apology to this mounseer for that her officers had ignorantly attempted to clip the sword of her good brother's envoy."

"Why doth she not clip," Mistress Frances said, "if such be her present humor, the orange manes of her gray Dutch horses, which are the frightfullest things in the world?"

"Tis said," quoth Mrs. Bellamy, "that a new French embassy is soon expected, with the dauphin of Auvergne at its head."

"Yea," cried her daughter, "and four handsome English noblemen to meet them at the Tower stairs, and conduct them to the new banqueting-house at Westminster,—my Lord Surrey, Lord Windsor, Sir Philip Sydney, and Sir Fulke Greville. Methinks this should be a very fine sight, if rain doth not fall to spoil it."

I saw my Lady Surrey's countenance change when her husband was mentioned; and Mrs. Bellamy looked at her daughter forasmuch as to check her thoughtless speeches, which caused this young lady to glance round the room, seeking, as it seemed, for some other topic of conversation.

Methinks I should not have preserved so lively a recollection of the circumstances of this visit if some dismal tidings which reached me afterward touching this gentlewoman, then so thoughtless and innocent, had not revived in me the memory of her gay prattle, bright unabashed eyes, and audacious dealing with subjects so weighty and dangerous, that any one less bold should have feared to handle them. After the pause which ensued on the mention of Lord Surrey's name, she took for her text what had been said touching the prohibitions lately issued concerning ruffs and rapiers, and began to mock at her majesty's favorites; yea, and to mimic her majesty herself with so much humor that her well-acted satire must have needs constrained any one to laugh. Then, not contented with these dangerous jests, she talked such direct treason against her highness as to say she hoped to see her dethroned, and a fair Catholic sovereign to reign in her stead, who would be less shrewish to young and handsome ladies. Then her mother cried her, for mercy's sake, to restrain her mad speech, which would serve one day to bring them all into trouble, for all she meant it in jest.

"Marry, good mother," she answered, "not in jest at all; for I do verily hold myself bound to no allegiance to this queen, and would gladly see her get her deserts."

Then Lady Surrey prayed her not to speak so rashly; but methought in {175} her heart, and somewhat I could perceive of this in her eyes, she misliked not wholly this young lady's words, who then spoke of religion; and oh, how zealous therein she did appear, how boldly affirmed (craving Lady Surrey's pardon, albeit she would warrant, she said, there was no need to do so, her ladyship she had heard being half a papist herself) that she had as lief be racked twenty times over and die also, or her face to be so disfigured that none should call her ever after anything but a fright—which martyrdom she held would exceed any yet thought of—than so much as hold her tongue concerning her faith, or stay from telling her majesty to her face, if she should have the chance to get speech with her, that she was a foul heretic, and some other truths beside, which but once to utter in her presence, come of it what would, should be a delicious pleasure. Then she railed at the Catholics which blessed the queen before they suffered for their religion, proving them wrong with ingenious reasons and fallacious arguments mixed with pleasantries not wholly becoming such grave themes. But it should have seemed as reasonable to be angry with a child babbling at random of life and death in the midst of its play, as with this creature, the lightest of heart, the fairest in face, the most winsome in manner, and most careless of danger, that ever did set sail on life's stream.

Oh, how all this rose before me again, when I heard, two years afterward, that for her bold recusancy—alas! more bold, as the sequel proved, than deep, more passionate than fervent—this only cherished daughter, this innocent maiden, the mirror of whose fame no breath had sullied, and on whose name no shadow had rested, was torn by the pursuivants from her parents' home, and cast into a prison with companions at the very aspect of which virtue did shudder. And the unvaliant courage, the weak bravery, of this indulged and wayward young lady had no strength wherewith to resist the surging tides of adversity. No voice of parent, friend, or ghostly father reached her in that abode of despair. No visible angel visited her, but a fiend in human form haunted her dungeon. Liberty and pleasure he offered in exchange for virtue, honor, and faith. She fell; sudden and great was that fall.

There is a man the name of which hath blenched the cheeks and riven the hearts of Catholics, one who hath caused many amongst them to lose their lands and to part from their homes, to die on gibbets and their limbs to be torn asunder—one Richard Topcliffe. But, methinks, of all the voices which shall be raised for to accuse him at Christ's judgment-seat, the loudest will be Frances Bellamy's. Her ruin was his work; one of those works which, when a man is dead, do follow him; whither, God knoweth!

Oh, you who saw her, as I did, in her young and innocent years, can you read this without shuddering? Can you think on it without weeping? As her fall was sudden, so was the change it wrought. With it vanished affections, hopes, womanly feelings, memory of the past; nay, methinks therein I err. Memory did yet abide, but linked with hatred; Satan's memory of heaven. From depths to depths she hath sunk, and is now wedded to a mean wretch, the gaoler of her old prison. So rank a hatred hath grown in her against recusants and mostly priests, that it rages like a madness in her soul, which thirsts for their blood. Some months back, about the time I did begin to write this history, news reached me that she had sold the life of that meek saint, that sweet poet, Father Southwell, of which even an enemy, Lord Mountjoy, did say, when he had seen him suffer, "I pray God, where that man's soul now is, mine may one day be." Her father had concealed him in that house where she had dwelt in her innocent days. None but the family knew the secret of its hiding-place. {176}so will be ready in Ireland She did reveal it, and took gold for her wages! What shall be that woman's death-bed? What trace doth remain on her soul of what was once a share in the divine nature? May one of God's ministers be nigh unto her in that hour for to bid her not despair! If Judas had repented, Jesus would have pardoned him. Peradventure, misery without hope of relief overthrew her brain. I do pray for her always. 'Tis a vain thought perhaps, but I sometimes wish I might, though I see not how to compass it, yet once speak with her before she or I die. Methinks I could say such words as should touch some old chord in her dead heart. God knoweth! That day I write of, little did I ween what her end would be. But yet it feared me to hear one so young and of so frail an aspect speak so boastfully; and it seemed even then to my inexperienced mind, that my Lady Surrey, who had so humbly erewhile accused herself of cowardice and lamented her weakness, should be in a safer plight, albeit as yet unreconciled.

The visit I have described had lasted some time, when a servant came with a message to her ladyship from Mr. Hubert Rookwood, who craved to be admitted on an urgent matter. She glanced at me somewhat surprised, upon which I made her a sign that she should condescend to his request; for I supposed he had seen Sir Francis Walsingham, and was in haste to confer with me touching that interview; and she ordered him to be admitted. Mrs. Bellamy and her daughter rose to go soon after his entrance; and whilst Lady Surrey conducted them to the door he asked me if her ladyship was privy to the matter in hand. When I had satisfied him thereof, he related what had passed in an interview he had with Sir Francis, whom he found ill-disposed at first to stir in the matter, for he said his frequent remonstrances in favor of recusants had been like to bring him into odium with some of the more zealous Protestants, and that he must needs, in every case of that sort, prove it to be his sole object to bring such persons more surely, albeit slowly, by means of toleration, to a rightful conformity; and that with regard to priests he was very loth to interfere.

"I was compelled," quoth Hubert, "to use such arguments as fell in with the scope of his discourse, and to flatter him with the hope of good results in that which he most desired, if he would procure Mr. Sherwood's release, which I doubt not he hath power to effect. And in the end he consented to lend his aid therein, on condition he should prove on his side so far conformable as to suffer a minister to visit and confer with him touching religion, which would then be a pretext for his release, as if it were supposed he was well disposed toward Protestant religion, and a man more like to embrace the truth when at liberty than if driven to it by stress of confinement. Then he would procure," he added, "an order for his passage to France, if he promised not to return, except he should be willing to obey the laws."

"I fear me much," I answered, "my father will not accept these terms which Sir Francis doth offer. Methinks he will consider they do involve some lack of the open profession of his faith."

"It would be madness for one in his plight to refuse them," Hubert exclaimed, and appealed thereon to Lady Surrey, who said she did indeed think as he did, for it was not like any better could be obtained.

It pained me he should refer to her, who from conformity to the times could not well conceive how tender a Catholic conscience should feel at the least approach to dissembling on this point.

"Wherein," he continued, "is the harm for to confer with a minister, or how can it be construed into a denial of a man's faith to listen to his arguments, unless, indeed, he feels himself to be in danger of being shaken by them?"

"You very well know," I exclaimed {177} with some warmth, "that not to be my meaning, or what I suppose his should be. Our priests do constantly crave for public disputations touching religion, albeit they eschew secret ones, which their adversaries make a pretext of to spread reports of their inability to defend their faith, or willingness to abandon it. But heaven forbid I should anyways prejudge this question; and if with a safe conscience—and with no other I am assured will he do it—my father doth subscribe to this condition, then God be praised for it!"

"But you will move him to it, Mistress Constance?" he said.

"If I am so happy," I answered, "as to get speech with him, verily I will entreat him not to throw away his life, so precious to others, if so be he can save it without detriment to his conscience."

"Conscience!" Hubert exclaimed, "methinks that word is often misapplied in these days."

"How so?" I asked, investigating his countenance, for I misdoubted his meaning. Lady Surrey likewise seemed desirous to hear what he should say on that matter.

"Conscience," he answered, "should make persons, and mostly women, careful how they injure others, and cause heedless suffering, by a too great stiffness in refusing conformity to the outward practices which the laws of the country enforce, when it affects not the weightier points of faith, which God forbid any Catholic should deny. There is often as much of pride as of virtue in such rash obstinacy touching small yieldings as doth involve the ruin of a family, separation of parents and children, and more evils than can be thought of."

"Hubert," I said, fixing mine eyes on him with a searching look he cared not, I ween, to meet, for he cast his on a paper he had in his hand, and raised them not while I spoke, "'sit is by such reasonings first, and then by such small yieldings as you commend, that some have been led two or three times in their lives, yea, oftener perhaps, to profess different religions, and to take such contradictory oaths as have been by turns prescribed to them under different sovereigns, and God each time called on to witness their perjuries, whereby truth and falsehood in matters of faith shall come in time to be words without any meaning."

Then he: "You do misapprehend me, Mistress Constance, if you think I would counsel a man to utter a falsehood, or feign to believe that which in his heart he thinketh to be false. But, in heaven's name, I pray you, what harm will your father do if he listens to a minister's discourse, and suffers it to be set forth he doth ponder thereon, and in the meantime escapes to France? whereas, if he refuses the loophole now offered to him, he causeth not to himself alone, but to you and his other friends, more pain and sorrow than can be thought of, and deprives the Church of one of her servants, when her need of them is greatest."

I made no reply to this last speech; for albeit I thought my father would not accede to these terms, I did not so far trust mine own judgment thereon as to predict with certainty what his answer should be. And then Hubert said he had an order from Sir Francis that would admit me on the morrow to see my father; and he offered to go with me, and Mistress Ward too, if I listed, to present it, albeit I alone should enter his cell. I thanked him, and fixed the time of our going.

When he had left us, Lady Surrey commended his zeal, and also his moderate spirit, which did charitably allow, she said, for such as conformed to the times for the sake of others which their reconcilement would very much injure.

Before I could reply she changed this discourse, and, putting her hands on my shoulders and kissing my forehead, said,

"My Lady Lumley hath heard so much from her poor niece of one {178} Mistress Constance Sherwood, that she doth greatly wish to see this young gentlewoman and very resolved papist." And then taking me by the arm she led me to that lady's chamber, where I had as kind a welcome as ever I received from any one from her ladyship, who said "her dear Nan's friends should be always as dear to her as her own," and added many fine commendations greatly exceeding my deserts.


From The London Quarterly Review.


ART. VI.—1. A Narrative Of Travels on the Amazon and Rio Negro, etc.By Alfred R. Wallace. London: 1853.

2. Himalayan Journals; or, Notes of a Naturalist in Bengal, the Sikkim, and Nepal Himalayas. By Joseph D. Hooker, M.D., R.N., F.R.S. London: 1854.

3. Three Visits to Madagascar during the Years1853, 1854, 1856, with Notices of the Natural History of the Country, etc. By the Rev. W. Ellis, F.H.S. London: 1859.

4. The Tropical World: A Popular Scientific Account of the Natural History of the Animal and Vegetable Kingdoms. By Dr. G. Hartwig. London: 1863.

5. The Naturalist on the River Amazons: A Record of Adventures, Habits of Animals, etc., during eleven Years of Travel. By Henry Walter Bates. London: 1863.

The naturalist will never have to complain, with Alexander, that he has no more worlds to conquer, so inexhaustible is the wide field of nature, and so numerous are the vast areas which as yet have never at all, or only partially, been explored by travellers. What may not be in store for some future adventurer in little known regions; what new and wonderful forms of animals and plants may not reward the zealous traveller, when no less than eight thousand species of animals new to science have been discovered by Mr. Bates during his eleven years' residence on the Amazons? Nor is it alone new forms of animated nature that await the enterprise of the naturalist; a whole mine of valuable material, the working of which is attended with the greatest pleasure, lies before him in the discovery of new facts with regard to the habits, structure, and local distribution of animals and plants. It is almost impossible to exaggerate the importance to the philosophic naturalist of such studies in these days of thought and progress. The collector of natural curiosities may be content with the possession of a miscellaneous lot of objects, but the man of science pursues his investigations with a view of discovering, if possible, some of those wonderful laws which govern the organic world, some of the footprints of the Creator in the production of the countless forms of animal and vegetable life with which this beautiful world abounds.

We purpose in this article to bring before the reader's notice a few gleanings from the natural history of the tropics, merely surmising that we shall linger with more than ordinary pleasure over the productions of tropical {179} South America, of which Mr. Bates has charmingly and most instructively written in his recently published work, whose title is given at the head of this article; we shall pause to admire, with Dr. Hooker, some of the productions of the mighty Himalayan mountains; and we may also visit Madagascar in company with so trustworthy a traveller as Mr. Ellis.

The ancients, before the time of Alexander's Indian expedition, were unacquainted with any tropical forms of plants, and great was their astonishment when they first beheld them:

"Gigantic forms of plants and animals," as Humboldt says, "filled the imagination with exciting imagery. Writers from whose severe and scientific style any degree of inspiration is elsewhere entirely absent, become poetical when describing the habits of the elephant,—the height of the trees, 'to the summit of which an arrow cannot reach, and whose leaves are broader then the shields of infantry,'—the bamboo, a light, feathery, arborescent grass, of which single joints (internodia) served as four-oared boats,—and the Indian fig-tree, whose pendant branches take root around the parent stem, which attains a diameter of twenty-eight feet, 'forming,' as Onesicritus expresses himself with great truth to nature, 'a leafy canopy similar to a many-pillared tent.'" [Footnote 24]

[Footnote 24: "Cosmos," vol. ii., p. 155. Sabine's translation ]

It is not possible for language to describe the glory of the forests of the Amazon, and yet the silence and gloom of the Brazilian forests, so often mentioned by travellers, are striking realities. Let us read Mr. Bates's impressions of the interior of a primeval forest:

"The silence and gloom," he says, "are realities, and the impression deepens on a longer acquaintance. The few sounds of birds are of that pensive and mysterious character which intensifies the feeling of solitude rather than imparts a sense of life and cheerfulness. Sometimes in the midst of the stillness a sudden yell or scream will startle one; this comes from some defenceless fruit-eating animal which is pounced upon by a tiger-cat or stealthy boa-constrictor. Morning and evening the howling monkeys make a most fearful and harrowing noise, under which it is difficult to keep up one's buoyancy of spirit. The feeling of inhospitable wildness which the forest is calculated to inspire is increased tenfold under this fearful uproar. Often even in the still hours of mid-day a sudden crash will be heard resounding afar through the wilderness, as some great bough or entire tree falls to the ground. There are beside many sounds which it is impossible to account for. I found the natives generally as much at a loss in this respect as myself. Sometimes a sound is heard like the clang of an iron bar against a hard hollow tree, or a piercing cry rends the air; these are not repeated, and the succeeding silence tends to heighten the unpleasant impression which they make on the mind. With the natives it is always the curupira, the wild man, or spirit of the forest, which produces all noises they are unable to explain."

Mr. Bates has some exceedingly interesting observations on the tendency of animals and plants of the Brazilian forests to become climbers. Speaking of a swampy forest of Pará he says:

"The leafy crowns of the trees, scarcely two of which could be seen together of the same kind, were now far away above us, in another world as it were. We could only see at times, where there was a break above, the tracery of the foliage against the clear blue sky. Sometimes the leaves were palmate, at others finely cut or feathery like the leaves of mimosae. Below, the tree trunks were everywhere linked together by sipos; the woody, flexible stems of climbing and creeping trees, whose foliage is far away above, mingled with that of the latter {180} independent trees. Some were twisted in strands like cables, others had thick stems contorted in every variety of shape, entwining snake-like round the tree-trunks, or forming gigantic loops and coils among the larger branches; others again were of zigzag shape or indented like the steps of a staircase, sweeping from the ground to a giddy height."

Of these climbing plants he adds:

"It interested me much afterward to find these climbing trees do not form any particular family or genus. There is no order of plants whose especial habit is to climb, but species of many of the most diverse families, the bulk of whose members are not climbers, seem to have been driven by circumstances to adopt this habit. The orders Leguminosae, Guttifenae, Bignoniaceae, Moraceae, and others, furnish the greater number. There is even a climbing genus of palms (Desmoncus), the species of which are called in the Tupí language Jacitára. These have slender, thickly-spined, and flexuous stems, which twine about the latter trees from one to the other, and grow to an incredible length. The leaves, which have the ordinary pinnate shape characteristic of the family, are emitted from the stems at long intervals, instead of being collected into a dense crown, and have at their tips a number of long recurved spines. These structures are excellent contrivances to enable the trees to secure themselves by in climbing, but they are a great nuisance to the traveller, for they sometimes hang over the pathway and catch the hat or clothes, dragging off the one or tearing the other as he passes. The number and variety of climbing trees in the Amazon forests are interesting, taken in connection with the fact of the very general tendency of the animals also to become climbers."

Of this tendency amongst animals Mr. Bates thus writes:

"All the Amazonian, and in fact all South American monkeys, are climbers. There is no group answering to the baboons of the old world, which live on the ground. The gallinaceous birds of the country, the representatives of the fowls and pheasants of Asia and Africa, are all adapted by the position of the toes to perch on trees, and it is only on trees, at a great height, that they are to be seen. A genus of Plantigrade Carnivora, allied to the bears (Cercoleptes), found only in the Amazonian forests, is entirely arboreal, and has a long flexible tail like that of certain monkeys. Many other similar instances could be enumerated, but I will mention only the Geodephaga, or carnivorous ground beetles, a great proportion of whose genera and species in these forest regions are, by the structure of their feet, fitted to live exclusively on the branches and leaves of trees."

Strange to the European must be the appearance of the numerous woody lianas, or air-roots of the parasitic plants of the family Araceae of which the well-known cuckoo-pint, or Arum maculatum, of this country is a non-epiphytous member, which sit on the branches of the trees above, and "hang down straight as plumb-lines," some singly, others in leashes; some reaching half-way to the ground, others touching it, and taking root in the ground. Here, too, in these forests of Pará, beside palms of various species, "some twenty to thirty feet high, others small and delicate, with stems no thicker than a finger," of the genus Bactris, producing bunches of fruit with grape-like juice, masses of a species of banana (Urania Amizonica), a beautiful plant with leaves "like broad sword-blades," eight feet long, and one foot broad, add fresh interest to the scene. These leaves rise straight upward alternately from the top of a stem five or six feet high. Various kinds of Marants, a family of plants rich in amylaceous qualities (of which the Maranta arundinacea, though not an American plant, yields the best arrowroot of commerce), clothe the ground, conspicuous for their {181} broad glossy leaves. Ferns of beautiful and varied forms decorate the tree-trunks, together with the large fleshy heart-shaped leaves of the Pothos plant. Gigantic grasses, such as bamboos, form arches over the pathways. "The appearance of this part of the forest was strange in the extreme, description can convey no adequate idea of it. The reader who has visited Kew, may form some notion by conceiving a vegetation like that in the great palm-house spread over a large tract of swampy ground, but he must fancy it mingled with large exogenous trees, similar to our oaks and elms, covered with creepers and parasites, and figure to himself the ground encumbered with fallen and rotting trunks, branches, and leaves, the whole illuminated by a glowing vertical sun, and reeking with moisture!" Amid these "swampy shades" numerous butterflies delight to flit. An entomologist in England is proud, indeed, when he succeeds in capturing the beautiful and scarce Camberwell beauty (Vanessa antiopa) or the splendid purple emperor (Apatura iris), but these fine species do not exceed three inches in expanse of wing, while the glossy blue-and-black Morpho Achilles measure six inches or more. The velvety black Papiloio Sesostris, with a large silky green patch on its wings, and other species of this genus, are almost exclusively inhabitants of the moist shades of the forest. The beautiful Epicalea ancea, "one of the most richly colored of the whole tribe of butterflies, being black, decorated with broad stripes of pale blue and orange, delights to settle on the broad leaves of the Uraniae and other similar plants." But like many other natural beauties, it is difficult to gain possession of, darting off with lightning speed when approached. Mr. Bates tells us that it is the males only of the different species which are brilliantly colored, the females being plainer and often so utterly unlike their partners that they are generally held to be different species until proved to be the same. The observations of this admirable naturalist on other points in the history of the butterflies of the Amazons, are highly important and deeply interesting. We must recur to this subject by-and-by.

We cannot yet tear ourselves away from these forests of Pará. We can well understand the intense interest with which Mr. Bates visited these different scenes month after month, in different seasons, so as to obtain something like a fair notion of their animal and vegetable productions. It is enough to make a naturalist's mouth water for a week together to think of the many successful strolls which Mr. Bates took amid the shades of these forests. For several months, he tells us, he used to visit this district two or three days every week, and never failed to obtain some species new to him of bird, reptile, or insect:

"This district," he says, "seemed to be an epitome of all that the humid portions of the Pará forest could produce. This endless diversity, the coolness of the air, the varied and strange forms of vegetation, the entire freedom from mosquitoes and other pests, and even the solemn gloom and silence, combined to make my rambles through it always pleasant as well as profitable. Such places are paradises to a naturalist, and if he be of a contemplative turn there is no situation more favorable for his indulging the tendency. There is something in a tropical forest akin to the ocean in its effects on the mind—man feels so completely his insignificance there and the vastness of nature. A naturalist cannot help reflecting on the vegetable forces manifested on so grand a scale around him."

Mr. Wallace and Mr. Bates are well-known advocates of Mr. Darwin's theory of natural selection. The former gentleman was Mr. Bates's companion in travel for four years, and he has published a very interesting account of his voyage on his return to England. Whatever differences of opinion there may be with respect to {182} the celebrated work which Mr. Darwin gave to the world four or five years ago, unbiassed and thoughtful naturalists must recognize the force with which the author supports many of his arguments, and the fairness with which he encounters every difficulty. The competition displayed by organized beings is strikingly manifested in the Brazilian forests. So unmistakable is this fact, that Burmeister, a German traveller, was painfully impressed with the contemplation of the emulation and "spirit of restless selfishness" which the vegetation of a tropical forest displayed. "He thought the softness, earnestness, and repose of European woodland scenery were far more pleasing, and that these formed one of the causes of the superior moral character of European nations;" a curious question, which we leave to the consideration of moral philosophers. The emulation displayed by the plants and trees of the forests of Pará is thus spoken of by Mr. Bates:

"In these tropical forests each plant and tree seems to be striving to outvie its fellow, struggling upward toward light and air—branch, and leaf, and stem—regardless of its neighbors. Parasitic plants are seen fastening with firm grip on others, making use of them with reckless indifference as instruments for their own advancement. Live and let live is clearly not the maxim taught in these wildernesses. There is one kind of parasitic tree very common near Pará which exhibits this feature in a very prominent manner. It is called the Sipó Matador, or the Murderer Liana. It belongs to the fig order, and has been described by Von Martins in the 'Atlas to Spix and Martius's Travels.' I observed many specimens. The base of its stem would be unable to bear the weight of the upper growth; it is obliged, therefore, to support itself on a tree of another species. In this it is not essentially different from other climbing trees and plants, but the way the matador sets about it is peculiar, and produces certainly a disagreeable impression. It springs up close to the tree on which it intends to fix itself, and the wood of its stem grows by spreading itself like a plastic mould over one side of the trunk of its supporter. It then puts forth from each side an arm-like branch, which grows rapidly, and looks as though a stream of sap were flowing and hardening as it went. This adheres closely to the trunk of the victim, and the two arms meet on the opposite side and blend together. These arms are put forth at somewhat regular intervals in mounting upward, and the victim when its strangler is full grown becomes tightly clasped by a number of inflexible rings. These rings gradually grow larger as the murderer flourishes, rearing its crown of foliage to the sky mingled with that of its neighbor, and in course of time they kill it by stopping the flow of its sap. The strange spectacle then remains of the selfish parasite clasping in its arms the lifeless and decaying body of its victim, which had been a help to its own growth. Its ends have been served—it has flowered and fruited, reproduced and disseminated its kind; and now when the dead trunk moulders away, its own end approaches; its support is gone, and itself also falls."

The strangling properties of some of the fig-tree family are indeed very remarkable, and may be witnessed not only in South America, but in India, Ceylon, and Australia. Frazer observed several kinds of Ficus, more than 150 feet high, embracing huge ironbark trees in the forests at Moreton Bay. The Ficus repens, according to Sir Emerson Tennent, is often to be seen clambering over rocks, like ivy, turning through heaps of stones, or ascending some tall tree to the height of thirty or forty feet, while the thickness of its own stem does not exceed a quarter of an inch. The small plants of this family, of which the Murdering Liana is one species, grow and reproduce their kind from seeds {183} deposited in the ground; but the huge representatives of the family, such as the banyan-tree, whose

    "Bended twigs take root, and daughters grow
    About the mother tree;"

and the Peepul, or sacred Bo-tree of the Buddhists (Ficus religiosa), originate from seeds carried by birds to upper portions of some palm or other tree. Fig-trees, as Sir E. Tennent has remarked, are "the Thugs of the vegetable world; for, though not necessarily epiphytic, it may be said that, in point of fact, no single plant comes to perfection or acquires even partial development without the destruction of some other on which to fix itself as its supporter." The mode of growth of these trees is well described by the excellent writer just mentioned, and we shall make use of his own language:

"The family generally make their first appearance as slender roots hanging from the crown or trunk of some other tree, generally a palm, among the moist bases of whose leaves the seed carried thither by some bird which had fed upon the fig begins to germinate. This root, branching as it descends, envelops the trunk of the supporting tree with a net-work of wood, and at length, penetrating the ground, attains the dimensions of a stem. But, unlike a stem, it throws out no buds or flowers; the true stem, with its branches, its foliage, and fruit, springs upward from the crown of the tree whence the root is seen descending; and from it issue the pendulous rootlets, which on reaching the earth fix themselves firmly, and form the marvellous growth for which the banyan is so celebrated. In the depth of this grove the original tree is incarcerated till, literally strangled by the folds and weight of its resistless companion, it dies and leaves the fig in undisturbed possession of its place." [Footnote 25]

[Footnote 25: "Ceylon," i., p. 95]

But not trees alone do these vegetable garrotters embrace in their fatal grasp, ancient monuments are also destroyed by these formidable assailants. Sir E. Tennent has given an engraving of a fig-tree on the ruins at Pollanarrua, in Ceylon, which had fixed itself on the walls—-a curious sight, indeed—"its roots streaming downward over the ruins as if they had once been fluid, following every sinuosity of the building and terraces till they reach the earth." An extremely interesting series of drawings is now to be seen in the Linnean Society's room at Burlington House, illustrating the mode of growth of another strangling or murdering tree, of New Zealand, belonging to an entirely different order from that to which the figs belong (Urticaceae), namely, to one of the Myrtaceae. The association of garrotting habits with those of the stinging nettle family is apt enough, we may be inclined to think; but it is rather disappointing to meet with these disagreeable peculiarities in the case of the myrtle group; but such is the fact: the Rata, or Metrosideros robusta—as we believe is the species—-climbs to the summits of mighty trees of the forest of Wangaroa, and kills them in its iron grasp. But, notwithstanding these unpleasant impressions which "the reckless energy of the vegetation might produce" in the traveller's mind, there is plenty in tropical nature to counteract them:

"There is the incomparable beauty and variety of the foliage, the vivid color, the richness and exuberance everywhere displayed, which make the richest woodland scenery in northern Europe a sterile desert in comparison. But it is especially the enjoyment of life manifested by individual existences which compensates for the destruction and pain caused by the inevitable competition. Although this competition is nowhere more active, and the dangers to which each individual is exposed nowhere more numerous, yet nowhere is this enjoyment more vividly displayed."

Mr. Bates mentions a peculiar feature in some of the colossal trees which here and there monopolize a large {184} space in the forests. The height of some of these giants he estimates at from 180 to 200 feet, whose "vast dome of foliage rises above the other forest trees as a domed cathedral does above the other buildings in a city." In most of the large trees of different species is to be seen "a growth of buttress-shaped projections around the lower part of their stems. The spaces between these buttresses—which are generally thin walls of wood—form spacious chambers, and may be compared to stalls in a stable; some of them are large enough to hold half-a-dozen persons." What are these buttresses, how do they originate, and what is their use? We have already seen how great is the competition amongst the trees of a primeval forest, and how every square inch is eagerly battled for by the number of competitors. In consequence of this it is obvious that lateral growth of roots in the earth is a difficult matter. "Necessity being the mother of invention," the roots, unable to expand laterally, "raise themselves ridge-like out of the earth, growing gradually upward as the increasing height of the tree required augmented support." A beautiful compensation, truly, and full of deep interest! As Londoners add upper stories to their houses where competition has rendered lateral additions impossible, so these gigantic trees, in order to sustain the massive crown and trunk, strengthen their roots by upper additions.

One of the most striking features in tropical scenery is the suddenness with which the leaves and blossoms spring into full beauty. "Some mornings a single tree would appear in flower amidst what was the preceding evening a uniform green mass of forest,—a dome of blossom suddenly created as if by magic." In the early mornings, soon after dawn, the sky is always without a cloud, the thermometer marking 72° or 73° Fahr. Now all nature is fresh, and the birds in the full enjoyment of their existence, the "shrill yelping" of the toucans being frequently heard from their abode amongst the wild fruit-trees of the forest; flocks of parrots appear in distinct relief against the blue sky, always two by two, chattering to each other, the pairs being separated by regular intervals, too high, however, to reveal the bright colors of their plumage. The greatest heat of the day is about two o'clock, by which time, the thermometer being 92° or 93° Fahr., "every voice of bird or mammal is hushed; only in the trees is heard at intervals the harsh whirr of a cicada. The leaves, which were so fresh and moist in early morning, now become lax and drooping, and the flowers shed their petals. The Indian and mulatto inhabitants sleep in their hammocks, or sit on mats in the shade, too languid even to talk."

Mr. Bates has given a graphic picture of tropical nature at the approach of rain:

"First, the cool sea-breeze which commenced to blow about ten o'clock, and which had increased in force with the increasing power of the sun, would flag and finally die away. The heat and electric tension of the atmosphere would then become almost insupportable. Languor and uneasiness would seize on every one; even the denizens of the forest betraying it by their motions. White clouds would appear in the east and gather into cumuli, with an increasing blackness along their lower portions. The whole eastern horizon would become almost suddenly black, and this would spread upward, the sun at length becoming obscured. Then the rush of a mighty wind is heard through the forest, swaying the tree-tops; a vivid flash of lightning bursts forth, then a crash of thunder, and down streams the deluging rain. Such storms soon cease, leaving bluish-black motionless clouds in the sky until night. Meanwhile all nature is refreshed; but heaps of flower petals and fallen leaves are seen under the trees. Toward evening life revives again, and the ringing uproar is resumed from bush and tree. {185} The following morning the son again rises in a cloudless sky, and so the cycle is completed; spring, summer, and autumn, as it were, in one tropical day."

With regard to animal life in the Amazonian forests, it appears that there is a great variety of mammals, birds, and reptiles, but they are very shy, and widely scattered. Brazil is poor in terrestrial animals, and the species are of small size. "The huntsman would be disappointed who expected to find here flocks of animals similar to the buffalo herds of North America, or the swarms of antelopes and herds of ponderous pachyderms of southern Africa."

It has already been observed that the mammals of Brazil are, for the most part, arboreal in their habits; this is especially the case with the monkeys, or Cebidae, a family of quadrumamous animals peculiar to the new world. The reader may observe the habits of some species of this group in the monkey-house of the Zoological Society's Gardens in Regent's Park. The strong muscular tail, with its naked palm under the tip, which many of the Cebidae possess, renders them peculiarly well adapted to a forest life. Mr. Bates states that thirty-eight species of this family of monkey inhabit the Amazon region, and considers the Coaitás, or spider-monkeys, "as the extreme development of the American type of apes." The flesh of one species of Coaitás is much esteemed as an article of food by the natives in some parts of the country. The Indians, we are told, are very fund of Coaitás as pets.

Some of our readers are doubtless acquainted with the name of Madame Maria Sibylla Merian, a German lady who was born about the middle of the seventeenth century. She was much devoted to the study of natural history, and travelled to Surinam for the purpose of making drawings of its animal productions; many of these drawings are now in the British Museum. This estimable lady, amongst other curiosities of natural history, affirmed the two following ones:—1. The lantern-fly (Fulgora lanternaria) emits so strong a light from its body as to enable a person in the night-time to read a newspaper by it. 2. The large spider (Mygale) enters the nests of the little humming-birds, and destroys the inmates. It would occupy too much time to tell of the mass of evidence which was adduced in denial of these recorded facts, but, suffice it to say that Madame Merian was set down as an arch-heretic and inventor, and that no credit was attached to her statements. With regard to the first-named heresy, the opinion of modern zoologists is, that there is nothing at all improbable in the circumstance of the Fulgora emitting a strong light, as luminous properties are known to exist in other insects, but that the fact has been rather over-colored by the imagination of the worthy lady. As to the second question, about the bird-destroying propensities of the Mygale, let us hear the testimony of so thoroughly trustworthy a witness as Mr. Bates:

"In the course of our walk" (between the Tocantins and Cameta) "I chanced to verify a fact relating to the habits of a large hairy spider of the genus Mygale, in a manner worth recording. The species was M. avicularia, or one very closely allied to it; the individual was nearly two inches in length of body, but the legs expanded seven inches, and the entire body and legs were covered with coarse grey and reddish hairs. I was attracted by a movement of the monster on a tree-trunk; it was close beneath a deep crevice in the tree, across which was stretched a dense white web. The lower part of the web was broken, and two small birds, finches, were entangled in the pieces; they were about the size of the English siskin, and I judged the two to be male and female. One of them was quite dead, the other lay under the body of the spider not quite dead, and was smeared with the filthy liquor or {186} saliva exuded by the monster. I drove away the spider and took the birds, but the second one soon died. The fact of species of Mygale sallying forth at night, mounting trees, and sucking the eggs and young of humming-birds, has been recorded long ago by Madame Merian and Palisot de Beauvois; but, in the absence of any confirmation, it has come to be discredited. From the way the fact has been related it would appear that it had been merely derived from the report of natives, and had not been witnessed by the narrators. Count Langsdorff, in his 'Expedition into the Interior of Brazil,' states that he totally disbelieved the story. I found the circumstances to be quite a novelty to the residents here about. The Mygales are quite common insects; some species make their cells under stones, others form artistical tunnels in the earth, and some build their dens in the thatch of houses. The natives call them Aranhas carangueijeiras, or crab spiders. The hairs with which they are clothed come off when touched, and cause a peculiar and almost maddening irritation. The first specimen that I killed and prepared was handled incautiously, and I suffered terribly for three days afterward. I think this is not owing to any poisonous quality residing in the hairs, but to their being short and hard, and thus getting into the fine creases of the skin. Some Mygales are of immense size. One day I saw the children belonging to an Indian who collected for me with one of these monsters secured by a cord round its waist, by which they were leading it about the house as they would a dog."

The name of "ant" has only to be mentioned, and the strange habits of the various species immediately suggest themselves to the mind of the naturalist, who is always interested in, and amply repaid by, watching these insects with the closest scrutiny. Brazil abounds in ants, one species of which, the Dinoponera grandis, is an inch and a quarter in length; but by far the most interesting to the naturalist, as well as one of the most destructive to the cultivated trees of the country, is the leaf-carrying ant (AEcodoma cephalotes). In some districts, we are told, it is so abundant that agriculture is almost impossible, and everywhere complaints are heard of the terrible pest. This insect derives its specific name of cephalotes from the extraordinary size of the heads belonging to two of the orders, which, with a third kind, constitute the colony. The formicarian establishment consists of: 1. Worker minors; 2. Worker majors; 3. Subterranean workers. The first-named kind alone does the real active work. The two last contain the individuals with the enormous heads; their functions are not clearly ascertained. In color they are a pale reddish-brown, and the thorax of the true worker, which is the smallest of the orders, is armed with three pairs of sharp spines; the head is provided with a pair of similar spines proceeding from the cheeks behind. This ant, known by the native name of Saüba, has long been celebrated for its habit of clipping off and carrying away, large quantities of leaves:

"When employed in this work," Mr. Bates says, "their processions look like a multitude of animated leaves on the march. In some places I found an accumulation of such leaves, all circular pieces, about the size of a sixpence, lying on the pathway, unattended by the ants, and at some distance from any colony. Such heaps are always found to be removed when the place is revisited next day. In course of time I had plenty of opportunities of seeing them at work. They mount the tree in multitudes, the individuals being all worker minors. Each one places itself on the surface of a leaf, and cuts with its sharp scissor-like jaws, and by a sharp jerk detaches the piece. Sometimes they let the leaf drop to the ground, where a little heap accumulates until carried off by another relay of workers; but generally each marches off {187} with the piece it has operated upon and as all take the same road to their colony, the path they follow becomes in a short time smooth and bare, looking like the impression of a cart-wheel through the herbage."

The Saüba ant is peculiar to tropical America, and, though it is injurious to the wild native trees of the country, it seems to have a preference to the coffee and orange trees and other imported plants. The leaves which the Saüba cuts and carries away are used to "thatch the domes which cover the entrances to their subterranean dwellings, thereby protecting from the deluging rains the young broods in the nests beneath." The insects proceed according to a most orderly method, "the heavily-laden workers, each carrying its segment of leaf vertically, the lower edge secured in its mandibles, troop up, and cast their burdens on the hillock; another body of laborers place the leaves in position, covering them with a layer of earthy granules, which are brought one by one from the soil beneath." The labors of this curious insect are immense, and no obstacles stop their excavations. An allied species of Rio de Janeiro worked a tunnel under the bed of the river Parabyba, at a place where it is as broad as the Thames at London Bridge. These ants are sad rogues, being household plunderers and robbers of the farinha, or mandioca meal, of the poor inhabitants of Brazil; and Mr. Bates was obliged to lay trains of gunpowder along their line of march to blow them up, which in the end resulted in scaring the burglars away. We have already alluded to the massive heads possessed by the major and subterranean kinds of neuters, and stated that the work is done by the worker minor or small-headed kind. With regard to the function of the large-headed worker major, Mr. Bates was unable to satisfy himself:

"They are not the soldiers or defenders of the working portion of the community, like the armed class in the termites, or white ants, for they never fight. The species has no sting, and does not display active resistance when interfered with. I once imagined they exercised a sort of superintendence over the others; but this function is entirely unnecessary in a community where all work with a precision and regularity resembling the subordinate parts of a piece of machinery. I came to the conclusion, at last, that they have no very precisely defined function. They cannot, however, be entirely useless to the community, for the sustenance of an idle class of such bulky individuals would be too heavy a charge for the species to sustain. I think they serve in some sort as passive instruments of protection to the real workers. Their enormously large, hard, and indestructible heads may be of use in protecting them against the attacks of insectivorous animals. They would be, on this view, a kind of pièces de résistance serving as a foil against onslaughts made on the main body of workers."

But the third order, the subterranean kind, we are told, is the most curious of all:

"If the top of a small, fresh hillock, one in which the thatching process is going on, be taken off, a broad cylindrical shaft is disclosed, at a depth about two feet from the surface. If this be probed with a stick, which may be done to the extent of three or four feet without touching bottom, a small number of colossal fellows will slowly begin to make their way up the smooth sides of the mine. Their heads are of the same size as those of the other class (worker major); but the front is clothed with hairs instead of being polished, and they have in the middle of the forehead a twin ocellus, or simple eye, of quite different structure from the ordinary compound eyes on the side of the head. This frontal eye is totally wanting in the other workers, and is not known in any other kind of ant. The apparition of these strange creatures from {188} the cavernous depths of the mine reminded one, when I first observed them, of the Cyclopes of Homeric fable. They were not very pugnacious, as I feared they would be, and I had no difficulty in securing a few with my fingers. I never saw them under any circumstances than those here related, and what their special functions may be I cannot divine."

The naturalist traveller, in the midst of much that interests and delights him, has to put up with a great deal that is annoying, and Mr. Bates proved no exception to the rule. The first few nights when at Caripí, he was much troubled with bats; the room where he slept had not been occupied for several months, and the roof was open to the tiles and rafters:

"On one night," he says, "I was aroused about midnight by the rushing noise made by vast hosts of bats sweeping about the room. The air was alive with them; they had put out the lamp, and when I relighted it, the place appeared blackened with the impish multitudes that were whirling round and round. After I had lain about well with a stick for a few minutes they disappeared amongst the tiles, but when all was still again they returned, and once more extinguished the light. I took no further notice of them and went to sleep. The next night several got into my hammock; I seized them as they were crawling over me, and dashed them against the wall. The next morning I found a wound, evidently caused by a bat, on my hip."

Bats remind us of the vampire, a native of South America, concerning whose blood-sucking properties so much discussion has been from time to time raised. The vampire bat was very common at Ega; it is the largest of the South American species. Of this bat Mr. Bates writes:

"Nothing in animal physiognomy can be more hideous than the countenance of this creature when viewed from the front; the large leathery ears standing out from the sides and top of the head, the erect, spear-shaped appendage on the tip of the nose, the grin, and glistening black eyes, all combining to make up a figure that reminds one of some mocking imp of fable. No wonder that imaginative people have inferred diabolical instincts on the part of so ugly an animal. The vampire, however, is the most harmless of all bats, and its inoffensive character is well known to residents on the banks of the Amazon."

That much fable has attached itself to the history of this curious creature we are perfectly convinced, and that its blood-sucking peculiarities have been grossly exaggerated we must allow. When this bat has been said to perform the operation of drawing blood "by inserting its aculeated tongue [Footnote 26] into the vein of a sleeping person with so much dexterity as not to be felt, at the same time fanning the air with its large wings, and thus producing a sensation so delightfully cool that the sleep is rendered still more profound," it is clear that the mythical element exists to a great extent in the narrative; but our author's assertion that "the vampire is the most harmless of all bats" does not tally with the statements of other naturalists of considerable note. Mr. Wallace says he saw the effects of the vampire's operations on a young horse, and that the first morning after its arrival the poor animal presented a most pitiable appearance, large streams of clotted blood running down from several wounds on its back and sides:

[Footnote 26: An Expression used by Mr. Wood in his "Zoögraphy.' It is enough to remark that no known bat has an aculeated.]

"The appearance," Mr. Wallace adds, "was, however, I dare say, worse than reality, as the bats have the skill to bleed without giving pain, and it is quite possible the horse, like a patient under the influence of chloroform, may have known nothing of the matter. The danger is in the attacks being repeated every night till the loss of blood becomes serious. To prevent this, red peppers are usually rubbed {189} on the parts wounded and on all likely places; and this will partly check the sanguinivorous appetite of the bats, but not entirely, as in spite of this application the poor animal was again bitten the next night in fresh places." [Footnote 27]

[Footnote 27: "Travels on the Amazon," p. 44.]

Both Mr. Darwin and Mr. Waterton, if we remember rightly, have borne similar testimony in favor of the opinion that the vampire does suck blood. A servant of the former gentleman, when near Coquimbo, in Chili, observed something attached to the withers of one of his horses, which was restless, and on putting his hand upon the place he secured a vampire bat. Mr. Waterton, however, could not induce the vampires to bite him, notwithstanding the now veteran naturalist [Footnote 28] slept many months in an open loft which the vampires frequented; but an Indian boy who slept near him had his toes often "tapped," while fowls were destroyed, and even an unfortunate donkey was much persecuted, looking, as Mr. Waterton says, "like misery steeped in vinegar."

[Footnote 28: Since this article was in type this excellent naturalist and kind-hearted gentleman has passed away from amongst us.]

While at Villa Nova, on the lower Amazons, our naturalist was subjected to another annoyance, in the shape of ticks. The tracts thereabouts "swarmed with carapátos, ugly ticks, belonging to the genus Ixodes, which mount to the tops of the blades of grass, and attach themselves to the clothes of passers-by. They are a great annoyance. It occupied me a full hour to pick them off my flesh after my diurnal ramble."

Mr. Bates's stay at Ega, on the upper Amazons, and his expeditions in search of scarlet-faced monkeys, owl-faced night-apes, marmosets, curl-crested toucans, blind ants, and hundreds of other interesting animals, must have been particularly enjoyable, if we except the presence of an abominable gad-fly, which fixes on the flesh of man as breeding-places for its grub, and causes painful tumors. "Ega was a fine field for a natural history collector," and Mr. Bates ticketed with the name of this town more than 3,000 new species of animals.

It is an old and a true saying that you "can have too much of a good thing." A London alderman would soon grumble had he to dine every day on turtle only. "The great fresh-water turtle of the Amazons grows in the upper river to an immense size, a full-grown one measuring nearly three feet in length by two in breadth, and is a load for the strongest Indian. . . . . The flesh is very tender, palatable, and wholesome; but it is very cloying. Every one ends sooner or later by becoming thoroughly surfeited." Our traveller adds that he became so sick of turtle in the course of two years that he could not bear the smell of it, although at the same time nothing else was to be had, and he was suffering actual hunger. The pools about Ega abound in turtles and alligators, and the Indians capture a great number of the former animals by means of sharp steel-pointed arrows, fitted into a peg which enters the tip of the shaft. This peg is fastened to the arrow-shaft by means of a piece of twine; and when the missile—which the people hurl with astonishing skill—pierces the carapace, the peg drops out and the struck turtle dives to the bottom, the detached shaft floating on the surface serving to guide the sportsman to his game. So clever are the natives in the use of the bow and arrow, that they do not wait till the turtle comes to the surface to breathe, but shoot at the back of the animal as it moves under the water, and hardly ever fail to pierce the submerged shell.

One of the most curious and interesting facts in natural history is the assimilation in many animals of form and color to other objects, animate or inanimate. Thus the caterpillars termed, from their mode of progression, "geometric" bear so close a resemblance to the twigs of the trees or bushes upon which they rest that it is no easy thing to distinguish them at a {190} glance; the buff-tip moth, when at rest, looks just like a broken bit of lichen-covered branch, the colored tips of the wings resembling a section of the wood. The beautiful Australian parakeets, known as the Batcherrygar parrots, look so much like the leaves of Eucalpyti, or gum-trees, on which they repose, that, though numbers may be perched upon a branch, they are hardly to be seen so long as they keep quiet. Some South American beetles (of the family Cassidae) closely resemble glittering drops of dew; some kinds of spiders mimic flower-buds, "and station themselves motionless in the axils of leaves and other parts of plants to wait for their victims." Insects belonging to the genera of Mantis, Locusta, and Phasma, often show a wonderful resemblance to leaves or sticks. Examples of "mimetic analogy" may also be found amongst birds; but perhaps the most remarkable cases of imitation are to be found among the butterflies of the valley of the Amazon recently made known to us by Mr. Bates. There is a family of butterflies named Heliconidae, of a slow flight and feeble structure, very numerous in this South American region, notwithstanding that the districts Abound with insectivorous birds. Now, Mr. Bates has observed that where large numbers of this family are found they are always accompanied by species of a totally distinct family which closely resemble them in size, form, color, and markings. So close is the resemblance that Mr. Bates often found it impossible to distinguish members of one family from those of the other when the insects were on the wing; and he observed, moreover, that when a local variety of a species of the Heliconidae occurred, there was found also a butterfly of another family imitating that local variety. There is no difficulty at all in distinguishing the imitators from the imitated, for the latter have all a family likeness, while the former depart from the normal form and likeness of the families to which they respectively belong. What is the meaning of this curious fact? It is this: the Heliconidae, or imitated butterflies, are not persecuted by birds, dragon-flies, lizards, or other insectivorous enemies, while the members of the imitating families are subject to much persecution. The butterflies imitated are said to owe their immunity from persecution to their offensive odor, while no such fortunate character belongs to the imitating insects. But how, we naturally ask, has this change of color and form been effected? Mr. Darwin and Mr. Bates explain it on the principle of natural selection. Let us suppose that a member of the persecuted family gave birth to a variety—and there is a tendency in all animals to produce varieties—exhibiting a very slight resemblance to some species of Heliconidae. This individual, in consequence of this slight resemblance, would have a better chance of living and producing young than those of its relatives which bear no resemblance whatever to the unmolested family. Some of the offspring of this slightly favored variety would very probably show more marked resemblance to the unpersecuted butterflies; and thus the likeness between insects of totally distinct groups would in course of time be, according to the law of inheritance, quite complete. This is the explanation which Mr. Bates gives of this natural phenomenon. The phenomenon itself is an undoubted one; whether it is or is not satisfactorily accounted for, cannot at present be determined; we must wait for further investigation.

We had intended to speak of some of the South American palms, those wondrous and valuable productions of tropical countries, the India-rubber trees, and other vegetable productions of the Amazons, but we must linger no longer with the excellent naturalist from whose volumes we have derived so much pleasure. Mr. Bates has written a book full of interest, with the spirit of a real lover of nature and with the pen of a philosopher.


Leaving, then, the new world, let us cast a glance, in company with one of the greatest botanists of the day, at what we may call the tropical features of the Sikkim Himalayas. Though this region is not strictly speaking within the tropics, yet the vegetation at the base is of a tropical character. In this wonderful district the naturalist is able to wander through every zone of vegetation, from the "dense deep-green dripping forests" at the base of the Himalaya, formed of giant trees, as the Duabanga and Terminalia, with Cedrela and Gordonia Wallichii, mingled with innumerable shrubs and herbs, to the lichens and mosses of the regions of perpetual snow. The tropical vegetation of the Sikkim extends from Siligoree, a station on the verge of the Terai, "that low malarious belt which skirts the base of the Himalaya from the Sutlej to Brahma-Koond, in Upper Assam."

"Every feature," writes Dr. Hooker, "botanical, geological, and zoological, is new on entering this district. The change is sudden and immediate: sea and shore are hardly more conspicuously different; nor from the edge of the Terai to the limit of perpetual snow is any botanical region more clearly marked than this which is the commencement of Himalayan vegetation." The banks of the numerous tortuous streams are richly clothed with vines and climbing convolvuluses, with various kinds of Cucurbitaceae and Bignoniaceae. The district of the Terai is very pestilential, and, though fatal to Europeans, is inhabited by a race called the Mechis with impunity. As our traveller proceeded to the little bungalow of Punkabaree, about 1,800 feet in elevation, the bushy timber of the Terai was found to be replaced by giant forests, with large bamboos cresting the hills, numerous epiphytical orchids and ferns, with Hoya, Seitamineae, and similar types of the hottest and dampest climates. All around Punkabaree the hills rise steeply 5,000 or 6,000 feet; from the road at and a little above the bungalow the view is described by Dr. Hooker as superb and very instructive:

"Behind (or north) the Himalaya rise in steep confused masses. Below, the hill on which I stood, and the ranges as far as the eye can reach east and west, throw spurs on the plains of India. These are very thickly wooded, and enclose broad, dead-flat, hot, or damp valleys, apparently covered with a dense forest. Secondary spurs of clay and gravel, like that immediately below Punkabaree, rest on the bases of the mountains and seem to form an intermediate neutral ground between flat and mountainous India. The Terai district forms a very irregular belt, scantily clothed, and intersected by innumerable rivulets from the hills, which unite and divide again on the flat, till, emerging from the region of many trees, they enter the plains, following devious courses, which glisten like silver threads. The whole horizon is bounded by the sea-like expanse of the plains, which stretch away into the region of sunshine and fine weather, as one boundless flat. In the distance the courses of the Teesta and Cosi, the great drainers of the snowy Himalayas, and the recipients of innumerable smaller rills, are with difficulty traced at this the dry season. The ocean-like appearance of this southern view is even more conspicuous in the heavens than on the land, the clouds arranging themselves after a singularly sea-scape fashion. Endless strata run in parallel ribbons over the extreme horizon; above these scattered cumuli, also in horizontal lines, are dotted against a clear grey sky, which gradually, as the eye is lifted, passes into a deep cloudless blue vault, continuously clear to the zenith; there the cumuli, in white fleecy masses, again appear; till, in the northern celestial hemisphere, they thicken and assume the leaden hue of nimbi, discharging their moisture on the dark forest-clad hills around. The breezes are south-easterly, bringing that {192} vapor from the Indian ocean which is rarefied and suspended aloft over the heated plains, but condensed into a drizzle when it strikes the cooler flanks of the hills, and into heavy rain when it meets their still colder summits. Upon what a gigantic scale does nature here operate! Vapors raised from an ocean whose nearest shore is more than 400 miles distant are safely transported without the loss of one drop of water, to support the rank luxuriance of this far distant region. This and other offices fulfilled, the waste waters are returned by the Cosi and Teesta to the ocean, and again exhaled, exported, expended, recollected, and returned."

Many travellers complain of the annoyance caused to them by leeches. Legions of these pests abound in the water-courses and dense jungles of the Sikkim, and though their bite is painless, it is followed by considerable effusion of blood. "They puncture through thick worsted stockings, and even trousers; and when full roll in the form of a little soft ball into the bottom of the shoe, where their presence is hardly felt in walking."

A thousand feet higher, above the bungalow of Punkabaree, the vegetation is very rich, the prevalent timber being of enormous size, "and scaled by climbing Leguminosae, as Bauhinias and Robinias, which sometimes sheathe the trunks or span the forest with huge cables, joining tree to tree." Their trunks are also clothed with orchids; and still more beautifully with pothos, peppers, vines, and convolvuli.

"The beauty of the drapery of the pothos leaves (Scindapsus) is pre-eminent, whether for the graceful folds the foliage assumes or for the liveliness of its color. Of the more conspicuous smaller trees the wild banana is the most abundant; its crown of very beautiful foliage contrasting with the smaller-leaved plants amongst which it nestles; next comes a screwpine (Pandanus) with a straight stem and a tuft of leaves, each eight or ten feet long, waving on all sides. Araliaceae, with smooth or armed slender trunks, and Mappa-like Euphorbiaceae spread their long petioles horizontally forth, each terminated with an ample leaf some feet in diameter. Bamboo abounds everywhere; its dense tufts of culms, 100 feet and upward high, are as thick as a man's thigh at the base. Twenty or thirty species of ferns (including a tree fern) were luxuriant and handsome. Foliaceous lichens and a few mosses appeared at 2,000 feet. Such is the vegetation of the roads through the tropical forests of Outer Himalaya."

As we ascend about 2,000 feet higher, we find many plants of the temperate zone mingling with the tropical vegetation, amongst which "a very English-looking bramble," bearing a good yellow fruit, is the first to mark the change; next, mighty oaks with large lamellated cups and magnificent foliage succeed, till along the ridge of the mountain to Kursiong, at an elevation of about 4,800 feet, the change in the flora is complete. Here the vegetation recalls to mind home impressions: "the oak flowering, the birch bursting into leaf, the violet, Chrysosplenium, Stellaria and Arum, Vaccinium, wild strawberry, maple, geranium, bramble. A colder wind blew here; mosses and lichens carpeted the banks and roadsides; the birds and insects were very different from those below, and everything proclaimed the marked change in the vegetation." And yet even at this elevation we meet with forms of tropical plants, "pothos, bananas, palms, figs, pepper, numbers of epiphytal orchids, and similar genuine tropical genera."

The hill-station of Darjiling, the well-known sanitarium, where the health of Europeans is recruited by a temperate climate, is about 370 miles to the north of Calcutta. The ridge "varies in height from 6,500 to 7,500 feet above the level of the sea, 8,000 feet being the elevation at which the mean temperature most nearly coincides with that of London, viz., 50°." {193} The forests around Darjiling are composed principally of magnolias, oaks, laurels, with birch, alder, maple, holly. Dr. Hooker draws especial attention to the absence of Leguminosae, "the most prominent botanical feature in the vegetation of the region," which, he says, is too high for the tropical tribes of the warmer elevation, too low for the Alpines, and probably too moist for those of temperate regions; cool, equable, humid climates being generally unfavorable to the above-named order. "The supremacy of this temperate region consists in the infinite number of forest trees, in the absence (in the usual proportion, at any rate) of such common orders as Compositae, Leguminosae, Cruciferae and Ranunculaceae, and of grasses amongst Monocotyledons, and in the predominance of the rarer and more local families, as those of rhododendron, camellia, magnolia, ivy, cornel, honeysuckle, hydrangea, begonia, and epiphytic orchids."

We regret that want of space prevents us dwelling longer on the scenes of tropical Himalaya, so graphically described by Dr. Hooker. We will conclude this imperfect sketch with our traveller's description of the scenery along the banks of the great Rungeet, 6,000 feet below Darjiling:

"Leaving the forest, the path led along the river bank and over the great masses of rock which strewed its course. The beautiful India-rubber fig was common. . . . On the forest skirts, Hoya, parasitical Orchidiae, and ferns abounded; the Chaulmoogra, whose fruit is used to intoxicate fish, was very common, as was an immense mulberry-tree, that yields a milky juice and produces a long, green, sweet fruit. Large fish, chiefly cyprinoid, were abundant in the beautifully clear water of the river. But by far the most striking feature consisted in the amazing quantity of superb butterflies, large tropical swallow-tails, black, with scarlet or yellow eyes on their wings. They were seen everywhere, sailing majestically through the still, hot air, or fluttering from one scorching rock to another, and especially loving to settle on the damp sand of the river; where they sat by thousands, with erect wings, balancing themselves with a rocking motion, as their heavy sails inclined them to one side or the other, resembling a crowded fleet of yachts on a calm day. Such an entomological display cannot be surpassed. Cicindelae and the great Cicadeae were everywhere lighting on the ground, when they uttered a short sharp creaking sound, and anon disappeared as if by magic. Beautiful whip-snakes were gleaming in the sun; they hold on by a few coils of the tall round a twig, the greater part of their body stretched out horizontally, occasionally retracting and darting an unerring aim at some insect. The narrowness of the gorge, and the excessive steepness of the bounding hills, prevented any view except of the opposite mountain-face, which was one dense forest, in which the wild banana was conspicuous."

One of the most remarkable botanical discoveries of modern days is that of a very curious and anomalous genus of plants, named by Dr. Hooker Welwitschia in honor of its discoverer. Dr. Frederic Welwitsch, who first noticed this singular plant in a letter to Sir William Hooker, dated August, 1860. "I have been assured," says Dr. Hooker in his valuable memoir of this plant, "by those who remember it, that since the discovery of the Rafflesia Arnoldii, no vegetable production has excited so great an interest as the subject of the present memoir." We well remember this singular plant, having seen a specimen in the Kew Herbarium soon after its arrival in this country. The following is Dr. Hooker's account of its appearance and prominent characters:

"The Welwitschia is a woody plant, said to attain a century in duration, with an obconic trunk about two feet long, of which a few inches rise {194} above the soil, presenting the appearance of a flat, two-lobed depressed mass, sometimes (according to Dr. Welwitsch) attaining fourteen feet in circumference (!) and looking like a round table. When full grown, it is dark brown, hard, and cracked over the whole surface (much like the burnt crust of a loaf of bread); the lower portion forms a stout tap-root, buried in the soil and branching downward at the end. From deep grooves in the circumference of the depressed mass two enormous leaves are given off, each six feet long when full grown, one corresponding to each lobe. These are quite flat, linear, very leathery, and split to the base into innumerable thongs that lie curling upon the surface of the soil. Its discoverer describes these same two leaves as being present from the earliest condition of the plant, and assures me that they are in fact developed from the two cotyledons of the seed, and are persistent, being replaced by no others. From the circumference of the tabular mass, above but close to the insertion of the leaves, spring stout dichotomously branched cymes, nearly a foot high, bearing small erect scarlet cones, which eventually become oblong and attain the size of those of the common spruce fir. The scales of the cones are very closely imbricated, and contain when young and still very small solitary flowers, which in some cases are hermaphrodite (structurally but not functionally), in others female."

After describing these flowers in botanical terms. Dr. Hooker adds, "The mature cone is tetragonous, and contains a broadly winged scale. Its discoverer observes that the whole plant exudes a resin, and that it is called 'tumbo' by the natives. It inhabits the elevated sandy plateau near Cape Negro (lat 14° 40' S. to 23° S.) on the south-west coast of Africa." Dr. Hooker regards the Welwitschia as "the only perennial flowering-plant which at no period has other vegetative organs than those proper to the embryo itself,—the main axis being represented by the radicle, which becomes a gigantic caulicle and develops a root from its base, and inflorescences from its plumulary end, and the leaves being the two cotyledons in a very highly developed and specialized condition." [Footnote 29]

[Footnote 29: "Transactions of the Linnean Society," vol. xxiv., part i.]

Few countries present more objects of interest to the naturalist than the island of Madagascar, amongst the botanical treasures of which island the water yam or lace-leaf (Ouviranidra fenestralis) claims especial notice. This beautiful and singular plant, which belongs to the natural order Naiadaceae, was first made known to the scientific world by du Petit Thouars in 1822. Horticulturists are indebted to Mr. Ellis, the well-known author of "Polynesian Researches," for the introduction of this singular plant into England, specimens of which may be seen in the Royal Gardens at Kew and elsewhere:

"This plant," says Mr. Ellis, "is not only extremely curious, but also very valuable to the natives, who, at certain seasons of the year, gather it as an article of food—the fleshy root when cooked yielding a farinaceous substance resembling the yam. Hence its native name, ouvirandrano, literally, yam of the water;—ouvi in the Malagasy and Polynesian languages signifying yam, and rano in the former and some of the latter signifying water. The ouvirandra is not only a rare and curious, but a singularly beautiful plant, both in structure and color. From the several crowns of the branching root, growing often a foot or more deep in the water, a number of graceful leaves, nine or ten inches long and two or three inches wide, spread out horizontally just beneath the surface of the water. The flower-stalks rise from the centre of the leaves, and the branching or forked flower is curious; but the structure of the leaf is peculiarly so, and seems like a living fibrous skeleton rather than an entire leaf. The {195} longitudinal fibres extend in curved lined along its entire length, and are united by thread-like fibres or veins, crossing them at right angles from side to side, at a short distance from each other. The whole leaf looks as if composed of fine tendrils, wrought after a most regular pattern, so as to resemble a piece of bright-green lace or open needlework. Each leaf rises from the crown on the root like a short delicate-looking pale green or yellow fibre; gradually unfolding its feathery-looking sides and increasing its size as it spreads beneath the water. The leaves in their several stages of growth pass through almost every gradation of color, from a pale yellow to a dark olive-green, becoming brown or even black before they finally decay; air-bubbles of considerable size frequently appearing under the full-formed and healthy leaves. It is scarcely possible to imagine any object of the kind more attractive and beautiful than a full-grown specimen of this plant, with its dark green leaves forming the limit of a circle two or three feet in diameter, and in the transparent water within that circle presenting leaves in every stage of development, both as to color and size. Nor is it the least curious to notice that these slender and fragile structures, apparently not more substantial than the gossamer and flexible as a feather, still possess a tenacity and wiriness which allow the delicate leaf to be raised by the hand to the surface of the water without injury."

No natural order of plants has created or continues to create a greater degree of interest amongst travellers and botanists than the Orchidaceae, of which more than three thousand species have been described; the anomalous structure of their reproductory parts, the singularity in form of the floral envelopes, the grotesque resemblance which many kinds bear to some object or other of the animal world, the rarity, beauty, and delicious fragrance of some forms—all combine to render these plants of great value and interest. As inhabitants of hot and damp localities, orchids are in general epiphytes, as in the Brazilian forests, in the lower portions of the Himalayan mountains, and in the islands of the Indian archipelago; when they occur in temperate regions they are terrestrial in their mode of growth; in extremely dry or cold climates, orchidaceous plants are unknown. Two rare and beautiful epiphytal orchids, the Angraecum sesquipedale and A. superbum, were obtained by Mr. Ellis in Madagascar and Mauritius, and introduced into this country. Of the former, the largest flowered of all the orchids, Dr. Lindley has given the following description:

"The plant forms a stem about eighteen inches high, covered with long leathery leaves in two ranks, like Venda tricolor and its allies; but they have a much more beautiful appearance, owing to a drooping habit, and a delicate bloom which clothes their surface. From the axils of the uppermost of these leaves appear short stiff flower-stalks, each bearing three and sometimes five flowers, extending seven inches in breadth and the same in height. They are furnished with a firm, curved, tapering, tail-like spur, about fourteen inches long. When first open, the flower is slightly tinged with green except the tip, which is almost pure white; after a short time the green disappears, and the whole surface acquires the softest waxy texture and perfect whiteness. In this condition they remain, preserving all their delicate beauty, for more than five weeks. Even before they expand, the greenish buds, which are three inches long, have a very noble appearance."

To the scientific naturalist few subjects are more full of deep interest than the question of the geographical distribution of animals. Dr. Sclater, the active secretary of the Zoological Society of London, has contributed an instructive paper, "On the Mammals of Madagascar," to the second, number {196} of the "Quarterly Journal of Science," from which we gather the following facts: As a general rule, it is found that the faunae and florae of such countries as are most nearly contiguous do most nearly resemble one another, while, on the other hand, those tracts of land which are furthest asunder are inhabited by most different forms of animal and vegetable life. Now, Madagascar, with the Mascarene islands, is a strange exception to the rule; for the forms of mammalia which are found in these islands are very different from the forms which occur in the contiguous coast of Africa, although the channel between Madagascar and the continent is in one place not more than 200 miles: "The numerous mammals of the orders Ruminantia, Pachydermata, and Proboscidea, so characteristic of the Ethiopian fauna, are entirely absent from Madagascar. The same is the case with the larger species of carnivora which are found throughout the African continent, but do not extend into Madagascar. Again, the highly organized types of Quadrumana which prevail in the forests of the mainland are utterly wanting in the neighboring island; their place being there occupied by several genera of the inferior family of Lemurs," Dr. Sclater shows that this anomaly is not confined to the orders already enumerated, but that similar irregularities prevail to a greater or lesser extent in every part of the mammalian series, and that, in short, the anomalies presented to us of the forms of life prevalent in the island of Madagascar "are so striking that claims have been put forward in its favor to be considered as a distinct primary geographical region of the earth." Dr. Sclater also draws attention to the very curious fact, "quite unparalleled, as far as is hitherto known, in any other fauna, that nearly two-thirds of the whole number of known species of the mammals of this island are members of one peculiar group of Quadrumana." The family of Lemuridae contains no less than eight generic types, all different from those found in Africa and India, although this group is also represented in Africa by the abnormal form Perodicticus, and in India by Nycticebus and Loris, two allied genera. The celebrated Aye Aye (Chiromys Madagascariensis), a specimen of which anomalous animal is at present in the new monkey-house in the Zoological Society's Gardens, Regent's Park, is considered by Prof. Owen to be more nearly allied to some of the African Galagos than to any other form of animal. Of insectivora, the genera Centetes, Ericulus, and Echinogale, small animals resembling hedge-hogs in outward appearance, are thought to be most nearly allied to an American genus. From the anomalies in the mammalian fauna of this island. Dr. Sclater arrives at the following deductions, which, however, as they are based upon the hypothesis of the derivative origin of species, cannot at present be deemed altogether conclusive:

"1. Madagascar has never been connected with Africa, as it at present exists. This would seem probable from the absence of certain all-pervading Ethiopian types in Madagascar, such as Antelope, Hippopotamus Felis, etc. But, on the other hand, the presence of Lemurs in Africa renders it certain that Africa as it at present exists, contains land that once formed part of Madagascar.

"2. Madagascar and the Mascarene islands (which are universally acknowledged to belong to the same category) must have remained for a long epoch separated from every other part of the globe, in order to have acquired the many peculiarities now exhibited in their mammal fauna—e.g., Lemur, Chiromys, Eupleres, Centetes, etc.—to be elaborated by the gradual modification of pre-existing forms.

"3. Some land-connection must have existed in former ages between Madagascar and India, whereon the original stock, whence the present Lemuridae of Africa, Madagascar, and India, are descended, flourished.


"4. It must be likewise allowed that some sort of connection must also have existed between Madagascar and land which now forms part of the new world—in order to permit the derivation of the Centetinae from a common stock with the Solenodon, and to account for the fact that the Lemuridae, as a body, are certainly more nearly allied to the weaker forms of American monkeys than to any of the Simiidae of the old world.

"The anomalies of the mammal fauna of Madagascar can best be explained by supposing that, anterior to the existence of Africa in its present shape, a large continent occupied parts of the Atlantic and Indian oceans, stretching out toward (what is now) America on the west, and to India and its islands on the east; that this continent was broken up into islands, of which some became amalgamated with the present continent of Africa, and some possibly with what is now Asia—and that in Madagascar and the Mascarene islands we have existing relics of this great continent."

We fain would have lingered on the natural products of this interesting island, to drink of the refreshing liquid furnished by the traveller-tree, and to admire the sago palms and other vegetable forms, but space forbids our dwelling longer on the natural productions of the tropics. [Footnote 30] We could have spoken of the aspects of tropical nature as it appears in Borneo, Java, Sumatra, and other islands of the Pacific ocean, but we must stop. We ought not, however, to conclude these gleanings without a brief notice of Dr. Hartwig's popular book, whose title we have placed at the head of this article. There are those who look with contempt on popular science of all kinds, and regard with undisguised aversion such compilations as the one before us. We do not share these feelings in the least degree; on the contrary, we welcome most heartily such introductions to the study of natural history. True, they may be sometimes of little scientific value, but they are very useful stepping-stones to something more solid. They are more especially intended for the young, but those of mature years may derive much profit by a perusal of many of these works, and even the naturalist may read them with pleasure and instruction. The numerous beautifully illustrated and carefully compiled works on natural history, such as the book before us, together with "The Sea and its Living Wonders," by the same writer, with Routledge's admirable "Natural History," and several of the Christian Knowledge Society's publications, which have appeared within the last few years, are an encouraging sign of the growing interest which the rising generation takes in the study of the great Creator's works, and we heartily wish them "God-speed."

[Footnote 30: In our own territory of the Seychelles Islands, 4° to 5° S., 300 miles N. E. of the great island Just alluded to, we see one of the strangest of vegetable productions, the double cocoa-nut, or Lodoicea, which was fully described by Mr. Ward in the "Journal of the Linnean Society, 1864:" "The shortest period before the tree puts forth its buds is 30 years, and 100 years must elapse before it attains its full growth. One plant in the garden at Government House, planted 15 years ago, is quite in its infancy, about 16 feet in height, but with no stem yet visible, the long leaves shooting from, the earth like the Traveler's Palm (Urania specioea), and much resembling it in shape, but much larger. Unlike the cocoa-nut trees, which bend to every gale and are never quite straight, the coco-de-mer trees are as upright as iron pillars. At the ago of 30 the trees first put forth blossoms. The female tree alone produces the nut, and is 6 feet shorter than the male, which attains a height of 100 feet. From fructification to full maturity a period of nearly 10 years elapses." But the remarkable point is the arrangement of the roots, unlike any other tree. "The base of the trunk is of a bulbous form, and this bulb fits into a natural bowl or socket about 2-1/2 feet in diameter and 1-1/2 foot in depth, narrowing to the bottom. This bowl is pierced with hundreds of small oval holes about the size of thimbles, with hollow tubes corresponding on the outside, through which the roots penetrate the ground on all sides, never, however, becoming attached to the bowl, their partial elasticity affording an almost imperceptible, but very necessary play to the parent stem when struggling against the force of violent gales. This bowl is of the same substance as the shell of the nut, only much thicker. As far as can be ascertained, it never rots or wears out. It has been found quite perfect and entire in every respect 60 years after the tree has been cut down. At Curiense many sockets are still remaining which are known to have belonged to trees cut down by the first settlers in the Island (1742)." One of these sockets is to be seen in the Museum of woods at Kew.]


From Chamber's Journal.


  Links upon the forehead come—
    Strokes alike of time and grief,
  Branches from the heart beneath
    That will never bear a leaf.

  Come the summer, come the spring,
    Still they keep their wintry hue;
  Deepening, stretching o'er the brow.
    Shadows lift them into view.

  Straight and crooked, right and left.
    On the strong and on the weak—
  Upward to the hoary head.
    Downward to the hollow cheek.

  Shadows from the life within,
    Tarrying ere they pass away,
  Plant these stems of sorrow there,
    Growing in the night and day.

  Light that fills the eye afresh
    From some inward moving grace,
  Casting from it, as a sun.
    Quiet rays upon the face—

  Makes these ruts of time appear
    Winding, widening in their space,
  Drawing loving eyes and thoughts
    All their history to trace.

  Whilst upheaved by a smile,
    Radiant in the breast of light,
  These eternal scores of grief
    Tell of many an inner night.

  Stories come up from their roots.
    Half unfolded in their course,
  Showing how a hundred pangs
    Long ago became their source.


From The Lamp.




Any help which old Murdock was in the habit of getting from his son upon the farm, and it was at no time of much value, either in labor or advice, had latterly dwindled down to a mere careless questioning as to how matters were going on, and his father began to fear that he was "beginning to go to the bad." Poor old man, how little of the truth he knew!

There was now always something cranky and unpleasant in Tom's manner. He was often from home for days together, and, when at home, often out at night until very late; and if questioned in the kindest manner by his father upon the subject, his answers were snappish and unsatisfactory. Poor old Mick—deluded Mick—laid down both his wanderings and his crankiness to the score of his love for Winny Cavana, and the uncertainty of his suit.

From one or two encouraging and cheery expressions his father had addressed to him, Tom knew this to be the view his father had taken of his case, and he was quite willing to indulge the delusion. Now that matters had come to an open rupture between him and Winny—for notwithstanding his father's hopes, he had none—it was convenient for him that his father should continue of the same mind—nay, more, his father himself had suggested a step, which, if he could manage with his usual ability, might turn to his profit, and relieve to a certain extent some of the perplexities by which he was beset.

Old Mick had spent a long and fatiguing day, not merely in his peregrinations through the farm, but from anxiety and watching, having observed Winny go out earlier than usual, and seeing that Tom soon after had followed her down the road. He was rather surprised in about an hour afterward to see Winny return alone, and at not having seen Tom for nearly two hours later in the day, when he returned cross and disappointed, as we have seen. The "untoward circumstances," detailed in the conversation after dinner with his son, had not the same depressing effects upon the old man as upon Tom; for he really believed that they were not only not past cure, but according to his notions of how such matters generally went on, that they were on a fair road to success. He therefore enjoyed a night's sound sleep, while Tom lay tossing and tumbling, and planning and scheming,—and occasionally cursing Edward Lennon, whom he could not persuade himself was not, as his father said, at the bottom of all this. It was near morning, therefore, before he had fretted himself to sleep.

Early the next day old Mick determined to ascertain the actual state of facts. He was up betimes, and having seen what was necessary to be done for the day upon the farm, he set the operations going, and returned to breakfast. Tom had not yet stirred; and as Nancy had told the old masther that she "heered him struggling with the bed-clothes, an' talkin' to himself until nearly morning," he would not allow her to call him, but went to breakfast by himself, telling her to have a fresh pot of tay, an' a dacent breakfast for him when he got up. "Poor fellow," he said to himself, "I did not think that girl had so firm a hoult of him."


Old Mick's anticipations of how matters really stood, and his confidence in Ned Cavana's firmness, were doomed to be shaken, if not altogether disappointed. Old Ned saw him hanging "about the borders" with a watchful look directed toward his house. He took it for granted that Tom had mentioned something of what had occurred to him, and he knew at once what he was lingering about for.

Ned had undoubtedly led old Murdock to suppose that he would be "as stout as a bull" with Winny about marrying his son; but when Ned had spoken thus sternly upon the subject, he had not anticipated any opposition upon Winny's part to the match. He did not see how she could object, nor did he see why. Mick had imbibed some slight idea of the kind from what Tom had told him; but Ned had combated this idea with great decision, and some sternness; more by way of showing his neighbor how he could exercise his parental authority, than from any great dread that he would ever be called on to assert it.

But Ned Cavana knew not the nature Class his own heart. He had miscalculated the extent of his love for Winny, or the influence her affectionate and devoted life could exercise over that love, in a case where such a dispute might come between them. Thus we have seen him yield to that influence almost without argument, and certainly without a harsh or angry word. When it came to the point that he had to confront her tears, where was the fury with which he met old Murdock's insinuations and suggestions?—where the threats of cutting her off, not with but without a shilling, and leaving it all to the Church?—where the steady determination with which he had resolved to "bring her to her senses?"—all, all lost in the affectionate smile which beamed upon her pleading love.

Ned Cavana knew now that old Murdock was on the watch for him. He believed that Tom had told him what had taken place between him and Winny; and although he did not dread any alteration in his promise to his daughter, he felt that he could deal more stoutly with old Murdock with the recollection of Winny's tears fresh on her cheeks, than if the matter were to lie over for any time. He therefore strolled through the farmyard, and out on the lane we have already spoken of, and turned down toward the fields at the back of his garden. This movement was not, of course, unnoticed by the man who was on the watch for some such, and accordingly he sloped down toward the gate, at which he and his son had held the conversation—a conversation which had confirmed Winny in her preconceived opinion of Tom Murdock's character and motives.

The two old men thus met once again at the same spot at which the reader first saw them together.

"I'm glad you cum out, Ned," said Murdock, "for I was watin to see you, to tell you about Tom. He done his part yesterda' illegant, an' you may spake to the little girl now as soon as you plaise."

"I have spoken to her, Mick. She tould me all about it herself, last night."

"Well, she didn't resave Tom at all the way he thought she would, nor the way she led him to think she would, aidher. I hope she tould the thruth to you, Ned, and didn't make b'lief to be shy an' resarved, as she did to Tom. Poor boy, he's greatly down about it."

"She did; she tould me the whole thruth, Mick avic, and it's all no use; she won't marry Tom—that's the long an' the short of it."

"Why, then, she mightn't be cosherin wid him the way she was, Ned, and ladin the poor young boy asthray as to her intintions when she brought him to the point."

"My little girl never done anything of the kind, Mick; she'd scorn to do it."

"Well, no matther; she done it now, Ned; and as for Tom, he's the {201} very boy that i'd nather humbug a little girl, nor allow her to humbug him. Did you spake stout to her, Ned?"

"I said all that was necessary, Mick awochal: but I seen it was no use, an' I wouldn't disthress the crathur."

"Disthress the crathur, aniow! Athen may be it's what you don't much care how that poor boy 'ithin there is disthressed through her mains."

"As for that, Mick, it needn't, nor it won't, disthress Tom a bit. There's many a fine girl in the parish that i'd answer Tom betther nor my little girl; and when I find that she's not for him, Mick awochal, I tell you I won't disthress the colleen by harsh mains, so say no more about it."

"Athen, Ned, I think you tuck it aisy enugh afther all you tould me d'other day; you'd do this, an' you'd do that, an' you'd cut her off wid a shillin', an' you'd bring her to her senses, an' what wouldn't you do, Ned? I tould you to be studdy, or she'd cum over you wid her pillaver; and I tell you now what I tould you then, that it is all through the mains of that pauper Lennon she has done this—a purty scauhawn for her to be wastin' your mains an' your hard earnin's upon. Arrah, Ned, I wondher you haven't more sense than to be deludhered by that beggarman out of your little girl an' your money."

"No, Mick, young Lennon has nothing to say to it; if he never was born, Winny wouldn't marry Tom. I would not misbelieve Winny on her word, let alone her oath; an' she tould me she tuck her oath to Tom that she'd never marry him. He taxed her wid young Lennon, an' so did I; an' she declared, an' I believe her there too, Mick, that there never was a word between them on such a subject; an' let there be no more now between us. It can't be helped. But I will not disthress my little girl by spakin' to her any more about Tom."

"Oh, very well, Ned; that'll do. But, be the book, Tom's not the boy that'll let himself be med a fool of by any one; an' I'm the very fellow that is able an' willin' to back him up in it."

"Athen what do you mane, Mick?—for the devil a wan of me can undherstan' that threat, af it beant the law you mane, an' sure the gandher in the yard beyant id have more sense than to think iv that. My little girl never held out the smallest cumhither upon Tom; but, instead iv that, she tells me that she always med scarse iv herself wheen he was to the fore. So af it be law you mane, Mick, you may do your worst."

"No, it isn't the law I mane, Ned. Law is dear at best, an' twiste as dear at worst; but I mane to say that I'll back up poor Tom 'ithin there, that's brakin' his heart about Winny; an' if you have any regard for her, you'll do the same thing; an' you'll see we'll bring the thing round, as we ought; that's what I mane. The girl can't deny but what she med much iv Tom, until that other spalpeen cum across her. Tom's no fool, an' knows what a girl mains very well."

"She does deny it, Mick, an' so she can. But there's no use, I tell you, in sayin' any more about it. I can see plane an' aisy enough that Winny isn't for him. I tould her I wouldn't strive to force her likin' or dislikin', an' I won't; so just tell Tom that the girl is in earnest. She tould him so herself, an' you may tell him the same thing. He can't think so much about her, Mick, as you let on, for there never was any courting betune them from first to last. I'll spake to you no more about it, Mick, an' you needn't spake to me."

With this final resolve, Ned turned his back completely round upon his neighbor, and walked with a hasty but firm step into the house.


Old Mick stood for some moments looking after him in a state of perplexed surprise. He had some fears, though they were not very great, that Winny's influence over her father was sufficiently strong to determine him according to her wishes, if she was really averse to a match with his son; but this latter was a point upon which he had scarcely any fears at all; except such as were suggested by the hints his son himself had thrown out about young Lennon. Upon this part of the case he had spoken to Ned in such a way as to make him determined to be very strict and decided in his opposition to any leaning on his daughter's part in that quarter.

Old Mick, as he stood and looked, was perplexed on both these parts of the case. If he believed that Winny Cavana had really and decidedly refused to marry his son, he could only do so upon the supposition that young Lennon was the mainspring of the whole movement. And, again, to suppose she had preferred a "secret colloguing with that pauper," behind her father's back, to an open and straight-forward match with a rich young man, and what he called a handsomer man than ever Lennon was, or ever would be, and with her father's full consent, was what he could not bring himself to believe of any sensible girl. But this he did believe, that if "that young whelp" was really not at the bottom of Winny's refusal, a marriage with his son, be it brought about by what means it could, would end in a reconciliation, not only of Winny to so great a match, but of old Ned, as a necessary consequence, to his daughter's acquiescence.

With these thoughts, and counter-thoughts, he too turned toward his house, where he found Tom just going to his breakfast, in no very good humor with the past, the present, or the future.

His father "bid him the time of day," and said "he had to look after a cow that was on for cavin'," an' that he'd be back by the time he had done his breakfast. This was a mere piece of consideration upon old Mick's part.

Loss of appetite and uneasiness of manner in a handsome young man of two-and-twenty is unhesitatingly set down by the old crones of a parish to his being "in love," and they are seldom at a loss to supply the colleen dhass to whom these symptoms are attributable. In Tom's case, however, there were other matters than love which were accountable for the miserable attempt at breakfast he had made, notwithstanding the elaborate preparations Nancy Feehily had made to tempt him. His father was surprised to find him so soon following him to the fields. But Tom, knowing his father's energy of action when a matter was on his mind, suspected he had not been to that hour of the day without managing an interview with old Cavana, and was on the fidgets to know what passed. But love—as love—had nothing whatever to say to his want of relish for so good a breakfast as had been set before him.

He met his father returning toward the house, not far from the celebrated gate already so often mentioned in this story. The spot where they now met was a little more favorable for a conference than the gate in question, for, unlike it, there was no private bower for eavesdroppers to secrete themselves in.

"Well, father," said Tom, breaking into the subject at once, "have you seen the old fogie about Winny?"

"I have, Tom, an' matthers is worse nor I thought. She has cum round him most complately; for the present anyhow."

"I told you how it would be, father, and be d—!"

"Whist, Tom, don't be talking that way; there's wan thing I'm afther being purty sure of, an' that is, that that spalpeen has nothin' to say to it. It's all perverseness just for a while, an' she'll cum round afther a bit."

"Well, father. I'll cut my stick for that bit, be it long or short; so tell me, what can you do for me about money? You know if she was never in the place, it's nothing to keep me here stravaging about the road."

"Thrue for you, Tom avic. It isn't easy, however, layin' a man's {203} hand upon what you'd want wid you for a start; but sure my credit is good in the bank, an' sure I'll put my name upon a bill-stamp for you for twenty or thirty pounds. Take my advice an' don't go past your aunt's in Armagh. Tom, she's an illigant fine woman, an' will resave you wid a ceade mille a faltha, an' revive you out an' out afore you put a month over you. There's not a man in Armagh has a betther thrade than her husband, Bill Wilson the carpenter—cabinet-maker, I b'lieve they call him—an' b'lieve my words, she'll make the most of her brother's son. Who knows, Tom avic? Arrah, maybe you'd do betther down there nor at home. Any way Winny won't be gone afore you come back, an' if we can't manage wan thing maybe we would another—thig um, thee?"

"Well, I hope so; but, father, I'll be off before Sunday, and this is Wednesday."

"You'll have lashins of time, Tom; but the sorra wan but I'll be very lonely; for although, Tom, you do be wandhering from home by day, and stopping out late sometimes by night, sure I know you're not far off, an' I always hear you lettin' yourself in betune night an' mornin'. Though Caesar doesn't bark at you, I hear him whinin' an' shufflin' when you're coming to the back doore?"

"No matter about that now, father; I suppose I can get the money tomorrow or after, and start for my aunt's?"

"Any minute, Tom. I'm never without a bill-stamp in the house in regard of the fairs. Come in, and I'll dhraw it out at wanst, an' I'll engage they'll give you the money on it at the bank; don't be the laste taste aleared of that, Tom."

Whether Tom then intended to be guided by his father's advice, and not go past his aunt's in Armagh, it is not easy to say; but at all events he "let on" that he would not do so. When he got his heels loose, with a trifle of cash in his pocket, he could turn his steps in any direction he wished.

They then returned to the house, and old Mick, putting on his spectacles, opened a table-drawer in the parlor, where he kept his writing materials, accounts, receipts, etc. After some discussion, which had well-nigh ended in an argument, as to whether the amount should be twenty or thirty pounds, a bill was ultimately drawn by the son upon the father for the former sum, at three months. Tom had, other reasons than the mere increase of ten pounds in the amount, for wishing to have the word thirty instead of twenty written in the bill; however, he could not screw more than the latter sum out of the old man, which he said was ample to take him to his aunt's in Armagh, where he'd get lashins an' lavins of the best of everything. Tom knew that for this purpose it would be ample, and therefore failed to bring forward any arguments to sustain his view as to the necessity of making it thirty; but as it was he himself who wrote it out, he patted the blotting-paper over it in great haste—a matter which was not, of course, observed by the old man, nor if it had been would he have supposed there was anything unusual, much less for a purpose, in the act. The father having read it carefully over, and seeing that it was all correct, wrote his name with some dignity of manner across the bill. This portion of the writing Tom took care to let dry without any blotting at all, for he held it to the fire instead. Neither did the old man observe this unusual course, the manifest mode being to have used the blotting-paper, as in the first instance.

The matter being now thus far perfected, Tom asked his father if he could have Blackberry—one of the farm horses—to go into C. O. S. early next morning.

"An' welcome, Tom, if he was worth a hundred pounds," said the old man, locking the drawer.



Tom spent the remainder of that day very quietly, most of it in his own room. His first employment, whatever it may have been, was over an old portfolio, where he kept his own writing materials. What were the chief subjects of his caligraphy is not known. Perhaps love-letters to such of his numerous enamoratas as could read may have formed a portion, nor is it impossible but the police might have given a trifle to have laid their hands upon some others. Neither were likely to see the light, however, as Tom Murdock kept that old portfolio carefully locked up in his box.

The next morning at an unusually early hour for him Tom proceeded upon Blackberry, fully caparisoned with the best saddle and bridle in the place, to C. O. S.; where, after ten o'clock, he found no difficulty in procuring cash upon his father's acceptance.

Now, although in the first instance Tom had no notion of stopping at his aunt's in Armagh, or perhaps of going there at all, upon reflection he changed his mind altogether upon the subject. He had some congenial spirits there beside his aunt—spirits with whom he occasionally had had personal communication as well as more frequent epistolary correspondence. Beyond Armagh, therefore, upon second thoughts, he resolved not to go upon this occasion. As to any depression of spirits on account of Winny Cavana, he had none, except the loss of her fortune, which would have stood to him so well in his present circumstances. And here he remembered that his father had told him the interest of "that same" was all he could have touched, and even that at only three per cent.; so that for the mere present he had done as well, if not better. What he had drawn out of the bank upon his father's credit, would settle the two harassing and intricate cases, which two different attorneys, on the part of those whom he had most grievously wronged, had threatened to expose in a court of law. He would have some over—he took care of that—to take him to Armagh and back, where he could not manage this time to go at the expense of "the fund." He did not purpose, however, to stop very long at his aunt's. He would tell Winny when he came back that her refusal of him had driven him away—he knew nor cared not whither; but that he found it impossible to live without sometimes seeing her, if it was only from his own door to hers: yes, he would follow that business up the moment he returned. In the meantime it might not be without some good effect his being absent for a short time.

Such were the thoughts and plans with which Tom, after he had settled with the attorneys, left his poor old father, we may say completely alone; for after the rather sharp words which had taken place between the two old men, he could hardly continue his customary visits, or half-casual, half-projected meetings with Ned Cavana, by their respective mearings. Hitherto in this respect, more than in actual visits, the intercourse between these two old men had been habitual, indeed it may be said of daily occurrence, mutually watched for. If one saw the other overlooking his men, either sowing or reaping, or planting or digging, according to the time of the year, the habit almost amounted to a rule, that, whichever saw the other first, quit his own men, and sloped over toward his neighbor to have a look at what was going on, and having there exhausted the pros and cons of whatever the work might be, a general chat was kept up and the visit returned on the spot.

Now, however, matters were to a great extent changed. This "untoward circumstance" between Tom Murdock and Winny Cavana, together with the subsequent conversation upon the subject between the fathers, rendered this friendly {205} intercourse impossible. From all his son had told him, old Mick thought Winny Cavana had treated him badly, and he considered that old Ned had "gone back of his word" to himself. He was a plucky, proud old cock, and his advice to Tom would be "to see it out with the pair of them, without any pillaver. "

What he meant by "seeing it out" he hardly knew himself, for he had repudiated the law in a most decided manner when taxed with it by Ned. What, then, could he mean by "seeing it out?" Perhaps Tom would not require his advice upon the subject.

From this day forth, however, old Mick was not the man he used to be. A man at his age, however well he may have worn—ay, even to have obtained the name of an evergreen—generally does so having his mind at ease as well as his body in health—the one begets the other; and so an old man thrives, and often looks as well at seventy as he did at sixty. But these old evergreens sometimes begin to fail suddenly if the cold wind of disappointment blows roughly upon their hitherto happy hearts; and Tom Murdock was not three weeks away, when the remarks of the people returning from the chapel, respecting old Mick, were that "they never saw a man so gone in the time." And the fact was so.

Old Mick Murdock had been all his life a cheerful, chatty man, one with whom it was a comfort to "be a piece of the road home." Moreover, he had always been erect in person, with a pair of cheeks like a scarlet Crofton apple—not the occasional smooth flush of delicacy, but the constant hard rough tint of health. There were many young men in the parish whom a walk alongside of old Mick Murdock for a couple of miles would put out of breath, while you would not see a heave, however slight, out of old Mick's chest.

Look on him now: "he has not a word to throw to a dog," as the saying has it; he is beginning to stoop in his gait, and more than once already he has struck his heel against the ground in walking. As yet it is not a drag, and those indications of a break-up in his constitution are comparatively slight. Ere long, however, you will see him with a stick, and you will be hardly able to recognize him as the Mick Murdock of a few months before.

Tom, as we have seen, having settled with the attorneys, started for his aunt's; where, as his father had predicted, he was received with open arms, and a joyful clapping of hands and a ceade mille a faltha. "Oh, then, Tom, avic macree, but it's you that's welcome; an' shure I needn't ax you how you are. Oh, but it's you that's grown the fine young man since I seen you last. An' let me see—how long ago is that now, Tom agra? It'll be four years coming Easthre Sunda' next since I was down in Rathcashmore. An' how is Mick a wochal? an' how's herself, Tom, the 'colleen dhass' you know?" And she gave him a poke with her finger between the ribs. "Ah, Tom avic, yon needn't look so shy; shure I know all about it, an' why wouldn't I? It'll be an illigant match for the pair iv ye; as good for the wan as for the other—coming Shraft, Tom, eh? In troth Winny will be a comfort to you, as well as a creedit; that's what she will, won't she, Tom?"

"Let me alone now, aunt; I'm tired after the journey; and it's not of her I'm thinking."

"See that now—arra na bocklish, Tom, don't be afther telling me that; shure didn't Mick himself write to me two or three times to let me know how matthers was going on, and the grand party he gev on Hallow-Eve, and the fun ye all had, and how you danced wid her a'most the whole night."

"Nonsense, aunt! Did he tell you how anybody else danced?"

"No, the sorra word he said about any wan that was there, barrin' yourself an' herself."

"Well, never heed her now. I'll {206} tell you more about her to-morrow or next day, and maybe ask your advice upon the subject at the same time."

Their conversation was here interrupted, as Tom thought very opportunely, by the entrance of Bill Wilson, whose welcome for his wife's nephew was as hearty, in a manner, as that which he had received from herself. The conversation, of course, now "became general;" and Bill Wilron, although he had never been out of Armagh, seemed to have everybody down about Tom's country pat by heart, for he asked for them all by name, not forgetting, although he left her to the last, to ask for Winny Cavana. It was evident to Tom, from his manner, that he was up to the project in that quarter; and as evident that, like his aunt, he knew nothing of how matters up to this had turned out, or how they were likely to end. He answered his uncle's questions, however, with reasonable self-possession; and his aunt, having perceived from his last observation to herself that there was "a screw loose," turned the conversation very naturally to the subject of Tom's physical probabilities, saying,

"Athen, Tom jewel, maybe it's what you're hungry, an' would like to take something to eat afore dinner; shure an' shure it's the first question I ought to have asked you."

"No, aunt, I thank you kindly, I'll take nothing until your dinner; there's a friend of mine lives in the skirts of the town; I want to see him, and I'll be back in less than an hour."

"A friend of yours, Tom? athen shure if he is, he ought to be a friend of ours; who is he, Tom a wochal?"

"Oh, no, aunt, you never heard of him. He's a boy I have a message to from, a friend in the country."

"Why, then, Tom, you'll be wanting to know the way in this strange place, an' shure I'll send the girl wid you to show you. Shure how could you know, an' you never in Armagh afore?"

"No, aunt, I say, I have a tongue in my head, and I'm not an onshiough. I'll find him out without taking your girl from her business."

"Athen, Tom jewel, whoever bought you for an onshiough would lay out his money badly, I'm thinking; an' although you were never in this big city afore, the devil a bit afeared I am but you'll find your way, an' well have lashins iv everything that's good for you, and a ceade mille a faltha when you come back."

Tom then left them, bidding them a temporary good-bye. He he did not think it at all necessary to enlighten his aunt to the fact that he had paid periodical visits to Armagh from time to time, and had on these occasions passed her very door. But these visits were of short duration, and have been only hinted at. They were sufficient, however, to familiarize him with the portions of the city to which he now directed his steps. But as we are not aware of the precise spot to which he went, nor acquainted with those whose society he sought, we shall not follow him.

His aunt, after he had left, was in no degree sparing in her praise of him to her husband, who had never seen him before, but who indorsed every word she said with the greatest promptitude and good-humor, "as far as he could see."

Bill Wilson was no fool. He gave his wife's nephew a hearty and a sincere welcome, and he knew it would be an ungracious thing not to acquiesce in all that she said to his advantage; but it was an indiscreet slip to add the words "as far as he could see." It implied a caution on his part which did not say much for the confidence he ought to have felt in his wife's opinion, and went merely to corroborate her praises of his personal appearance.

"As far as you can see,' Bill! Well, indeed, that far you can find no fault at all, at all; that's shure an' sartin. Where would you find the likes iv him, as far as that same goes, William Wilson?—not in Armagh, let me tell you. I ax you did you {207} ever see a finer head iv hair, or a finer pair iv ejes in a man's head, or a handsomer nose, or a purtier mouth? An' the whiskers, Bill!—ah, them's the dark whiskers from Slieve-dhu; none of your moss-colored whiskers that you see about here, Bill. Look at the hoith iv him! He's no leprahaun, Bill Wilson; an' I say if you go out an' walk the town for three hours, you'll not meet the likes iv him till you come back again to where he is himself'."

"Faix, an' I won't try that, Mary, for I believe every word you're afther sayin'. But, shure, I didn't mane to make Little of the young man at all."

"You said 'as far as you could see,' Bill; an' shure we all know how far that is. But amn't I tellin' you what is beyant your sight,—what he is to the backbone, for larnin', an' everythin' that's good, manly, an' honest? There now, Bill, I hope you don't misdoubt me,—'as far as you can see,' indeed!"

"Well, Mary, I meant nothing against him by that; indeed I believe, and I am shure, he's as good as he's handsome. But I must go out now to the workshop to look after the men. Let me know when he comes back."

Tom was not so long away as he had intended. The person whom he went to look for was not at home, and he returned to his aunt at once. He had not many acquaintances in Armagh, and they were such as might be better pleased with a visit after dark than so early in the day.

Before "the dinner" was prepared, Tom had another chat with his aunt, and, as a matter of course, she could not altogether avoid the subject of Winny Cavana. She had been given to understand by her brother that a successful courtship was carrying on between Tom and her. But the humor in which Tom had received her first quizzing upon the subject at once told that intelligent lady of the "loose screw" on some side of the question. Upon so important a matter, a married woman, and own aunt to such a fine young man, one of the parties concerned, Mrs. Wilson could not permit herself to remain ignorant. Her direct questions in the first instance, and her dexterous cross-examination afterward, showed Tom the folly of hoping to evade a full confession of his having been refused; and it may be believed that he set forth in no small degree how ill-treated he had been by the said Winny Cavana and her father.

His aunt consoled him, so far as she could, with hopes that matters might not be so bad as he apprehended; reminding him at the same time of the extent of the sea, and the number of good fishes which must still be in it uncaught. That shrewd woman could also perceive, from Tom's manner, under his confession, as well as his first ill-humor, that the loss of Winny Cavana's fortune, and the reversion of her fat farm, were more matters of regret to him than the loss of herself.

"And why not?" she thought, under the impression of Winny's ill-treatment of such a fine han'som' young fellow as her nephew. "Shure, couldn't he have his pick an' choice of any girl in that, or in any other parish; ay, or among her acquaintances in Armagh, for that matter? But as for young Lennon! she was sartin shure Winny couldn't be such a born idgiot as to make much of the likes of him where Tom was to the fore."

She thus encouraged her nephew, taking much the same view of his case as old Mick had done, and giving him pretty much the same advice— "not to dhraw back at all, but to persavare an' get a hoult in her by hook or by crook, an' thrust to a reconciliation aftherwards. He might take her word for it, it was more make b'lief than anything else. Don't give it up, Tom; them sort of girls like persavarince; I know I did, a wochal, in my time. What's on her mind is, {208} that it's afther her money you are, an' Not hersel'."

"The devil a much she's out there, aunt; but I wish I could make her think otherwise."

"Lissen here, Tom; 'a council's no command,' they say, an' my advice is this. Let on when you go back that you could get an illigant fine girl in Armagh wid twiste her fortune; but that nothing would tempt you to forsake your own little girl at home, that was a piece iv your heart since ye were both the hoith of a creepeen; do you see? an' I'll back you up in it. Tell her she may bestow her fortune upon Kate Mulvey or any one she likes; that herself is all you want. You know she won't do that when it comes to the point."

"Not a bad plan, aunt. But sure I should let on to my father, and to every one in the neighborhood; and they'll be asking me who she is, and about her father and her mother, and all about her; and I should have answers ready, if I mean the thing to look like the truth."

"An' won't I give you all that as pat as A, B, C? Don't I know the very girl that'll answer to a T, Tom?"

"Why then, aunt dear, mightn't you bring me across her in earnest?"

"Faix, an' I could not, Tom, for a very good reason—that I'm not acquainted wid her, except to see her sometimes; an' I know her name, an' who she is, an' her father's name, an' how he med his money. They're as proud as paycocks, I can tell you; an nayther the wan nor the other would look the same side iv the street wid the likes iv us, Tom; but they don't know that at Rathcash; an' shure, if Winny thries to find out about them, she'll find that you're tellin' the truth as far as the names an' money goes, an I'll let on to be as thick as two pickpockets wid them."

Tom was silent. The closing words of his aunt's speech made him wish that he could pick some of their pockets of about a hundred pounds.

The plan, however, seemed a good one, and had the effect of putting Tom Murdock into good humor; and when Bill Wilson joined them at dinner Tom was so agreeable and chatty, that Bill thought his wife, although she was Tom's aunt, had not said a word too much for him; and he regretted more than ever that he had used the words "so far as he could see." He anticipated—nay, he dreaded—that they would be brought up to him again that night with greater force than ever.


The most part of ready cash, whatever the sum may have been, which Tom had received at the bank, having been, as he called it, "swallowed up by them cormorants, the attorneys," he had, after all, but a trifling balance in his pocket. He was determined, therefore, to live quietly for some time at his aunt's upon "the lashins and lavins," taking her advice, and arranging with her his plan of operations upon his return to Rathcashmore. And his aunt's advice, in a prudent and worldly point of view, was not to be controverted, if anything could tend toward the attainment of his object; that was the question.

It was impossible, however, that Tom could rest altogether satisfied with the company of his aunt and her husband, and three or four children between ten and seventeen years of age; particularly as the eldest of his cousins was a long-necked boy with big, stuck-out ears, who worked in his father's shop, instead of a graceful girl with dark hair and fine eyes, whose domestic duties must keep her in the house as her mother's assistant, or perhaps enable her, when she could be spared, to guide him through the principal parts of the town, of which he would have feigned the most profound ignorance. But the eldest child just past seventeen, as we have seen. {209} happened to be a boy, not a girl, and Tom did not consider this the best arrangement that could be wished. In consequence, he sometimes spent an evening from home, with one or other, or perhaps with all the congenial spirits with whom, as a delegate—for the truth may be confessed—from another county, he could claim brotherhood. On this occasion, however, he was not on official business in Armagh; and whatever intercourse took place between them was of a purely social nature.

Tom was not altogether such a mauvais sujet as perhaps the reader has set him down in his own mind to be, from the inuendos which have been thrown out respecting him, as well as the actual portions of his character which have made themselves manifest. It must be confessed—nay, I believe it has been admitted not many lines above—that he was a Ribbonman; and although that includes all that is murderous and wicked, when a necessity arises, yet in the absence of such necessity a Ribbonman may not be altogether void of certain good points in his character. It is the frightful obligation which he labors under that makes a villain of him, should circumstances require the aid of his iniquity. Apart from this, and from what is termed an agrarian grievance, a Ribbonman may not be a bad family-man, although the training he undergoes in "The Lodge" is ill calculated to nourish his domestic sympathies.

Tom had now been upward of a month enjoying the hospitality of his aunt; and notwithstanding that she had done all in her power to entertain him, and "make much" of him, he was beginning to tire of the eternal smoke and flags, and stacks of chimneys, which were always the same to the eye: no bright "blast of sun," no sudden dark cloud, made any difference in them; there they were, always the same dark color, no matter what light shone upon them. No wonder, then, Tom Murdock began once more to long for the fresh breeze that blew about the wild hills of Rathcashmore, the green fields of his father's farm, and the purple heather of Slieve-dhu, with the white rocks of Slieve-bawn by her side.

Absence too had done more really to touch Tom's heart with respect to Winny Cavana than to wean him from the "saucy slut," as he had called her in pique on his departure. He had "come across,"—this is the Irish mode of expressing, "had been introduced,"—through his aunt's assistance, several of what she called illigant fine girls, nieces of her husband's and others, and his heart confessed that none of them "were a patch" upon Winny Cavana, after all. He thus became fidgety, and began to speak of returning home. Of course the aunt opposed her hospitality to such a step, for the present at least: "Just as we were beginning to enjoy you, Tom avic," said she; and of course her husband made a show of joining her, although he knew there had been more beer drunk in the house in the last month than in the six preceding ones; neither did the cold meat turn out to half the account. He knew this by his pocket, not by his knowledge of the cookery. Tom, however, made no promise of further sojourn than "to put the following Sunday over him," and it was now Thursday. But the next morning's post hurried matters. It brought him a letter from his father, which prevented his aunt from pressing his stay beyond the following day, when it was finally settled by Tom that he would start for home. "It ran thus," as is the common mode of introducing a letter in a novel or story:

"DEAR TOM,—This comes to you hoppin' to find you in good health, which I am sorry to say it does not lave me at present; but thank God for all his mercies. I was very lonesum entirely afther you left me; an the more, dear Tom, as I had not my ould neighbor Ned Cavana to spake to, as used to be the case afore that {210} young chisel of a daughter of his cam round him to brake wid us. She's there still, seemingly as proud as ever; but she'll be taken down a peg wan of these days, mark my words. I have wan piece of good news for you, Tom avic; an' that is, that young Lennon never darkened their doore since you went; and more be token, she never spoke a word to him on Sunda's after mass, but went straight home with her father from the chapel. This I seen myself; for although I have been very daunny since you left me, I med bowld wid myself not to lose prayers any Sunda' wet or dhry, for no other purpose but to watch herself an' that chap. So, dear Tom, you needn't be afeared of him. I think, indeed; I seen him going down the road the three Sunda's wid Kate Mulvey; so I think Winny tould the truth to her father about him. Dear Tom, I have not been well at all at all for the last three weeks, an' I am not able to be out all day as I used to be, an' I hardly know how matthers are goin' on upon the farm. I see old Ned a'most every day from the doore or the garden, where I sometimes go out when it's fine; I see him wandherin' about his farm as brisk an' as hard as ever. I think nothin' would give that man a brash. Dear Tom, I did not like writin' to you to say I was lonesum or unwell until you had taken a turn out of yourself at your aunt's; but I am not gettin' betther, an' I think the sight iv you would do me good. Tell your aunt to let you cum home to me now. Indeed, dear Tom, I'm too long alone; an' havin' no wan to spake to makes me fret, though I wouldn't interfere wid you for a while afther you went. If ould Ned Cavana was the man I tuck him to be, he wouldn't let the few words that cum betune us keep him away from me all this time, an' I not well; but he never put to me, nor from me, since you left, nor I to him. Dear Tom, cum back to me as soon as you can, an' maybe we'll get the betther of him an' Winny, afther all. Hopin' your aunt, an' the childer, an' Bill himself, is all in good health, I remain your father till death,

"Michael Murdock."

Tom, as I have hinted, was not without his good points, and, as he read over the above letter from his poor lonely father, his heart smote him for having been so long away, and where, to tell the truth to himself, he had no great fun or pleasure. His conscience, moreover, accused him of one glaring act of ingratitude and villany, he might call it, toward the poor old man. There was something tender and self-sacrificing in the letter, yet it was not without a complaining tone all through, that brought all Tom's better feelings uppermost in his heart; and he resolved to start for home early the next morning. He now felt that he had business at home, which at one time he had never contemplated taking the smallest trouble about, beside keeping his poor old father better company than he had hitherto done. Yet, with all this softening of his disposition, he was never more determined to carry out his object with respect to Winny Cavana, by fair means—or by foul!

What his father had said about young Lennon gave him hopes that, in the end, a scheme which he had planned for the latter might not be necessary.

Tom knew there could be no use in writing to his father to say he would so soon be home with him. The nearest post-town was seven miles from Rathcashmore; and although any person "going in had orders" to call at the post-office, and bring out all letters for the neighbors of both the Rathcashes, yet were he to write now, his letter was sure to lie there for some days, and he would undoubtedly be home before its receipt. Thus he argued, and therefore endeavored to content himself with the resolution he had formed to make no delay; and whatever "his traps" may have been, they were got together and locked in his box at once.


He had engaged to meet a particular friend on the following evening, Friday, partly on business previous to returning to his own part the country. But he would now anticipate this visit by going there at once, so as to enable him to leave for home early next morning. He hoped to find his father better than his letter might lead him to suppose; and he had no doubt his presence and society, which he was determined should be more constant and sympathizing than heretofore, would serve to cheer him.

Nothing, then, which his aunt could say, and certainly nothing which her husband had added to what she did say, had any effect toward altering Tom's resolution to start for home on the following morning. By this means he hoped to reach his father on the evening of the second day,—railways had not been then established in any part of Ireland, not even the Dublin and Kingstown line,—and he would save the poor old man from the lonesome necessity of going to church on Sunday, "be it wet or dry."

He carried out his determination without check or hindrance, and arrived at the end of the lane leading up to Rathcashmore house soon after dusk in the evening of Saturday. He travelled by car from C—k; and the horse being neither too spirited, nor too fresh, after his journey, stood quietly on the road, with his head down, and his off fore-leg in the "first position," until the driver returned, having left Tom Murdock's box above at the house.

The meeting between old Mick and his son was as tender and affectionate on the old man's part as could well be, and as much so on Tom's as could well be expected. Old Mick had some secret anticipations—presentiment, perhaps, I should have called it—that they would never part again in this world, until they parted for the last time. Daily he felt an increasing weakness of limb, weariness of mind, which whispered to his heart that that parting was not far distant. His son's arrival, however, had the effect which he had promised to himself. He seemed to improve both in spirits and in health. If he had not thrown away the stick,—which the reader was forewarned he would adopt,—he made more use of it cutting at the kippeens, and whatever else came in his way, than as a help to his progress.


From The St. James' Magazine.


In 1828 the learned Arago, a Frenchman, published a remarkable work on the history of the steam-engine. It contains much information that had hitherto been little known on the scientific labor and discoveries of Salomon de Caus. He cites the work of the latter, entitled "Les Raisons des Forces Mouvantes," which was first published at Frankfort in 1615, and reprinted at Paris in 1624; and M. Arago draws from it the conclusion that Salomon de Caus was the original inventor of the steam-engine.

Six years after this notice of the life and labor of the French engineer, there appeared in "Le Musée des Familles" a letter from Marion Delorme, supposed to have been written on the 3d of February, 1641, to her lover Cinq-Mars, in which she tells him that she is doing the honors of Paris to an English lord, the Marquis of Worcester, and showing him all {212} the curiosities of that city. She goes on to say that among other institutions she had taken milord to Bicêtre, where a madman was confined for insisting on a wonderful discovery he had made on the application of steam from boiling water; that the superintendent of the asylum had shown a book to the marquis written on the subject by this lunatic; and that after reading a few pages the English nobleman begged for an interview with Salomon de Caus, from which he returned in a grave and pensive mood, declaring that this man was one of the greatest geniuses of his age.

Such is the substance of the letter of Marion Delorme; and the editor of "Le Musée des Familles" adds that the Marquis of Worcester appropriated the discovery to himself, and recorded it in his work entitled "Century of Inventions," thus causing himself to be looked upon by his countrymen as the inventor of the steam-engine.

The anecdote became very popular, and was copied into standard works, represented in engravings, etc., etc. At length some incredulous authors examined more closely into the matter, and found that not only had Salomon de Caus never been confined in a lunatic asylum, but that he had held the appointment of engineer and architect to Louis XIII. up to his death in 1630, while Marion Delorme is asserted to have visited Bicêtre in 1641!

On tracing this mystification to its source, we find that M. Henri Berthoud, a literary man of some repute, and a constant contributor to "Le Musée des Familles," confesses that the letter imputed to Marion Delorme was in fact written by himself!

But the most curious part of the story is that the world refused to believe in M. Berthoud's confession, so great a hold had the anecdote taken on the public mind; and a Paris newspaper went so far even as to declare that the original autograph of this letter was to be seen in a library in Normandy, in which province Salomon de Caus was born. M. Berthoud wrote again denying its existence, and offered a million to any one who would produce the letter. From that time the affair was no more spoken of, and Salomon de Caus was allowed to remain in undisputed possession of his fame, as having been the first to point out the use of steam in his work, "Les Raisons des Forces Mouvantes. " He had previously been employed as engineer to Henry, Prince of Wales, son of James I., and he published a volume in folio, in London, "La perspective avec les Raisons des Ombres et Miroirs. "

In his dedication of another work to the queen of England, 15th of September, 1614, we find some allusion made to the construction of hydraulic machines. On his return to France he, as before said, was appointed engineer to Louis XIII., and was doubtless patronized by Cardinal Richelieu, that great promoter of the arts and letters.

The writings of Salomon de Caus were held in much estimation among learned men during the whole of the seventeenth century. He had, however, been anticipated in the discovery of steam for the propelling of large bodies, for on the 17th of April, 1543, the Spaniard, Don Blasco de Garay, launched a steam-vessel at Barcelona, in presence of the Emperor Charles V. It was an old ship of 200 tons, called the Santissima Trinidad, which had been fitted up for the experiment, and which moved at the rate of ten miles an hour.

The inventor of this first steamer was merely looked upon as an enthusiast, whose imagination had run mad; and his only encouragement was a donation of 200,000 maravedis from his sovereign, but the emperor no more dreamt of using the discovery than did Napoleon I., three centuries later, when the ingenious Fulton suggested to him the application of steam to navigation. It is well known that Fulton was not even permitted to make an essay of this new {213} propelling force before the French emperor. So then, we must date the fact of the introduction of steam navigation as far back as 1543; anterior to the discovery of Salomon de Caus in 1615; to the Marquis of Worcester in 1663; to Captain Savary in 1693; to Dr. Papin in 1696; and to Fulton and others, who all lay claim to the original idea.

But perhaps we may be wrong in denying originality to these men, for we have no proof that either of them had any knowledge of the discoveries of his predecessor.

It was only on the 18th of March, 1816, that the first steam-vessel appeared in France, making her entrance into the seaport of Havre; she was the Eliza, which had left Newhaven, in England, on the previous day.

From The Fortnightly Review.


No one can write upon the clouds without some reference to Mr. Ruskin's labors. Few will forget the four chapters in the first volume of "Modern Painters," dealing first with men's apathy for those forms of beauty which daily flit around us, and ending with the magnificent contrast between Turner and Claude, showing with what difference they had rendered the calm of the mist and the shock of the tempest, the crimson of the dawn and the fire of sunset We are, indeed, all of us too apathetic, and the summer and the winter clouds are alike unheeded by us. And yet our grey English clouds have impressed themselves upon even our language and our daily speech. Our word "sky" has nothing in common with the ciel of the French and the cielo of the Italians, which through the Latin coelum refer to the clear blue chasm of the air. Our "sky" is connected with the Old-English seua, and literally means "the place of shadows." Our "welkin" is connected with wolcen, "a cloud," and is derived from a root which points to the incessant, rolling, billowy motion of the clouds.

But if we have failed to notice the clouds and their beauty, others have not failed. Men, seeing their power, feeling their blessings, have worshipped them. Upon them our Scandinavian ancestors built their creeds, and from them created their gods and goddesses. The beauty and the delicacy of the early Aryan mythology is interwoven with the storm-cloud, which alike inspires the story of the Odyssey and solves the mystery of OEdipus. Mr. Ruskin has already quoted from Aristophanes. We could wish that he had supplemented the Athenian poet, who gives merely the latter sensuous mythological view of the clouds, with passages from the fathers, who so deeply penetrated into both their beauty and their moral aspect. With them the clouds appear no longer puissant goddesses, daughters of Father Ocean, thronging in troops from Maeotis and Mimas, their golden pitchers filled with the waters of the Nile. Their fleecy forms told them of him who "giveth snow like wool, and scattereth the hoar frost like ashes," of him who "maketh the clouds his chariots, and rideth on the wings of the wind." They could not feel the whirlwind's blast without remembering that it had borne Elijah heavenward, nor hear the thunder without remembering the thunder and lightning which clothed God on Sinai, {214} nor watch the evening rack without remembering that the clouds, such perhaps as they were gazing at, had received their Master out of his disciples' sight, and that again from them he should descend at his second coming. In these days of atmospheric laws, of measurements of rainfalls, and weather forecasts, we cannot by the utmost effort of the imagination place ourselves in their position. To them, as to the first Christians, heaven was directly above their heads, divided from the earth only by the screen of clouds. They must have regarded those white ethereal shadows, those dark rolling masses, in much the same way as the early sacred painters,—peopled each flake with cherubs and angels, and heard the air rustle with wings.

Be this as it may. Even if religion inspired them with such thoughts, they certainly were not insensible to the beauty which daily blossoms in the sky. "There is," cries St. Chrysostom, "a meadow on the earth and a meadow, too, in the sky. There are the various flowers of the stars, the rose below, the rainbow above." [Footnote 31] "Look up to heaven," he says, "and see how much more beautiful it is than the roof of palaces. The pavement of the palace above is much more grand than the roof below." [Footnote 32] His writings are full of metaphors drawn from the sky and the clouds. He speaks of "snow-storms of miracles," and "thick-falling showers of cares," and cries, "When God doth comfort, though sorrows come upon thee by thousands like snow-flakes, thou shalt be above them all." He reproaches men for looking down like swine to the earth, and not up to the sky, [Footnote 33] which he declares is the fairest of roofs, guiding them by its beauty to their Maker. [Footnote 34] And filled with that democratic spirit which so burns in all his writings, he cries to the poor man, "Seest thou this heaven here, how beautiful, how vast it is, how it is placed on high? This beauty the rich man enjoyeth not more than thou, nor is it in his power to thrust thee aside, and make it all his own; for as it was made for him, so it was, too, for thee. . . . . . Do not all enjoy it equally—rich and poor? . . . . . Yea, rather, if I must speak somewhat marvellously, we poor enjoy it more than they. . . . . The poor more than any enjoy the luxury of the elements." [Footnote 35]

[Footnote 31: "Homilies on the Statues." The Oxford Translation.]

[Footnote 32: "Homilies on 1 Thessalonians iv. 12." ]

[Footnote 33: "Homilles on St. Matthew." Part II. ]

[Footnote 34: "Homilles on St. John." Part II.]

[Footnote 35: "Homilles on 2 Corinthians." ]

The passage is full of the deepest interest. Mr. Ruskin has shown us with what mixed feelings the Greeks loved the clouds, and how the mediaevalist feared them. It would be well to know how they have been and are still viewed in England by the lower classes. For, as we before said, the upper classes care little about the clouds. The ( (changeful days) of England pass by unnoticed, except to fill up a gap in a conversation. St. Swithin is our national saint, but we are not enthusiastic devotees. Only when a picnic or a cricket match is involved do we trouble ourselves about the clouds. Then the barometer is studied, and the weathercock becomes an object of interest. In short, only when our pleasures are at stake do we care whether the day is wet or fine. On the other hand, life with the poor, man depends on the weather. Three continuous wet days in London throw no less than twenty thousand people out of employment. Fine weather is the poor man's bread-winner, his comforter, his physician. He may therefore be pardoned if, with Ulysses, he in the first place regards it from an economical point of view. Thus the laborers in the north midland counties speak of showery weather as "rich weather,"—that is, not only enriching the crops, but themselves. On the contrary, as producing a different effect on their calling, the sailors on the north-east {215} coast speak of such weather as "shabby weather," and call rain—useless to them—"dirt." This indeed must be the case. In the lowest as in the earliest stages of society, this utilitarian spirit—not necessarily base, but co-existent with even a passionate love of beauty—must prevail. The laborer whose day's wage depends on the clouds, and the fisherman whose meal rests with the winds, will naturally first think of them as subservient to the needs of life. Badly clothed, and ill-fed, they cannot possibly appreciate Mr. Kingsley's admiration of the east wind. The fisherman only knows it as producing a dearth of fish. To the midland peasant it is his "red wind,"—just as Virgil spoke of nigerrimus Auster, and as the Greeks called the north wind "the black wind," still the bise of the Mediterranean. In the east of England the nightingale is not the bird of song, not Ben Jonson's "dear good angel of the spring," but the "barley-bird," because it arrives when the barley is sown. For, on the whole, barley is more important to the peasant than song, and therefore the bird is thus called. Nevertheless the song may be highly prized, but it is still secondary. Thus we stumble upon a curious explanation of the utilitarian spirit observed in Homer and the earliest painters. And the terms of our country-people throw a plain light upon the Homeric epithets "fruitful" ( ), and "loamy" ( ), applied to the earth; and the phrases of our fishermen curiously illustrate the terms "barren" ( ), and "teeming with fish" ( ), as applied to the sea. Society in the same or parallel stage ever gives the same utterance.

The reality, too, of the elements, as Lear and Jacques would say, touches the poor to the quick. Hence in the north they simply call rain "waters," just in the same way as the Greeks used whilst in the midland counties they nearly as often say "it is wetting" as "it is raining." Their proverbs, too, smack of the fierceness of men who have struggled with the storm. So the Anglian countryman sings of the first three days of March,

  "First comes David, then comes Chad.
  Then comes Winnol blowing like mad."

Their vocabulary, too, teems with words expressive of every shade and variety of weather. Our skies and clouds have entered far more into the composition of popular phrases than we are commonly aware. Such trivial expressions as "being under a cloud," "laying up for a rainy day," unconsciously reflect the character of our weather. Its power overshadows even the altar and the grave in the common rhyme:

  "Happy the bride whom the sun shines on.
  Happy the dead whom the rain rains on."

And the rhyme at one time really exercised a spell. You find it used by lovers amongst our Elizabethan dramatists, who so faithfully reflected the spirit of the day. Thus, in Webster's Duchess of Malfy, Ferdinand cries to the duchess about her lover:

                "Let not the sun
  Shine on him till he's dead."
            Act iii. Sc. 2

But the poor possess an abundance of such expressions. And as life is real to them, so their sayings are quickened with reality. Thus, "to be born in a frost" is in Yorkshire an euphemism for being foolish. In the same county, "to obtain anything under the wind" means to obtain it secretly. In Norfolk the ploughman says "there is a good steward when the wind-frost blows." Just consider, too, the richness of their vocabulary of weather-terms, and the observation which it implies. Take Yorkshire alone, and there we shall find "dag," "douk," "pell," "pelse," "rouk," "rag," "sops," all standing for different kinds and degrees of rain and showers. There the white winter-mist is the "hag" the hoar-frost the "rind," the snow-flakes "clarts of snow," and the summer heat-mist the "gossamer," as Wedgwood {216} notices, the Marien fäden of Germany. Go into the eastern counties, and the dialect is as rich. The sea-mist is the "sea-fret" and the "sea-roke." The heavy rain, which soaks into the earth, is the "ground-rain." The light rain is the "smur" in Suffolk, the "brange" in Essex, and the "dag" in Norfolk, from which last word the various corruptions "water-dogs" and "sun-dogs" are formed.

Passing, however, from words, let us note a few of the weather-rhymes and weather-proverbs which show what accurate observers necessity has made our peasants. There is not a village where the local phenomena of mists and clouds are not preserved in some rhyme. From Cumberland to Devonshire the land echoes with these weather-saws. In the former county we have—

  "If Skiddaw hath a cap,
  Criffel wots full well of that."

In the latter, the rhyme—this time really a rhyme—runs:

  "When Haldon wears a hat,
  Let Kenton beware of a skat."

The Warwickshire and Worcestershire peasants in the Vale of Evesham repeat a similar couplet about their own Bredon, and the Leicestershire and Lincolnshire churls about their Belvoir. Weather-rhymes lie treasured up throughout the midland counties about

  "The green-blue mackerel sky,
  Never holds three days dry;"

in the northern counties about "mony haws, mony snaws," and in the eastern of the "near bur, rain fur."' In England we, too, can rhyme about la journée du pèlerin. For centuries the village poet has sung of "mare's tails" and "hen-scrattins," and the great "Noah's Ark cloud," and the "weather-head," of the changes of the moon, how

  "Saturday change, and Sunday full,
  Never did good, nor never wull."

For the peasant in his rude fashion is a meteorologist and has studied the ways of the clouds, "water wagons," as in some counties he calls them. From him Aratus might have filled another Diosemeia, and Virgil improved his first Greorgic. Our Elizabethan dramatists have borrowed some of their most life-like touches from the peasant's weather-lore. Thus Cunningham, in Beaumont and Fletcher's Wit at Several Weapons, says of wrangling:

  "It never comes but, like a storm of hail,
   'Tis sure to bring fine weather in the tail on't."
                  Act. iii., Sc. 1.

And Webster, borrowing from the sailor, makes Silvio say of the cardinal that he

  "Lifts up hit nose like a fool porpoise before storm."
    Duchess of Malfy, Act, iii., Sc. 3.

Shakespeare borrows from both peasant and sailor. His finest descriptions of cloud scenery, as we shall show, are based upon popular phrases. Two of his most beautiful similes illustrate the villager's weather lore. Thus Lucrece is described:

  "And round about her tear-distrained eye.
  Blue circles streamed like rainbows in the sky.
  Those water-galls in her dim element,
  Foretell new storms to those already spent."

And again, in All's Well that Ends Well, the countess says to Helena:

        "What's the matter
  That this distempered messenger of wet,
  The many-colored Iris, rounds thine eye?"
        Act. i., Sc. 3.

And the peasant's rhymes and sayings undoubtedly contain some germs of truth, or they could never have so long held their ground. Admiral Fitzroy, in his "Weather Book," has rightly given a collection of such saws, though it might with advantage be greatly enlarged. Science has before now been forestalled by some bold guess of the vulgar. And often has some happy intuition outstripped the slow labor of the inductive process.

But with the English peasant a sense of the beautiful accompanies that of the useful. Living ever out of doors, he names his clouds after natural objects. He thus gives a {217} reality to them which is unknown to scientific nomenclature. The "lamb storms" of Derbyshire, and the "pewit storms" in Yorkskire, significantly mark the time of year when the lambs are yeaned in the cloughs, and the pewits return to the moors to breed. His symbolism is always true. The peasant in the eastern counties talks of "bulfinch skies" to express the lovely warm vermilion tints of sunset clouds. Tennyson's "daffodil sky" is not truer, nor Homer's more poetical. In Devonshire the peasan has his "lamb's-wool sky" the tenuia lanae vellera of Virgil. In parts of the midland counties he has his "sheep clouds" the schäffchen am himmel of the German, the same clouds which the Norfolk peasant boy has described with so perfect a touch:

       "Detached in ranges through the air,
  Spotless as snow, and countless as they're fair.
  Scattered immensely wide from east to west,
  The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest."

The Derbyshire countryman knows the hard stratified masses of cloud (cumulo-strati) by the happy name of "rock clouds" and the great white rolling avalanches (cumuli) as "snow packs" and "wool packs" the former being rounder than the latter, which lie in folds pressed and packed upon one another. Further living amongst hills and mountains, watching them, as Wordsworth says, "grow" at night, enlarging with the darkness, he finely calls the great hill at the entrance to Dovedale, Thorpe Cloud. He had seen it apparently shift and move with the changes of light and atmosphere, and he could only liken it to a cloud. Perhaps, even at times, some faint glimmering might flit across his mind of the instability of the hills, and the rack to him thus became a symbol of the world's unsubstantial pageant.

The midland counties peasant, too, employs such old-world phrases as the sun is "wading" when it is straggling through a heavy scud, and the sun is "sitting" when her dark side is turned toward the earth. The poets themselves may be in vain searched for a finer expression than the first. The beginning of Sidney's sonnet, which Wordsworth has adopted,

  "With how sad steps,
    O moon, thou climb'st the sky,"

and Milton's description,

      "As if her head she bow'd
  Stooping through a fleecy cloud,"

are somewhat parallel. But the peasant's expression is equally fine. Most readers of "Modern Painters" will remember Mr. Ruskin's vivid description of what he so well calls the "helmet cloud," which rests on the peaks of mountains. But long before Mr. Ruskin wrote, the Westmoreland and Cumberland dalesman named the cloud that at times floats round the tor of Cross Fell by the still better names "helm cloud" and "helm bar."

We could indeed wish that Mr. Ruskin had more deeply studied peasant life and peasant habits. The meaning of the clouds in Turner^s "Salisbury" and "Stonehenge" would have then been more thoroughly appreciated. Fine and poetical as is Mr. Ruskin's interpretation, yet we venture to think that he misses the truth when, in this case, he refers Turner's inspiration to Greek sources. To those who have lived near the Plain, and have mixed with the shepherds, the meaning and the symbolism come far nearer home, and more closely touch the heart. Turner was here no Greek, except as all men who love beauty are Greeks. Here he was, at all events, intensely English. Sprung like so many great poets and painters from the lower class, he could sympathize with the shepherds of the Plain. To them, as to the shepherd in the "Iliad," standing on the hill-top facing the sea, shepherding their flocks, far away from any village, on the vast treeless down, the clouds become a constant source of fear or joy. Their hearts gladden as the light white clouds roll up from the English Channel, and then, as they say, "purl round" and retreat. {218} In spring and summer they joyfully hail the "water dogs," the "gossamer" of the Yorkshire peasant, which herald the fine weather. They, above all other English peasants, solitary on that wide plain, watch with fear the "sun-galls," Shakespeare's "water-galls," as the broken bits and patches of rainbows are called, hanging glorious, but wrathful, in the far horizon. They mark with dread "the messengers" and "water streamers," and at night, too, anxiously note the amber "wheel-cloud" round the moon.

With all this, like a true poet, Turner sympathized. He entered into the reality of shepherd life upon the Plain; its joys and its dangers. In one picture, therefore, he has given us the rain-clouds showering their blessings upon man, and in the other revealed the dread fatalistic power that ever darkens the background of life.

But we must leave the peasant, and turn to the fisherman. More even than the peasant, he naturally regards the weather in its effects upon his calling. The rain with him—we are speaking more especially now of the North Country fisherman—is "dirt," and a rainy sky a "dirty sky." The "water-galls" of the Salisbury shepherd, from which Shakespeare took those most exquisite similes, have with him lost their beauty, and are changed into "sea-devils," evil prophets of tempest. The flying clouds, that herald the storm, are with him "the flying devil and his imps." He realizes the danger, and therefore christens the clouds with rough names.

He too, like the peasant, is learned in weather-lore, and keeps an almanac of weather-rhymes in his memory. In such fishing villages as Staithes and Runswick, on the north-east Yorkshire coast, a large collection might easily be formed. They partake of the roughness and the truthfulness of the inhabitants. Such jingles as:

  "When wind comes before rain
  Then let your topsails remain:
  But if the wind follows rain.
  Then you may close reef again,"

are certainly more accurate in sense than rhythm. Again, the couplet:

  "When the sun crosses line, and wind's in the east.
  It will hand (hold) that way meast, first quarter at least,"

contains a warning not always to be despised. The riddle of the "brough," that amber halo of clouds seen sometimes round the moon, which the shepherds of Salisbury Plain call "the wheel," and the midland peasants "the burr," is solved by the rhyming adage:

  "A far off brough
  Means a near hand rough."

But we must not be too critical, and demand both sense and rhythm. It is something if in poetry we obtain truth. At all events, the Yorkshire fishermen's rhymes are quite as good as a great many of those in which Apollo formerly conveyed his prophecies to mankind. And we think that Admiral Fitzroy might have profitably added some of them to his collection.

Many a time have we seen at some little fishing village the fishermen all detained by some "breeder," or "flyer," whose meaning their eyes alone could read. If the threatened storm has not visited the coast, yet the heavy sea tumbling in without a breath of air has shown that the gale has broken not far distant. Still mistakes arise. Life is constantly sacrificed. But the glory and the pride of science is, that, whilst serving the sublimest ends, it still helps the humblest. We may be unable to control the elements. But we shall triumph over the law by obeying the law. The day will come when the notion of chance will be altogether eliminated, and the law by which the clouds are governed recognized. And in the blessings of science all men are partakers. Alike shall the fisherman steer his craft with a firmer faith in the essential goodness of all things, and the hand of the artist gain strength and his eye see a {219} deeper beauty when each knows that the clouds are as regular in their movements as the stars.

Of course men living by the sea, daily watching the clouds, life itself hanging upon a knowledge, however uncertain, of the meaning of their color and their shapes, have naturally named them in a rude fashion. Landsmen, who only now and then gaze at the clouds, are apt to regard them as ever changing. But not "a wisp" flies in the highest air, not "a creeper" rises out of the sea, whose shapes are not moulded by a definite law. Day by day the same forms repeat themselves with unceasing regularity. The clouds might be mapped out like the land and sea over which they fly. More than half a century has passed since Howard first gave them names. After him Forster wrote, and like him illustrated his theory with diagrams of the principal cloud-forms. And now Admiral Fitzroy has so improved upon their nomenclature, that there is not a cloud that cannot be scientifically named and defined. But our sailors and fishermen have long ago known these facts. Not a stray waif of film flecks the heavens which they have not christened. They know all kinds and shapes, from the "crow-nests," those tiny white spots (cirriti) dotting the sky, up to the glorious "Queen Anne's feather," waving far away into the horizon its soft downy plume, rippled and barred by the wind.

Thus to take a few examples. The North Yorkshire fisherman has his "dyer's neif," a small dark purple cloud, so called from its supposed resemblance to the black grained fist (neif) of a dyer. Some three thousand years ago, Elijah's servant, on Mount Carmel, cried that he saw a little cloud rising out of the sea like a man's hand. And still on the Yorkshire coast the fisherman utters the same language, and knows that cloud still as the forerunner of storm and rain. Quite as striking, too, is the way in which his names of clouds throw a light upon Shakespeare. All readers will remember the passage between Hamlet and Polonins, ending with "Very like a whale;" a phrase which has passed into a proverb for anything very improbable. And no actor can utter it on the stage without producing a peal of laughter. Yet the proverb and the laughter are equally inappropriate. The names of the clouds in the passage are all real names. The "dromedary cloud," or, as Shakespeare calls it, "the camel cloud," is well known to sailors. It is a species of cumulus, a white, packed, humped cloud, and when seen in the southern hemisphere is said to foretell heat; but, in the northern, cold. It is also called the "hunchback cloud." "See, there's the hunchback; look at its pads," North Country fishermen will say. The "weasel-cloud" also is known, though not so well, and is more often called "the hog-cloud" and the "wind-bog," from its being the forerunner of wind. But the "whale-cloud" is as well known to sailors, especially those employed in the Greenland trade, as the "bridge-cloud," or "feather-cloud," or any other well recognized form. "We shall hae a bit o' a puff, lads. See that sea-devil; and yonder's a regular finner to the norrard," have we heard North Sea captains say. A "finner," it should be explained, is a small whale. If ever there was a realist, Shakespeare was. He drew direct from nature. But, like a true artist, he knew how to mould and shape mere barren naturalism by the vitalizing power of the imagination. In its white heat he fused all things. And so, noting the common names of clouds as daily used in conversation by sailors and fishermen and seafaring folk, he could rise from the satire of Hamlet to the high pathetic pitch of Antony's speech:

  "Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish;
  A vapor, sometime, like a bear or lion,
  A towered citadel, a pendent rock,
  A forked mountain, or blue promontory.
  With trees upon't, that nod into the world,
  And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast these signs;
  They are black vesper's pageants.

  Eros.  Ay, my lord.

    That which is now a horse, even with a thought
    The rack dislimns; and makes it indistinct
    As water is in water.

 Eros.  It does, my lord.

     My good knave, Eros, now thy captain is
     Even such a body."

  Anthony and Cleopatra, Act iv, Sc. 12.


Here the whole scene is colored by the imagination and ennobled by human pathos, such as no other man ever possessed. But the basis of the thought is the simplest naturalism, such as other men had seen and observed a thousand times before. The Flying Dragon is mentioned as far back as the latter part of the sixteenth century by Hyll in his "Contemplation of Mysteries," where the first rude ideas of weather forecasts may be found. The "pendent rock" and "forked mountain" are nothing more than the "rock-clouds" of the Derbyshire peasant, concerning which a local rhyme runs:

  "When clouds appear like rocks and towers,
  The earth's refreshed by fragrant showers."

We must not, however, lose sight of our North Country fisherman. If to him the sky is at times black with terror, yet it is also splendid with beauty. In fine weather it is his garden, the heavenly "meadow," as St. Chrysostom would say, blossomed over with flakes and garlands of cloud-bloom, white and peach-colored. He has his names for them, his "crow buds," and his "cherry flowers," and the great "tree cloud" with its purple branches. It is, too, his fairyland full of loveliest shapes flying and wandering here and there, "pigeons," as he calls those white detached winged "flyers," "flying fish," "streamers," and pencilled "plumes."

Thus far of the peasant and the sailor. They certainly more than any one else recognize the terror and the beauty of cloud scenery. The well-to-do man knows the clouds only as they affect his pleasures. Life is not dependent upon them, and he therefore misses that true enjoyment which springs from reality. On the whole, he thinks with the Epicurean that rain ought to fall by night, whilst his wife sighs for Italy and blue skies. But let us, on the contrary, love the grey cloud, and rather hold with that fine old skipper, who, after enduring six months of unbroken weather in the Bay of Naples, cried out on seeing a cloud, "Turn out, boys, turn out; here's weather as is weather; none of your everlasting blue sky." Let us rather love the storm-rack that beats against our island. This it is that gives the color to the cheeks of our maidens; this that has moulded our features, and deepened the lines of our faces, and hardened the national character.

Let us be thankful, with Mr. Raskin, that nowhere can the swiftness of the rain-cloud be seen as in England, nowhere in such perfection as among the Derbyshire hills; nowhere the keenness of the storm be felt as on a Yorkshire wold. [Footnote 36] But in these days even the power of the elements is threatened. We have seen in Derbyshire, when the west wind blows, the cloughs filled, not with troops of clouds dashing slantwise up the valleys, but choked with dull rolling Lancashire smoke; seen, under this canopy of fog, the snow on the Edges turn yellow and brown. One by one, too, the blast furnaces are burning up the Yorkshire moors. And instead of white wreaths of clouds crowning the wolds, a pillar of fire lights them up by night, and a cloud of smoke darkens them by day.

[Footnote 36: "Modern Painter," vol v., part vii., chap. iv., § 14.]

Luckily the sea-coast still remains unpolluted. And if any one really wishes to study the clouds, let him go to the North Yorkshire and Northumberland coasts in winter. Then will he understand something of their majesty and power; then will he see the true purple wind-tints, see the sky a wilderness full of strange weird creatures—"wild hogs," those purple hump-backed clouds running one after another in a line, and the "Flying Devil and his imps" marshalling the storm, which is banking up out of the German ocean; see, too, the "Norway bishop" rise—a man's figure clothed {221} in white, with outstretched arms, under whose ban many a fisherman from Staithes and Runswick has sunk; see the figure melt and disappear in a mist of sleet and snow and hail; and then, last of all, see "the weather-gleam," when all objects loom against the one pale rift of sky, as ships loom in an east wind.

These sights have never been painted, and never can. Even Turner cannot give them. For who can give that which is the greatest pleasure in watching the clouds, the feeling of change? Yon cannot paint the movement of the rack, as the vapor shifts from form to form, now a mountain, now a dragon, now a fish, each change answering to the changes of the spirit. Only the poets can paint the clouds and their lessons—only Shelley and Shakespeare. But put away even Shakespeare himself. Love them, study them from nature. And, as St. Chrysostom says, the poor man, more than any one else, enjoys "the luxury of the elements." The lawyer may hold cujus solum ejus ad coelum; but he who most enjoys the clouds, as with all things else, is their real possessor. And the artist and the poor man, though they may not have a rood of ground to call their own, here reign over an empire.

Translated from the German.






The Catholic reunions, both in Belgium and in Germany, have taken a special interest in Christian art; for religion is at once the source and the end of true art. "Religion," says Lasaulx, "is the soul of every useful measure, the vivifying principle in the life of nations, the permanent basis of true philanthropy. In its infancy, as well as during its most flourishing periods, at all times and among all nations, art has ever been the handmaid of religion. What is the last and highest aim of architecture? The erection of churches. How has sculpture won its noblest triumphs? In pagan antiquity, by representations of the heathen deities; since the dawn of Christianity, by presenting to the admiration of the world statues of our Saviour and his saints. In like manner the noblest subjects of painting have been furnished by religion, and by history, both sacred and profane. And do we not meet with the same phenomenon in music and religions poetry? Hence we may safely conclude that art is the barometer of a nation's civilization, and above all of its religious status. A people animated with a lively faith will not hesitate to manifest it outwardly, sparing neither trouble nor expense, and art affords the most suitable means of giving expression to its feelings. If, on the other hand, art is neglected by a nation, it is a certain sign that its mental and spiritual condition is abnormal; that it must be under the influence of some disturbing agency.

Art, in its relations to religion and the Church, is one of the subjects that have claimed the attention of the Catholic congresses; they discussed the principles of religious architecture, painting, sculpture, and of church music; they considered the subject of decorating the sanctuaries of religion in all its branches, and examined the highest and most important problems of art.

Art, as cultivated during the first {222} ages of Christianity and during the middle ages, is a subject complete in itself, for we can trace its use, its progress, and decay, as well as the development of the ideas which gave it life. Between Christian and pagan art there is no doubt a connecting link; in fact, we may safely assert that in this respect, no less than in all others, there is a great unbroken chain that unites the present age with antiquity. Still, no one can deny that there is a great and immense difference between Christian nations and those of antiquity. For, since the birth of Christianity, we may trace in history a new, active, and all-pervading principle. What the greatest minds of the pagan world scarcely suspected, has become the common property of all nations and of all men. Christianity is built on foundations very different from those on which rested the cumbrous fabric of paganism. It has impressed an original character on art, in every branch of which it has produced results of undoubted excellence, worthy of our admiration. Christian art suffers not by comparison with the masterpieces of antiquity. Narrow-minded and prejudiced persons only will maintain that the Greeks alone excelled in the arts. The independence and excellence of Christian art, compared with that of classic Greece and Rome, is by no means generally admitted; for many are unwilling to allow to the Church the credit, which it may justly claim, of promoting and patronizing the arts. During the last century art has lacked its proper basis—truth, for art is founded on truth. But since nations have been led astray by the erroneous idea that art was revived at Florence, and thence spread over all Europe, it has lost its independence, confined itself to mere imitations of the Greeks and Romans, and gradually decayed more and more. In the history of art no period appears darker than the so-called age of renaissance, and since then Christian art has been either misunderstood or entirely despised. Not long ago the masterpieces of Gothic architecture were looked upon as barbarous; paintings on wood which had for ages graced the European temples were removed, broken to pieces, and burnt, and alters of the most elaborate workmanship were treated as mere rubbish. To level to the ground the noble cathedrals of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries was considered a service to art. And this was done, not by the ignorant, but by the protectors of learning; nay, by artists themselves, who were foremost in the work of destruction. A French architect published an essay to prove that it would advance the interests of art to turn the cathedral of Spires into a warehouse. On the cathedrals of Cologne and Strasbourg, also, French architects, living at the beginning of the nineteenth century, had pronounced sentence of condemnation. No later than 1825, when Charles X. was crowned in the cathedral of Rheims, the heads of two hundred statues were struck off, through fear that the statues might be thrown down on occasion of the royal salute. No one seems to have thought of fastening the images; in fact, why should they trouble themselves about the workmanship of barbarians? During the revolution of 1789, the French had unfortunately acquired too much skill in smashing the statues that crowned their grandest cathedrals.

During the period of which we speak, how false was the appreciation of what is beautiful in art! To man's proud spirit it is humiliating, indeed, to know his own weakness; to know that for years he may remain in the darkness of error, without having the strength to burst the chains that fetter him.

At the beginning of the present century more correct ideas on this subject were entertained and spread by several eminent German artists, and for the last thirty years justice has been done to the claims of the middle ages. Actively co-operating with this {223} movement, the Catholic conventions of Germany and Belgium have achieved many desirable results.

At Malines, in 1864, the section for Christian art was very numerously attended; more than a hundred archaeologists and artists from every country in Europe had there met to take part in lively and interesting debates on Christian art, whilst seventy musicians, professionals, and amateurs held their sessions in another part of the building. Several years ago, I was present at the general meeting of the German architects at Frankfort, but I own that in interest their discussions fell far below those to which I listened at Malines. In 1857, at the general reunion of the Christian art associations in Germany, which met at Regensburg, several hundred commissioners were present, and on that occasion were displayed the same enthusiasm, the same freshness and interest, which distinguished the discussions at Malines. But this zeal has long died out; the Christian art associations of Germany never met again; and at Würzburg, Frankfort, and Aix-la-Chapelle, the Catholic conventions scarcely deigned to notice Christian art.

The chairman of the section for Christian art at Malines was Viscount du Bus de Ghisignies. The viscount's appearance is noble and striking; he seems to have been born to command. In the heat of the combat du Bus never loses his self-possession; his clear and steady eye watches the battle; not a word escapes his notice; fair and unprejudiced, he deals out equal justice to all. If the opinions of a speaker clash with his own, he twirls his martial moustache with more than ordinary vigor; but he allows to every one the rights he may justly claim. As chairman, his duties are not unattended with difficulty. Romans and Teutons, Frenchman and Britons, Dutchmen and Belgians, meet alternately in friendly strife; many a blow is exchanged, principle clashes with principle, and deeply-seated prejudices are uprooted. Convinced that the harmony of mind, as that of sounds, is the product of contrast, du Bus acted in accordance with his convictions and nobly fulfilled the task assigned him. The debates of his section were more animated and more instructive than those of any other.

At the right of du Bus sat the vice-president of the section. Professor Cartuyvels, of Louvain, a man well-versed in parliamentary usage, in which he was excelled by no one except, perhaps, by A. Reichensperger. A young clergyman from Brabant, Cartuyvels displays a master mind; equally skilled in aesthetics and in the philosophy and history of art, the value of these acquirements is enhanced by his knowledge of the liturgy, of canon law, and of holy writ. He is thoroughly acquainted with the works of the great masters of Germany and Italy. His words proclaim the enthusiasm with which he devotes all the faculties of his soul to the service of Christian art.

Always prepared to speak, he boldly upholds the principles which he deems correct. He defends them with ardor and confidence of success, and he seldom fails to carry his point; few are able to cope with him. It was a glorious sight to see A. Reichensperger and Cartuyvels engaged in discussion; for

  "Sublimest beauty comes to light
  When powerful extremes unite!"

James Weale was a representative of England and English art at Malines. For many years Weale has made Bruges his home, and exerted considerable influence on Belgian art; nevertheless, he is a thorough Englishman. He is a convert and a disciple of Canon Oakley. By becoming a Catholic, as is often the case in England, Weale incurred pecuniary losses; but this sacrifice has only purified and strengthened his love for the Church. The trials he has undergone have unveiled the heroic qualities of his heart The greater number of English converts (and this no one who has had {224} the happiness of personal acquaintance with them will dispute) are men distinguished for their great learning and affable manners, and Weale is no exception to this rule. His principles of art are rigorous, I had almost said exclusive, but he is convinced of their correctness. In his views he is unique and definite; he propounds them with uncommon clearness and precision. When opposing false principles, he is not very choice in his expressions, generally preferring the strongest. Weale is the uncompromising enemy of all sham and equivocation. In the domain of art fails attainments are immense. He knows England, the Netherlands, Germany, France, and Italy. His quick eye instantly discovers the merits of a painting. That the clergy may become familiar with every branch of Christian art, is his most ardent desire. At Bruges Weale publishes "Le Beffroi," an archaeological journal; he would have been the most suitable candidate for the newly founded chair of archaeology at Louvain.

Having spoken of Weale, we are now led to notice his friend Bethune, of Ghent. He is a painter, but confines himself chiefly to painting on glass. Brought up in the school of the celebrated English architect, Welby Pugin, who, though only forty years of age when he died, in 1852, had already built more than two hundred churches and chapels, his figures are distinguished by purity of style; he carries out in practice the theories of Weale. However, he does not by any means reject everything modern, but judiciously seeks to combine the beauties of the modern with those of the ancient style of art. Bethune is remarkable both for his piety and his learning, and this accounts for the charm and instructiveness of his conversation. He admires Germany and German art, without being blind to its defects; on the contrary, his criticisms on the best productions of modern German painting are severe, not to say harsh. His paintings on glass are in marked contrast to the productions of the Munich school. He does not delight in great historical paintings on glass, which tend to make us forget that we are looking at a window, but seeks to attain unity of design by subordinating his picture to the plan of the architect. In the debates at Malines, Bethune did not take so prominent a part as Weale. Another active member of the section of Christian art was Bethune's brother, Canon F. A. L. Bethune, professor of archaeology in the seminary at Bruges. Among the French members, Lavedan deserves to be mentioned in the first instance. He is a well-known French journalist, who seems to have a great taste for the fine arts. With untiring ardor he spoke on every question discussed, and, in spite of being somewhat prolix, his remarks were always listened to with pleasure. Although noted rather for wit and polite literature than for depth of learning, he was master of the situation, and to unhorse him was not an easy task. He pleaded eloquently for the establishment of a permanent art exhibition. Whilst Lavedan, like Weale, applies himself to the theory of art, Jaumot, like Bethune, is a practical artist. Of the few artists that France can boast of, Jaumot is one of the best; but he was not permitted to exhibit his cartoons, and has not met with the encouragement so indispensable to the artist Jaumot complainant of this at Malines, and maintained that the Belgian clergy are much better acquainted with the principles of Christian art than the clergy of France. The Abbe Carion attracted attention by his profound knowledge of archaeology; all his remarks proved that he understands thoroughly the subject he treated, though he does not present his ideas in so pleasing a manner as others. Any seminary may justly be proud of such professors as Messrs. Carion, Bethune, and Cartuyvels. No one contributed more to the merriment of the assembly than Van Schendel, of Antwerp, {225} an old painter, who delights in sketches of Dutch family life. He railed at everything, and at times he became quite sarcastic. To find fault seemed to be his sole purpose; whether justly or not, was of little consequence. He succeeded most admirably in boring the chairman. Van Schendel seems to dislike the French language, for he always preferred to speak Dutch. I might speak of many more, but I shall only mention Delbig, a German painter, residing at Liege; Alfred Geelhand, Leon de Monge, Martin, Isard, Mommaerts, of Brussels; Bordeau; de Fleury, an enthusiastic admirer of Flandrin, the great French painter; Van de Necker, the Abbé Huguet, and the Abbé Van Drival.

I cannot forbear speaking of A. Reichensperger, of Cologne. For almost a quarter of a century Reichensperger has been the champion of Christian art, not only in Germany, where he is looked upon as the foremost defender of German art during the middle ages, but also in France and England. In Cologne he had been at the head of the society for completing the cathedral. In the Prussian chambers at Berlin he has always exerted himself in favor of true art. He was president of the general meeting of the Christian art unions, held at Regensburg in 1857, and distinguished himself as an orator at the congress of artists that assembled at Antwerp some years ago. He was also present at Malines, and his presence was of great advantage to the Romanic delegates. Reichensperger is delighted to meet with opposition; nay, he calls it forth, for without it he appears dissatisfied. In fact, a debate is impossible without opposition. At Malines, it is true, opponents were not wanting, but he vanquished them all. Manfully upholding his German principles, he convinced many of their correctness. Reichensperger has often earned applause, he has been the hero of many a parliamentary triumph, during the twelve years that he has been considered one of the five best speakers in the Prussian parliament, but in the Petit Seminaire at Malines he gained his most brilliant successes. His French may not at all times be classical; but his pointed expressions charmed his French audience. His style is not florid, but his speeches sparkle with wit, humor, and sarcasm. His ready logic completely astounded his adversaries. All his remarks called forth thundering applause, which finally grew so noisy that the chairman of the first section, "Les OEuvres Religieuses" deemed it necessary to interfere and request a little more moderation.

But what was the subject of all these learned deliberations? Many questions were discussed, and variety constituted one of the principal charms of the proceedings, AEthetics were treated in the first place; the learned speakers philosophized concerning the ideas of truth, of goodness, and of beauty. One hundred and two years have rolled by since Baumgarten, the father of aesthetics, died. In 1750 and 1758 he published the two volumes of his celebrated work entitled "AEsthetica. " For more than a hundred years, therefore, aesthetics have been cultivated with more or less zeal, but with very little success; the science seems to stagnate because the principles on which it is based are unsound. Hence most books on aesthetics are loathed. The best among the recent works on this subject was written by Lasaulx; but a philosophy of art, from a Catholic point of view, we do not yet possess, for Dursch's "AEsthetics" has many defects. Jacobs' "Art and the Church" might, if completed, have supplied a want long felt.

The discussions on the beautiful led to no important results. Of more practical consequence was the resolution condemning French pictures. Mommaerts made an attempt to establish in Brussels a society whose object was to be the diffusion of pictures artistically unobjectionable. At Paris Meniolle, assisted by German artists, {226} intends to do the same for France, where hitherto Schulgen, of Düsseldorf, has, so to say, held a monopoly. I hope that both projects may be successful, and escape the fate of many similar enterprises, which are nipped in the bud. In all likelihood no similar society will do so much good, and extend its influence so far, as the Düsseldorf association for the diffusion of good pictures.

Much time was spent in discussing the establishment of museums like those of Sydenham and Kensington, near London, and in listening to speeches on fresco paintings, on the stations of the cross, on exhibitions of works of art, and on the encouragement of artists. On motion of Weale, a resolution was adopted to found a Belgian national museum at Louvain, and Reichensperger prevailed on the assembly to pledge itself to further the completion of St. Rombaut's cathedral at Malines.

Let this suffice. The musicians would complain, perhaps, were we to pass them unnoticed. At the request of the general committee at Brussels, Canon Devroye and Chevalier H. Van Elewyk had prepared eight theses for discussion. These propositions treat of choral music, of the education of organists, of the influence of religious music, of the establishment of societies for the promotion of church music, and the like. It was proposed to found a musical academy, in which a special department for religious music is to be established.

Canon Devroye presided; his interesting remarks were always listened to with pleasure. Dr. Paul Alberdingk-Thijm, of Amsterdam, formerly of Louvain, was vice-president. He is well acquainted with Gregorian music and church music in general—of German music also; even of our most common popular songs he has a thorough practical knowledge; many of our German songs he renders with exquisite taste. We shall see more of him hereafter. Verooitte, of Paris, was chosen to be honorary vice-president. He is well known in France. He founded the academy for religious music in Paris, which has been in successful operation for some time, and has contributed materially to raise the character of religious music in that country. Chevalier Van Elewyk has done all in his power to establish in Louvain a society for the promotion of church music, and his exertions were not in vain. A society having the same object in view was formed at Amsterdam. At Malines there were also several organ-builders, whose practical advice was of great advantage to the musical section; the foremost among them were Cavaillé-Coll, of Paris; Mercklin, of Brussels; and Loret, of Malines.

One of the most remarkable personages at the congress was F. Hermann, prior of the Carmelites in London. F. Hermann Cohen, the pianist is a native of Hamburg, and greatly esteemed by the Catholics of Germany. The manner of his conversion was most wonderful and in many of its features resembled that of Alphonsus Ratisbonne. Whenever I saw F. Hermann, in his fine Carmelite habit, I thought of another great musician, Liszt, whom I had seen and admired at Rome, and of the Franciscan, F. Singer, who invented the wonderful instrument to the tones of which I had the pleasure of listening at the general convention held at Salzburg in 1857. True, F. Hermann is not only an eminent musician—God has gifted him with many other endowments; as an orator, especially, he is overpowering, able to move the most unfeeling. Another monk, a fine and imposing figure and a master of religious music, the Franciscan friar Egidius, of Jerusalem, offered very valuable advice. Friar Julian, of Brussels, who has supplied three nations with organists, took an active part in the debates. Beside these I shall mention, Arthur de la Croix, of Tournay, who has written several works on religious music; the Abbé Loth, of Rouen, who deserves honorable mention as one of {227} the most zealous promoters of church music; Lemmens, editor of "L'Organiste Catholique;" Emile Laminne, of Tongres, who most eloquently insists on the cultivation of music in seminaries, and on the appointment of a special committee for music in every diocese. F. Faa di Bruno, of St. Peter's, in London, spoke on oratorios; the Abbé Deschutter, of Antwerp, on sacred music at concerts, Edmund Duval presented a paper on the accompaniment of plain chant. L'Abbé de Mayer, Prof. Deyoght, and Hafkenscheid, of Amsterdam, also made important suggestions. On motion of Dr. Paul Alberdingk-Thijm, the most eminent authorities on sacred music were appointed corresponding members. The following were elected: Meluzzi, musical director at St. Peter's, Rome; Dandini, secretary of the academy of St. Cecilia at Rome; Don Hilarion Eslava, of Madrid; the Duke de San Clemente, of Florence; John Lambert, of London; Tornan, archaeologist at Paris; Charles Verooitte, of Paris; the Abbé Loth, of Rome; Friar Egidius, of Jerusalem; F. Hermann, of London; T. J. Alberdingk-Thijm, publisher at Amsterdam; and F. Stein, pastor of St. Ursula's, Cologne.

Hitherto very little has been done for the reformation of church music; in Germany, as elsewhere, there still exist many reasons for complaining. Nevertheless, the Gregorian chant is no more antiquated than the ceremonies of the Church, her liturgy, her liturgical language, or the vestments used at her offices. Who is there that does not admire the melody of the sacred hymns, their perfect form, their solemnity, and their dignity? Moreover, the plain chant demands no violent exertion on the part of the singer. The voice is strained neither by difficult figures nor by unnatural intervals, nor does it require the same compass as the modern music. Unlike instrumental music, choral music does not stun the hearer by its noisy effect, so unbecoming divine service.

Nor has sufficient attention been paid to several other points; to the more thorough study of the liturgy, and of the sacred hymns of the Church, and to the cultivation of popular music.

Lastly, we must briefly notice the exhibition connected with the congress of Malines. It was very interesting, and formed a pleasing feature of the first and particularly of the second congress. Those who contributed most towards its success were, James Weale, of Bruges, Bethune, of Ghent, Canon de Bleser, and Abbé Deloigne. Many weeks of patient research, under the most favorable circumstances, would not enable us to meet with so many specimens of mediaeval art; in fact, the collection was of great importance to the student of archaeology.

The works of living masters, too, were on exhibition, and many of them called forth our especial interest and admiration. They proved conclusively that the attempts recently made to restore Christian art to its pristine purity have not been altogether fruitless. In many places our artisans have again begun to study the medieval art, and many of them rival in the excellence of their productions the masters of the middle ages. How beautiful were many pieces of bronze statuary, of jewelry, and of embroidery, that we found at Malines! The bronze chandeliers, candelabra, and desks sent by Hart, of London, surpassed in purity of style and beauty the best works of the old Belgian masters. The Romanic and Gothic ciboria, chalices, remonstrances, chandeliers, reliquaries, censers, crosses, croziers, and the like, contributed by such artists as Bourdon de Bruyne, of Ghent, Martin Vogeno, of Aix-la-Chapelle, Hellner, of Kempen-on-the-Rhine, rivalled the most admired productions of the middle ages; the three artists above-mentioned fully deserved the prizes awarded them by the congress. Among the sculptors whose statuary graced the exhibition, well-merited praise was bestowed on de Broeck and Van Wint, of Antwerp, and {228} Pieckerey, of Bruges. The paintings on glass, also, exhibited by Westlake, of London, met with general approbation. The committee which awarded the premiums consisted of Voisin, of Tournay; von Bock, of Aix-la-Chapelle; Van Drival, of Arras; Felix Bethune and John Bethune, of Ghent; Cartuyvels, of Liege; Weale, of Bruges; and Helbeig, of Liege.

Lambotte, of Liege, Reinhold Aasters, of Aix-la-Chapelle, John Goyers, of Malines, and several others had sent samples of workmanship in gold. The silk embroideries of Von Lambrechts-Martin, of Louvain, attracted considerable attention, as did also the sculptures of Champigneulle, of Metz, and of Phyffers, a Belgian sculptor living in London. Many other names I have forgotten; but on the whole the English and Germans excelled the French and Belgians. J.F. Casaretto, of Crefeld, had brought to Malines a number of vestments, banners, chasubles, copes, etc, and displayed them to advantage at the Hotel Liederkercke. They attracted the notice of the Belgian bishops no less than of the foreign clergy, and their excellence was acknowledged by all, especially by Bishop Dupanloup, of Orleans. In Germany, for the last twelve years, Casaretto has enjoyed the patronage of the bishops and clergy. Though there were at Malines many excellent samples of workmanship, there was also much that did not soar above mediocrity, and much that fell beneath it. Even many experienced artisans are guilty of gross mistakes; some goldsmiths, for instance, manufacture patens entirely unfit for use. The paten should be perfectly smooth and even, without any ornament. In Malines there were many chalices whose feet were so made that it would be next to impossible to hold them firmly without injuring the hand of the celebrant. In many of the remonstrances and other sacred vessels, also, serious defects were noticeable, a proof that there is still room for improvement. To attain a proper degree of perfection, there should be a closer union of the mechanical and the fine arts and of both with science. Let our artisans be acquainted with the principles of art, let them be thoroughly instructed in the rules laid down by the Church for the guidance of the artist, let them come into closer contact with men of science; in fine, let them, thus instructed, be penetrated by the spirit of faith, purified and ennobled thereby, and they will certainly produce workmanship worthy of our admiration. On this subject many useful suggestions were made by Cardinal Wiseman in 1863, in his well-known lecture on the "Connection between Science and Art."

The results of the debates of the section on art were, as we stated above, the establishment of a professorship of ecclesiastical archaeology at Louvain and the foundation of a national museum at the same place. Considering the many reasons as eloquently urged in its favor, we doubt not that active and immediate measures will be taken for the completion of the cathedral of Malines. On the success of the German artists at the Malines exhibition we lay the more stress because, at the same time, Ittenbach, of Düsseldorf, surpassed all his competitors at the Antwerp exhibition of paintings, and the historical painter, Edward Steinle, of Frankfort-on-the-Main, by his cartoons, exhibited at Brussels, gained new triumphs for true Christian art. To the latter fact, Güffers and Swerts, the best Belgian painters, cheerfully bore witness. In the debates at Malines the superiority of German art was repeatedly acknowledged by representatives of all nations.

To return to our fatherland. At the head of the movement for the regeneration of art in Germany, which distinguished the first half of the nineteenth century was a Catholic prince, King Louis I. of Bavaria. It was he, also, who, partly by renovating the cathedrals of Regensburg, Bamberg, and Spires, and partly by erecting so {229} many beautiful temples at Munich, rescued Christian art from the disrepute into which it had fallen. Rarely has so much been done for art in so short a time as in Bavaria under Louis I.; few monarchs have been more liberal patrons of every department of art. Many are of opinion that King Louis' protection should have been confined to German art, but his great soul scorned such narrow-minded ideas, and he extended his care to ancient classical art. Foremost among those who, since 1842, strove to regenerate Christian art in its purely German form was King Louis' friend, Cardinal Geissel, of Cologne. The association for completing the cathedral of Cologne called forth great artistic activity; in that famous edifice was seen the symbol of the Catholic Church in Germany, and of the final return of all Germany to the one true faith.

To their exertions we must ascribe the advancement of Christian art previous to the meeting of the first Catholic general convention. These conventions have always upheld the claims of Christian art. At Linz, in 1850, was founded the "Christian Art Union of Germany." In a few years this society spread over every part of our country. The Rhenish art unions were the most active, and exercised considerable influence on those of southwestern Germany; the latter, however, have proved more lasting and have accomplished more important results.

When once fairly established, the Christian art union held several general meetings, the first of which took place at Cologne in September, 1856. The beginning was insignificant, for scarcely a hundred delegates assembled, and many of these hailed from the Rhenish provinces. In spite of this drawback, the transactions were far more interesting than those of many so-called "historical associations," that busied themselves with Celtic, Roman, and German antiquities. Nay, considering the merit of the speeches delivered, they compare favorably with those of the German architectural society. A still more brilliant future, however, was in store for the Christian art union. In 1857, the second general meeting was held at Regensburg, at which the number of archaeologists and artists amounted to several hundred. For three days they assembled in the splendid church of St. Ulric, discussed some most important questions, and listened to several brilliant speeches. The treasures of mediaeval art, sent from every part of the diocese of Regensburg, formed a magnificent collection, for, among all the cities of Germany, Regensburg is one of the richest in monuments of mediaeval times, whilst its cathedral is one of the finest in the world. A. Reichensperger, the chairman, enforced strict order in debate; next to him sat Dr. F. Streber, professor at Munich. As a successful student of numismatics, his fame was European; in fact he was a man of superior learning. His best work is his "History of Christian Art," which was not published previous to his death, but whose excellence no one will undervalue. If an illustrated edition were published, it would supplant all other class-books on the same subject, and be a sure guide and basis of all future researches. And no wonder, for no man had a clearer and more general knowledge of everything relating to the history of art than Streber. We hope soon to see this history grace every collection of the Catholic classics of Germany.

Another eminent member of the assembly was Dr. Zarbl, canon of the cathedral at Munich. An eloquent speaker, a writer who recounted his travels in an interesting manner, and a zealous pastor of souls, the canon was a patron of Christian art, and intimately acquainted with its literature. His residence resembled a museum of mediaeval curiosities. He was president of the Regensburg art union, and well was he fitted to fulfil his duties. When he walked up the aisles of his cathedral, his appearance was majestic {230} His words were impressive and his actions cautious and well considered. Overtopping most men, and inspiring all with respect, strangers looked up to him with a feeling akin to awe, whilst to those who knew him he was a kind and esteemed friend. Canon Zarbl departed this life long ago, to receive the reward of his virtues. A Benedictine of the abbey at Metten, on the Danube, a man whose memory is cherished by thousands of his pupils, F. Ildephonsus Lehner, was the soul of the Regensburg art union in 1857. As director of the seminary he labored successfully to imbue his students with an ardent love of Christian art, the principles of which he had mastered at an early age. This he effected not so much by aesthetic: theories as by practical instruction. At Metten he founded a museum of mediaeval art, he formed a school which was frequented by many talented young men, and assisted by several friends he founded the Regensburg diocesan art union, and encouraged artistic literature. Foremost among his disciples is George Dengler, of Regensburg, who bids fair to attain considerable eminence in architecture. At the Würzburg general convention, in 1864, F. Ildephonsus was chosen chairman of the section of Christian art, and in an eloquent address he urged the German clergy to study the Catholic liturgy and the regulations of the Church regarding Christian art.

We must not forget to mention G. Jacob. He was associated for a long time with Dr. Amberger, one of the first theologians of the present age, and Grillmaier, the most pious priest that I have ever met with, in the direction of the seminary at Regensburg, where he was professor of the history of art. At the suggestion of the Regent Dirschedl, of Regensburg, and of F. Ildephonsus, Jacob wrote his work on art in the service of the Church, which was published at the time of the Regensburg congress. It is a truly admirable work, especially as a manual for theologians and priests.

In a few weeks it spread all over Germany, and during the last seven years nothing has been written equal to it in its kind. The publication of Streber's "History of Art" and a new edition of Jacob's "Handbook" would be of great service to the German clergy, and would greatly promote the study of Christian art.

Sighart, of Freising, who had just published his "Albertus Magnus," also spoke at Regensburg. He is the most distinguished of the many writers on the history of art of whom Bavaria justly boasts; twelve years have elapsed since he began the long series of his valuable works by his history of the cathedral of Freising. His "History of Plastic Art in Bavaria," published in 1863, was the crowning effort of his genius and labors. No other German country can boast of so complete and perfect a history. He also called into existence a museum of mediaeval art, and brought to the notice of the learned all the artistic treasures of the archdiocese. His example has been imitated in several Bavarian dioceses.

Himioben, of Mayence, was the representative of the art union founded by him in that diocese. In fact Himioben was one of the firmest stays of the Catholic association in Mayence, and a prominent orator at all the general conventions. His appearance was striking, and predisposed all in his favor. His sparkling eyes, his fine flowing hair, his noble figure, his sonorous voice, and his youthful ardor and enthusiasm, made him the favorite of all who had the pleasure of listening to him. "I have seen the seed germinate, and the flowers bud; you will see them in full bloom, and reap the fruit." Such were his words to a younger friend in the fall of 1860, and well do they express his ideas concerning the regeneration of religious life in the nineteenth century. Himioben used all his influence in favor of renovating the cathedral of Mayence, though he did not live to see the repairs completed. Would that he had witnessed {231} the twentieth of November, 1864, when the Catholic cause acquired new strength by the confederation of the Rhenish cities!

Stein, of Cologne, spoke on church music; Professor Reischl, of Regensburg, on hymnology; Dr. Durch, of Rottweil, on aesthetics; whilst Wiest urged the renovation of the cathedral at Ulm. But I cannot mention all who addressed the assembly at Regensburg. But though there were many and distinguished orators at Regensburg, the palm of superior success belongs to a musician, J. Mettenleiter, who edited the "Musica Divina" in connection with Canon Proske, and who at Regensburg gave a practical proof of what true church music is. All were transported by the magical power of harmony. Regensburg possesses the best school of church music in Germany, and the choir of its cathedral rivals that of the Sistine chapel. Besides Mettenleiter and Proske, we must mention Schrems, Wesselack, and Witt.

The zeal displayed at Regensburg was short-lived; the German art union never met again in general convention. Since 1858 it has again become a mere section of the general conventions of the Catholic societies in Germany. At the Munich convention, in 1861, considerable interest was taken in Christian art; but at Aix-la-Chapelle, Frankfort, and Würzburg it had few any friends. At Aix-la-Chapelle, Professor Hutmacher was chairman of the section of art, at Frankfort Prof. Steinle, whilst at Würzburg the most active members were F. Ildephonsus and Dean Schwarz, of Böhmenkirch, in Wirtemberg.

But though much has been done for Christian art by the establishment of art unions and their general meetings, it has likewise been promoted in many other ways. The members of the Catholic art unions not only devoted themselves to the study of art, but also encouraged others to make researches on this subject, and it is but just to add that during the past twelve years much has been accomplished that deserves unqualified praise. To the Bozen art union we owe the "History of the Development of Religious Architecture in the Tyrol," the second part of which was published a year ago by Karl Atz. The Linz art union, after commissioning Florian Wiener to write directions for researches on religious monuments, is now preparing a history of art in the diocese of Linz. Many years ago Giefers rendered a similar service to Paderborn, Schwarz and Laib to Rottenburg, and Reichensperger to the Rhenish dioceses. Besides establishing the Diocesan museum, the richest collection of this kind in Germany, the Cologne art union founded the "Journal of Christian Art." The Regensburg union published the work of Jacob mentioned above, and distributed it among its members. Sighart made researches in the archdiocese of Munich; whilst Adalbert Grimm, of Augsburg, wrote a history of his native diocese. Great services were rendered to Eichstädt by Maitzl, to Bamberg by Kotschenreuter, to Würzburg by Wieland, to Limburg on the Lahn by Ibach, to Spires by Remling and Molitor, and to Münster by Zeke. By the advice of Prof. Alzog, the Freiburg union commenced in 1862 the publication of an art journal. To the Rottenburg art union we are indebted for an important work on altars, by Dean Schwarz and Pastor Laib. One of the most active societies is that of Luxemburg, which has published an art journal since 1861. These researches were based on those of the historical associations and on some valuable essays, some of which had been written long before. Almost every cathedral in Germany can boast of its historian. Thus Geissel wrote the history of the Imperial cathedral (1826-8); Wetter and Werner that of the cathedral at Mayence (1835); Boisserée that of the Cologne cathedral (1821-3); and Giefers that of the cathedral at Paderborn. To Perger we owe a sketch of St. Stephen's at {232} Vienna; to Himmelstein, one of the Cathedral at Würzburg; whilst Grimm and Allioli published an incomplete sketch of the cathedral at Augsburg, and the histories of the Hildesheim, Xanten, and Freising cathedrals were written by Kratz, Zehe, and Sighart. One of the most instructive works lately published is Schreegraf's history of the cathedral at Regensburg, in three volumes. Every diocese in Germany has not yet done its duty, and much can and should still be done by the German clergy. Let us not think lightly of these laborious researches; their usefulness and importance to science will one day be made evident to all. Catholics and Protestants must aid alike in gathering the voluminous materials, which must be placed at the disposition of him whom God will call to write a national history of German art. The labors of these societies have already enabled several prominent men to undertake more extensive works, among which I will mention Sighart's "History of Art in Bavaria," Lübke's "History of Art in Westphalia," Heideloff-Lorenz' "Suabian Art during the Middle Ages," Heider-Eitelberger's "Mediaeval Monuments of the Austrian Empire," Haas' "History of Styrian Art," Ernst aus dem 'Werth's "Monuments of the Lower Rhine," and Hassler's "Ancient Monuments of Wirtemberg." A year ago, Lotz published an excellent work, in two volumes, entitled, "Art-Topography of Germany," whilst Otte's "History of German Architecture" is on the point of appearing. Schnaase, too, in his "History of Art" has profited by the labors of the Catholic art unions, and the same may be said of Müller-Klunzinger and Nagler, of Munich, in their cyclopedias of art.

Let us not grow languid in our investigations concerning German art during the middle ages, until the last monument has been discovered and the last inscription deciphered. Many years must elapse before we shall arrive at this point. When, in his wanderings throughout Europe, Böhmer, the author of the great work on imperial decrees, found an undiscovered document, his joy was indescribable. Equally great was the delight of the editors of the "Monumenta Germaniae" when they brought to light some annals that were supposed to have perished. The same pleasure awaits any one who has the good fortune of discovering a Roman basilica, a remarkable arch, or any other important monument; who deciphers and explains an old inscription, and adds to the stock of our knowledge.

As appears from what has been said above, the religions art unions also established journals and museums. The chief of the periodicals is the "Journal of Christian Art," edited, since 1851, by Baudri. Among the contributors to this publication, which does not meet with the patronage it deserves, are A. Reichensperger, Ernst Weyden, of Cologne, the learned Dr. van Endert, Canon von Bock, of Aix-la-Chapelle, and, occasionally, Münzenberger, of Düsseldorf. Baudri's journal is to Germany what J.N. Alberdingk-Thijm's "De dietsche Warande" is to Holland, what James Weale's "Le Beffroi" is to Belgium, and what Didron's "Annales" are to France. The claims of church music are put forth by the "Caecilia," published in Luxemburg by Oberhoffer. Pastor Ortlieb, whose premature death we mourn, made a similar attempt, but failed. In fine, the organ of the altar societies is "Der Kirchenschmuck," a monthly publication, published in Stuttgart by Schwarz and Laib. These altar societies may now be found in every part of Germany, and their silent influence is great. Some societies, those of Vienna and Pesth, for instance, number thousands of members. The Brussels and Paris societies, beside attending to their own wants, work for foreign missions. The most recent of these societies is the one founded in November, 1864, at Frankfort-on-the-Main, as the Diocesan society of Limburg. The ladies of Germany have furnished splendid {233} pieces of embroidery in the form of sacred vestments.

I cannot speak of altar societies without mentioning Kreuser, of Cologne. Kreuser, with his hoary hair and his mighty snuff-box—a man full of sparkling wit and endless humor—is known to all of us, for up to 1861 we never missed him at the general conventions. Since the Munich convention, however, we have not seen him; he was absent at Aix-la-Chapelle, at Frankfort, and at Würzburg, and we know not the reason of his absence. To speak concisely is very difficult, and few speakers from the Rhenish provinces can boast of this virtue; still, most Germans, and especially the German ladies, listened with pleasure to old Kreuser; and no wonder, for Kreuser never failed to do justice to the ladies of Germany. When Kreuser spoke in a city, his speech was followed immediately by the establishment of an altar society. He carried everything by storm, and the impression made by his speeches was not merely transient, but produced lasting fruits. Kreuser is a poet, also, a happy improvisatore, able to cope with the most daring rhymster. He is one of the best read men in Germany, and deserves our gratitude for his exertions in the cause of Christian art. Twenty years have rolled by since he published his "Letters on the Cologne Cathedral," and during the last twelve years his work on architecture has been studied again and again. That Kreuser's style is deficient in grace and harmony we will not dispute, still much benefit may be derived from the perusal of his works.

Francis von Bock, also, deserves our notice. He is the author of a "History of the Liturgic Vestments," in two vols., illustrated with two hundred colored engravings. Boldly he demands the use of appropriate workmanship; fearlessly measures swords with every opponent, and often his impetuosity is crowned with success. To him Casaretto, of Crefeld, is indebted for valuable suggestions. He was also one of the founders of the school of art under the direction of the Sisters of the Infant Jesus, at Aix-la-Chapelle. Dr. von Bock has visited every country in Europe, Turkey excepted, which he intends shortly to visit for the purpose of continuing his researches. Where can be found an ancient vestment whose texture he did not scrutinize, and a piece of which he has not begged for still closer examination? At Gran, at Malines, in Bohemia, in Sicily, at Rome, at Paris, at Vienna—everywhere Dr. von Bock has left traces of his unwearying activity. The Rhenish goldsmiths owe him a debt of gratitude. He has written papers on the church at Kaiserswerth, on the Benedictine church at Munchen-Gladbach, on Cologne, and on the relics at Gran and Aix-la-Chapelle. His principal work is on the "Insignia of the Holy Roman Empire." It is a magnificently illustrated specimen of typography, equal in every respect to any similar work published in England or France. At Malines every one spoke loudly in its praise, and in 1864 the author received from the Emperor Francis Joseph the Cross of the Iron Crown. Von Bock's style reminds me of the chimes I have heard in Holland; it consists in a constant repetition of the same pleasing melody.

Von Bock stands in odd contrast to Dean Schwarz, of Böhmenkirch, the able editor of the "Kirchenschmuck." He is the personification of repose and dignity, a deep thinker, and a first-class archaeologist. For many years he has wielded great influence with the clergy.

Whilst the altar societies are displaying greater activity every day, the Christian art unions, it is said, are daily becoming less zealous. In some places, no doubt, this is true; but in many dioceses they have been changing into associations for furthering the completion of the diocesan cathedral. To mention but a few instances, this was the case in Regensburg. Since his accession to the episcopal see {234} Bishop Ignatius von Senestrey applied himself with energy to the completion of his cathedral. King Louis I. having furnished the means, we have no doubt that in a few years architect Denzinger will finish the two towers. At Mayence, likewise, everything is being done for the completion and decoration of the cathedral. The work has been intrusted to the skill of Metternich, and Director Veit, assisted by Lasinsky Settegast and Hermann, is frescoing the walls and the vaults. Since the fall of the partition between the sanctuary and the nave in the Cologne cathedral, and since the great festival of October 15th, 1868, the building has been steadily progressing, and the cathedral lottery promises to furnish the means for completing the towers within seven years. Schmidt has added a new pyramid to St. Stephen's cathedral in Vienna, which has now the highest spire in the world. After rivalling the English architect Welby Pugin by planning almost two hundred churches and chapels, Statz is now building a cathedral at Linz. Archbishop Gregory von Scheer has given a new appearance to the metropolitan Church of Our Lady at Munich, whilst the bishop of Passau, Henry von Hofstätter, has proved his devotion to the interests of art by renovating many churches in his diocese. Among all the German prelates none have built more churches than Cardinal Geissel, of Cologne, and Bishop Müller, of Münster.

Is it not an encouraging sign that we are completing the immense edifices of the middle ages? Is it not a proof of vital energy that the Catholics of all countries are building the grandest churches in the most correct style? As architectural science progresses, a like advance must take place in mechanics, and, notwithstanding many blunders, every branch of art is daily more and more perfected. Not many years hence all our temples will be completed and adorned with the splendor becoming the divine service. Let every one do his duty, fulfilling the task allotted him by divine Providence.

Let us conclude our rapid survey by calling to mind the men who have begun and directed this movement. Among the Germans, Joseph von Görres, F. von Schlegel, and Sulpitius Boisserée will head our list. France justly boasts of de Caumont, Didron, Montalembert, Viollet le Duc, Cahier, and the Abbé Martin. Oudin must not be forgotten, nor Bossi, the historian of the catacombs. The merits of Seroux d'Agincourt, Waagen, Guilhabaud, Schnaase, Kugler, Passavant, Stieglitz, Geyer, Kallenbach, Forster, Moller, Heideloff, Otte, Springer, Hefner-Alteneck, Krieg von Hochfelden, von Quast, Jacob Schmitt, and many others known to every votary of art. To us is assigned the task of reaping the fruits of their labors.



From The St. James Magazine.


Properzia Rossi, a female artist, celebrated for her misfortunes, though more for her proficiency in sculpture, painting, and music, died of a broken heart, just as Pope Clement VII. had invited her to Rome, to show his admiration for her masterpiece in the church of San Petronio at Bologna.

  Too late—oh, far too late! Praise comes in vain
  To lull the fever'd agonies of pain.
  I am no more the artist idly proud,
  But the gaunt mortal waiting for a shroud.
  No more the songstress, whose impassioned lay
  O'er taste and feeling held unrivalled sway;
  But a weak woman, desolate and worn,
  Her pulses throbbing, and her heart-strings torn,
  Looking above—sad, humbled, and alone—
  Where mercy dwells with Jesus on his throne—
  Ay, fondly hoping for one smile of light
  From the meek Man of sorrows and of might,
  Who from sin's thrall is powerful to save,
  Died on the cross, and triumphed o'er the grave!

  What though the light of genius fired mine eye,
  That radiant meteor leaves us when we die,
  And conscience whispers that the gifts of heaven
  Were of misused. I thirst to be forgiven.
  Panting I turn from streams once deeply quaff'd.
  And crave the Rock's sole vivifying draught!
  Ay, as I kneel and supplicate for grace,
  I veil in lowliness my tear-bathed face;
  Implore for pardon with intense distress,
  And spurn the gauds of earthly happiness!
  Oh, what avails it that aerial forms.
  And colors vivid as the bow of storms.
  Hang o'er my fancy with bewitching spell?
  Say, have I used these varied talents well?
  Oh, what avails it that my hands would mould
  Beautiful models from the marble cold?
  Have the rich sculptures in the hallow'd fane
  Brought one soil'd spirit to her God again?—
  Recall'd a virtuous feeling to the heart,
  And by religion consecrated art?
  Have the fair features and bright hues I wove'
  In one dark breast illumed the spark of love?
  Or lured the soul from sin's deceptious toys
  To pure devotion's memorable joys?
  Oh, have the gifts of music and of song
  Soothed one sad being of the human throng?—
  Angelic thoughts—submissive, hopeful, kind—
  Breathed o'er a mournful or a shattered mind?
  And has my genius, with a potent sway,
  Gilded the road to heaven—that straight and narrow way?

  God has been very bounteous; he has given
  Much to enhance the blessedness of heaven.
  The threefold cords  [Footnote 37] of talismanic power
  Were meant to yield employment for the hour—
  Life's potent hour of labor, want, and pain—
  Brief as the April drops of sunny rain;
  And yet by mercy recompensed above,
  If well improved in hope, and faith, and love.
  But conscience whispers, and in these dark days
  That voice grows louder as my strength decays,—
  Of wasted talents, of forgotten crime,
  And of a judgment awfully sublime!
  Of duties unfulfill'd, of gifts misspent.
  Of future pangs, of fitting punishment!

[Footnote 37: Music, painting, and sculpture.]

  I muse no longer on the present—no—
    My life is with the future or the past,
  And both are mingling in a magic flow,
    Like turbid waters in a fountain cast.
  The past—-oh, whether fair, or dark, or both,
    Is but a picture mirror'd on the wave.
  The moral sicknesses—guile, anger, sloth—
    Arise as spectres from a yawning grave;
  What boots it that misfortune paled my cheek.
    That penury and pain obscured my way?
  Sorrow is voiceless; 'tis remorse that speaks
    In awful tones of merited decay,
  And of the worm that dieth not—the vale
    Of never-ending, still-beginning death.
  Methinks I hear the harsh, continuous wail,
    The sobs and catchings of convulsive breath.
  Guilt unatoned for—thoughts and words of sin—
    How do they rise up, burning as on glass!
  The evil pent the wishful heart within
    Asking for vengeance! O the hideous mass
  Of wickedness heap'd up, long, long conceal'd!
  But now as by a lightning flash reveal'd.

  Woe! woe! the Eternal Judge's fiery dart
    Hath pierced the labyrinthine cells within,
  Where underneath the pulses of my heart
    Dwells the mysterious form of crouching sin.
  Thoughts, baneful wishes,—ay, as well as deeds,
    Against me in strong phalanx are array'd.
  In vain these tears—in vain this bosom bleeds:
    I look upon myself, and am dismay'd,
  Powerless, and weak, and agonized I cry,—
  And hear the words, "Lost sinner, thou must die!"

  Clouds roll around me, and from an abyss,
    Drear, dark, profound, behold a hideous form!
  Closer and closer serpents coiling hiss,
    And thunders boom along a sky of storm.

  There is no deed to offer thee of good,
    Thou mocking fiend! laugh on without restraint!
  I seem as borne along a sulphurous flood,
    Too meteorically wild to paint.
  The couch heaves under me, my sight is gone,—
    I am with the accuser, and alone!

  Alone! alone! O tell me not 'tis so.
  That I must grapple powerless with the foe.
  Jesus, thou Lamb of God, arise! arise!
  Arrest these doubts, these daring blasphemies.
  It was for sinners thou didst shed thy blood,
  For guilty mortals, not for angels' good.
  Listen! attend! a sinner asks for aid,—
  For me that blood was spilt, for me thou wast betrayed.

  As when a night of storms has sped away.
  And robed in florid hues appears the day,
  Stealingly, gently lighting up the skies
  With gleams, as from a seraph's smiling eyes,
  Thus o'er my spirit breeds a gracious calm,
  O'er my deep wounds is poured a healing balm.
  Methinks the mild Redeemer stands above,
  And pleads his righteousness, his cross, his love;
  While angels' voices wafted straight from heaven
  Proclaim, "Thy Savior calls! thou art forgiven!"

From The Hibernian Magazine.


  "Three monks sat by a bogwood fire—
    Bare were their crowns, and their garments grey,
  Close sat they by that bogwood fire.
    Watching the wicket till break of day."
                                            Ballad Poetry.

Saving the color of their garments, which, instead of grey, were of a dark brown, and the omission of any allusion to their long flowing beards, the above lines convey as accurate an idea as any words could of the parties that occupied the spacious guest-chamber of the Capuchin convent of Bruges on the last night of October, 1708.

Seated round the capacious hearth, on which, without aid of grate, cheerfully blazed a pile of dark gnarled logs dug up from the fens, which, in the days of Caesar, were shaded by the dense forests of Flanders, three lay-brothers of the order kept watch for any wayfarer that might require hospitality or information on the evening in question. Their convent stood—and a portion of it still stands—at the southern extremity of the town, close beside the present railway station. But Bruges was not, a century and a half ago, what it is today. War, and the recent decline of its ancient commerce, rendered it, at {238} the period of which we write, anything but a safe or attractive locality for either tourist or commercial traveller to visit. There was no "Hotel de Flandre," or "Fleur de Blé," or even "Singe d'Or,'" for the weary itinerant to seek refreshment or lodging. Neither were there gens-d'armes in the streets, nor affable shopkeepers in their gas-lit magasins, as at present, to whom the benighted stranger might apply for information regarding the locality in which his friends resided. The convents and monasteries, however, with which Belgium was then, as now, studded, were ever open to the traveller, be his rank or condition what it might, and pre-eminent for their hospitality were the Capuchin fathers.

The night was a wild one; and the dying blasts of October seemed bent on a vigorous struggle ere they expired.

"What an awful storm!" exclaimed Brother Anselm, rising to secure the huge oak window shutters that seemed, as if in terror, every moment ready to start from their strong iron fastenings.

"God preserve us I but 'tis fearful," replied one of his companions. Brother Bonaventure, "and what dreadful lightning!"

Peal after peal of thunder resounded through the spacious hall and adjoining corridors; and then, again, came the wind beating the rain, in torrents, against door and casement, and completely drowning the chimes of the Carillon, though the market-place, where the belfry stood, was close beside them. Still not a word escaped their third companion, Brother Francis, a venerable old man who sat nearer than his younger brethren to the ample fireplace. He continued silently reciting "Ave" after "Ave" on the beads of the large rosary attached to his girdle, and seemed, in the excess of his devotion, utterly unconscious of the storm that howled without.

A loud knocking at the outer gate followed quickly by the ringing of the stranger's bell, at length announced the arrival of some guest. In an instant, the old man let his beads fall to their accustomed place by his side—for the rule of St. Francis gave charity toward the neighbor a first place among its spiritual observances—and hastened, as eagerly as his younger brothers, to admit the poor traveller, who must be sore distrait, on such an awful night.

Lighting a lantern, they proceeded through the court to the outer porch, and drawing back the slide that covered a small grated aperture in the wicket, demanded who the wayfarer might be. The gleam of the lamp fell upon the uniforms of two military men, who seemed engaged in supporting a third between them, while their horses stood neighing in terror, and pawing the ground beside them. In a second the gate was unbarred, and three of Vendôme's troopers entered the court-yard; two of them still supporting their comrade, who had been badly wounded in a skirmish with Marlborough's troops, near Audenarde, that morning. Leaving Anselm with the two other soldiers to look after the horses, brothers Francis and Bonaventure led the wounded man into the convent. He seemed weak and faint; but the cheerful blase of the fire, and the refreshment speedily administered by the good brothers, soon restored him somewhat, though he still suffered acutely from his wound, and was utterly unable to stand without the aid of support.

For the first time Brother Francis broke silence. From the moment he caught a distinct view of the stranger's face, as he sat in the light of the fire, his gaze seemed riveted upon him; and an observer might have noticed the old man's lip quiver and his face grow paler, might have even observed a tear steal down his cheek, as he continued for a while to gaze in silence on the pallid features of the young soldier. At length he addressed him, not in French or {239} Flemish, but in a language which to Brother Bonaventure was foreign.

The stranger's face brightened at the sound of his own tongue, and he readily made answer to the few hurried questions put him by the old monk. Their conversation was of very brief duration; but its result seemed astounding. For when Anselm returned with the soldiers, he found Bonaventure and the stranger chafing the old man's temples as he lay in a swoon on the bench before them.

To their inquiries as to the cause of this strange occurrence, Anselm could give no definite answer. All he knew was, that although he could not understand what passed between Brother Francis and their comrade, the conversation seemed to produce a wonderful effect on the former. He trembled from head to foot, and then smiled, and seemed about to grasp the stranger in his arms, when he suddenly fell back on the bench as they now saw him. The young soldier—he was almost a boy, and strikingly handsome—was equally puzzled. Brother Francis had merely asked him if he were Irish; and when he answered "Yes;"—if his name was Herbert, and if it was Gerald Herbert, and if his father and grandfather were Irish;—and when he replied that his name was Gerald Walter Herbert, and that his grandfather was not Irish, but English, the old man muttered something which he could not catch, and fainted. That was all he could tell them; but what that had to do with Brother Francis's fit still remained a mystery.

For a considerable time the aged monk lay senseless and almost motionless, the only symptoms of animation he presented being those afforded by the convulsive throbbing of his heart, and an occasional deep-drawn sigh. His brothers seemed deeply afflicted, and sought by every means in their power to restore him; for Francis, though few knew anything of his history, was, notwithstanding, the favorite of the whole community.

Toward midnight the old man revived, and his first inquiry was for the young soldier. He now embraced him, and, as he pressed him again and again to his heart, with tears and blessings called him "his son," "his dear child." Brothers Anselm and Bonaventure looked at each other in mute astonishment. They feared that their dear old friend, the patriarch of the lay-brothers, was losing his reason. They knew that, for thirty years at least, he had been an inmate of the cloister, while the party whom he thus lovingly called his son could at furthest number twenty birthdays, if indeed he could count so many. Still greater, however, was their surprise, when, on a closer scrutiny, they could not fail to observe a market family likeness between their aged brother and the individual on whom all his affections seemed now centred.

But this was no time for the indulgence of curiosity. The two troopers, drenched and travel-stained, must be attended to, and the wound of their comrade looked after. Fortunately their convent numbered among its inmates one of the best leeches in all West Flanders. He had been already summoned to the aid of Brother Francis, and now that he no longer required his services, he directed his attention to the other invalid, whose case seemed the less urgent of the two. In a short time his skilful hand extracted a spent ball from the sufferer's knee, and, by the application of a soothing poultice, restored him to comparative ease. Nor were Brothers Anselm and Bonaventure idle meanwhile. Piles of well-buttered tartines made of wholemeal bread baked in the convent, with plentiful dishes of rashers and omelets, and a flagon or two of foaming Louvain beer, soon covered the table. Cold meats, too, of various kinds, were served up in abundance; and the two dragoons were soon busily engaged in satisfying appetites good at all times, but now considerably sharpened by a hard ride and a long fast. {240} It was the first peaceful meal they enjoyed since the Duke of Burgundy got command; and they blessed their stars for having been selected to escort young Herbert to the rear. Having completed the bandaging of his wound, and administered such medicine as he deemed best calculated to make up for his patient's loss of blood, the infirmarian led him to the chamber prepared for his reception; and Brother Francis begged to be allowed to take charge of him. His request was granted, but on the sole condition that no conversation of an exciting nature should take place between him and the invalid till such time as all feverish and inflammatory symptoms had subsided. Day after day, and night after night, the old man watched, in strict silence, beside the stranger's couch; and all were in amazement at such assiduity and attention on the part of one who, as long as any remembered him, seemed utterly detached from all earthly affections. They even saw him mingle tears with his prayers, as he knelt beside the pillow of the sleeper. It was whispered that the guardian knew something about the matter; for he, too, now came frequently, and looked with evident interest on the invalid. No one else ventured to speak to Brother Francis on the subject, for though generally kind and gentle, and communicative as a child, there were times when he became sad and reserved—and this seemed one of them.

Ten days passed on, and the invalid made such rapid progress that the infirmarian and his staff pronounced him quite out of danger, in no further need of medical treatment, and only requiring the aid of the cook to recover completely his wonted vigor. The interdict was now removed, and Brother Francis seemed happy. He could, henceforth, speak as he pleased to his young protégé. The latter felt equally delighted; for he felt, he knew not why, a sort of unaccountable attachment—it was certainly more than mere gratitude—toward the old man growing daily stronger and stronger within him. And then Brother Francis called him "my son"—but perhaps, as an old man, that was the name by which he addressed all youngsters. At all events, he loved the old monk as a child loves a father, and always felt sad when the duties of his rule obliged his venerable friend to leave him for a time.

"And so you tell me you have no recollection of your father?" said Brother Francis, with a sigh, as they sat together one evening—it was the eve of St. Martin—in the same apartment where we first introduced them to our readers.

"None whatever," replied his companion; "he left France as a volunteer with d'Usson's division, and was killed at Limerick when I was but three years old. So I often heard my mother say."

The speaker did not remark the shudder that ran through the old man's frame at mention of Limerick; but only paid attention to his next question, which rapidly followed.

"And your father's father?"

"Was, as I have already said, an Englishman—but he, too, died in the wars long ago. They say he fell in Spain."

The old man could no longer restrain his feelings. Bursting into tears, and clasping his young companion to his bosom, as he had done on the night of their first meeting, he said:

"No, my child—your grandfather, Walter Herbert, is not dead, but yet survives to give you that blessing which your own poor father could not bestow on you with his parting breath—he stands before you."

It was a touching scene to witness—that old Capuchin monk, with his long white beard, and coarse dark gown, and leathern cincture, and bare sandalled feet, locked in the fond embrace of the young soldier of "the Brigade," on that eve of St. Martin, in the old convent of Bruges! We do not mean to intrude on the sacred {241} privacy of domestic feeling, but leaving parent and child to commune with each other in the fulness of their hearts, will, with our readers' kind permission, assume, for the nonce, the province of the Senachie, and briefly relate as much of their history as we have ourselves learned, Outre Mer—and is still oftentimes related on long winter evenings by the brothers who have succeeded—literally stepped into the sandals of—Brother Francis and his comrades.


Walter Herbert, or, as he was called in religion, Brother Francis, was the only child of an ancient family in Nottinghamshire. Entering the army at an early age, he found himself stationed with his regiment in Limerick, when the army of the "Confederates" sat down before that city in the summer of sixteen hundred and forty-two. He was then in his twentieth year. Forming part of Courtenay's company, when the city opened its gates to Garret Barry and Lord Muskerry, he retired with his commander to King John's castle, where, though closely besieged, they resolutely held out till St. John's eve, when Conrtenay was obliged to capitulate. In the course of the attack on the castle, a mine was sprung by the besieging party, and a turret, in which Herbert was stationed, fell to the ground with a terrific crash. For weeks he lay delirious; and when at length he awoke to consciousness, he found himself the occupant of a handsomely-fitted chamber looking out on the church of St. Nicholas. His host was a middle-aged, gentlemanly-looking person, of grave yet affable manners. He was a widower, and his household consisted of himself, an aged housekeeper, two sons, and an only daughter. The latter—Eily O'Brien—was the sick man's principal nurse, and no Sister of Mercy could have bestowed more care on a suffering invalid than she did on Walter Herbert—stranger though he was to her creed and her country. From lengthened and almost continual intercourse, a feeling of mutual affection sprang up between the young people. Gratitude on the one hand, and sympathy for the sufferings of the handsome young officer on the other, heightened this feelings till it grew into deep and lasting love. Like Desdemona, she loved him "for the dangers he had passed;" and he loved her "that she did pity them." But an insurmountable obstacle to their union lay in their difference of religion. Herbert was a Protestant; and old Connor O'Brien would never hear of any child of his being united to one of that creed which, in its struggle for ascendency, he believed to be the cause of so much suffering to his country, even though no other impediment whatever existed. A private marriage was thus their only alternative, and to this, in an evil hour, poor Eily consented.

Months rolled on—months of bliss to Walter and Eily—but their separation was at hand. Important letters called Herbert away, almost at a moment's notice. He hoped, however, that his absence would be of no lengthened duration, and that he would soon return to publicly claim his own Eily as his wife. But alas! his hopes were doomed to sad and bitter disappointment. On his arrival in England, he found the entire country in arms; and as it became impossible to remain neutral, or return to Ireland, he was forced to join the newly-formed corps just raised in his native county by Henry Ireton, his father's landlord. Once under military discipline there was no retreating; and though all his thoughts were turned to Ireland, he was doomed to maddening suspense regarding her who alone made Ireland dear to him. All communication between the two countries was now suspended. At Edgehill and Newbury he retreated before the king's troops—and at Marston Moor and Naseby had a share in defeating them. But victory or defeat was alike void of {242} interest to him. It was even with indifference he heard of his promotion for having saved his general's life at Naseby. The sole engrossing thought of his existence was how to get back to Limerick. That long-sought for opportunity at last arrived; but when it did, it scarcely brought joy to Herbert. He was ordered to join in the invading Parliamentary force; and, when he called to mind the fierce fanatics who were to be his fellow-soldiers, love made him tremble for the Irishry.

The fourteenth of June saw him on the battle-field of Naseby—the following autumn found him sailing up the Shannon—and, ere the close of the year, he was gazing on the steeple of St. Mary's and the towers of Limerick from the battlements of Bunratty, which had fallen into the hands of the Parliamentarians. He fancied he could even see the very house in which he had spent so many happy days. But beyond fancy he could not go. To reach the city was utterly impossible. All he could learn, from an Abbey fisherman whom they had taken prisoner, was that Connor O'Brien was still alive, and that his daughter was married and had a beautiful little boy. Who her husband was his informant could not say; but he thought he was an officer in Earl Glamorgan's army. Herbert, however, well knew who he was, and he would have risked worlds to have sent back his prisoner in safety, with even one line to Limerick. But Lord Inchiquin's troops were too vigilant to allow of any communication with the city. Even this intelligence, scanty though it was, afforded him some consolation. He knew his wife was safe, and unable any longer to endure the Tantalus-like position in which he was placed, he found means of returning again to England.

His next and last visit to Ireland was in the summer of sixteen hundred and fifty. He was then pretty high in command, and had hopes, as he sat down with Waller's army of investment before Limerick, in the July of that year, that should he be only able to effect an entrance into the town, his authority would be sufficient to protect whomsoever he pleased. But the year passed away, and still the city held out. And, had he but his wife and child without its walls, he would have counselled its burghers to hold out even still more manfully, for he well knew the iron heart and bloody hand of the execrable Hardress Waller.

The spring of the next year found him still before Limerick; and could he but communicate with any of its gallant defenders, his hatred of treachery would have urged him to expose to them the perfidy of one of their own whom they had raised to the rank of colonel. This wretch was named Fennell; and, for his treason in selling the passes of the Shannon at Killaloe, their commander-in-chief Cromwell had promised him and his descendants many a fair acre in Tipperary. By this pass Ireton and his myrmidons crossed the river into Clare; and with them passed Walter Herbert. Still his heart was full of hope of saving all he held dear in the leaguered city. Spring passed away, and summer again came; and still the assailing host made no progress toward the capture of the town which Ireton and his father-in-law regarded as the key of all the Munster territories. In the burning heat of July, while pestilence daily thinned the ranks of the besieged, an assault was ordered on the almost defenceless keep that guarded the northern extremity of the salmon weir, and Herbert was reluctantly obliged to form one of the storming party. His immediate senior in command was a person named Tuthill—one of those heartless hypocrites who could preach and pray while his brutal soldiery were massacring the wives and children of the brave men whom the chances of war made his victims. The fort was carried by overwhelming numbers; and Herbert was doomed to witness, with horror, the butchery of the surviving defenders, mercilessly {243} ordered by Tuthill—an order which he unhappily had no power of countermanding, but in the execution of which he took no part. Still the city held out, though the "leaguer sickness" was rapidly decimating its brave garrison. The north fortress of Thomond bridge was next carried by assault—but to no purpose. The townsmen succeeded in breaking down two of its arches, and thus cutting off all approach to the city in that quarter, and in resisting the sortie three hundred of their assailants perished. Winter was now fast approaching, and the plague extending from the city, in which fifty of its victims were now daily interred, commenced to thin the ranks of the besiegers themselves. Ireton had serious thoughts of raising the siege, and he would, beyond all question, have done so, were it not for treachery. Fennell, the traitor of Killaloe, was again at work—this time, unfortunately, within the very walls of the city itself.

A truce of some days was agreed on; and Herbert was one of those appointed to treat with the townsmen. The deputies met on neutral ground, midway between the city and camp, and within range of the rival batteries. His heart was now full of greater hopes than ever. Could he but meet with any member of Eily's family, he hoped that his love for her would induce them to listen to his counsels. But fate, it would seem, had leagued all chances against him. Had he met them, he meant to put them on their guard against Fennell's treachery, and, without absolutely breaking trust, give them such a key to Ireton's fears and readiness to make concessions as would, he hoped, lead to an honorable capitulation, and prevent the bloodshed which, from the shattered state of the town walls, and the additional element of treachery within those walls, he now judged to be inevitable, unless they came to terms with Ireton. But not one of them appeared; for the traitor had laid his plans deeply, and succeeded in diverting them and the clerical party, to which they faithfully adhered, from anything like a compromise. He wished that the sole merit and reward of surrendering the city should be his own. And he succeeded. The conference ended fruitlessly; and Herbert returned to the camp well-nigh broken-hearted.

The plague continued its ravages meanwhile; and, day after day, within the city, the dying were brought by their relatives to the tomb of Cornelius O'Dea, where many, it was believed, were restored to health through the intercession of that saintly prelate, who lay buried in the cathedral. Its effects were visibly traced in the ranks of the besieging Army. Still Ireton, relying on treason within, pressed on the siege. By a bridge of pontoons he succeeded in connecting the Thomond side of the river with the King's Island, where he now planted a formidable battery, to play on the eastern side of the city. Herbert had fortunately escaped witnessing the horrors of Drogheda and Wexford; but a sight almost as appalling now met his eyes. In the smoke of the cannonade crowds of plague-stricken victims—principally women and children—ventured outside the city walls to catch one pure breath of air from the Shannon, on "the Island" bank,—and there lie down and die. But when this was discovered, the heartless Waller forbade even this short respite from suffering. By his orders, those unhappy beings, who could have no share in protracting the siege, were mercilessly dogged back by the soldiery into the plague-reeking city— and such as refused to return were, by the same pitiless mandate, hanged [Footnote 38] within sight of their fellow-townsmen!

[Footnote 38: Historical]

The daily sight of this revolting butchery was sickening to the noble heart and refined feelings of Herbert. But suffering for him had not yet reached its climax. As he was seated in his tent, one evening toward the {244} close of October, fatigued after a long foraging excursion to the Meelick mountains, and musing sadly on the fate of her who was almost within sight of him, and yet whom, by what seemed to him an almost supernatural combination of adverse circumstances, he had not seen for years, his attention was arrested by the cries of a female who seemed struggling with her captors. His manhood was aroused by such an outrage—committed almost in his very presence—and he rose at once to rescue the victim from her assailants. But, horror of horrors! at the very door of his tent, and in the grasp of an armed ruffian, lay the fainting and all but inanimate form of his wife! To fell the wretch, and clasp the beloved object to his bosom, was but the work of a second. But, oh! how sorrow and sickness had changed that once beautiful face, and wasted that once symmetrical form. Death had already clutched her in his bony gripe, and selected her for his own. His kiss was upon her lips, for they were livid and plague-stained. And her beautiful blue eyes! how they now wandered with the wild look of a maniac. All that remained of the beautiful Eily he once knew were the long fair ringlets that now fell down in dishevelled masses on her heaving bosom. The sight almost drove him mad. In vain he clasped her to his heart, and called her by the dear fond name of wife. She knew him not, yet, when she spoke, her ravings were all about him; and he often wondered afterward how his brain stood the shock, when, without knowing him, she still called on him, "her own dear, dear Walter, to save her, to take her away from those terrible men—at least to come to her—for, to come to him, she had left her poor old father and little Gerald behind."

Wholly occupied with his wife, Herbert paid no attention to the sergeant's guard that stood at the tent door under arms. When at length he perceived them, he flew into a phrenzy of passion, asking them how they dared stand thus in his presence?—and ended by ordering "the catiffs who could thus treat a woman to get out of his sight presently."

But the orderly remained unmoved. Were his hands free at the moment, Herbert would have unquestionably run him through for presuming to disobey his orders, such was the irritated state of his feelings. But he could not leave the shrinking, still unconscious being that clung to him for support. Stamping his foot in a rage, he demanded what he wanted, or why he regained there?

"Pris'ner, sir," was the sergeant's laconic reply, as he mechanically touched his hat.

"What prisoner?"

"The woman, sir."

"Heavens and earth! do you mean to drive me mad, man?" and the soldier recoiled for an instant at the voice and look of his officer.

"Can't help it, sir—gen'ral's orders. Woman came to the camp three times, sir—supposed to be a spy, and ordered to be hanged."

"Hanged!" In a second his burthen was laid on the camp-bed, and the sergeant laid prostrate by a blow that would have almost felled an ox.

The guard now interposed; and from them he learned that the party in question had been several times seen to leave the city, in defiance of Sir Hardress Waller's orders. Twice already she had been flogged back, but she came out again, that day, at noon, and was by the general's orders sentenced to execution. The soldier added that an old rebel [Footnote 39] calling himself her father, when he heard of the sentence, offered himself in her stead; but Sir Hardress ordered him to be instantly flogged back. "She was to have been hanged," he continued, "at sunset, but she broke loose from them and ran toward his tent as he had seen."

[Footnote 39: A Fact. Vide "Ferrar's History of Limerick," page 64. ]

"Touch not a hair of her head, on your peril," exclaimed Herbert as the {245} corporal concluded, and kissing the pallid lips of his wife, he rushed out of the tent to seek the general, just as returning consciousness revealed to Eily the name of her deliverer.

"Walter, my own dear husband. Oh! come back, don't leave me," were the last words he heard as he flew toward the tent of the commander-in-chief, more like a maniac than anything else.

"By the bones of St. Pancras, he's either mad, or she is," said a tall weaver from Lambeth, who wore the badge of a lance-corporal.

"Ay is he, and sore wrathful to boot," replied his rear-rank man, with a grin—he was a butcher from Newgate. "But we are the sufferers, and shall, I fear, be late for supper. The gallows, however, is ready to hand, thank God, and we shall make short work of it when the captain returns."

The name of God on the lips of such a miscreant, and on such an occasion, makes us almost shudder. But, reader, these were Cromwellian times, and such were Cromwellian customs.

Herbert found Ireton and his second in command seated at the supper table—and hell could not have unchained two such incarnate demons on that same evening. The object of his visit was soon explained. But it seemed only to supply subject of mirth to his superior officers.

"Pooh, pooh! man," said the commander-in-chief, "you are, I fear, grown quite a papist, too soft-hearted entirely. I wonder how you would act had you been at the battue in Drogheda or Wexford?" and Ireton sipped his hock with a devilish leer.

"But, general, she is my wife," gasped Herbert.

"Folly, man!" rejoined Waller; "no faith to be kept with heretics, you know, and all these Irish are such. You will easily find another, I trow you, when we sack the city one of these fine days."

Herbert heeded not the coarse jest of the speaker, but, turning to the general, implored him to torn a serious ear to a matter on which the happiness of his life depended. But Ireton seemed inclined to laugh it off as an excellent joke.

Driven to desperation, the brave soldier, who never before feared or supplicated any man, sank on his knees, and with tears of agony besought him to cancel Waller's iniquitous sentence. He even asked him to do so in memory of the act by which, at the risk of his own life, he saved his at Naseby. And Ireton seemed almost inclined to relent, and hope began to brighten in the heart of the suppliant, when a whisper from Waller to the general blasted them for ever. He had himself in person given the order for execution, and his callous heart was too obdurate to feel compunction even for a bad act. Summoning an orderly, he gave him some instructions in an undertone; and Herbert was directed by his commander-in-chief to make his report of the progress of the trenches under his command in the King's Island. This was but a feint to turn his attention from the main object of his visit. His report was, however, quickly made, and as there was no other pretext for detaining him he arose to depart. There was something more then fiendish in the laugh of Hardress Waller as he wished him safe home, and a good night's rest.

That night, a heart-broken man knelt beneath the gibbet erected on the green sward in front of King John's castle. For him all earthly happiness was now over; and there, in the presence of the pale moon that looked silently on his sorrow, that cold October night, he vowed eternal fealty to his wife in heaven, eternal hatred to her murderers. There was a strange admixture of reverence and irreligion, of love and hatred, in his feelings and sentiments, no doubt; but the camp of Cromwell was but an indifferent school for the culture of Christian ethics. Beside, his brain was, for the time, astray from sorrow and outraged feeling; he followed but {246} the dictates of human passion unrestrained by either reason or religion. His heart and his hopes were already buried in the grade that was soon to close over the remains of his first and only love; and, from that night out, though his life was a long and a chequered one, he was never known to smile, till he became an inmate of the monastery where we found him at the commencement of our narrative.

The remainder of the siege was a blank chapter in his life. By nature a soldier, he got through his duties fearlessly but mechanically, without the slightest feeling of interest in any enterprise in which he had a share. To him defeat or victory was a matter of utter indifference; and it was in this mood he entered the fallen city, as the sun was sinking, on the 27th of October, 1651, and took up his quarters with Ireton, in the old Dutch-gabled house which is still standing, and adjoins the Tholsel in Mary street. It is more than probable that his reason would have altogether succumbed beneath the terrible shock it had sustained, were it not for some new incidents that now occurred to awaken it for a time to activity.

By sunrise on the 29th, the Cromwellian garrison beat to arms. It was the signal for the assemblage of the Irish troops in the old cathedral of St. Mary's, where, in accordance with the third article of capitulation, they were to lay down their arms. It was not Fennell's fault that they escaped the fate of the soldiers and women of Drogheda and Wexford. He had done his work of treachery well; and we cannot venture to say what his feelings were when he beheld his brave but ill-fated countrymen assembled round the altar to deposit at its rails the weapons they had so long and so gallantly wielded in the cause of one who was afterward to despoil their children of their lawful heritage, and sanction its appropriation by the murderers of his father. Ah! no Irishman can ever forget the ingratitude of the second Charles. But Walter Herbert thought little of the ceremony gone through that morning in the old church of the O'Briens till all was over. As the disarmed garrison marched down the long aisle of the cathedral many of them dropped dead—it might have been of the plague, or it might have been of a broken heart. Among the dead were two whose faces he had not looked on for years—Terence and Donat O'Brien, his wife's brothers. The sight awakened a new thought within him—that of his child whom he had not yet seen—and but few moments elapsed ere he was standing in front of the old corner house opposite the church of St. Nicholas. But its appearance was sadly changed since last he saw it. Gable and chimney bore evident marks of the enemy's cannon, while all around wore an air of desolation and sorrow. He looked up into one well-remembered window, but no fragrant geraniums were now there, as of old; no lark carolled the cheering song he so often listened to, with pleasure, some nine years before; balcony, and shutter, and curtain had disappeared. The whole house seemed in mourning. Even his knock rang through the house as through a sepulchre—so he thought. Twice he repeated it; and, at length, an aged head peered cautiously through a dormer window, and asked who was there. His answer quickly brought down the old domestic; but a flood of tears was her only welcome, as she opened the door and admitted him She had been the nurse of Eily and her brothers in childhood, and partly his own in sickness; and was now the survivor of all her old heart loved; of all, save one, a blue-eyed, curly-headed boy, who now hid behind her, evidently scared at the presence of a visitor in that desolate dwelling. A few words of greeting on the part of old Winny or Winifred assured him that he was known and welcome; and a few words of fondness addressed to the child soon restored his confidence. He was even, ere long, seated {247} contentedly on his father's knee, playing with sword-buckle—for that fair-headed, blue-eyed boy was the only child of Eily O'Brien and Walter Herbert. And as he gazed with pride on his beautiful boy, new hope and a new sense of duty sprang up within him. He felt that there was even yet something to live for. To protect that half-orphan child and his sorrowing grandsire would from that moment be the sole duty of his life, the sole solace of existence; and to this he pledged himself in Eily's little room, to which he ascended with his youthful companion, who, at his nurse's bidding, now called him father, and twined his little hands round his neck as he kissed him. The sudden roll of drums at length announced to him that it was time to depart, and fondly embracing his child once more, he hurried out of the house. He would never have left it did he then but know that in so doing he was bidding his boy farewell for ever.

The beating to arms announced the commencement of the mock trial of two dozen individuals, whom Ireton had already virtually sentenced to death, by excluding them from the protection guaranteed to the remaining citizens in the terms of capitulation. How readily would Herbert have saved every one of them, but his vote was only effective in one case, that of the gallant Hugh O'Neil, the city governor. The rest were condemned, by a majority, to die; and it was not without a tear he beheld that long file of brave and resolute men led forth to the scaffold. Priest and layman, soldier and citizen, were alike sacrificed, and for no crime save that of loving and defending their native land. And what Englishman, thought he, would not readily be guilty of the same offence? All passed silently from the death-chamber; all, save one, a venerable man, who, with Father Woulfe, was arrested in the lazar-house while administering the last sacraments of the Church to its plague-stricken inmates, soon to be deprived of all spiritual ministry. Herbert thought he recognized him, as he stood erect and fearless in the council-hall, and with hand pointed toward heaven, summoning Ireton to meet him, ere a month, at its judgment bar. He had certainly seen him before, but dressed in white serge, and not, as now, in purple. Nay, if he remembered rightly, he had been Eily's confessor, and, with the parish clergyman's permission, had married them privately in the church of St. Saviour, having first obtained a promise, freely granted by Herbert, that the children of that union, if such there were, should be brought up in the religion of the mother. What would he not have done to preserve the live [life?] of that venerable, heavenly-looking man! The last of Ireton's victims was one whose presence among the condemned he witnessed with astonishment. He had seen him closeted for hours with that same Ireton; and knew him to have been promised lands and money for certain services to be rendered to the general. But treachery was met with treachery; and Fennell, the traitor, ended his days on the same scaffold with Terence O'Brien, the bishop and martyr.

* * * * * *

The last guard was relieved on the day of execution—it was the eve of All-Hallows—and the clock of the town-hall was just chiming midnight as Herbert, who was the officer of the night, commenced his rounds. As he passed along, in silence and alone, by the Dean's Close, on his way to the castle barracks, he was suddenly stopped, at the head of an arched passage, over which an oil lamp feebly flickered, by an individual closely wrapped up in a large, dark frieze over-coat. To draw his sword was his first impulse; but a single glance at that wan face, whose gaze was sadly fixed upon him, changed his purpose in an instant. And, though armed to the teeth, he trembled in presence of that defenceless old man, and stood in silence before him.


"Don't you know me, Walter?" said the stranger.

"Alas! too well," was his reply. "But can I hope that you will ever forgive me?"

"My creed tells tells me to forgive even my—but I believe you never meant to be such"—and the old man extended his hand to Herbert.

They stood alone—with no eye upon them save that of the all-seeing One, and, in his presence, Walter fell on his knees, protesting his purity of intention, and asking the old man's blessing. And Conner O'Brien, for it was he, with head uncovered, blessed the stranger for the first time, and, raising him up, clasped him to his bosom as his son—the husband of his darling Eily, now sleeping with her mother in Killely.

Herbert was about to respond, with a fervent assurance of his undying love and devotion to her, when the old man stopped him short, and, drawing him into the recess of the bow way, asked him if he might now rely on his friendship and protection.

"Henceforth, as God is my witness," earnestly replied Herbert, "your interest and mine are but one."

"Good!" returned his companion. "Then, when occasion presents itself, you will procure a pass for myself and a friend in whose safety I feel the deepest interest. For my own life I care not, as I have no one save you and my grandson now remaining to care for." Then the old man, despite his resolution, sobbed aloud. "But my friend," he continued, after a few moments, "cannot yet be spared. We cannot afford to lose him, and it is solely on his account—though he knows nothing of my project—that I have waited here to meet you."

After some further brief conversation, they parted with a fond embrace —the old man to his friend, and Walter to the barracks. When his watch was ended, he lay down to enjoy, for the first time during many months, a peaceful slumber of several hours.

The 1st of November, 1651, dawned brightly on the old city of Luimneach, and its now shattered fortifications—brightly on the brown heath of the Meelick mountains—brightly on the waving woods of Cratloe—brightly on the rapids at the salmon weir, and on the snowy sails of the English transports at anchor in "the pool"—brightly on the gory head of Terence O'Brien, Bishop of Emly, impaled on the center tower of the city—brightly, too, on his murderer, Henry Ireton, as he reviewed the body of troops destined for the siege of Carrigaholt Castle; for God "maketh his sun to rise upon the good and bad." Ere the sun set the vanguard of that body had left the Cratloe hills far behind them, on their march westward; and Herbert was second in command of the first division. He was well mounted, and with him rode two peasants thoroughly acquainted with the country, and destined to serve him as guides. Of late his soldiers remarked that he had grown unusually silent and morose, and few of them cared to intrude on him uninvited. Thus it happened that, during the march, he rode considerably in advance, though always within sight of his detachment, with no other companions than the two guides.

With one of them he seemed well acquainted, and the soldiers remarked that he conversed freely with him on the road. The other seemed to speak but seldom, and then only to his brother guide. This, however, was no matter of surprise, as it was supposed he spoke in Irish, a language almost utterly unknown to the English commander. And such, in reality, was the fact. Whether he understood English or not, he spoke in his native tongue to O'Brien, who, as the reader may have guessed, was Herbert's other guide on the evening in question. As they approached Ennis the old man seemed much excited, alleging, as his reason, that he feared being recognized; but it was not difficult to perceive that his {249} anxiety was more for his companion than himself. They succeeded, however, in reaching their destination, and encamped near Kilfiehera to await the arrival of the main body from Kilrush. Under pretext of exploring the wild coast of Kilkee and Farahee, Herbert left the camp at sunrise, attended solely by the two individuals who had been his companions on the march from Limerick. He returned alone, however, in the evening, and rumor went abroad that he had been deserted by his guides amid the wild recesses of the coast. This new piece of treachery on the part of the Irishry, after being warmly denounced round the Cromwellian camp-fires that night, was forwarded next morning to Limerick, to be faithfully chronicled, with many other facts of like authenticity, in "Ludlow's Memoirs." Herbert was too much overjoyed at the escape of his father-in-law and the friend in whom he seemed so deeply interested, to give himself any concern about the camp-fire gossip, or Ludlow's version of the matter.

The next week found him again in Limerick. Sudden news of the alarming illness of the general had reached the camp, and the expedition to the west was, for the time, abandoned. Herbert found his new post a trying one—to keep watch and ward with Hardress Waller, one of his wife's murderers, beside the dying bed of another. Waller was Ireton's confidant, the ready instrument of all his infamy; and Herbert was selected by the general to attend him as the only surviving officer attached to his own regiment since it was first raised in Nottingham, the native county of both. To escape from his post was impossible. Nothing short of suicide could free him from it; and the thought of his little son, if no higher motive, prevented him from putting an end to his existence. Night after night was he doomed to sit by the bed-side of the dying man and listen to the wild ravings of remorse and blasphemy that, almost every moment escaped his plague-stained lips. He would start up betimes, and, with the frantic look of a maniac, call for his sword to ward off the fiends that seemed to mock his tortures; and then he would sink back exhausted, still wildly raving of Charles Stuart, and Terence O'Brien, the "Lord's anointed," as he now called them, whom he had murdered. Nay, he would clutch Herbert's hand, and, with tears, implore his forgiveness. But Hardress Waller stood there too, and a look from him would again rouse the murder-fiend within him. All feeling of compunction would then pass away; and grim despair again lay hold of him. Oh! it was a fearful sight—that death-bed of despairing remorse. It never left Herbert's memory, and was the commencement of that change that ultimately converted the Puritan soldier into a Christian monk.

Ireton died in his house in Mary street on the 26th of November, 1651, still "raging and raving," says the chronicler, [Footnote 40] of the unfortunate prelate, whose unjust condemnation he imagined hurried on his death. Herbert was of the party appointed to guard the remains to England, and, before setting out, hastened to his father-in-law's house to bring his child with him. But, alas! he found it empty, and not the slightest trace of Winny or the boy. Nor could any one tell him what had become of either. With a bursting heart, he set out with the funeral cortege to Cork, and thence to Bristol, resolved never more to draw sword in Cromwell's cause. Arrived in London, he delivered up his charge, and at once quitted the kingdom, without waiting for the lying in state at Somerset House, or final interment in Westminster Abbey, of Ireton's plague-stricken corpse. Though pledged never again to serve in the ranks of the monsters whose atrocities in Ireland made him so often blush for his native country, he could not yet entirely wean {250} himself away from his old profession. After a few months passed in idleness and ennui on the continent, during which he vainly tried to forget the loss of his wife and child, he entered the Earl of Bristol's regiment as a volunteer, and faithfully maintained the cause of King Charles till his restoration. It was when forming part of his body-guard at Lord Tara's residence in Bruges, where the exiled monarch occasionally resided, that he first met with the Capuchin fathers, and was by them received into the Catholic Church. With the king he returned to England, but only to have all his sad recollections awakened by meeting once more with his old enemies, Waller and Ireton.

[Footnote 40: Burke, "Hibernia Dominicana. "]

Ireton! some astonished reader will exclaim. Why, surely, we buried him years ago, and are not expected, we presume, to believe in ghosts in this enlightened nineteenth century of ours.

And yet we must repeat what we have written. On his return to London, Walter Herbert again stood face to with Waller and Ireton—the former, with a smile of hypocritical adulation, welcoming the return of him whose father he had aided in murdering—the latter, a hideous spectacle, first dangling on a gallows at Tyburn, and then grimly staring at the by-passers—if those sightless sockets could be said to stare—from the highest spike on Westminster Hall. It was a shocking sight to Herbert—that ghastly skeleton and that ghastly head—and recalled to his memory, with sadness and horror, another but far different head which, ten years before, he saw set up, pallid and blood-stained, on the castled tower of Limerick. God is very just, thought he, as he passed on, with a shudder.

On his return to England Herbert found himself friendless. All his relatives had died, or perished on the battle-field, during the civil wars, and of his child there was still no trace. All he could learn was that he had been sent to his grandfather, then resident on the continent; but where the grandfather resided, there was no means of ascertaining. Tired of England, and the cruelties and perfidies he daily saw endorsed by the sign-manual of one who, he imagined, should have learned toleration and honor in the school of affliction—in hopes also of meeting with his child—he quitted his native land for ever, and joined the ranks of the Duke of Lorraine, the old ally and friend of his former commander, the Earl of Bristol. With him and Sir George Hamilton he fought the battles of Spain for nigh fifteen years; and his last achievement in her service was one of the brightest on record. With a few resolute companions he held his ground for two entire days in the shattered citadel of Cambrai, though the battery to which they returned shot for shot was under the personal inspection of Louis XIV. and the renowned hunchback Luxemburg. The bursting of a shell laid him senseless, and when, after a long and painful illness, he was again restored to health, he resolved, in thanksgiving, to devote the remainder of his days to the exclusive service of God, in the convent where he first learned to know him.

During the recital of the foregoing narrative, which, for brevity's sake, we have given consecutively, and in our own words, Brother Francis was frequently interrupted by his youthful auditor, as new light was thrown by him on events in his family history which, till then, he had never heard satisfactorily cleared up. He had already learned from his mother that his grandfather had been an English officer, supposed to have fallen in Cromwell's wars, though a vague report reached the family that he was seen in Spain after Cromwell's death. Of his grandmother, he only heard that she died young, and that her father resided for a considerable time in Brussels, with his grandson, whom, at his death, he confided to the care of none guardian of St. Antoine's at Louvain, who was his brother-in-law, and who had brought the boy, when a mere child, from Ireland. {251} He further learned that, after the completion of his studies, and contrary to the wish of his uncle, who intended him for the ecclesiastical state, his father embraced the profession of arms, and, shortly after his marriage, embarked with the French troops sent by King Louis to Ireland. He fell at the siege of Limerick, and his widow died of a broken heart soon after the intelligence of her husband's death reached her. He was himself then but a boy, and was placed by his mother's relatives at the Benedictine college of Douai, whence he passed, in due time, like his father, to the ranks, and was then serving, as we have already seen, in the Duke of Vendôme's anny.

"But you did not say who the other person was that accompanied you on the march from Limerick to Carrigaholt, or what became of him or his companion," resumed the young soldier, when he had concluded.

"That remains to this day a mystery to me," replied his grandfather, "for I never saw either after we parted that evening. I left them on a lofty isolated rock off the coast of Clare, to which they were conveyed, as the surest place of safety, by a few poor fishermen, then dwelling in a ruined keep on the verge of the cliff's, which, if I remember rightly, they called Dunlicky. Had I much curiosity I might have possibly learned the stranger's name, but I never inquired, and probably, as I did not, my father-in-law never told me. Certain it is that he must have been a person of high distinction, as all addressed him with marked respect, I might almost say reverence, and seemed most devoted to him, though, as far as I could see, he possessed no earthly means of remunerating them—nothing, in fact, save the half-military, half-rustic garments in which he was clad. And as they left him and his companion in one of the two small huts that served as a shelter in stormy weather for the few wild-looking sheep that browsed on the island, they promised soon to return with such necessaries as he might require during his stay among them. On returning to the canoe that brought us from the mainland, I remembered that I heard something fall from the stranger as he stepped ashore on a ledge of the island. In my hurry at the moment I paid no attention to the circumstance; and it was only on our arrival at the foot of the cliff on which the old castle stood, that I found the object which he had dropped lying in the bottom of the boat. Hoping soon to be able to restore it to its owner, I took it with me, and ever since it has remained in my possession; for I need scarcely say, after all you have heard, that an opportunity of restoring it never since presented itself. I still retain it, with the father guardian's permission, in hopes of one day discovering its lawful claimant."

Here Brother Francis drew from the folds of his garment a small ebony crucifix, inlaid with pearl, and richly set in gold, and, reverently kissing it, handed it to his companion. The latter, after carefully examining it, read the following inscription, beautifully engraved in text characters round the rim—

  "J. B. RINUC. LEG. AP. R.R.D.D.

Still the history and after fate of the owner of the crucifix remained a mystery to them. Perhaps some reader of the foregoing pages may be able to throw some light on the subject, if not for their benefit, at least for ours.

Little more remains to be told of Brother Francis. In his ninetieth year he died peacefully in the midst of the brotherhood with whom so many years of his life had been happily spent—and his eyes were closed in death by the hands of Eily O'Brien's grandchild, young Gerald Herbert, who had likewise joined the order, and given up the camp and its turmoil, and the world and its deceit, to don the cowl of St. Francis, and spend the rest of his days with the humble, hospitable Capuchins of Bruges.


From The Month.


The stirring events, political and military, which followed on the outbreak of the great French revolution, giving a shock to every institution, secular and religious, and leaving their mark on the history of every civilized country, affected also, to an unexampled degree, the fortunes of families and individuals throughout Europe. The troubles that overwhelmed the thrones of kings, and seemed to threaten the Church herself with destruction, penetrated even to the very lowest classes of society. The great were ruined as well as their princes; the wealthy and noble were proscribed and exiled; new families arose as well as new dynasties; and if the cottage was spared persecution, it did not escape the conscription, while in many cases its inmates died on the guillotine by the side of the tenants of the neighboring palace. By this great and universal convulsion hearts and characters were tried to the utmost; and if many in every class sank under the ordeal which called for courage, patience, and prudence, and other virtues in the heroic degree, it is no less true that many others, who seemed to have been born for a life of quiet and ordinary duty, for unbroken and uneventful happiness, displayed unexpected strength of character, great qualities of heart and mind, and revealed graces of the highest order under the blows of affliction. We are in some respects fortunate in living just at the distance we do from a period like this; for it has not yet passed into the region of pure history, in which we can feel no practical concern; and yet time enough has elapsed since its close for us to reap a part at least of the rich inheritance that it has left behind it of memoirs and correspondence relating to those who played an actual part in its scenes. It was crowded with lives that deserve to be written, full of interest and instruction.

Let us confine ourselves to France alone. That country produced a number of most remarkable men, brought to the surface, as it were, by the breaking up of the great fountains of her national life, who, for bad or for good, played the chief part in the political changes which so powerfully affect Europe to the present day, or, as the soldiers of a new era of military glory, bore her flag in triumph into every capital on the continent. These men figured in events which write themselves sooner than any other on the pages of history; and every one, therefore, has heard of the names and exploits of the emperor and his marshal. More noble and heroic, more beneficial, and more truly glorious to their country, were the lives of hundreds—men and women— who took a part in the great outburst of fresh religious activity which followed upon the restoration of freedom to Catholicism, of whose piety, charity, and devotion the present Church of France is the fruit and the monument. A great deal remains to be done as to the biography and history of this great religious restoration, in many respects already equalling, in others even outshining, the earlier glories of the French Church, for a moment submerged by the revolution. Lastly, there is another department also in which literary labor will be well repaid—the history of the sufferers in the revolution, whether ecclesiastics or secular, whether they perished on the guillotine, were transported to Cayenne, or claimed as emigrants the hospitality of England and other European countries.


Many of these emigrants were persons who had never known what it was to have a whim ungratified; who had lived all their lives amidst the frivolous dissipation of the highest society in Paris, infected as it was with the withering influences of Voltairianism; and who had shared in the illusive enthusiasm with which the earlier steps of the revolution had been welcomed. Exile, poverty, forced inaction, obscurity, and the utter want of all that had before been the occupation of their lives, came upon them as a far more severe, because more wearing and protracted, trial than if they had had to bear the short agony of the massacres or the revolutionary tribunal. Yet, under an ordeal such as this, great and wonderful virtues often unfolded themselves, which bore witness to the sound religious training that so many of them had received, of which their patience and courage were the natural fruits. In this way their history furnishes us with many characters of wonderful interest; and the effect of it is not only to enlist our sympathies for individuals, but to give us also a higher idea of the upper classes in France than is generally derived from the annals of that dreadful period.

I have been led to these remarks by reading a little volume lately published in Paris, under the title "Anne Paule Dominique de Noailles, Marquise de Montagu," There may, perhaps, be many more such memoirs: this, at all events, though written without pretension or ambition, certainly gives the history of a very beautiful character, drawn out by continual misfortune, and it contains incident enough to furnish the plots of three or four romances. Although it deals chiefly with the history of Madame de Montagu, it gives us incidentally the outline both of the lives and characters of her sisters. There are also, of course, other subordinate figures in the picture; and the author has shown great skill in giving us a very graphic account of each in a few words or lines. I shall proceed, without further prologue or apology, to use the materials furnished by this volume for a short sketch of Madame de Montagu and her sisters.

These ladles were the daughters of the Duc and Duchesse d'Ayen. The duke was the eldest son of the last Maréchal de Noailles; his wife was the daughter of M. d'Aguesseau, son of the chancellor of that name. They had five daughters, called, as the custom was, Mdlle. de Noailles, Mdlle. d'Ayen, Mdlle. d'Epernon, Mdlle. de Maintenon, and Mdlle. de Monclar. The eldest married her cousin, the Viscount de Noailles; the second became Madame de la Fayette, wife of the celebrated marquis; Mdlle. d'Epernon was twice married, but died young, and we shall have no occasion to mention her name again; Mdlle. de Maintenon is the principal subject of the volume we have before us, having married the Marquis de Montagu; Mdlle. de Monclar became Madame de Grammont. The sisters probably owed more to their mother than to any one else in the world, and were formed by her; a short notice of her is, therefore, the natural introduction to their history.

Many who have been acquainted with the effects of the influence of the French emigrants who came to England at the time of the revolution have remarked that some of the most devout and religious among them must have had a certain tinge of strictness and rigor about them which betrayed the distant influence of Jansenism, even over those who were in no sort of way its disciples. This may be seen even in some of their ascetical works. The Duchesse d'Ayen seems either to have been brought up in this school, or to have taken up its teaching from something in her own character congenial to it. As was natural in a granddaughter of d'Aguesseau, she loved order and prudence with hereditary instinct, and was, moreover, acquainted with suffering; her piety was most genuine, and as wife and mother none could surpass her. The {254} due was a man of the world, a thorough gentleman, with all the dilettante learning that befitted his high station. He had passed through several brilliant campaigns, was a member of the Academy of Sciences, and shone even in Paris in the art of conversation. His time was mostly spent at court, or in gay circles away from home; but when he did return the most delicate attentions were lavished on his wife; and she, on her side, had taught their five children to greet his visits with love equal to their respect. And in truth, though their father's quick temper inspired the girls with some natural fear, his many amiable qualities could not fail to call forth their deepest affection.

Madame d'Ayen they dearly loved. The free unbroken intercourse which is natural to English homes was not in accordance with the rules of those stately Parisian families, but the first act of the day was to go and salute their mother; next, they were sure to meet her going to or returning from mass, when they were taking their morning walk; afterward, they all dined together at three, and then came the pleasant hours spent in her bedroom, while she instructed and amused them by turns in gentle maternal converse. They had other instructors I but she really formed their minds.

A bright worldly future opened before these young girls, with their good birth, high connections, and splendid fortune. Who would have dreamed of coming storms? But the pious mother did not wait for misfortune to teach them companionship with sorrow; they began when children to visit the suffering, and two poor people of the parish stood sponsors for Mdlle. de Maintenon at the baptismal font. She was born in 1766, and the parish church was St. Roch; opposite stood the family hotel, with its spacious gardens reaching up to the Tuileries.

After their marriages the sisters became brilliant stars in Parisian society, and the tenderest union ever reigned between them. The eldest, Madame de Noailles, was admired by every one for her sweetness and grace, being commonly called either "that angel," or the "heavenly viscountess." Even the family confessor, the saintly Abbé Edgworth, writing of her after her death to Madame de Montagu, says, "The fate of that angelic soul, which I knew so intimately on earth, can inspire no uneasiness. For my part, I acknowledge in all simplicity that she seems now to return me ten-fold all the good I formerly wished her. The mere remembrance of her strengthens me, and would keep me from loving earth, could it still offer any enjoyment."

The sisters vied with each other in love and veneration for their mother and Madame de Noailles especially had the happiness of being scarcely ever separated from her. The young wife, however, espoused with ardor her husband's political opinions; and he was much more liberal in his views than the Duchesse d'Ayen. Like many other nobles of the time, both about court and in the provinces, M. de Noailles hailed with enthusiasm the first dawn of the revolution, believing it would bring about a new era for France, a grand national reform. Madame d'Ayen, on the contrary, looked on events with some mistrust; her experience, her natural prudence and cautious character, made her more anxious, more inclined to circumspection.

Even after the Bastille had been taken, and when so many families began to emigrate, M. de Noailles, like his brother-in-law M. de la Fayette, continued to hope. The events of 1792, however, induced him to seek refuge in England. The Duc d'Ayen had taken refuge in Switzerland; but when he heard of the attack on the Tuileries in June, 1792, he flew to the aid of the king and the royal family, considering that though his post of captain of the royal guard had been abolished, the danger of Louis had created it anew. He was with that {255} small band of devoted adherents who would have defended the king on the fatal 10th of August—the last day of the real monarchy—when Louis' heart failed him, and he took refuge in the assembly. The Duc d'Ayen managed again to get away into Switzerland; the other members of his family, quitting their splendid hotel, hid themselves in a wretched dwelling of the nearest feubourg. Madame de Noailles was to have joined her husband in London, where they intended shortly to embark for America; but she lingered with her mother, first to assist her grandfather, the Marshal de Noailles, in his dying moments, and next to console his aged widow, now well-nigh reduced to second childhood. The result was captivity and death for all time. Madame de Noailles' virtue shone forth with lustre throughout these trying hours, and it is as a meek victim of the revolution that she especially deserves remembrance.

At first the three ladies were simply detained as "suspected" in their own hotel, during the winter of '93; but in April following they were transferred as prisoners to the Luxembourg. There they found in a room below them their relatives, the Maréchal de Mouchy and his wife, who had already suffered a detention of five months. Not far off was a cousin, the Duchesse d'Orléans, widow of Philippe Egalité, lately executed. These were sad recognitions, few or no prisoners being ever set at liberty, though many went through the mockery of a trial. Soon after Madame d'Ayen's arrival, M. and Madame de Mouchy were guillotined. From the first she and her daughter prepared for death. Both did all they could to alleviate the suffering around them. Madame d'Ayen gave up her bed to the Duchesse d'Orléans, who was very ill, and treated with even exceptional cruelty. Madame de Noailles shared her mother's attendance on this lady, and on several others. She made the beds for all their relatives, helped them to dress, and washed up the dishes; in short, waited upon the whole party as if she had been accustomed all her life to servile occupations. With true virtue, she even showed no repugnance at anything, but preserved throughout her usual sweet serenity of temper. Her consolation was to mount up twice a week to an upper story, under pretence of breathing the fresh air, but in reality to obtain a view from the window of her children in the garden beneath. She had contrived to keep up some correspondence outside, and they came at the stated hour, under the care of their tutor. Occasionally she managed to receive notes from him, or to send him one. An extract from the last she wrote, and when she felt an eternal separation impending, shows the strength of her piety:

"God sustains me, and will, I am convinced, to the end. Farewell! Be assured that my gratitude toward you will accompany me above. But for you, what would have been my children's fate? Farewell, Alexis, Alfred, Euphemia! Bear God in your hearts every day of your lives; attach yourselves steadfastly to him; pray for your father, and for his true happiness; remember your mother also, and that her sole desire has been for your eternal welfare. I hope to be re-united with you in the bosom of God, and in that hope give my last blessing to you all."

These words show a soul which could not be ill prepared for death. When hastily summoned one day to leave the Luxembourg for the Conciergerie, a certain road to execution, both Madame de Noailles and her mother were quite ready. Madame d'Ayen had the "Imitation" open at that beautiful chapter on the cross. Hastily writing on a scrap of paper—"Courage, my children, and pray"—she put it in as a mark, and begged the Duchesse d'Orléans, if her life were spared, to give it to them. This commission was faithfully executed, and the little book still exists, showing {256} traces of Madame d'Ayen's last tears as she named her daughters.

The poor old maréchale scarcely knew what was going on, but followed mechanically. The Conciergerie was crowded, and afforded small accommodation for new-comers. Madame de Noailles thought it useless to sleep that night. When her mother pressed her to lie down a little, she said, "Why seek repose on the brink of eternity?" Early next morning all three were astir, and persuaded each other to break their fast, for no dinner had been provided on the previous evening. Madame de Noailles insisted on dressing both her mother and grandmother, whispering, "Have good courage, mamma; there is only one hour more!"

But nearly the whole day passed in terrible expectation. Not till five in the afternoon came the open carts that were to carry forty condemned prisoners to the Barrière du Trône for execution. Long previous to detention, Madame de Noailles had secured, in case of danger, the services of a good priest—Père Carrichon, of the Oratory. News of their coming fate reached him, and, faithful to his promise, despite the personal risk, he arrived at the prison door in time. The first cart filled and passed out. It contained eight ladies, of whom the last was the old maréchale. In the second were Madame d'Ayen and her daughter; after whom six men took their places.

The account given by Père Carrichon of this closing scene is our last view of Madame de Noailles, and tallies with what has gone before. Serene and gentle, her thoughts appeared wrapt in God. Père Carrichon tried to make himself seen as the cart came out. Evidently Madame de Noailles was looking for some one; but her glance did not rest on him. Having made a great circuit, he posted himself in a conspicuous place at the opening of a bridge. Again Madame de Noailles anxiously scanned the crowd around, and again without discerning the face she sought. Père Carrichon was tempted to give up the effort in despair. Priestly charity prevailed, however, and he hastened forward to the Rue St. Antoine. A violent storm had come on; thunder and lightning raged, the wind blew furiously. The poor victims were drenched; the ladies' hair streamed about their faces, and their hands, closely tied behind each, could give no relief. What with the jolting and wind, they could hardly keep their seats on those narrow planks. The savage curiosity of the populace yielded to the violence of the storm; the crowd dispersed; windows and doors closed. Père Carrichon ventured nearer the cart, amid the very escort of soldiers intent on guarding themselves from the storm. Suddenly Madame de Noailles' countenance lighted up with her own sweet smile; her eyes were thankfully raised to heaven, and then she leaned forward, whispering to her mother. She had seen him, Père Carrichon felt sure of it. A grateful smile stole over the duchess's face also.

Père Carrichon continued walking beside the cart; his heart raised in prayer; the mute confession was made, the silent absolution given. Solemn, touching scene!—those two heads, one so fair, reverentially bent down with looks of mingled contrition and hope; the priest fulfilling his errand of mercy; and the storm raging on.

At length the carts stopped. The executioner and his assistants came forward, one carelessly twirling a rose between his lips. The guillotine fell on the maréchale; afterward on Madame d'Ayen; and Madame de Noailles suffered next. Up to the last moment both mother and daughter employed themselves in exhorting their companions to Christian repentance. The vicomtesse devoted herself especially to a young man whom she had overheard blaspheming. One foot was already on the bloody ladder, when, turning round a last time, she {257} murmured, with imploring accents, "I conjure you, say—Forgive me!" Their own sweet countenances spoke only of heaven. So beautiful were these deaths, that, despite the horrors of the scene, Père Carrichon could but raise his full heart in praise and thanksgiving to God. Thus lived and died the eldest of these five sisters.

The second, Madame de la Fayette, is a beautiful character; so enthusiastic in spirit, so warm and generous in heart. Endowed with good natural powers, her mind had been highly cultivated, she could reason well, and possessed a ripe judgment. Prompt and decided on great occasions, she was then energetic enough in carrying out her resolutions; but by a strange contradiction of nature, doubts often assailed her in little matters, and she would hang back, uncertain what course to pursue. Ardent in her piety, she was yet tormented with scruples; and unfortunately Madame d'Ayen had so far condescended to these as to allow her daughter not to make her first communion till after marriage. Naturally enough, at that late period the great act was accomplished with much mental suffering. Madame de Montagu said with truth that this beloved sister was not sufficiently interior, and thirsted too eagerly after the consolations of human affections; but for sincerity, faith, zeal, and submission to the divine will Madame de la Fayette was most admirable. Her greatest quality was self-sacrifice, unshrinking devotion to those she loved—the virtue of a wife and a mother. M. de la Fayette attests that he owed to her unalloyed happiness during a wedded union of thirty-four years. "Gentle, tender, virtuous, and high-souled, this incomparable woman has been the charm and pride of my existence."

She too was imprisoned, but was afterward released. Her first thought was to join her husband, a captive at Olmutz. Other duties detained her for a while; but the ultimate object was kept steadily, though silently, in view. Madame de la Fayette sent her young son out of France across the Atlantic, confiding him to Washington's protection; then she hastened to look after her daughters in Auvergne, and settle money accounts there. Happily, she was able to buy back Chavaniac, the property of an old aunt who had brought up her husband. Business concluded, she sought for Madame de Grammont; the two sisters had not met since the tragic death of their relatives. Madame de Noailles' orphan children were living with their aunt. Tearing herself from them, Madame de la Fayette—who could only obtain a passport for America—then went round by sea to Altona, in Denmark, where her other sister, Madame de Montagu, and many French exiles, had fixed their residence for a while. This also was a meeting in which bitter pain was mingled with joy. "Did you see them?" were the only words Madame de Montagu could sob forth, after a long, mute caress. "Alas! I had not that happiness," replied Madame de la Fayette, whose filial heart was choking with the same remembrances.

Proper measures having been taken for obtaining an audience of the emperor, Madame de la Fayette announced her intention of proceeding to Vienna forthwith, that she might solicit permission to share her husband's captivity. The simple words in which she mentioned her generous purpose thrilled through the little circle; vain attempts were made to dissuade her from it; she gently, but firmly, persisted. Her sister could best understand the feelings that guided her, and that she did so was expressed by silent repeated pressures of her hand.

Madame de la Fayette—accompanied by her two girls, aged thirteen and fifteen—reached Vienna under an assumed name. The emperor granted her request, and she hastened joyfully to Olmutz. Such was her enthusiasm at sight of the gloomy fortress in which her husband was confined, that she began repeating Tobias' beautiful canticle (c. xiii.), and entered with it on her lips.


It was the 15th of October, 1795. M. de la Fayette had already been a close prisoner for three years; during the last eighteen months especially he had received no tidings of what was going on in the world without. A vague rumor of excesses committed in France had indeed reached his unbroken solitude, but not the name of one victim; he knew nothing of the fate of his wife and children. Now, without one word of preparation, the door of his cell was unlocked; figures darkened the threshold. Could it be? His heroic wife and their two children! Yes; they had come to share the hardships of his prison life.

The emperor of Austria had spoken to Madame de la Fayette of her husband's place of confinement in a manner which showed her afterward that he was quite ignorant of the rigorous treatment to which the prisoner was subjected. Two little cells, with a wretched bed and a table and chair in each, formed the sole accommodation. As for eating, there was one pewter spoon, no such luxury as knife or fork being allowed. Pens, paper, and ink were only forthcoming on rare occasions, and then the open letter had to be written under the eye of an official. Madame de la Fayette endured all these annoyances for two years; and truly the abnegation of her young daughters during this long period is nearly as admirable as her own. The girls employed themselves very usefully in concocting new articles of clothing out of old materials. Madame de la Fayette, like her husband, soon began to suffer from such close confinement; but when, after eleven months' illness, she applied for leave to go and consult a physician at Vienna for a few days only, the answer was that, once outside the fortress, she would never be re-admitted. The prison doctor could only exchange conversation in Latin with her husband, and neither of them appear to have been adepts in that language; moreover, his hurried visit was obliged to take place in the presence of an officer.

Friends wearied both France and foreign powers with solicitations for the release of General de la Fayette. Fox painted the miseries endured at Olmutz in eloquent terms before a British House of Commons; but it was not until October, 1797, that the prison gates opened at length, through Bonaparte's intervention.

The name she bore often proved detrimental to her, but Madame de la Fayette gloried in it. With Robespierre's fall all prisoners in France were set at liberty. General de la Fayette, however, was accused of having betrayed the revolution because he had refused to become privy to its crimes, and his wife was therefore detained. Interrogated by Legendre, who told her how much he detested the very name of la Fayette, she boldly expressed her readiness to defend him and it against whatsoever accuser. Legendre remanded her to prison "for insolence."

This devoted love for husband and children did not suffice to fill her heart. It was burning also with other affections. To Madame de la Fayette we owe a touching life of the Duchesse d'Ayen, written while at Olmutz, on the margin of a stray volume of Buffon, with a broken toothpick for her pen and a piece of Chinese ink. When told of the tragic fate that had overtaken her relatives, she could not believe it at first; especially it seemed impossible that men could have been so barbarous to her "angelic sister." On recovering a little from this overwhelming sorrow, she wrote to her children:

"I thank God for having preserved to me life and reason, and do not regret your absence at such a moment. He kept me from revolt against him; but I could not long have borne the semblance of any human consolation. To follow in the track of such dear footsteps would have sweetened the last pangs for me."


In the prisons of the revolution her sole thought was how to relieve the wants and sufferings of those around. With her cousin, the Duchesse de Duras, at Plessis, she was constantly interceding for the sick and poor among their fellow captives, and this at a time when a chance word sufficed for death, as sixty victims chosen by caprice or at hazard were regularly dragged forth each day for execution. Her spirit never forsook her under trying circumstances, and she often showed wonderful presence of mind. Once she pleaded her own cause before the tribunal of Puy, and on several occasions harangued the people. Her language at these times was always nobly firm, and sometimes proud even to haughtiness. In a letter addressed to Brissot, after asking for liberty, or at least the favor of remaining a prisoner on parole, which the whole village of Chavaniac volunteered to guarantee, she concludes by saying, "I consent to owe you this service." Her letters to the two ministers, Roland and Servan, or to foreign princes on behalf of her husband, are no less elevated in tone. She never stoops to flatter. No wonder that she exercised a species of fascination over all those who approached her; with whatever feelings the acquaintance began, it was impossible to know and not to love her.

In all her sorrows, ardent faith sustained her. When danger again threatened at Paris, she writes to Madame de Montagu: "We mast abandon ourselves wholly to God in this critical hour. Let us live like Abraham, ready to start whenever God calls, and to go wheresoever he appoints." When she felt her end approaching, once more she repeated aloud that canticle of Tobias, singing which she had, years before, entered the fortress of Olmutz. True in death to her character through life, her heart was inflamed with celestial desires, and still overflowing with human affection. Drawing all her loved ones round her, she gave them a last blessing, and gently expired, holding her husband's hands within her own.

Of four daughters of the Duc d'Ayen, Madame de Grammont was the least attractive. Her person was small, her appearance stiff, her features marked; there was nothing soft about her look or manner. Her virtue was of a stern kind; she had schooled herself into a certain absence of feeling, neither right nor lovable; but fortunately her actions often contradicted her professions. Thus her kindness never failed, and her charity to the poor was boundless. There was a contradiction too between what she said and what she wrote—her speeches are always more or less stern, while her letters frequently betray deep affection; like a person who speaks from principle, but dares to let herself out on paper, sure of restraining emotion when necessary. Sacrifice was the prominent feature of her piety; duty dictated her every sentiment.

Eight out of her nine children she saw carried to their graves in youth, and each time she could say with composure, "The Lord hath given and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." Writing to Madame de Montagu about a daughter whose end was approaching, she uses these words: "As life ebbs away, her peace and self-possession are perfect. . . . . . I do not despair of helping her passage into the bosom of God after having erst borne her in my own; and it is sweet to make her repeat, 'I was cast into thy arms, O Lord, from the beginning: thou art my God, even from my mother's womb.'" It was not in her character to disclose the struggle of natural feeling that was going on in her heart at the time that she was writing words like these.

Once Madame de Grammont writes to her sister: "The expectation, experience, and long continuance of misfortune have at length made me impassible. " "And I," adds Madame de Montagu, commenting on the word in {260} her journal, "am still a reed shaken by every breath." The two phrases aptly characterize each sister.

In 1848, Madame de Grammont, who had been an eye-witness of the two preceding revolutions, was quite surprised at the fears entertained by those around her. "But, grandmamma," said a member of her family, "if the guillotine were set up again as in the reign of terror, surely you would feel some uneasiness?" "Poor child!" replied the old lady, "that has nothing to do with the question. Must we not all die? The important thing is to be well prepared; the mode of death is a mere detail." And thus unmoved she lived on to the age of eighty-five—that is, till the year 1853—having survived all her sisters. Though her husband had been banished for some time, she never emigrated; and sixty-seven years of her life were passed in retirement at their château of Villersexel. There she was much beloved, being a true mother to all the poor.

Her sisters also were warmly attached to her. Madame de Montagu held her in such veneration, that though a little the older of the two, she always kept a journal for Madame de Grammont to read, that she might point out her faults and help her to amend. She called Madame de Grammont her second conscience and the province in which she resided the kingdom of Virtue, with Peace (Villersexel) for its capital.

Madame de Grammont felt their mother's loss, in her way, as deeply as the rest. Perhaps, too, this heavy trial laid the foundation of her remarkable firmness; for there are some strong natures that cannot bend through fear of breaking. When able afterward to communicate with Madame de Montagu, she writes:

"Since the immolation of those dear victims, the cross is my sole place of refuge. With you, and all those we love in this world and the other, I cast myself into Gods's arms. There let all disquietude cease; there let our minds and hearts rest for ever; thence let us derive strength to perform our allotted task here below."

Her father had entreated Madame de Grammont to consult her personal safety in those perilous times by joining himself and Madame de Montagu in Switzerland. She declined, because her husband was only just recovering from a dangerous illness, and also through fear of compromising his family. Indeed, so much was circumspection necessary, that her letters were written on cambric handkerchiefs, which Madame de Grammont took the further precaution of sewing inside her messenger's waistcoat lining.

Madame de Montagu affords a strong contrast to Madame de Grammont. She went through life thrilling at every step; full of tears that often gushed for joy, but oftenest welled up from deep fountains of sorrow; heroic in faith, like the others, but quivering and writhing beneath each new load of anguish. She never grew accustomed to suffering, and yet God tried her well; but he could not weary her love for himself. And thus, while human affections were ever causing sharp pain, divine love gave her strength to bear it without asking her to overcome them. Such was her character, which grace supported without changing.

Madame de Montagu was admired in the world, but never cared for triumphs of any kind. Her sole wish was to please God and her home circle, and do good to her fellow-creatures. We may believe that the pauper sponsors who held her at St. Roch watched over their charge through life. For well and zealously, though full of natural shrinkings, did Madame de Montagu perform her part on the busy stage. Her timidity was put to its first great trial when, at sixteen, she had to undergo her first introduction to her intended husband, on whom she dared not raise her eyes, to see whether her parents' choice suited her, in appearance at least, until he fortunately turned away to look at a picture. Next {261} came the further suffering of receiving congratulatory visits from all Paris, during which the poor bride elect was seated bolt upright, pale and trembling, beside her mother, and between two goodly rows of members of either family, ranged along both sides of the apartment. At church on the wedding-day she regained her composure, because all else was forgotten in the earnest prayer breathed that she might well perform her new duties.

Almost immediately the young wife had to sacrifice her greatest pleasure, that of seeing her mother and sisters frequently. M. de Montagu was obliged to join his regiment, and she was left under the tutelage of her father-in-law, a kind and clever man, but eccentric and full of vagaries. To please him she did everything not wrong, commencing that petty series of daily yieldings, insignificant to careless eyes, but so meritorious because so difficult. This is woman's battlefield, obscure but high; and in this path Madame de Montagu always walked, perfectly ignorant that her simplicity was in any way extraordinary. The good she did by example, and without any words, was immense; only near relatives and intimate friends could perceive it. One of these, M. de Mun, used to say that she was the only dévote he ever knew who made him wish to be saved. So far could she condescend even to the pleasures of others, that in exile, after all her sorrows, she danced at a rustic ball. And to a nature like hers, such griefs as she had known were undying even in their keenness. One of her characteristic traits was that she never forgot an anniversary: everything that had happened to herself and to those dear to her was treasured up, and recalled as the days came round. If it was an occasion of gladness, it was celebrated in public; but her life was more crowded with the memories of sorrow, and these she kept for the quiet of her own room.

We should occupy a larger space than that which is at our disposal were we to try to follow Madame de Montagu through the various stages of her exile from France. She first came to England, settling at Richmond; then she went with her husband to Aix-la-Chapelle, whence the success of the revolutionary armies drove them again to England. They stayed at Margate for a while; then the declaration of war between England and France brought out an order for the émigrés not to live on the coast, and Richmond received them once more. Economy, however, forced them to seek a cheaper abode at Brussels. Afterward this place of refuge became unsafe, and Madame de Montagu was forced to separate from her husband, and accept the hospitality of an aunt, Madame de Tessé—a philosophe old lady, who had been a friend of Voltaire's, but who, as one of her grandnieces said of her, "tout en se croyant incrédule, ne laissait pas de faire un grand signe de croix derrière ses rideaux chaque fois qu'elle prenait une médecine." Madame de Tessé lived at Lowemberg, in Switzerland; her character is charmingly hit off in the memoir before us; she would have delighted Mr. Thackeray. But the presence of Madame de Montagu brought persecution upon her kind relation, who took the characteristic resolution of selling her property and going elsewhere. She took her niece and family first to Erfurt, then to Altona, where many French émigrés were assembled. Her plan was to find a quiet spot beyond the Elbe, where she could live in peace and carry on her farming operations; for her great delight was to manage everything herself, and to supply all the needs of her household from her own resources. They were a long time in finding a place that would suit Madame de Tessé. At length an estate named Wittmold was found, on the banks of the lake of Ploen; and here the exiles found rest for some time. The best elements of Madame de Montagu's beautiful character were developed under the hardships and {262} sufferings of this life of poverty and continued apprehension. She had, of course, never known even the idea of want before she left France. When she left Paris, she so little expected to have to manage for herself, that it was only in consequence of Madame de Grammont's imperturbable prudence that she made any provision for the future. They had to part in secret, as it was dangerous to let the servants know of the intended flight of Monsieur and Madame de Montagu. In the suppressed agitation of the moment, Madame de Grammont was characteristically thoughtful. She asked her sister whether she was sure she had her jewels. "Why take them? we are not going to a fête." "Raison de plus; c'est parceque vous n'allez pas à une fête, qu'il faut les emporter. " The advice was afterward found to have been indeed important; but even the sale of her jewels only supported Madame de Montagu for a time. In the course of her long exile, she never made herself a very perfect manager.

She tried to study domestic economy; but she proved a greater proficient in not spending on herself than in learning how to manage household affairs on small means. Still her superintendence of the farm produced good results, from the zeal with which it inspired the workpeople. However low her funds, she always visited the sick and poor, managing to procure them some relief; she also worked unceasingly at objects for sale. Throughout life she never knew idleness, devoting fixed hours to prayer, reading, the instruction of her children, and works of charity. As years went on, she more and more begrudged the hours often forcibly given in social life to frivolous conversation. Her pleasure was to employ each moment usefully in some home duty; but this could not always be the case during exile, especially when residing with her kind but worldly aunt, Madame de Tessé.

At this period it was that she organized her oeuvre des émigrés; a stupendous work, if we consider that there were 40,000 persons to assist, and 16,000,000 francs the moderate sum estimated as requisite for carrying it out with success. Unfortunately the details in figures of this work have been lost; for Madame de Montagu carefully noted down every fraction received, from what quarter it came, and how expended. But we know that the correspondence alone cost annually about 500 francs during the four years it existed—that is, from 1796 to 1800. She collected money in Germany, Denmark, Switzerland, France, the Netherlands, and England; and beside distributing pecuniary assistance, solicited employment for persons of all ages and sexes. She had children to get into schools, young women to place as governesses, drawings and needlework to sell, etc. All this was done without quitting her quiet home on the borders of Lake Ploen, or giving up one domestic occupation. When pressed for time she sat up at night. Winter only increased her zeal. "The colder it is," said she, "the warmer my heart grows." Indeed, she ended by selling for this work the mourning worn for her mother and sister, which she had kept as a relic; at another time she also sold her prayer-book for the same object. But she never would take from this fund for members of her own family; she preferred working for them, not from pride, but through delicacy. For another charity she once cut off her beautiful hair and sold it, receiving eighty francs.

It is curious to remark that this gentle woman nevertheless had her own firm opinions, even on politics; and though never obtruding, still constantly held them. One is surprised to find also that these opinions were not often identical with the views held by those she most respected and loved. In 1790, M. de Beaune, her father-in-law, alarmed at the turn affairs were taking, wished to emigrate with all his family. His idea was to draw Frenchmen together on neutral {263} ground, to place their families in safety, and having gained the support of foreign powers, to return with a good army for the protection of the king and the party of order in the state. Madame de Montagu fully shared these views; but her husband at this time disapproved of emigration, considering it the greatest mistake that could be committed by the king's friends. He hoped to arrive at an understanding between the liberal party and the droite, so as to save both the monarchy and liberty. His two elder brothers-in-law, MM. de Noailles and la Fayette, went far beyond these views. Without wishing to overturn royalty, their dream was to see it based on republican principles.

So indignant did this render M. de Beaune, that he broke with them entirely, and wished Madame de Montagu to give up seeing her two sisters, who naturally embraced their husbands' opinions. She could by no means understand that persons were to be proscribed because of their political opinions; but, not to irritate M. de Beaune farther, she would not receive Madame de la Fayette, who offered to pay her a visit at Plauzat in Auvergne, and went instead to meet her privately at a neighbouring inn.

Meanwhile M. de Montagu had yielded to his father's wishes, and at the end of 1791 resolved to emigrate; his choice, however, fell on England rather than Coblentz, where M. de Beaune then was. Madame de Montagu was to accompany her husband. Ere leaving Plauzat she had the happiness of seeing her mother again, but could not summon up courage to tell her of her own approaching departure for England. Both mother and daughter looked on public matters exactly in the same way; there was great similarity between them as to judgment; but the duchesse was not impulsive, like Madame de Montagu. They parted most tenderly, with a presentiment of coming evil; but little did either dream that the guillotine was to separate them for ever.

Then commenced for Madame de Montagu the miseries and heart-burnings of exile. Twice she visited England, spending some time at Richmond and Margate. Griefs began to accumulate; she lost a child for the third time; Marat was lording it over Paris; M. de Montagu in disgust again quitted France, and went to serve under his father's orders on the banks of the Rhine; the massacres of September took place, followed by the fatal battle of Jemappes. The émigrés were henceforth banished. Then the king and queen fell victims to the revolution; Savenay destroyed the last hopes of the Vendeans. In addition to all these public sorrows, and to the pressure of poverty, Madame de Montagu lost another child, her fourth; it seemed as if all her children were born but to die.

All her life she suffered from great delicacy of constitution, and this natural tendency was further increased by her extreme sensibility. Just after losing a child for the first time, and while she was praying, bathed in tears, beside its dead body, a messenger came to tell her that Madame de Grammont had just given birth to her first infant. Madame de Montagu, drying up all traces of her own sorrow, immediately hastened off to congratulate the young mother; but she had scarcely left her sister's room when she fainted in the adjoining apartment. A severe illness followed, the precursor of many others; indeed, it may be said that her whole life was passed amid moral and physical suffering. Death was ever busy in her family.

She lost her only son Attale, a fine young man, just when he had attained his twenty-eighth year; and in this case sorrow was aggravated by the circumstance of his dying through accident—a gun went off in his hand. No fears, however, were entertained at first. Madame de Montagu herself was only recovering by slow degrees from {264} a dangerous malady; a sudden and fatal termination had occurred for her son, and she knew it not. They dared not tell her. But the next day, being Trinity Sunday, Madame de Grammont suggested that she should receive holy communion, though still in bed: the priest, in presenting the sacred host, invited her to meditate on the passion, and especially on the sentiments of the Blessed Virgin at the foot of the cross, where her son died.

Madame de Montagu immediately understood him. Her husband then brought to her bedside the young widow and three orphan girls. Attale's mother wept in silence, at length ejaculating: "Thy decree, O Lord, has thus ordained, and I submit. But strike no more, for I am ready to faint beneath the weight of my cross." But she reproached herself afterward for this.

Often before had she endured the mother's agony; but this was the hardest blow of all. And Madame de Montagu lived on to see many loved ones go before her; father, and husband, and several other relations preceded her to the tomb; for she lingered till 1839. Among them was M. de la Fayette, who died in 1834, having survived his wife twenty-seven years. Madame de Montagu and all the members of her family requested to be buried at Picpus.

This spot was hallowed to them by sacred memories, for there reposed above thirteen hundred victims of the revolution. Its continued existence as a cemetery was due to the pious labors of Madame d'Ayen's daughters. In the days of terror, a pit had been dug outside the Barrière du Trône, and all the persons immolated in that quarter of Paris were promiscuously thrown into it. The savage mode of proceeding has been related. As each head fell from the guillotine, it was cast, together with the body, still dressed, into a large barrel painted red. Each night after the executions were over, these barrels were taken to Picpus, and their contents indiscriminately emptied into the pit. The ground had formerly belonged to an Augustinian convent. There, it could not be doubted, lay the remains of Madame d'Ayen and her daughter. Madame de Montagu and Madame de la Fayette, on their return to France, ardently wished to raise a monument to their memory; but on discovering the immense number of victims interred together, it seemed more desirable that the undertaking should be of a less private nature. By their joint efforts, many families of other victims were attracted to the pious enterprise; souls devoted to prayer gathered round; the old convent and church of Picpus rose from their ruins. A cemetery was constructed round that gloomy pit, where not even a name had been scrawled to recall the memory of those who slept below. Madame d'Ayen's three daughters could at least enjoy the sad consolation of praying near their mother's tomb.

All the sisters had bitterly, keenly, felt the cruel stroke that deprived them of three such near relatives, and in such a painful manner; but none suffered more enduringly than Madame de Montagu. She was staying with Madame de Tessé, in Switzerland. News had reached her of the execution of her grand-aunt and uncle, M. and Madame de Monchy; but she was completely ignorant of what had become of her mother and sister. Fears, however, were rife. One day she set out to meet her father, whom she had not seen for some time; and he was so changed, that, perceiving him on the way, she only recognized him from his voice. Each alighted, and his first question was to ask whether she had heard the news; but, seeing her excessive emotion, he hastened to assure her of his own perfect ignorance. She felt a calamity impending, but dared not press for information in the presence of a third person. They drove to an inn; and when father and daughter were alone together, he, after some preparation, informed her that he had just lost his mother. {265} A deadly paleness overspread her countenance; confused and dizzy, she exclaimed with clasped hands, "And I—," "I am uneasy about your mother and sister," answered M. d'Ayen, cautiously. But she was not to be deceived. His looks belied his words. That was the hour of bitterest anguish in Madame de Montagu's life. Cries and tears gave no relief. Again and again she saw the scene re-enacted. Reason trembled, but still she strove to pray and be resigned. Remembering her mother's pious practice in times of sorrow, she also recited the magnificat; then, with beautiful feeling, in the midst of her own anguish, she knelt down and prayed, all shuddering, for those that made them suffer. But nature struggled still; and days passed ere she recovered sufficient composure to be left alone. When all the details reached her, strong religious feeling transformed the dungeon, the cart, the scaffold into so many steps by which the martyrs had ascended up to heaven. The love unceasingly manifested by the three sisters for their martyred relatives is very touching. They were first reunited at Vianen, near Utrecht, in 1799. The ostensible object was to settle the division of property rendered necessary by their mother's death; but in reality they were much more occupied in calling up sweet memories of her and of their beloved sister. Madame de la Fayette was then about forty years of age; Madame de Montagu had reached her thirty-second year; and Madame de Grammont was rather more than a twelvemonth younger. They remained a month together, their husbands and families being also on the spot. Not a little suffering was caused by cold and hunger, for their united purses could still only produce insufficient means; fuel was wanting, and they had scanty fare. The three, however, would sit up at night to enjoy each other's society, wrapping their mantles round them to keep out the cold, and sharing one wretched chaufferette. They spoke very low, so as not to disturbed husbands and children sleeping in the adjoining rooms. One great subject of conversation was to point out their mutual defects—a Christian habit acquired under Madame d'Ayen's training, and surprisingly brought into play again under such circumstances.

Madame de Grammont remarked that events were graven in letters of fire in Madame de Montagu's countenance, and characteristically advised her to become more calm. She also took the opportunity of teaching her how to meditate—a service which the elder sister gratefully acknowledges in her diary. Madame de Montagu observed with admiration Madame de Grammont's recollected demeanor at mass, which they attended almost daily, saying she looked like an angel, absolutely annihilated in the presence of God. "As for me, I feel overwhelmed at my poverty beside her." Indeed, the two sisters vied in humility with each other. Madame de Grammont having once said, "You excite me to virtue and attract me to prayer," Madame de Montagu quickly replied, "Then I am like the horses in this country; for one sees wretched-looking animals along the canals drawing large boats after them."

But the chief theme at night was ever their mother. Madame de Montagu was accustomed to unite herself with the dear victims in special prayer every day at the "sorrowful hour," and the other two now undertook the same practice. They also composed beautiful litanies in remembrance of them during their stay at Vianen. Madame de Grammont held the pen, writing sometimes her own inspiration, and sometimes what her sisters dictated. They called these prayers "Litany of our Mothers."

One of the most interesting episodes in the life of Madame de Montagu was her intimacy with the celebrated Count Stolberg, whose conversion to Catholicism seems to have been mainly attributable to the influence of her character. She came across him during her residence at Ploen and Wittmold. {266} He was at that time at the head of the government of the Duke of Oldenburg; and he assisted her with all his power in her charitable labors for the relief of the French emigrants. The acquaintance between them sprung up in 1796. Count Stolberg, with his wife and sister,—the only one of the three who did not afterward become Catholic,—had already begun to see something of the inconsistencies and deficiencies of Lutheranism. They were calm, thoughtful, upright souls; grave, severe, and simple, after the best type of the German character. They often conversed on and discussed religious matters among themselves; but they were very ignorant about the Catholic Church and its doctrines. Madame de Montagu taught them more about Catholicism, without speaking on the subject directly, than a whole library of controversial theology. Fragile in health, sensitive to excess, overflowing with sympathy and tenderness, tried by long and varied suffering, and strengthened, elevated, and spiritualized by the cross, without having been hardened or made impassible,—her whole character showed a force and power and greatness that was obviously not its own. Such persons have an irresistible attractiveness; and they speak with a strange silent eloquence to intelligent hearts in favor of the religion which can produce and sustain them. Madame de Montagu was not a person to introduce controversial topics; but she won upon her new friends gradually, and at last they could not help telling her so, after listening to the account they had begged her to give of her own and her sisters' sufferings. After a time their hearts strongly turned to Catholicism; but intellectual difficulties remained on the mind of Stolberg, which were not set at rest till 1800, after he had been engaged in a correspondence with M. de la Luzerne and M. Asseline, to whom Madame de Montagu and her sisters had introduced him. The French prelates did their part; but the illustrious convert must ever be considered as in truth the spiritual child of Madame de Montagu.

From All the Year Round


Here is a gentleman at our doors, Mr. R. A. Proctor, who has written a book upon that planet Saturn, and he asks us to stroll out in his company, and have a look at the old gentleman. It is a long journey to Saturn, for his little place is nine and a half times further from the sun than ours, and his is not a little place in comparison with our own tenement, because Saturn House is seven hundred and thirty-five times bigger than Earth Lodge.

The people of Earth Lodge made Saturn's acquaintance very long ago; nobody remembers how long. Venus and Jupiter being brilliant in company, may have obtruded themselves first upon attention in the evening parties of the stars, and Mars, with his red face and his quick movement, couldn't remain long unobserved. Saturn, dull, slow, yellow-faced, might crawl over the floor of heaven like a gouty and bilious nabob, and be overlooked for a very little while, but somebody would soon ask, Who is that sad-faced fellow with the leaden complexion, who sometimes seems to be standing still or going backward?

He was the more noticeable, because {267} those evening parties in the sky differ from like parties on earth in one very remarkable respect as to the behavior of the company. We hear talk of dancing stars, and the music of the spheres, but, in fact, except a few, all keep their places, with groups as unchanging as those of the guests in the old fabled banquet, whom the sight of the head of Medusa turned to stone. Only they wink, as the stone guests probably could not. In and out among this company of fixtures move but a few privileged stars, as our sister the moon and our neighbors the planets. These alone thread the maze of the company of statues, dancing round their sun, who happens to be one of the fixed company, to the old tune of Sun in the middle and can't get out. Some of the planets run close, and some run in a wide round, some dance round briskly, and some slip slowly along. Once round is a year, and Saturn, dancing in a wide round outside ours, so that in each round he has about nine times as far to go, moves at a pace about three times slower than ours. His year, therefore, is some twenty-seven times longer; in fact, a year in the House of Saturn is as much as twenty-nine years five months and sixteen days in our part of the world. What, therefore, we should consider to be an old man of eighty-eight would pass with Saturn for a three-year-old.

A hundred and fifty years ago, Bishop Wilkins did not see why some of his posterity should not find out a conveyance to the moon, and, if there be inhabitants, have commerce with them. The first twenty miles, he said, is all the difficulty; and why, he asked, writing before balloons had been discovered, may we not get over that? No doubt there are difficulties. The journey, if made at the rate of a thousand miles a day, would take half a year; and there would be much trouble from the want of inns upon the road. Nevertheless, heaviness being a condition of closeness and gravitation to the earth, if one lose but the first twenty miles, that difficulty of our weight would soon begin to vanish, and a man—clear of the influence of gravitation—might presently stand as firmly in the open air as he now does upon the ground. If stand, why not go? With our weight gone from us, walking will be light exercise, cause little fatigue, and need little nourishment. As to nourishment, perhaps none may be needed, as none is needed by those creatures who, in a long sleep, withdraw themselves from the heavy wear and tear of life. "To this purpose," says Bishop Wilkins, "Mendoca reckons up divers strange relations. As that of Epimenides, who is storied to have slept seventy-five years. And another of a rustic in Germany, who, being accidentally covered with a hayrick, slept there for all autumn and the winter following, without any nourishment." Though, to be sure, the condition of a man free of all weight is imperfectly suggested by the man who had a hayrick laid atop of him. But what then? Why may not smells nourish us as we walk moonward upon space, after escape from all the friction and the sense of burden gravitation brings? Plutarch and Pliny, and divers other ancients, tell us of a nation in India that lived only upon pleasing odors; and Democritus was able for divers days together to feed himself with the mere smell of hot bread. Or, if our stomachs must be filled, may there not be truth in the old Platonic principle, that there is in some part of the world a place where men might be plentifully nourished by the air they breathe, which cannot be so likely to be true of any other place as of the ethereal air above this? We have heard of some creatures, and of the serpent, that they feed only upon one element, namely, earth. Albertus Magnus speaks of a man who lived seven weeks together upon the mere drinking of water. Rondoletius affirms that his wife did keep a fish in a glass of water without any food for three years, in which space it was constantly augmented, till at first it could {268} not come out of the place at which it was put in, and at length was too big for the glass itself, though that were of large capacity. So may it be with man in the ethereal air. Onions will shoot out and grow as they hang in common air. Birds of paradise, having no legs, live constantly in and upon air, laying their eggs on one another's backs, and sitting on each other while they hatch them. And, if none of these possibilities be admitted, why, we can take our provision with us. Once up the twenty miles, we could carry any quantity of it the rest of the way, for a ship-load would be lighter than a feather. Sleep, probably, with nothing to fatigue us, we should no longer require; but if we did, we cannot desire a softer bed than the air, where we may repose ourselves firmly and safely as in our chambers.

As for that difficulty of the first twenty miles, it is not impossible to make a flying chariot and give it motion through the air. If possible, it can be made large enough to carry men and stores, for size is nothing if the motive faculty be answerable thereto—the great ship swims as well as the small cork, and an eagle flies in the air as well as a little gnat. Indeed, we might have regular Great Eastern packets plying between London and No Gravitation Point, to which they might take up houses, cattle, and all stores found necessary to the gradual construction of a town upon the borders of the over-ether route to any of the planets. Stations could be established, if necessary, along the routes to the moon, Mars, Venus, Saturn, and the rest of the new places of resort; some London society could create and endow a new Bishop of Jupiter; and daring travellers would bring us home their journals of a Day in Saturn, or Ten Weeks in Mars, while sportsmen might make parties for the hippogriff shooting in Mercury, or bag chimeras on the mountains of the moon.

Well, in whatever way we may get there, we are off now for a stroll to Saturn, with Mr. R. A. Proctor for comrade and cicerone, but turning a deaf ear to him whenever, as often occurs, he is too learned for us, and asks us to "let N P' P" N' represent the northern half of Saturn's orbit (viewed in perspective), n E n' E' the earth's orbit, and N p p' p" N' the projection of Saturn's orbit on the plane of the earth's orbit. Let N S N' be the line of Saturn's nodes on this plane, and let S P' be at right angles to N S, N', so that when at P' Saturn is at his greatest distance from the ecliptic on the northern side." When of such things we are asked to let them be, we let them be, and are, in the denseness of our ignorance, only too glad to be allowed, not to say asked, to do so. We attend only, like most of our neighbors, to what is easy to us. Sun is gold, and moon is silver; Mars is iron. Mercury quicksilver, which we, in fact, rather like still to call Mercury, thinking nothing at all of the imprisoned god with the winged heels when we ask how is the mercury in the thermometer. Jove is tin; yes, by Jove, tin is the chief among the gods, says little Swizzles, who, by a miracle, remembers one thing that he learnt at school—Jove's chieftainship among the heathen deities. Venus is copper, for the Cyprian is Cuprian; and as for Saturn, he is lead. A miserable old fellow they made Saturn out in the days of the star-decipherers. Mine, Chaucer makes Saturn say, is the drowning in wan waters, the dark prison, the strangling and hanging, murmur of discontent, and the rebellion of churls. I am the poisoner and the house-breaker, I topple down the high halls, and make towers fall upon their builders, earth upon its miners. I sent the temple roof down upon Samson. I give you all your treasons, and your cold diseases, and your pestilences. This is the sort of estimation in which our forefathers held the respectable old gentleman we are now going out to see.


When Galileo's eyes went out toward Saturn through his largest telescope—which, great as were the discoveries it made, was clumsier and weaker than the sort of telescope now to be got for a few shillings at any optician's shop—he noticed a peculiarity in the appearance of Saturn which caused him to suppose that Saturn consisted of three stars in contact with one another. A year and a half later he looked again, and there was the planet round and single as the disc of Mars or Jupiter. He cleaned his glasses, looked to his telescope, and looked again to the perplexing planet. Triform it was not. "Is it possible," he asked, "that some mocking demon has deluded me?" Afterward the perplexity increased. The two lesser orbs reappeared, and grew and varied in form strangely: finally they lost their globular appearance altogether, and seemed each to have two mighty arms stretched toward and encompassing the planet. A drawing in one of his manuscripts would suggest that Galileo discovered the key to the mystery, for it shows Saturn as a globe resting upon a ring. But this drawing is thought to be a later addition to the manuscript. It was only after many perplexities of others, about half a century later, that Huygens, in the year sixteen fifty-nine, announced to his contemporaries that Saturn is girdled about by a thin, flat ring, inclined to the ecliptic, and not touching the body of the planet. He showed that all variations in the appearance of the ring are due to the varying inclinations of its plane toward us, and that, being very thin, it becomes invisible when its edge is turned to the spectator or the sun. He found the diameter of the ring to be as nine to four to the diameter of Saturn's body, and its breadth about equal to the breadth of vacant space between it and the surface of the planet.

The same observer, Huygens, four years earlier, discovered one of Saturn's satellites. Had he looked for more, he could have found them. But six was the number of known planets, five had been the number of known satellites, our moon and the four moons of Jupiter, which Galileo had discovered; one moon more made the number of the planets and of the satellites to be alike, six, and this arrangement was assumed to be exact and final. But in sixteen seventy-one another satellite of Saturn was discovered by Cassini, who observed that it disappears regularly during one-half of its seventy-nine days' journey round its principal. Whence it is inferred that this moon has one of its sides less capable than the other of reflecting light, and that it turns round on its own axis once during its seventy-nine days' journey; Saturn itself spinning once round on its axis in as short a time as ten hours and a half. Cassini afterward discovered three more satellites, and called his four the Sideria Lodoicea, Ludovickian Stars, in honor of his patron, Louis the Fourteenth. Huygens had discovered, also, belts on Saturn's disc. Various lesser observations on rings, belts, and moons of Saturn continued to be made until the time of the elder Herschel, who, at the close of the last century, discovered two more satellites, established the relation of the belts to the rotation of the planet, and developed, after ten years' careful watching, his faith in the double character of its ring. "There is not, perhaps," said this great and sound astronomer, "another object in the heavens that presents us with such a variety of extraordinary phenomena as the planet Saturn: a magnificent globe encompassed by a stupendous double ring; attended by seven satellites; ornamented with equatorial belts; compressed at the poles; turning on its axis; mutually eclipsing its rings and satellites, and eclipsed by them; the most distant of the rings also turning on its axis, and the same taking place with the furthest of the satellites; all the parts of the system of Saturn occasionally reflecting light to each other—the rings and moons {270} illuminating the nights of the Saturnian, the globe and moons enlightening the dark parts of the rings, and the planet and rings throwing back the sun's beams upon the moons when they are deprived of them at the time of their conjunctions." During the present century, other observers have detected more divisions of the ring, one separating the outer ring into two rings of equal breadth seems to be permanent. It is to be seen only by the best telescopes, under the most favorable conditions. Many other and lesser indications of division have also at different times been observed. Seventeen years ago an eighth satellite of Saturn was discovered by Mr. Bond in America, and by Mr. Lassell in England. Two years later, that is to say, in November, eighteen fifty, a third ring of singular appearance was discovered inside the two others by Mr. Bond, and, a few days later, but independently, by Mr. Dawes and by Mr. Lassell in England. It is not bright like the others, but dusky, almost purple, and it is transparent, not even distorting the outline of the body of the planet seen through it. This ring was very easily seen by good telescopes, and presently became visible through telescopes of only four-inch aperture. In Herschel's time it was so dim that it was figured as a belt upon the body of the planet. Now it is not only distinct, but it has been increasing in width since the time of its discovery.

These were not all the marvels. One of the chief of the wonders since discovered was a faint overlapping light, differing much in color from the ordinary light of the ring, which light, a year and a half ago, Mr. Wray saw distinctly stretched on either side from the dark shade on the ball overlapping the fine line of light by the edge of the ring to the extent of about one-third of its length, and so as to give the impression that it was the dusky ring, very much thicker than the bright rings, and, seen edgewise, projected on the sky. Well may we be told by our guide, Mr. Proctor, that no object in the heavens presents so beautiful an appearance as Saturn, viewed with an instrument of adequate power. The golden disc, faintly striped with silver-tinted belts; the circling rings, with their various shades of brilliancy and color; and the perfect symmetry of the system as it sweeps across the dark background of the field of view, combine to form a picture as charming as it is sublime and impressive.

But what does it all mean? What is the use of this strange furniture in the House of Saturn, which is like nothing else among the known things of the universe? Maupertuis thought that Saturn's ring was a comet's tail cut off by the attraction of the planet as it passed, and compelled to circle round it thenceforth and for ever. Buffon thought the ring was the equatorial region of the planet which had been thrown off and left revolving while the globe to which it had belonged contracted to its present size. Other theories also went upon the assumption that the rings are solid. But if they are solid, how is it that they exhibit traces of varying division and reunion, and what are we to think of certain mottled or dusky stripes concentric with the rings, which stripes, appearing, to indicate that the ring where they occur is semi-transparent, also are not permanent? Then, again, what are we to think of the growth within the last seventy years of the transparent dark ring which does not, as even air would, refract the image of that which is seen through it, and that is becoming more opaque every year? Then, again, how is it that the immense width of the rings has been steadily increasing by the approach of their inner edge to the body of the planet? The bright ring, once twenty-three thousand miles wide, was five thousand miles wider in Herschel's time, and has now a width of twenty-eight thousand three hundred on a surface of more than twelve thousand millions of {271} square miles, while the thickness is only a hundred miles or less. Eight years ago, Mr. J. Clerk Maxwell obtained the Adams prize of the University of Cambridge for an essay upon Saturn's rings, which showed that if they were solid there would be necessary to stability an appearance altogether different from that of the actual system. But if not solid, are they fluid, are they a great isolated ocean poised in the Saturnian mid air? If there were such an ocean, it is shown that it would be exposed to influences forming waves that would be broken up into fluid satellites.

But possibly the rings are formed of flights of disconnected satellites, so small and so closely packed that, at the immense distance to which Saturn is removed, they appear to form a continuous mass, while the dark inner mass may have been recently formed of satellites drawn by disturbing attractions or collisions out of the bright outer ring, and so thinly scattered that they give to us only a sense of darkness without obscuring, and of course without refracting, the surface before which they spin. This is, in our guide's opinion, the true solution of the problem, and to the bulging of Saturn's equator, which determines the line of superior attraction, he ascribes the thinness of the system of satellites, in which each is compelled to travel near the plane of the great planet's equator.

Whatever be the truth about these vast provisions for the wants of Saturn, surely there must be living inhabitants there to whose needs they are wisely adapted. Travel among the other planets would have its inconveniences to us of the earth. Light walking as it might be across the fields of ether, we should have half our weight given to us again in Mars or Mercury, while in Jupiter our weight would be doubled, and we should drag our limbs with pain. In Saturn, owing to the compression of the vast light globe and its rapid rotation, a man who weighs twelve stone at the equator weighs fourteen stone at the pole. Though vast in size, the density of the planet is small, for which reason we should not find ourselves very much heavier by change of ground from earth to Saturn. We should be cold, for Saturn gets only a ninetieth part of the earth's allowance of light and heat. But then there is no lack of blanket in the House of Saturn, for there is a thick atmosphere to keep the warmth in the old gentleman's body and to lengthen the Saturnian twilights. As for the abatement of light, we know how much light yet remains to us when less than a ninetieth part of the sun escapes eclipse. We see in its brightness, as a star, though a pale one, the reflection of the sunshine Saturn gets, which if but a ninetieth part of our share, yet leaves the sun of Saturn able to give five hundred and sixty times more light than our own brightest moonshine. And then what long summers! The day in Saturn is only ten and a half hours long, so that the nights are short, and there are twenty-four thousand six hundred and eighteen and a half of its own days to the Saturnian year. But the long winters! And the Saturnian winter has its gloom increased by eclipses of the sun's light by the rings. At Saturn's equator these eclipses occur near the equinoxes and last but a little while, but in the regions corresponding to our temperate zone they are of long duration. Apart from eclipse, the rings lighten for Saturn the short summer nights, and lie perhaps as a halo under the sun during the short winter days.


From Chamber's Journal.


When Mrs. Caxton innocently made her wiser-half the father of an anachronism, that worthy scholar was much troubled in consequence. His anachronism was a living one, or he might have comforted himself by reflecting that greater authors than he had stood in the same paternal predicament. Our old English dramatists took tremendous liberties this way, never allowing considerations of time and place to stand in the way of any allusion likely to tell with their audience. Shakespeare would have been slow to appreciate a modern manager's anxiety for archaeological fidelity. His Greeks and Romans talk about cannons and pistols, and his Italian clowns are thorough cockneys, familiar with every nook and corner of London. And so it is with other caterers for the stage. Nat Lee talks about cards in his tragedy of "Hannibal;" Otway makes Spartan notables carouse and drink deep; Mrs. Cowley's Lacedaemonian king speaks of the night's still Sabbath; D'Urfey's ancient Britons are familiar with Puritans and packet-boats; and Rymer (though he set himself up for a critic) supplies a stage direction for the representative of his Saxon heroine to pull off her patches, when her lover desires her to lay aside her ornaments.

When Colman read "Inkle and Yarico" to Dr. Moseley, the latter exclaimed: "It won't do. Stuff! Nonsense!"—"Why?" asked the alarmed dramatist.—"Why, you say in the finale:

  'Come let us dance and sing.
  While all Barbadoes' bells shall ring!'

It won't do; there is but one bell in the island!" This mistake was excusable enough; but when Milton described

         "A green mantling vine,
  That crawls along the side of yon small hill,"

he must certainly have forgotten he had laid the scene of "Comus" in North Wales. Ernest Jones, describing a battle in his poem, "The Lost Army," says:

  "Delay and doubt did more that hour
  Than bayonet-charge or carnage shower;"

and some lines further on pictures his hero

  "All worn with wounds, when day was low.
  With severed sword and shattered shield;"

thus making his battle rather a trial of the respective powers of ancient and modern weapons than a conflict between equally-armed foes. Mr. Thackeray perpetrates a nice little anachronism in "The Newcomes," when he makes Clive, in a letter dated 183-, quoting an Academy exhibition critique, ask: "Why have we no picture of the sovereign and her august consort from Smee's brush?"—the author, in his anxiety to compliment the artist, forgetting that there was no consort till 1840.

A bull in a china-shop is scarcely more out of place than a bull in a serious poem, but accidents will happen to the most regular of writers. Thus Milton's pen slipped when he wrote:

             "The sea-girt isles
  That like to rich and various gems inlay
  The unadorned bosom of the deep;"

a quotation reminding us that the favorite citation,

  "Beauty when unadorned, adorned the most,"

is but a splendid bull, beautiful for its {273} boldness. Thomson was an adept at making pretty bulls; here is another:

   "He saw her charming, but he saw not half
   The charms her downcast modesty concealed;"

as if it were possible to see some of them, although they were concealed. Pope, correct Pope, actually tell us:

     "Young Mars in his boundless mind.
  A work t' outlast immortal Rome designed."

The author of "The Spanish Rogue" makes "a silent noise" invade the ear of his hero. General Taylor immortalized himself by perpetrating one of the grandest bulls on record, in which he attained what a certain literary professor calls "a perfection hardly to be surpassed." In his presidential address he announced to the American Congress that the United States were at peace with all the world, and continued to cherish relations of amity with the rest of mankind. Much simpler was the blunder of an English officer, during the Indian mutiny, who informed the public, through the Times, that, thanks to the prompt measures of Colonel Edwardes, the Sepoys at