



Produced by Richard Tonsing, David Edwards and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)









                                  THE

                            CATHOLIC WORLD.

                                   A

                           MONTHLY MAGAZINE

                                  OF

                    GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.

                              VOL. XVIII.
                    OCTOBER, 1873, TO MARCH, 1874.


                               NEW YORK:
                    THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE.
                           9 Warren Street.

                                 1874.




CONTENTS.


  Archbishop Spalding, 512.

  Are Our Public Schools Free? 1.


  Block of Gold, A, 855.

  Brittany, More about, 111.


  Catharine, S., of Ricci, 420.

  Cathedral of Chartres, The, 235.

  Catholic Literature in England Since the Reformation, 261, 363.

  Catholic Young Men's Associations, 269.

  Christmas Story, A, 479.

  Como, A Week at the Lake of, 137.

  Confiscation Laws, Italian, 30.

  Court of France in 1830, The, 403.

  Crime--Its Origin and Cure, 55.


  Daniel O'Connell, 208.

  Dubois' Madame Agnes, 68, 195.


  English Christmas Story, An, 479.

  English Maiden's Love, An, 694.

  English Sketches: An Hour in Jail, 279.

  English Sketches: Ruins of an Old Abbey, 398.

  Epiphany, The, 590.

  Evangelical Alliance, The, 353.


  Farm of Muiceron, The, 171, 338, 442, 627, 734.

  Father Sebastian Rale, S.J., 541.

  France, The Court of in 1830, 403.

  French Poet, A, 94.

  Fur Trader, The, 412, 502.


  Grace Seymour's Mission, 668, 806.

  Grande Chartreuse, A Visit to the, 118.

  Grapes and Thorns, 10, 220, 303, 591, 772.


  Hester Hallam, 473.

  Hour in a Jail, An, 279.

  How George Howard was Cured, 40.


  Italian Confiscation Laws, 30.


  Jansenist Schism in Holland, The, 686, 838.

  John Stuart Mill, 721.


  Laus Perennis, 388.

  Literature, Catholic, in England, 261, 363.

  Looker-Back, A, 711, 848.

  Love of God, The, 93.


  Madame Agnes, 68, 195.

  Madame de Staël, 532.

  Metaphysics, A Talk on, 289.

  More about Brittany: Its Customs, Its People, and Its Poems, 111.

  My Friend and His Story, 87.


  Nano Nagle, 658.

  Napoleonic Idea and Its Consequences, The, 79.


  Odd Stories, 142.

  O'Connell, Daniel, 208.

  One Chapter from Hester Hallam's Life, 473.

  Our Masters, 702.


  Paris Hospitals, 124.

  Philosophical Terminology, 184, 753.

  Principles of Real Being, The, 433, 577, 824.

  Public Schools, Are they Free? 1.


  Rale, Father Sebastian, S.J., 541.

  Real Being, The Principles of, 433, 577, 824.

  Religious Policy of the Second Empire, 793.

  Ruins of an Old Abbey, 398.


  See of S. Francis of Sales, The, 249.

  Son of God, The, Archetypal Beauty, 165.

  Song of Roland, The, 378, 488.

  Spalding, Archbishop, 512.

  Spiritualism, 145, 318, 606.

  Staël, Madame de, 532.


  Tale of the Northwest, A, 412, 502.

  Talk on Metaphysics, A, 289.

  Terminology, Philosophical, 184.

  Travels with a Valetudinarian, 522.


  Visit to the Grande Chartreuse, A, 118.


  Week at the Lake of Como, A, 137.


  Year of Our Lord 1873, The, 558.

  Young Men's Associations, Catholic, 269.


  POETRY.


  Child Restored, The, 531.

  Church Postures, 9.

  Cui Bono? 684.


  Dante's Purgatorio, 166, 299, 587.


  Epigrams, 298, 657.


  From Egypt to Chanaan, 557.


  Greatest Grief, The, 425.


  In Thy Light shall we see Light, 248.


  Late Home, 771.

  Little Chapel, The, 756.

  Lute with the Broken String, The, 285.


  Mary, 110.


  Nature, To, 123.


  Ordinandus, 472.


  Priest, The, 219.


  Recent Poetry, 54.


  Self-Love, 194.

  Serious "Vive la Bagatelle," The, 441.

  Sleep, 317.


  Trouvere, The, 67.


  Venite, Adoremus, 501.

  Vigil, 857.


  NEW PUBLICATIONS.

  Acts of the Early Martyrs, The, 576.

  Arena and the Throne, The, 575.

  Ark of the People, The, 573.

  Augustine, S., Works of, 860.


  Baron of Hertz, 574.

  Bible History, 430.

  Byrne's Irish Emigration, 288.


  Catholicity and Pantheism, 426.

  Christian Doctrine, The Enchiridion, etc., 860.

  Christian Trumpet, The, 427.


  De Concilio's Catholicity and Pantheism, 426.

  De Smet's Voyages aux Montagnes Rocheuses, etc., 287.

  Divine Sequence, The, 286.

  Dove of the Tabernacle, The, 859.


  Essays on Various Subjects, 429.

  Ewing, Thomas, Memorial of, 859.


  Fastré's Acts of the Early Martyrs, 576.

  Fullerton's Life of Luisa de Carvajal, 286.

  Fullerton's Seven Stories, 574.


  Goldie's Life of B. John Berchmans, 720.

  Good Things for Catholic Readers, 288.

  Gordon Lodge, 574.


  Historical Sketches, 144.

  Holy Mass, The, 858.

  House of Gold, and the Saint of Nazareth, 287.


  Idea of a University, 144.

  Illustrated Catholic Family Almanac, 431.

  Irish Emigration to the United States, 288.


  Jesuits in Conflict, 719.


  Kinane's The Dove of the Tabernacle, 859.

  Kirkpatrick's Spain and Charles VII., 429.


  Labadye's Baron of Hertz, 574.

  Lascine, 574.

  Lectures on S. John, 860.

  Lectures upon the Devotion to the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus Christ, 720.

  Lefebvre's Louise Lateau, 857.

  Lenten Sermons, 859.

  Life of Luisa de Carvajal, 286.

  Life of S. Alphonsus Liguori, 718.

  Life of S. Alphonsus Liguori, by Bishop Mullock, 718.

  Life of the B. John Berchmans, 720.

  Life of the Most Rev. M. J. Spalding, 432.

  Life of the Ven. Anna Maria Taigi, 858.

  Lives of the Irish Saints, 718.


  Marie and Paul, 574.

  Meditations for the Use of the Clergy, 431.

  Memorial of Thomas Ewing, 859.

  Moscheles' Recent Music and Musicians, 432.

  Müller's The Holy Mass, 858.

  Mullock's Life of S. Alphonsus Liguori, 718.


  Newman's Historical Sketches, 144.

  Newman's Idea of a University, 144.


  O'Hanlon's Lives of the Irish Saints, 718.

  O'Leary's Bible History, 430.

  O'Reilly's Songs from the Southern Seas, 431.


  Pleadings of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, 859.

  Poetical Life of S. Joseph, 287.

  Potter's Sacred Eloquence, 144.

  Pratt's Rhoda Thornton's Girlhood, 575.

  Preston's Lectures upon the Devotion to the Most Sacred Heart of
    Jesus Christ, 720.

  Pronouncing Handbook of 3,000 Words, 287.


  Real Presence, The, 574.

  Recent Music and Musicians, 432.

  Rhoda Thornton's Girlhood, 575.

  Rituale Romanum Pauli V. Pontificis Maximi Jussu Editum et a
    Benedicto XIV. Auctum et Castigatum, etc., 575.


  Sacred Eloquence, 144.

  Sacred Heart of Jesus, Pleadings of the, 859.

  Saxe Holm's Stories, 574.

  Scotti's Meditations for the Use of the Clergy, 431.

  Segneri's Lenten Sermons, 859.

  Seven Stories, 574.

  Songs from the Southern Seas, 431.

  Soule and Campbell's Pronouncing Vocabulary, 287.

  Spain and Charles VII., 429.

  Spalding's Life of Archbishop Spalding, 432.

  Story of Wandering Willie, The, 432.


  Thompson's The Life of the Ven. Anna Maria Taigi, 858.

  Tissot's Real Presence, 574.

  Townsend's Arena and the Throne, 575.


  Voyages aux Montagnes Rocheuses et Sejour ches les Tribus Indiennes
    de l'Oregon, 287.


  White's Gordon Lodge, 574.

  Wiseman's Essays on Various Subjects, 429.




THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XVIII., No. 103.--OCTOBER, 1873.[1]




ARE OUR PUBLIC SCHOOLS FREE?

  "Give Catholics their full rights; ask nothing of them you would
  not willingly concede if you were in their place."--_New York
  Journal of Commerce._


The subject of education, the method and extent of it, is undoubtedly
one of the foremost topics of discussion to-day, and will be more
conspicuous than ever in the immediate future. And, while all men are
agreed that a sound and sufficient education of the entire people
is our only ground of hope for the perpetuity of our rights and
liberties--that, in truth, it is vital--it is not to be wondered at
that men differing in the depth as well as extent of their individual
culture, should also widely differ as to the constituent elements of a
sound and sufficient education. There are, for instance, some, as yet
happily few in number, who, in the maze of confusion and Babel-like
discussions of sectarians and false teachers turn their faces away
in hopeless, helpless uncertainty, and suggest that _religion_ of
every name and kind must be excluded and the Deity himself ignored in
our public schools, so that public education shall be _secular_; and
however much of "religion" of any and every sort may be taught, it must
be _in private_. This is natural enough in those unfortunate persons
who so far lack a _positive faith_ that they see no safety except in
uncertainty, and hence adopt a kind of _eclecticism_ which, embracing
some abstract truth, may confessedly also contain something of error.

The early settlers of this country--this "land of liberty"--however,
had no idea of excluding religion from the schools; and if any among
them or their immediate successors entertained even any peculiar
notions as to what constituted religion, they were very summarily
"squelched out."

Even "the great expounder of the constitution" was in the habit of
adjuring his fellow-citizens "not to forget the _religious_ character
of our origin," and to remember that the right to "life, liberty, and
the pursuit of happiness" is guaranteed to us in that epitome of human
wisdom which the great New Englander was born to defend. That right
it is the privilege and the duty of each one of us also to maintain,
especially when it is threatened under the specious pretext of reform.

These and other reflections are suggested by the perusal of a pamphlet,
a sort of campaign document, issued by the "New York City Council
of Political Reform," first published in 1872, and thought to be of
consequence enough to be reissued in the present year of grace 1873.
This document contains among others a report entitled "Sectarian
Appropriations of Public Money." The very title of this report at once
alarms and arouses us. We are alarmed at the dangers that menace, and
we are aroused to defend, our rights as Americans. In this defence we
invoke the genius of liberty and the spirit of "equal rights," and
shall fight under the "Stars and Stripes," the flag of freedom, till
we succeed in repelling the open as well as insidious assaults of the
enemies of that truth which only can make us FREE.

The ostensible and praiseworthy purpose of the pamphlet in question is
to expose the frauds upon the city treasury perpetrated by the late
"Tammany Ring," which, in the person of the "boss thief of the world,"
is now on trial, in a sort, before the courts, charged with _robbery_,
_theft_, and _perjury_, but the real purpose, the iniquitous and
damnable purpose, is intimated in the following words of the report
upon "Sectarian Appropriations, etc.": "Over $2,273,231 taken from the
treasury in 1869, 1870, 1871. One sect gets in cash $1,915,456 92;
besides public land, $3,500,000. Total to a single sect, $5,415,456
92." And further (on page 10 of the same report): "Nearly $2,000,000 of
the money raised by taxes abstracted from the public treasury of the
city and county of New York in the last three years alone for sectarian
uses. A single sect gets $1,396,388 51, besides a large slice of the
city's real estate."

This "sect" means the Catholic Americans of the city of New York, in
numbers somewhere about 500,000, or nearly half the population of the
city; of whom we are told elsewhere in this same report (page 4) that,
"as a sect," it has during the last three years, _by an alliance with
the Tammany Ring drawn_ (taken, abstracted) _from the public treasury,
in cash, for the support of its convents, churches, cathedrals, church
schools, and asylums, the enormous sum of_ $1,396,388 51.

It is hardly worth while for our present purpose to verify or to
contradict this total or the particulars of it, for the errors into
which the report or its author has perhaps ignorantly fallen, though
not inconsiderable in magnitude, hardly affect our main purpose; and
after all, these "inaccuracies" may not, it is hoped, be the result of
_carelessness_ solely, but are due in some measure to the fact that
many of the "sects," while they parody our practices, appropriate also
our names, and so may conveniently be confounded with our Catholic
institutions.

We will, however, point out some which may readily be investigated.
For instance, on page 10 of the report just mentioned, we find that
the "House of Mercy," Bloomingdale, with a $5,000 "abstraction" in
1869, is classed as Roman Catholic, and it happens to be a Protestant
institution; the "Sisters of Mercy" also, with an "abstraction" of
$457, is Protestant; "German-American School, S. Peter's Church," with
its "abstraction" of $1,500, is Protestant; and the "German-American
Free School," with its "abstraction" of $14,000 in 1869, $2,496 in
1870, and $1,960 in 1871, is Protestant; and the "German-American
School, Nineteenth Ward," with its "abstraction" of $3,150 in 1869
and $2,700 in 1870, is Protestant; and the "Church of Holy Name or S.
Matthew," with its "abstraction" of $463 12, is also Protestant; and
the "Free German School," with its "abstraction" of $5,000 in 1869,
$3,600 in 1870, and $4,480 in 1871, is also Protestant; and the "German
Mission Association," with its "abstraction" of $5,000 in 1869, and
$10,000 in 1870 and 1871, is also Protestant; besides others, perhaps,
improperly classed as Roman Catholic. In some other instances, the sums
"abstracted" were simply amounts of assessments improperly laid and
subsequently refunded.

And in connection with this suggestion of errors may be noted, also,
among the _omissions_ (suppressions, may we not say?) the instance
of "The Society for the Reformation of Juvenile Delinquents" which
is mentioned (on p. 16 of the report in question) as receiving an
"abstraction" of $8,000 in 1870 and nothing in 1871. This is a
Protestant institution, and so classed in the Report--to show, we
suppose, how small an "abstraction" comparatively it "took." But will
the author of the report tell us how large an "abstraction" that
society "took" of "public money"? As he has not, and perhaps does not
know, we refer him to its annual report, where he will find as follows,
viz.:

  1870. From State Comptroller,       $40,000 00
        From City Comptroller,          8,000 00
        Board of Education, License,
          and Theatres,                22,218 53
                                      ----------
                                      $70,218 53

  1871. State Comptroller,            $40,000 00
        Board of Education,             5,766 91

making a pretty total of $70,218 53 for 1870 and $45,766 91 for 1871.

There is also the "New York Juvenile Asylum," a Protestant institution,
which does not seem to be mentioned in the report in question, but it
will be found that in 1871 it "abstracted"

  From the City Treasury,           $48,049 41
  From the Board of Education,        4,015 83
                                    ----------
                                    $52,065 24

There are other "omissions"--that of the "abstraction" by the
"Children's Aid Society," for instance--but these are enough for the
purpose, although it may be added that in 1872 this institution "took"
from the city $106,238 90.

Our objection is not so much to the amount "in cash" stated to have
been "taken," because the report admits that it has not been expended
for individual or selfish purposes, but in the maintenance and working
of schools and other beneficent institutions. We wish, however, that
the "New York City Council of Political Reform" had used the means at
its command to give an accurate and _complete_ statement, and we think
it would have been wiser to do so, inasmuch as, while professedly
carrying on the purpose proclaimed in its motto on page 1 of the
report in question, to "CHERISH, PROTECT, AND PRESERVE THE FREE COMMON
SCHOOLS," it has seen fit so unmistakably to attack the "single sect."
Certainly, we object to the manner in which the "sect" is charged
to have acquired its money, although having used it so wisely. This
"single sect," comprising as it does more than two hundred millions
(or two-thirds) of the Christian population of the world, rather
objects to the term "sect" as applied. And if the author will take the
trouble to consult the other Webster--not Daniel, whom we have already
quoted--but him of the more venerable baptismal name, he will learn,
very likely, however, not for the first time, that the term "sect"
means "a denomination which dissents from an established church."
And Catholics are certainly not aware that they are "dissenters" in
the hitherto recognized sense of the word among polemical writers.
Whether his application of the term is malicious or simply the result
of ignorance, makes little difference; it suited _him_, and is of no
particular importance just now to us.

But surely the author of the report cannot think the amount, even
as overstated by him, to be disproportionate to the end to be
attained--"to cherish, protect, and preserve the free common schools,"
when it is added that _our_ purpose is also "to extend" and to make our
common schools "free" indeed to all, whether Jew or Gentile. All that
we ask is to have our equal rights in this land of equal rights, and
to extend in the broadest manner the freedom of the public schools, so
that the rights and consciences of none may be restricted or violated.
We ask simply that the "money raised by taxes," so large a portion of
which we are charged to have "abstracted," shall be divided _pro rata_,
and so, by dividing the difficulty, conquer it! In the report, it is
admitted (p. 4) that the "enormous sum" alleged or intimated to have
been surreptitiously "taken" or "abstracted," was not "taken" for the
purpose of individual gain, but for "the support of convents, churches,
cathedrals, and church schools." What sum, _thus expended_, can be too
great? In what is it enormous? Is it enormous because disproportioned
to the amount expended by other "sects"? Or is it so because expended
for the support of schools kept in "damp basements of churches, so
dark that gas has to be used on the brightest days," rather than in the
"educational palaces" where Catholics cannot go without a violation of
conscience, and from which they are practically excluded?

And here it is notable that in the report now under consideration (p.
2) is printed the following, purporting to be an extract from a report
of the "Secretary of Commissioners of Charities" to the Legislature in
1871, wherein it is said the secretary "_refers very truthfully to the
already marked injury to the public schools of the city of New York
caused by building up and supporting from the public treasury so large
a number of rival sectarian schools_" (see _Rep._ pp. 99, 100). The
italics are not ours.

Now, in the report of the Hon. Abram B. Weaver, Superintendent of
Public Education, made in the same year (1871), he says: "The aggregate
and the average attendance was greater absolutely, and in proportion
to population, than in any former year"--"... 11,700 schools were
maintained, 17,500 teachers were employed, and about $10,000,000 were
expended" (_Rep. Com. of Education_, 1871, p. 291). "The average number
of pupils for the whole state in attendance each day of the entire
term in 1870 was 16,284, more than in 1869, etc." (p. 292). And in
New York City, we are told in the same report (p. 301 of _Report of
Commissioners of Education_, 1871), "It is interesting to note, as
evidence of the substantial progress of free schools in New York City,
that, while the whole population of the city has increased but about 14
per cent. in the last ten years, the average attendance of pupils has
increased nearly 54 per cent. in the same time." Now, wherein consists
the _injury_ complained of? While the average attendance on the "free
public schools" was actually increasing, whence came the children
attending in these "damp basements of churches," and what necessity
drove them from the "educational palaces"? Is the condition, in certain
respects, of our public schools such as is pictured by the writer of
the following, taken from the New York _Herald_ of Feb. 9, 1873:

"PUBLIC-SCHOOL ABUSES.

  "TO THE EDITOR OF THE HERALD:

  "Your articles on school ventilation have my hearty approval. I
  have sent my two youngest boys for two successive winters to the
  boys' school on Thirteenth street, near Sixth avenue (primary
  department), but each time they remained from one to two weeks, and
  then had to remain home, owing to a severe cold or inflammation
  of the lungs, which kept them away for weeks. Having tried the
  school thus I was compelled to remove them this winter to a
  private school, where they have attended regularly and have been
  in good health. No judgment is used in that department in regard
  to ventilation. Sometimes the room is excessively warm; at other
  times the windows on both sides of the house are opened, and the
  current of cold air descending on the heads of the children causes
  catarrhal affections and pneumonia.

  "Such complaints as the following have been made about the girls'
  school, Twelfth street, near University place. A continual system
  of stealing is going on after they leave in the afternoon. The
  desks locked up are opened and articles removed, even books as
  well as other things, and if anything is accidentally left by the
  scholars it is always gone before morning. Nothing is safe in
  that school, and the question is, who steals it? Complaints, I
  understand, have been made, but no steps taken to correct it again.

  "The Board of Education is frequently applied to for necessary
  books and material for conducting the school, and they are not
  supplied. No notice is taken. The teachers have to purchase
  themselves the necessary articles, or go without. At present, to my
  knowledge, an important part of a teacher's duty is prevented being
  fulfilled by reason of not having the necessary material. Teachers
  are afraid of complaining for fear of losing their situations.

AMICUS."


Or this, taken from the New York _Telegram_ of February 13, 1873:

  "An association has been formed by the women of Washington, called
  'The Society for Moral Education,' which has for its object the
  proper education and mental development of the children of the
  country. The society holds regular meetings, and proposes to become
  a national organization. Mrs. L. B. Chandler, of Boston, is the
  inspiring genius of the movement. The members of the society, in
  an appeal for support, say: 'As women, teachers, and mothers, we
  feel it incumbent upon us, in view of the alarming prevalence of
  intemperance and various frightful social vices, the increase
  of pernicious knowledge among children and youth, the general
  ill-health of women, the large number of diseased, deformed,
  idiotic children born, and the appalling mortality of infants,
  to seek the means whereby future generations may be blessed with
  better knowledge of the laws of life, wiser and stronger parents,
  and a purer social state."

Or this, from Prof. Agassiz, embodied in an editorial article of the
Boston _Herald_ of October 20, 1871:

  "Year after year the chief of police publishes his statistics of
  prostitution in this city, but how few of the citizens bestow
  more than a passing thought upon the misery that they represent!
  Although these figures are large enough to make every lover of
  humanity hang his head with feelings of sorrow and shame at the
  picture, we are assured that they represent but a little, as it
  were, of the actual licentiousness that prevails among all classes
  of society. Within a few months, a gentleman (Prof. Agassiz) whose
  scientific attainments have made his name a household word in all
  lands, has personally investigated the subject, and the result has
  filled him with dismay, when he sees the depths of degradation to
  which men and women have fallen; he has almost lost faith in the
  boasted civilization of the XIXth century. In the course of his
  inquiries, he has visited both the well-known 'houses of pleasure'
  and the 'private establishments' scattered all over the city. He
  states that he has a list of both, with the street and number,
  the number of inmates, and many other facts that would perfectly
  astonish the people if made public. He freely conversed with the
  inmates, and the life histories that were revealed were sad indeed.
  To his utter surprise, a large proportion of the 'soiled doves'
  _traced their fall to influences that met them in the public
  schools_, and although Boston is justly proud of its schools, it
  would seem from his story that they need a thorough purification."

Or are we driven to the conclusion that the "injury" complained of is
like that which was chronicled so long ago, as suffered by Haman at the
hands of Mordecai?

"A single sect gets $1,396,388.51, besides a large slice of the
city's real estate." This, of course, refers to the cathedral lots.
That this "large slice" was fairly obtained, in the customary way of
business, more than half a century ago, and at a time when no "Tammany
Ring" existed, and when this "same sect" had no regularly consecrated
place of worship in this city, so insignificant were its numbers, is
notoriously a matter of record--known, indeed, of all men who choose to
know; and the statement made in the "report" has been so often refuted,
that the repetition of it now is disgraceful, and is simply a lie "well
stuck to." As to the other leases mentioned "at a nominal rental," what
matters it to anybody but Haman so long as the property, however now
increased in value for building sites or other material advantage to
the "money-changers," is devoted, as the report in question expressly
admits, to the cause of education--of the education of "the children
whose poverty prevented them from attending the public schools for
want of clothing, and in many cases even of food"--as we are told
in the following extract from the last published _Report_ of the
Board of Public Instruction (city of New York) for 1871 (page 14):
"It will be seen from the preceding statement" (showing the average
attendance at the schools under the jurisdiction of the Board to be,
for 1871, 103,481, and in 1870, 103,824) "that the attendance at the
public schools has not increased, which is readily explained by the
fact that many benevolent and charitable institutions have entered the
educational field. In these institutions the children whose poverty
prevented them from attending the public schools for want of clothing,
and in many cases even of food, are provided for."

In the same pamphlet from which we have quoted is also another
"Document," designated "No. 4," embodying what purports to be a
report made to the "State Council of Political Reform" in 1870 by
"the Committee on Endowment and Support by the State of Sectarian
Institutions." This "report" contains, among other quotations from
Aristotle, Washington, Jay, De Witt Clinton, Chancellor Kent, Milton,
Lord Brougham, Guizot, and Horace Mann, many of which are so generally
known and accepted as to have become truisms, one notable extract
from Thomas Jefferson, which embodies very nearly all that Catholics
desire and are contending for. Jefferson says: "A system of general
instruction which shall reach every description of our citizens from
the richest to the poorest ... give it to us in any shape." This is
what _we_ ask. We make no war; we have no "plan of attack" upon the
public schools, as charged upon page 5 of this Document No. 4; our
chief desire is simply that expressed in the words already quoted
from Thomas Jefferson; and, with the "sectarians," we deny that the
system now in use is sufficiently "general" to accomplish the purpose
intended, or that it can be called a general system while it excludes
any class whose positive religious convictions must necessarily be
daily interfered with by what is called an "unsectarian" method of
instruction. We believe, as did the Puritan fathers, that a knowledge
of and an obedience to the divine government are essential in fitting
each child "to be a citizen of a free and tolerant republic." We
believe in our right to say how and by whom such knowledge shall be
given and such obedience shall be taught, and we also believe that
we are quite as competent to determine our methods and to select
our teachers as is any political party now in being or ever likely
to be. We are quite as strongly opposed to the establishment of any
"state religion" as this self-elected body of political reformers are
or affect to be; and, to quote and apply to this body the words of
"Document No. 4," "we cannot yield one jot or tittle of their demand,
for it involves a principle to us sacred and vital. It means the union
of church and state." And we refer to history for the proof that the
Catholic has never been a state church, but has been more frequently
found in antagonism to the civil power than in alliance with it; always
on the side of liberty and the rights of the people; shielding them
from oppression, even to the deposing of unjust rulers; enforcing
their rights, even to the extent of aiding to make war upon tyrants;
and yet, despite this teaching of history, we are told (on page 8 of
the Document first referred to), under the pretence of saying why we
"make war upon the public schools," as follows: "But a single sect
is taught by its head, a foreign and despotic ecclesiastical prince,
that the civil authorities in a republic have not the right to direct
and control the course of study, and the choice and appointment
of teachers in the public schools, open alike to the youth of all
classes, but that this right belongs to the church." Now, this is
merely a specious falsehood. For, let us ask what is here meant by
"the civil authorities"? Does the phrase mean "the state," which, we
are also told, is a better educator than the church; or does it mean
that aggregation of individuals, each being represented and having
an equal voice, composing "the state"? If the latter is the meaning,
what Catholic American denies the right or asserts it for "the church"
exclusively? We are yet to meet him.

Catholics, and others not Catholics, do deny that "the state" is the
best educator, to the exclusion of the church; and they do their
best to maintain the rights of minorities as against the tyranny of
majorities.

There are certain words and phrases used in this "Document No. 4"
which we do not altogether like; as, for instance: "The state a better
educator than the church"; for, in the light of certain events not
long since occurring here and in Washington, "the state" has come to
be used, and perhaps understood, in a sense of which we are somewhat
suspicious. The doctrine of "centralization" is slowly becoming
something more than _theory_ with a certain class of politicians and
office-holders; and the words, "the state," the "civil authorities,"
and the "government," are beginning to have an ominous ring in our ears.

To be sure, when we are told, in a somewhat dogmatic way, that "the
state is a better educator than the church," we _may_ infer from the
text illustrating the dogma (page 8, Document No. 4) that in this
connection the state is manifest in the persons of the public-school
authorities, and that _they_ are a power in opposition to "a sect" or
to "sects." And when our public schools are "open alike to youth of all
classes," of all creeds, and Catholics are fairly represented among
"school authorities," and are allowed an equal voice in direction and
control, and in the choice of teachers--in short, when they have their
rights as component parts and members of "the state," we shall probably
hear no more about this "war upon the public schools," but until then
probably this clamor for their rights will still be heard.

All this talk, however, about secularizing education means nothing more
nor less than the divorcement of religion from all public education;
and it remains to be seen how far the descendants and the heirs of that
people who asserted that liberty of conscience and freedom to worship
God (even in the school-room) meant something, and are paramount, will
tolerate this "new departure."

The Catholic barons of England wrung from King John at Runnymede the
famous _Magna Charta_, and the Catholic settlers of Maryland gave
the first constitution recognizing equal rights for all men; and the
"Church of Rome," as a British Presbyterian writer has said, "has
always been an 'independent, distinct, and often opposing power'; and
that civil liberty is closely connected with religious liberty--with
the church being independent of the state." Every school-boy might and
ought to be taught these and other like facts, for history mentions
them; and the assailants of the Catholic Church ought to be ashamed to
ignore or deny them. And yet such ignorance and such denials are the
capital in trade of the bigots and the fanatics who fear and affect to
see in the spread of Catholicism a menace to our liberties.

On page 5 of this "Document No. 4" we are told that "the moment the
state takes under its protection any church, by appropriating public
money or property to the uses or support of that church, or the
teaching of its peculiar tenets or practices, it in that act, and to
that extent, unites church and state. The union of church and state, in
all ages and in all countries, has led to oppression and bloodshed."
Now, if this is not arrant nonsense, what is?

The practice of "appropriating public money or property" to churches,
so called, is coeval with our national birth. And in this country
church and state have, according to the logic of this statement,
been very much united--very much married, like Brigham Young and his
multitudinous wives--and yet the "oppression and bloodshed" sure to
follow have not yet come upon us--in fact, "churches" and state have
always in this country been united, and we did not know it! Through
what unknown dangers have we passed!

This "Document No. 4" is not honest in this kind of talk--the union of
church and state means a form of religion established by law, and pains
and penalties inflicted upon dissenters.

Not a great many years ago, in Prussia, of which we hear so much upon
the "educational question," by command of the king, the "Prussian
Calvinist and Lutheran, who had quarrelled for three hundred years
about the real presence and predestination, abandoned their disputes,
denied their faith, and became members of the 'Evangelical Church of
Prussia'"--a church whose simple creed is thus stated: "Do ye believe
in God? then must ye believe in Christ. Do ye believe in Christ? then
must ye believe in the king. He is our head on earth, and rules by the
order of God. The king has appeared in the flesh in our native land!"
This was a state religion--a union of church and state, and is about
as likely to be established here as that the "Document No. 4" is to be
adopted as a text-book in our public schools. This union of church and
state is about as sensible a cry, and quite as malignant, as the old
"No Jews, no wooden shoes!" addressed to the mob in England, and is
framed and uttered in the spirit of the same "sectarian" and bigoted
hate.

Now, one word as to "secular education"--there is no such thing, if
God's work is our work. If his glory requires the dedication of all the
powers he has given us, it is preposterous to talk about an education
from which he and his existence, and the knowledge of him and his
purposes and laws, are excluded. We may endow, and send our children
to colleges where no priest or clergyman shall ever come, and no
creed shall be taught or even mentioned, and call the education there
received secular and unsectarian, as was intended to be done at the
"Girard College" at Philadelphia, and yet we shall find the education
unsatisfactory, and no "state" has yet adopted the plan.

In conclusion, we demand, in the language of the resolutions
"unanimously adopted" and appended to the report in "Document No.
4," "... free of cost, to every child in the state, a generous and
tolerant education--such an education as qualifies him for the duties
of citizenship"; and, moreover, such an education as shall recognize
and protect the first and most important of all the _rights_ of
citizenship--the right of conscience, which is grossly violated by the
system of atheistical education.




CHURCH POSTURES.


    Ye would not sit at ease while meek men kneel
    Did ye but see His face shine through the veil,
    And the unearthly forms that round you steal
    Hidden in beauteous light, splendent or pale
    As the rich Service leads. And prostrate faith
    Shroudeth her timorous eye, while through the air
    Hovers and hangs the Spirit's cleansing Breath
    In Whitsun shapes o'er each true worshipper.
    Deep wreaths of angels, burning from the east,
    Around the consecrated Shrine are traced,
    The awful Stone where by fit hands are placed
    The Flesh and Blood of the tremendous Feast,
    But kneel--the priest upon the altar-stair
    Will bring a blessing out of Sion there.

                                              --_Faber._




GRAPES AND THORNS


                BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF YORKE."


CHAPTER V.

SHADOWS AND LILIES.

Mr. Schöninger came early to the rehearsal that evening, and, in his
stately fashion, made himself unusually agreeable. There was, perhaps,
a very slight widening of the eyes, expressive of surprise, if not of
displeasure, when he saw Miss Ferrier's critics, but his salutation did
not lack any necessary courtesy. He did not lose his equanimity even
when, later, while they were singing a fugue passage, a sonorous but
stupid bass came in enthusiastically just one bar too soon.

"I am glad you chose to do that to-night instead of to-morrow night,
sir," the director said quietly. "Now we will try it again."

And yet Mr. Schöninger was, in his profession, an object of terror
to some of his pupils, and of scrupulous, if not anxious, attention
to all; for not only did he possess notably that exalted musical
sensitiveness which no true artist lacks, but he concealed under an
habitual self-control, and great exactness in the discharge of his
duty, a fiery impatience of temper, and a hearty dislike for the
drudgery of his profession.

"If your doctrines regarding future punishments are true," he once said
to F. Chevreuse, "then the physical part of a musician's purgatory
will be to listen to discords striving after, but never attaining to,
harmony, and his hell to hear sublime harmonies rent and distorted by
discords. I never come so near believing in an embodied spirit of evil
as when I hear a masterpiece of one of the great composers mangled by
a tyro. I haven't a doubt that Chopin or Schumann might be played so as
to throw me into convulsions."

And F. Chevreuse had answered after his kind: "And your spiritual
purgatory, sir, will be the recollection of those long years during
which you have persisted in playing with one thumb, as a bleak monody,
that divine trio of which all the harmonies of the universe are but
faint echoes."

Nothing of this artistic irritability appeared to-night, as we have
said. In its stead was a gentleness quite new in the musician's
demeanor, and so slight as to be like that first film of coming verdure
on the oak, when, some spring morning, one looks out and doubts whether
it is a dimness of the eyes or the atmosphere, or a budding foliage
which has set swimming those sharp outlines of branch and twig.

"He is really human," Annette whispered to Miss Pembroke; and Honora
smiled acquiescence, though she would scarcely have employed such
an expression for her thought. She had already discovered in Mr.
Schöninger a very gentle humanity.

Low as the whisper was, his ears caught it, and two sharp eyes,
watching him, saw an almost imperceptible tremor of the eyelids, which
was the only sign he gave. The owner of these eyes did not by any means
approve of the manner in which their leader had given Miss Pembroke
her music that evening, leaving the other ladies to be served as
they might; still less did she approve of the coldness with which her
own coquettish demands on his attention had been met. It was scarcely
worth while to submit to the drudgery of rehearsing, in a chorus too,
if that was to be all the return. Rising carelessly, therefore, and
allowing the sheet of music on her lap to fall unheeded to the floor,
Miss Carthusen sauntered off toward where Miss Ferrier's two critics
sat apart, talking busily, having, apparently, as she had anticipated,
written their reports of the rehearsal before coming to it.

These critics were a formidable pair, for they criticised everybody
and everything. One of them added to a man's sarcasm a woman's finer
malice, which pricks with the needlepoint. Dr. Porson was a tall,
aquiline-faced, choleric man, with sharp eyes that, looking through
a pair of clear and remarkably lustrous glasses, saw the chink in
everybody's armor. Those who knew him would rather see lightning than
meet the flash of his glasses turned on them, and feel the probing
glances that shot through, and thunder would have been music to their
ears compared to the short laugh that greeted a sinister discovery.

The other was Mr. Sales, the new editor of _The Aurora_, a little wasp
of a man. He had twinkling black eyes that needed no lens to assist
their vision, and a thin-lipped mouth with a slim black moustache
hanging at either corner, like a strong pen-dash made with black ink.
Dr. Porson called them quotation-marks, and had a way of smoothing
imaginary moustaches on his own clean-shaven face whenever the younger
man said any very good thing without giving credit for it.

"A clever little eclectic," the doctor said of him. "He pilfers with
the best taste in the world, and, with the innocence of a babe,
believes everybody else to be original. He never writes anything worth
reading but I want to congratulate him on his 'able scissors.' 'Able
scissors' is not mine," the doctor added, "but it is good. I found it
in _Blackwood's_."

These two gentlemen had arrived early, and, seated apart, in a
side-window of the long drawing-room, crunched the people between their
teeth as they entered. Between the morsels, the doctor enlightened
his companion, a new-comer in the city, regarding Crichton and the
Crichtonians.

"There's little Jones, the most irritating person I know," the doctor
said. "By what chance he should have that robust voice I cannot
imagine. Sometimes I think it doesn't come out of his own throat, but
that he has a large ventriloquist whom he carries about with him. I
shouldn't wonder if the fellow were now just outside that open sash.
Did you see the way he marched past us, all dickey and boot-heels?
A man who is but five feet high has no right to assume six-foot
manners; he has scarcely the right to exist at all among well-grown
people. Besides, they always wear large hats. Not but I respect a
small stature in a clever person," he admitted, with a side glance
at Mr. Sales' slight figure. "We don't wish to have our diamonds by
the hundredweight. But common, pudding-stone men must be in imposing
masses, or we want them cleared away as _débris_."

"Is Mr. Schöninger a pudding-stone man?" the young editor asked, when
that gentleman had passed them by.

Dr. Porson's face unconsciously dropped its mocking. "If you should
strike Mr. Schöninger in any way," he said, "you would find him
flint. The only faults I see in the man are his excessive caution and
secretiveness. He is here, evidently, only to get all the money he
can, and, when he has enough, will wash his hands of us; therefore,
wishes for no intimacies. That is my interpretation. He is a gentleman,
however. A man must have the most perfect politeness of soul to salute
Mme. Ferrier as he did. While they were speaking together, she actually
had the air of a lady. See her look after him. It is an art which
we critics cannot learn, sir, that of setting people in their best
light. Of course it would spoil our trade if we did learn it; but,
for all that, we miss something. Schöninger is a Jew, to be sure, but
that signifies nothing. Each one to his taste. We no longer trouble
ourselves about people's faith. When you say that a man believes this
or that, it's as though you said, he eats this or that. The world
moves. Why, sir, a few years ago, we wouldn't have spoken to a man who
ate frogs any more than to a cannibal; and now we are so fond of the
little reptiles that there isn't a frog left to sing in the swamps."

"But," Mr. Sales objected, "society has established certain rules--"
then stopped, finding himself in deep water.

"Undoubtedly," the doctor replied, as gravely as though something had
been said. "The Flat-head Indians now, who seem to have understood the
science of phrenology, think it the proper thing to have a plateau on
the top of the head. Their reason is, probably, a moral rather than an
æsthetic one. They know that the peaceful and placable qualities, those
which impel a man to let go, are kept in little chambers in the front
top of the brain. They have other use for their attics. So they just
clap a board on the baby's soft head, and press the space meant for
such useless stuff as benevolence and reverence back, so as to increase
the storage for the noble qualities of firmness and self-esteem. That
is one of the rules of their society; and I have always considered it a
most striking and beautiful instance of the proper employment of means
to an end. There is a certain sublime and simple directness in it. No
circuitous, century-long labor of trying to square the fluid contents
of a round vessel, but just a board on the head. That, sir, should be
the first step in evangelizing the heathen--shape their heads. When
you want a man to think in a certain way, put a strong pressure on
his contradictory bumps, and preach to him afterwards. That's what I
tell our minister, Mr. Atherton. There he is now, that bald man with
the fair hair. He is a glorious base. His great-grandfather was a
conceited Anglo-Saxon, and he's the fourth power of him. The reason why
he does not believe in the divinity of Christ is because he was not of
Anglo-Saxon birth."

Here, across the _pianissimo_ chorus which made the vocal accompaniment
of an Alp-song, Miss Ferrier's brilliant voice flashed like lightning
in clear, sharp zigzags, startling the two into silence.

"That wasn't bad," the doctor said when she ended.

The younger gentleman applauded with such enthusiasm that Annette
blushed with pleasure. "She needs but one thing to make her voice
perfect," he said, "and that is a great sorrow."

"Yes, as I was telling you some time ago," the doctor resumed, "we are
a liberal and hospitable people in Crichton. We have no prejudices.
Everybody is welcome, even the devil. We are æsthetic, too. We admire
the picturesque. We wouldn't object to seeing an interesting family
of children shot with arrows, provided they would fall with a grace,
and their mother would assume the true Niobe attitude. In literature,
too, how we shine! We have reached the sublime of the superficial.
There's your Miss Carthusen, now, with her original poetry. How
nicely she dished up that conceit of Montaigne's, that somebody is
peculiar because he has no peculiarities. I've forgotten, it is so
long since I read him. I haven't looked over the new edition that
this poetess of ours has peeped into and fished a fancy out of. But
yesterday I was charmed to see it scintillating, in rhymed lines, in
the Olympian corner of _The Aurora_, over the well-known signature of
_Fleur-de-lis_."

The young man looked mortified. He had never read Montaigne, and had
announced this production as original and remarkable, firmly believing
the writer to be a genius. But he did not choose to tell Dr. Porson
that.

"What would you?" he asked, raising his eyebrows and his voice in a
philosophical manner. "I must fill the paper; and it is better to put
in good thought at second-hand than flat originals. How many know the
difference?"

Here Annette's voice stopped them again.

"Strange that girl sings so well to-night," said the doctor, adjusting
his glasses for a clearer glance. "She looks well, too. Must be the
inspiration of her lover's presence. That's the kind of fellow, sir,
that a woman takes a fancy to--a pale, beautiful young man with a
slouched hat and a secret sorrow, the sorrow usually having reference
to the pocket."

Lawrence Gerald sat near his lady, and seemed to be absorbed in
his occupation of cutting a rosebud across in thin slices with his
pocket-knife, a proceeding his mother viewed with gentle distress.
But when the song was ended, he looked up at Annette and smiled,
seeming to be rather proud of her. And, looking so, his eyes lingered
a little, expressing interest and a slight surprise, as if he beheld
there something worth looking at which he had not noticed before. Had
he cared to observe, he might have known already that Miss Ferrier had
moments of being beautiful. This was one of them.

There is a pain that looks like delight, when the heart bleeds into the
cheeks, the lips part with a smile that does not touch the eyes, and
the eyes shine with a dazzling brilliancy that may well be mistaken for
joyousness. With such feverish beauty Annette was radiant this evening,
and the excitement of singing and of applause had added the last touch
of brightness.

The programme for the concert was chiefly of popular music, or a kind
of old-fashioned music they were making popular, part-songs and glees.
They had attained great finish and delicacy in executing these, and the
effect was charming, and far preferable to operas and operatic airs as
we usually hear them. It would have been a bold woman who would have
asked Mr. Schöninger's permission to sing a difficult _aria_. Annette
had once made such a request, but with indifferent success.

"Mademoiselle," the teacher replied, "you have a better voice than
either of the Pattis; but a voice is only a beginning. You must learn
the alphabet of music before you can read its poems. When you are ready
to be a Norma, I will resign you to some teacher who knows more than I
do."

The singing was at an end, and the singers left their seats and
wandered about the house and garden. Only Mr. Schöninger lingered by
the piano, and, seeing him still there, no one went far away, those
outside leaning in at the window.

He seated himself presently, and played a Polonaise. He sat far back,
almost at arm's length from the keys, and, as he touched it, the
instrument seemed to possess an immortal soul. One knew not which most
to admire, the power that made a single piano sound like an orchestra,
or the delicacy that produced strains fine and clear like horns of
fairyland.

When he had finished, he went to ask Mrs. Gerald how the singing had
gone.

"I observed that you listened," he remarked, being within Dr. Porson's
hearing.

Mrs. Gerald had been sitting for the last half-hour beside Mrs.
Ferrier, and the time had been penitential, as all her intercourse with
Annette's mother was. It was hard for a fond mother and a sensitive
lady to listen to such indelicate complaints and insinuations as Mrs.
Ferrier was constantly addressing to her when they were together
without uttering any sharp word in return. To be reminded that Lawrence
was making a very advantageous marriage without retorting that she
would be far more happy to see him the husband of Honora Pembroke,
required an effort; and to restrain the quick flash, or the angry tears
in her fiery Celtic heart when she heard him undervalued, was almost
more than she could do. But she had conquered herself for God's sake
and for her son's sake, perhaps a little for pride's sake, had given
the soft answer when she could, and remained silent when speech seemed
too great an effort.

That coarse insolence of mere money to refined poverty, and the
mistaking equality before the law for personal equality, are at any
time sufficiently offensive; how much more so when the victim is in
some measure in the tormentor's power.

Mrs. Gerald's face showed how severe the trial had been. Her blue eyes
had the unsteady lustre of a dew that dared not gather into tears, a
painful smile trembled on her lips, and her cheeks were scarlet. Had
she been at liberty, this lady could perfectly well have known how to
ignore or reprove impertinence without ruffling her smooth brow or
losing her tranquil manner; but she was not free, and the restraint was
agitating. This rude woman's rudest insinuation was but truth, and she
must bear it. Yet, mother-like, she never thought of reproaching her
son for what she suffered.

"I never heard music I liked so well," she said to Mr. Schöninger's
question. "We are under obligation to you for giving us what we can
understand. The composition you have just played delighted me, too,
though it is probable that I do not at all appreciate its beauties. It
made me think of fairies dancing in a ring."

"It was a dance-tune," Mr. Schöninger said, pleased that she had
perceived the thought; for it required a fine and sympathetic ear to
discern the step in that capricious movement of Chopin's.

The fact that he was a Jew had prevented her looking on this man with
any interest, or feeling it possible that any friendship could exist
between them; but the thought passed her mind, as he spoke, that Mr.
Schöninger might be a very amiable person if he chose. There was a
delicate and reserved sweetness in that faint smile of his which
reminded her of some expression she had seen on Honora's face, when she
was conversing with a gentleman who had the good fortune to please her.

Meantime, Lawrence had been having a little dispute with Annette.
"What's this about the wine?" he whispered to her. "John says there
isn't any to be had."

He looked astonished, and with reason, for the fault of the Ferrier
entertainments had always been their profusion.

"I meant to have told you that I had concluded not to have wine,"
she said. "Two gentlemen present are intemperate men, who make their
families very unhappy, and when they begin to drink they do not know
where to stop. The last time Mr. Lane was here he became really quite
unsteady before he went away."

"But the others!" Lawrence exclaimed. "What will they think?"

"They may understand just why it is," she replied; "and they may not
think anything about it. I should not imagine that they need occupy
their minds very long with the subject."

"Why, you must know, Annette, that some of them come here for nothing
but the supper, and chiefly the wine," the young man urged unguardedly.

She drew up slightly. "So I have heard, Lawrence; and I wish to
discourage such visitors' coming. People who are in the devouring mood
should not go visiting; they are disagreeable. I have never seen in
company that liveliness which comes after supper without a feeling of
disgust. It may not go beyond proper bounds, but still it is a greater
or less degree of intoxication. I have provided everything I could
think of for their refreshment and cheering, but nothing to make
them tipsy. I gave you a good reason at first, Lawrence, and I have a
better. My father died of liquor, and my brother is becoming a slave to
it. I will help to make no drunkards."

"Well," the young man sighed resignedly, "you mean well; but I can't
help thinking you a little quixotic."

"The Ferriers are giving us _eau sucrée_ instead of wine to-night,"
sneered one of the company to Mr. Schöninger, a while after.

"They show good taste in doing so," he replied coldly. "There are
always bar-rooms and drinking-saloons enough for those who are addicted
to drink. I never wish to take wine from the hand of a lady, nor to
drink it in her presence."

The night was brilliantly full-moonlighted, and so warm that they had
lit as little gas as possible. A soft glow from the upper floor, and
the bright doors of the drawing-room, made the hall chandelier useless.
Miss Ferrier's new organ there was flooded with a silvery radiance that
poured through a window. Mr. Schöninger came out and seated himself
before it.

"Shall I play a fugue of Bach's?" he asked of Miss Pembroke, who was
standing in the open door leading to the garden.

She took a step toward him, into the shadow between moonlight of window
and door, and the light seemed to follow her, lingering in her fair
face and her white dress. Even the waxen jasmine blossoms in her hair
appeared to be luminous.

"Yes," she said, "if you are to play only once more; but, if more
than once, let that be last. I never lose the sound and motion of one
of Bach's fugues till I have slept; and I like to keep the murmur it
leaves, as if my ears were sea-shells."

She went back to stand in the door, but, after a few minutes, stepped
softly and slowly further away, and passed by the drawing-room doors,
through which she saw Annette talking with animation and many gestures,
while her two critics listened and nodded occasional acquiescence,
and Lawrence withdrawn to a window-seat with Miss Carthusen, and Mrs.
Ferrier the centre of a group of young people, who listened to her
with ill-concealed smiles of amusement. At length she found the place
she wanted, an arm-chair under the front portico, and, seated there,
gathered up that strong, wilful rush of harmony as a whole. It did not
seem to have ceased when Mr. Schöninger joined her. She was so full of
the echoes of his music that for a moment she looked at him standing
beside her as if it had been his wraith.

He pointed silently and smiling to the corner of the veranda visible
from where they sat. It was on the shady side of the house, and still
further screened by vines, and the half-drawn curtains of the window
looking into it allowed but a single beam of gaslight to escape.
In that nook were gathered half a dozen children, peeping into the
drawing-room. They were as silent as the shadows in which they lurked,
and their bare feet had given no notice of their coming. Their bodies
were almost invisible, but their eager little faces shone in the red
light, and now and then a small hand was lifted into sight.

"It reminds me," he said, "of a passage in the Koran, where Mahomet
declares that it had been revealed to him that a company of genii had
listened while he was reading a chapter, and that one of them had
remarked: 'Verily, we have heard a most admirable discourse.' That
amused me; and I fancied that an effective picture might be made of
it: the prophet reading at night by the light of an antique lamp that
shone purely on his solemn face and beard, and his green robe, with,
perhaps, the pet cat curled round on the sleeve. The casement should be
open wide, and crowded with a multitude of yearning, exquisite faces,
the lips parted with the intensity of their listening. As I came along
the hall just now, I saw one of those children through the window, and
in that light it looked like a cameo cut in pink coral."

"I fancy they are some of my children," Miss Pembroke said, and rose.
"Let us see. They ought not to be out so late, nor to intrude."

"Oh! spare the poor little wretches," Mr. Schöninger said laughingly,
as she took his arm. "We find this commonplace enough, but to them it
is wonderful. I think we might be tempted to trespass a little if we
could get a peep into veritable fairyland. This is to them fairyland."

"That anything is a strong temptation is no excuse for yielding," the
lady said in a playful tone that took away any appearance of reproof
from her words. "We do not go into battle in order to surrender without
a struggle, nor to surrender at all, but to become heroes. I must teach
my little ones to have heroic thoughts."

The children, engrossed in the bright scene within, did not perceive
any approach from without till all retreat was cut off for them, and
they turned, with startled faces, to find themselves confronted by a
tall gentleman, on whose arm leaned a lady whom they looked up to with
a tender but reverent love.

These children were of a class accustomed to a word and a blow, and
their instinctive motion was to shrink back into a corner, and hide
their faces.

"I am sorry to see you here, my dears," she said. "Please go home now,
like good children."

That was her way of reproving.

She stood aside, and the little vagabonds shied out past her, each one
trying to hide his face, and scampering off on soundless feet as soon
as he had reached the ground.

"So you have a school?" Mr. Schöninger asked, as they went round
through the garden.

They came out into the moonlight, and approached the rear of the house,
where a number of the company were gathered, standing among the flowers.

"Yes, I have fifty, or more, of these little ones, and I find it
interesting. They were in danger of growing up in the street, and I
had nothing else to do--that is, nothing that seemed so plain a duty.
So I took the largest room in an old house of mine just verging on the
region where these children live, and have them come there every day."

"You must find teaching laborious," the gentleman said.

"Oh! no. I am strong and healthy, and I do not fatigue myself nor them.
The whole is free to them, of course, and I am responsible to no one,
therefore can instruct or amuse them in my own way. As far as possible,
I wish to supply the incompetency of their mothers. If I give the
little ones a happy hour, during which they behave properly, and teach
them one thing, I am satisfied. One of the branches I try to instruct
them in is neatness. No soiled face is allowed to speak to me, nor
soiled hands to touch me. Then they sing and read, and learn prayers
and a little doctrine, and I tell them stories. When the Christian
Brothers and the Sisters of Notre Dame come, my occupation will of
course be gone."

"I wish I might some time be allowed to visit this school of yours,"
Mr. Schöninger said hesitatingly. "I could give them a singing-lesson,
and tell them a story. Little Rose Tracy likes my stories."

Miss Pembroke was thoughtful a moment, then consented. She had
witnessed with approval Mr. Schöninger's treatment of Miss Carthusen
that evening, and respected him for it. "The day after to-morrow, in
the afternoon, would be a good time," she said. "It is to be a sort of
holiday, on account of the firemen's procession. The procession passes
the school-room, and I have promised the children that they shall watch
it."

They went in to take leave, for the company was breaking up.

"Oh! by the way, Mr. Schöninger," Annette said, recollecting, "did you
get the shawl you left here at the last rehearsal? It was thrown on a
garden-seat, and forgotten."

"Yes; I stepped in early the next morning, and took it," he said. His
countenance changed slightly as he spoke. The eyelids drooped, and his
whole air expressed reserve.

"The next morning!" she repeated to herself, but said nothing.

Lawrence went off with Miss Carthusen; and as Mrs. Gerald and Honora
went out at the same time with Mr. Schöninger, he asked permission to
accompany them.

"How lovely the night is!" Mrs. Gerald murmured, as they walked quietly
along under the trees of the avenue, and saw all the beautiful city
bathed in moonlight, and ringed about with mountains like a wall.
"Heaven can scarcely have a greater physical beauty than earth has
sometimes."

"I do not think," the gentleman said, "that heaven will be so much more
beautiful than earth, but our eyes will be opened to see the beauties
that exist."

He spoke very quietly, with an air of weariness or depression; and,
when they reached home, bowed his good-night without speaking.

The two ladies stood a moment in the door, looking out over the town.
"If that man were not a Jew, I should find him agreeable," Mrs. Gerald
said. "As it is, it seems odd that we should see so much of him."

"I am inclined to believe," Honora said slowly, "that it is not right
for us to refuse a friendly intercourse with suitable associates on
account of any difference of religion, unless they intrude on us a
belief or disbelief which we hold to be sacrilegious."

"Could you love a Jew?" Mrs. Gerald asked, rather abruptly.

Honora considered the matter a little while. "Our Lord loved them,
even those who crucified him. I could love them. Besides, I do not
believe that the Jews of to-day would practise violence any more than
Christians would. We are friendly with Unitarians, yet they are not
very different from some Jews. I think we should love everybody but
the eternally lost. I could more easily become attached to an upright
and conscientious Jew, than to a Catholic who did not practise his
religion."

Mr. Schöninger, as soon as he had left the ladies, mended his pace, and
strode off rapidly down the hill. In a few minutes he had reached a
lighted railroad station, where people were going to and fro.

"Just in time!" he muttered, and ran to catch a train that was
beginning to slip over the track. Grasping the hand-rail, he drew
himself on to the step of the last car, then walked through the other
cars, and, finally, took his seat in that next the engine. Once a week
he gave lessons in a town fifteen miles from Crichton, and he usually
found it more agreeable to take the night train down than to go in the
morning.

In selecting this car he had hoped to be alone; but he had hardly taken
his seat when he heard a step following him, and another man appeared
and went into the seat in front of him--an insignificant-looking
person, with a mean face. He turned about, put his feet on the seat,
stretched his arm along the back, and, assuming an insinuating smile,
bade Mr. Schöninger good evening. He had, apparently, settled himself
for a long conversation.

Mr. Schöninger's habits were those of a scrupulous gentleman, and he
had, even among gentlemen, the charming distinction of always keeping
his feet on the floor. This man's manners were, therefore, in more than
one way offensive, and his salutation received no more encouraging
reply than a stare, and a scarcely perceptible inclination of the head.

Mr. Schöninger seemed, indeed, to regret even this slight concession,
for he rose immediately with an air of decision, and walked forward to
the first seat. The door of the car was open there as they rushed on
through the darkness, and, looking forward, it was like beholding the
half-veiled entrance of a cavern of fire. A cloud of illuminated smoke
and steam swept about and enveloped the engine with a bright atmosphere
impenetrable to the sight, and through this loomed the gigantic shadow
of a man. This shadow sometimes disappeared for a moment only to appear
again, and seemed to make threatening gestures, and to catch and press
down into the flames some unseen adversary. Mr. Schöninger's fancy was
wide awake, though his eyes were half asleep, and this strange object
became to him an object of terror. Painful and anxious thoughts, which
he had resolutely put away, left yet a dim and mysterious background,
on which this grotesque figure, gigantic and wrapped in fire, was
thrown in strong relief. He imagined it an impending doom, which might
at any moment fall upon him.

Finding these fancies intolerable at length, he shook himself wide
awake, rose, and walked unsteadily up and down the car. In doing so,
he perceived that his fellow-passenger had retreated to the last seat,
and was, apparently, sleeping, his cap drawn low over his forehead. But
Mr. Schöninger's glance detected a slight change in the position of the
head as he commenced his promenade, and he could not divest himself of
the belief that, from under the low hat-brim, a glance as sharp as his
own was following his every movement.

In an ordinary and healthy mood of mind he would have cared little for
such espionage; but he was not in such a mood. Circumstances had of
late tried his nerves, and it required all his power of self-control
to maintain a composed exterior. Did this man suspect his trouble, and
search for, or, perhaps, divine, or, possibly, know the cause of it?
He would gladly have caught the fellow in his arms, and thrown him
headlong into the outer darkness.

He returned to his place, and, leaning close to the window, looked out
into the night. If he had hoped to quiet himself by the sight of a
familiar nature, he was disappointed, for the scene had a weird, though
occasionally beautiful aspect, very unlike reality. The moon had set,
leaving that darkness which follows a bright moonlight, or precedes
the dawn of day, when the stars seem to be confounded by the near yet
invisible radiance of their conqueror, and dare not shine with their
own full lustre. Only this locomotive, dashing through the heart of
the night, rendered visible a flying panorama. Groves of trees twirled
round, surprised in some mystic dance; streams flashed out in all
their windings, red and serpent-like, and hid themselves as suddenly;
wide plains swam past, all a blur, with hills and mountains stumbling
against the horizon. Only one spot had even a hint of familiarity.
Framed round by a great semi-circle of woods, not many rods from the
track, was a long, narrow pond, with a few acres of smooth green beyond
it, and a white cottage close to its farthest shore. This little scene
was as perfectly secluded, apparently, as if it had been in the midst
of a continent otherwise uninhabited. No road nor neighboring house was
visible from the railroad. The dwellers in that cottage seemed to be
solitary and remote, knowing nothing of the wide, busy world save what
they saw from their vine-draped windows when the long, noisy train,
crowded with strangers, hurried past them, never stopping. What web
that clattering shuttle wove they might wonder, but could not know,
could scarcely care as they dreamed their lives away, lotos-eating. For
the lotos was not wanting.

Mr. Schöninger recollected his first glimpse of that place as he had
whirled past one summer morning, and swiftly now he caught the scene
between his eyelids, and closed them on it, and dreamed over it. He
saw the varied green of the forest, and the velvet green of the banks,
and the blue and brooding sky. Like a sylvan nymph the cottage stood
in its draping vines, and tried to catch glimpses of itself in the
glassy waters at its feet, half smothered in drifting fragrant snow of
water-lilies.

What sort of being should come forth from that dwelling of peace? Mr.
Schöninger asked himself. Who should stretch out hands to him, and draw
him out of his troubled life, approaching now a climax he shrank from?
His heart rose and beat quickly. The door under the vines swung slowly
back, and a woman floated out over the green, as silent and as gracious
as a cloud over the blue above. The drapery fluttered back from her
advancing foot till it reached the first shining ripple of the pond,
and then she paused--a presence so warm and living that it quickened
his breathing. She stretched her strong white arms out toward him over
the lilies she would not cross, and the face was Honora Pembroke's.
The large, calm look, the earnest glow that saved from coldness,
the full humanity steeped through and shone through by spiritual
loveliness--they were all hers.

He started, and opened his eyes. Their pace was slackening, the great
black figure in its fiery atmosphere was in some spasm of motion, and
walls of brick and stone were shutting them in.

The cars stopped at the foot of an immense flight of stairs that
stretched upward indefinitely, a dingy Jacob's ladder, without the
angels. Mr. Schöninger slowly ascended them, heavyhearted again, and
therefore heavy-footed; and, not far behind, a man with a skulking
step and a mean face followed after. There was nothing very mysterious
in this walk. It led merely through a deserted business street, by
the shortest route, to a respectable hotel. Mr. Schöninger called for
a room, and went to it immediately; the little man lingered in the
office, and hung about the desk.

"That gentleman comes down here pretty often in the night, doesn't he?"
he asked of the clerk.

The man nodded, without looking up.

"Does he always record his name when he comes?" pursued the questioner.

"Can't say," was the short answer, still without looking up.

"Comes down every Wednesday night, I suppose?" remarked the stranger.

The clerk suddenly thrust his face past the corner of the desk behind
which his catechiser stood. "Look here, sir, what name shall I put down
for you?" he asked sharply.

The man drew back a little, and turned away. "I'm not sure of booking
myself here," he replied.

The clerk came down promptly from his perch. "Then it's time to lock
up," he said.

And when he had locked the door, and pulled down the curtains, with a
snap that threatened to break their fastenings, he put his hands in his
pockets, and made a short and emphatic address to an imaginary audience.

"I don't believe there is any redemption for spies," he said; "and I
would rather have a thief in my house than a sneak. You sometimes hear
of a criminal who repents; but nobody ever yet heard of one of your
prying, peeping, tattling sort reforming."

There being no other person present, no one contradicted him, a
circumstance which seemed to increase the strength of his convictions.
He paced the room two or three times, then returned to his first stand,
removing his hands from his pockets to clasp them behind his back, as
being a more dignified attitude for a speaker.

"If I had my will," he pursued, "every nose that poked itself into
other people's affairs would be cut off."

Bravo! Mr. Clerk. You have sense. But if you had also that sanguinary
wish of yours, what a number of mutilated visages would be going about
the world! How many feminine faces would be shorn of their _retroussé_,
or long, rooting feature, or clawing, parrot beak, and how many men
would be incapacitated for taking snuff!

Having delivered himself of his rather extreme opinion, this excellent
man shut up the house and retired.

Mr. Schöninger looked forward with interest to his promised visit to
Miss Pembroke's school, and was so anxious that she should not by any
forgetfulness or change of plan deprive him of it, that he reminded her
as they came out of the hall, after their concert, of the permission
she had given him for the next afternoon.

"Certainly!" she replied smiling. "But how can you think of such a
trifle after the grand success of this evening?"

For their concert had been a perfect success, and Mr. Schöninger
himself had been applauded with such enthusiasm as had pleased even
him. It was the first time he had played in public in Crichton, and,
respectable as he held their musical taste to be, he had not been
prepared to see so ready an appreciation of the higher order of
instrumental music.

"I never saw a more appreciative audience," he said. "They applauded
at the right places, and it was a well-bred applause. How delicate was
that little whisper of a clapping during the prelude! It was like the
faint rustling of leaves in a summer wind, and so soft that not a note
was lost. I have never seen so nearly perfect an audience in any other
city in this country."

"Do not we always tell you that Crichton is the most charming city in
the world?" laughed Annette Ferrier, who had caught his last remark.

She was passing him, accompanied by Lawrence Gerald. Her face was
bright with excitement, and the glistening of her ornaments and her
gauzy robe through the black lace mantle that covered her from head to
foot gave her the look of a butterfly caught in a web. She had sung
brilliantly, dividing the honors of the evening with Mr. Schöninger,
and Lawrence, finding her admired by others, was gallant to her
himself. On the whole, she was radiant with delight.

"Do not expect too much of my little ones," Miss Pembroke said,
recurring to the proposed visit. "Recollect, they are all poor, and
they have had but little instruction."

Mr. Schöninger did not tell her that his interest was in her more than
in the children, and that he desired to see how she would conduct
herself in such circumstances rather than take any note of the persons
and acquirements of her pupils. To his mind it was very strange that
a lady of her refinement should wish to assume such a work without
necessity. His conception of the character of teachers of children
was not flattering; he thought a certain vulgarity inseparable from
such persons, a positiveness of speech, an oracular tone of voice, and
an authoritative air, which the employment conferred on successful
teachers, if it did not find them already possessed of. It amused him
to fancy these fifty children swarming about Miss Pembroke, like ants
about a lily, and it annoyed him to think that she might receive some
stain from them.

"I like ladies to be charitable," he said to himself, as he went
homeward; "but there are kinds of rough work I would prefer they should
delegate to others."

He was thinking of the physical part of the work; Honora of the
spiritual.

The school-room was the lower floor of a house at the corner of two
streets, and had been used as a shop, the two wide show-windows at
either side of the door giving a full light. The upper floors were
occupied as a dwelling-house. These windows looked out on a wide and
respectable street; but the cross street, beginning fairly enough,
deteriorated as it went on toward the Saranac, through the poorest
section of the city, and ended in shanties and a dingy wharf where
lobsters were perpetually being boiled in large kettles in dingy boats,
and crowds of ragged children seemed to be always hanging about,
sucking lobster-claws, or on the watch for them. Miss Pembroke's charge
were from this class of children, and one of her great difficulties was
to keep her school-room from having the fixed odor of a fish-market.

The room was severely clean and spotless, and, but that the side-walls
were nearly covered with maps, bookcases, and blackboards, would have
been glaring white; for the walls and ceiling were white-washed, the
wood-work painted white, and the floor scoured white. Two rows of
oak- benches extended across the room, the backs toward the
windows. The sun shone in unobstructed all the afternoon. Only when it
began to touch the last row of benches were the green worsted curtains
drawn down far enough to keep it within bounds. Miss Pembroke's chair,
table, and piano were in the space opposite the door. On the centre of
the wall behind her hung a large crucifix, and on a bracket beneath
it a marble Child Jesus stretched out his arms to the little ones. On
larger brackets to right and left stood an Immaculate Lady and a S.
Joseph. They were thus in the midst of the Holy Family.

These images were constantly surrounded by wreaths, arches, and
flowers, so that the end of the room had quite the appearance of a
bower; and on all his festivals, and whenever prayers were said, a
candle was lighted before the Infant Jesus, who was the patron of their
school, and the dearest object of their childish devotion. It was
delightful to them to know that they need not always approach their
God in the language, to them, often inexplicable, of the mature and
the learned, but that they could whisper their ingenuous petitions
and praises into the indulgent ear of a holy Child, using their own
language, and asking him to be their interpreter. S. Joseph with the
lily and the white Lady with her folded hands they worshipped with awe;
but they were not afraid of the dear Infant who stretched out his arms
to them.

Fifty little faces, all brown, but otherwise various, looked straight
at their teacher--blue eyes and brown eyes, black eyes and grey, large
eyes and small eyes, bright and dull eyes; and fifty young souls were
at that instant occupied with one thought. The first faint thrilling of
the silence with martial music was heard, and they were eager to take
their places to see the advancing procession. But Miss Pembroke waited
still. She had told Mr. Schöninger to come at three o'clock, and it
lacked five minutes of that. Just as she was thinking that she would
give him two minutes' grace, he appeared.

She went at once to place the children, and he watched with a smile
of pleasure and amusement the soldierly precision of the performance.
The door was opened wide, and two of the largest boys carried out
and placed a bench near the edge of the upper step. At the motion of
a finger, the smallest boys filed out and seated themselves on this
bench, and an equal number of larger ones stood behind keeping guard.
Then the door was closed. At the next silent gesture the smallest
of the boys and girls remaining seated themselves in the low, broad
ledge of the windows, the next size placed a bench across each window
recess for themselves, and the largest again stood behind the benches.
Not a word had been spoken, not a child had turned its head, not the
slightest noise nor confusion had occurred, and all were perfectly well
placed to see.

"What admirable order!" the gentleman exclaimed. "You must have drilled
them thoroughly."

"It did not seem to me wasting time," Miss Pembroke replied. "I wish
to impress on them the necessity of a decorous and reserved manner in
public. They are too prone to presume, and be more than ordinarily
lawless on such occasions. Besides, it teaches them self-control."

The two sat back at a little distance. The children began to stretch
their heads forward, and whisper exclamations to each other. The air
resounded with martial sounds, and a solid front of superb grey horses
appeared, well-caparisoned and well-ridden, the full crimped manes
tossed over their arching necks. Behind them another and another line
pressed, making a living wall.

"I think one feels the influence of such a mass of strong life and
courage," Miss Pembroke remarked. "It seems to me it would invigorate a
weak person to be near those horses."

Mr. Schöninger had been thinking nearly the same thing. "I have fancied
it not unlikely," he said, "that in a bold cavalry charge the horses
may help to inspire the riders. The neighborhood of strong animal life
is, no doubt, invigorating. It would be fine to stand face to face with
a herd of wild cattle, if they could be surely stopped in mid-career,
to feel the air stirring with their breaths, and see their eyes glaring
through heaps of rough mane. There would be something electrical in
it, as there is in a crowd of men; and in both cases it is a merely
physical excitement."

"But a crowd of men may be electrified by some great thought,"
suggested Honora.

"Not unless each had the thought in his single mind before, either
latent or conscious. I do not believe that any crowd or excitement,
however immense, can put a great thought into a little soul. I can
never act with an excited crowd, can hardly look at one with respect."
His lip expressed contempt. "It is true that an eloquent leader may
have the power of inciting people to some good deed; but even so, they
are only a machine which he works. Great thoughts are not vociferous.
They float in air, with no sound, unless it is the sound of wings."

Honora checked the words that rose to her lips so suddenly that a deep
blush bathed her face. She had been thinking of the crowd that roared
"Crucify him!" and had recollected only just in time that they were
this man's remote ancestors. But she recollected also that it was to
him as original sin was to her, an hereditary, but not a personal,
stain, and that baptism could wash both away. Her charity began at
home, in the great Christian family, but it stayed not there: it
overflowed to all living creatures.

"I have almost an enthusiasm for firemen," she said hastily. "They
sometimes perform such wonders, and run such terrible risks for
scarcely a reward. Unlike soldiers, they save without destroying
anything. How beautiful their engines are!"

The procession was a long and very brilliant one, and the companies
had vied with each other in decoration. The engines shone as if made
of burnished gold and silver, and wreaths and bouquets of green and
flowers decked them.

"These processions, more than any others I have seen, remind me of
descriptions of pageants in the old time," remarked Honora, when they
had been silent a while. "There is so much show and glitter in them,
and the costumes are so gay. How I would like to be transported back to
that time for one year!"

Her thoughts had taken a flight between the first and last words, and
she was thinking of mediæval religion, with its untroubled faith and
its fiery zeal.

Mr. Schöninger did not share her enthusiasm. Those had been bitter days
for his people, and perhaps he was thinking so.

"I imagine you would ask to be transported back again before the year
was over," he said quietly. "Those times look very picturesque at
this distance, with their Rembrandt shading. But there was no more
heroism then than there is to-day. I far prefer the hero of to-day. He
is a better bred man, not so blatant as the mediæval. It seems to me
that the admirers of that time are chiefly the poets, who sacrifice
everything to the picturesque; ambitious men, who covet power;
and--pardon me!--devout ladies who have been captivated by legends
of the saints, and stories of ecclesiastical pageantry, but who take
little thought for humanity at large."

"But in those days," said Miss Pembroke, "men had some respect for
authority and law, and now they despise it."

"It is the fault of authority if it is despised," Mr. Schöninger
replied with decision. "License is the inevitable reaction from
tyranny, and is in proportion to it. So long as man retains any vestige
of the image of the Creator, tyranny will always, in time, produce
rebels. The world is now inebriated with freedom; let those whose abuse
of authority created this burning thirst share the opprobrium of its
excesses. Some day the equilibrium will be found. We cannot force it;
it is a question of growth; but we can help. You are helping it," he
added, smiling.

"What you have said sounds just," she replied, thoughtfully; "and I
like justice. Perhaps the abuse of legitimate authority is a greater
sin than rebellion against it, since the ruler should be wiser and
better than the ruled."

They were again silent awhile, the gentleman hesitating whether to
speak his thought, and finally speaking.

"Trust one who has studied the world well," he said earnestly. "Instead
of being determined not to believe, mankind at this time is longing to
believe. But it is determined not to be duped. The sceptic of to-day
was made by the hypocrite of yesterday, and half the scepticism is
affected, as half the piety was affected. Men are ashamed and afraid to
be caught in a trap, and they pretend to disbelieve, when in fact they
only doubt. You must now prove to them that truth itself is true, since
they have so often been deceived by falsehood in the garb of truth.
Let a man or a measure prove to be sincere and honest, and there was
never a period in the history of the world when either would win more
hearty approval than now. It is true that the childlike trustfulness
of mankind is gone, partly from growth, partly because it has been
abused; but the nobler powers are maturing. To believe this, you need
not give up your faith. I have seen the eyes of one of the most bitter
of scoffers fill with tears, and his lips tremble, at a proof of ardent
and pious devotion which was not meant to be known. That man was a
scoffer because his common sense and sentiment of justice had been
insulted by pious pretenders. If he could believe, he would be a saint."

Honora Pembroke's face was troubled. There could be no doubt that the
man was honest and sincere in what he said, and that much of what he
said was true. But was a Jew to teach a Christian? She could not be
sure that his judgment was unbiased, and that one more learned than
she would not be able to refute him. She said the best thing she could
think of.

"False professors do not make false doctrines. And if the human mind is
becoming so adult and strong, it should judge the truth by itself, not
by the person who professes it."

"You are quite right," Mr. Schöninger answered. "And that is precisely
what people are learning to do. It is also what many, who wish truth
to be believed on their own testimony, object to their doing. I
repeat"--he glanced with anxiety into her clouded face--"I earnestly
assure you that I have not uttered a word which conflicts with your
creed, though it is not mine. If I were to-day to become a Catholic, I
should only reiterate what I have said on this subject."

The cloud passed from her face, but still she did not speak. She was
not gifted in argument, and this subject was complex, and, moreover, a
bone of contention.

"It has occurred to me," he said presently, "that the people in
Crichton, though they appear to be very liberal, may still have a
prejudice against me as a Jew. That would be of no consequence to me in
the case of most of them; but there are a few whom I should be sorry to
know had such a feeling. The Jews are much misunderstood and slandered,
though people have an opportunity of learning their true character if
they would. The majority seem to look on every Jew as a probable or
possible usurer and dealer in old clothes, and a person capable of
joining a rabble at any moment, and pursuing an innocent man to death.
I do not, of course, fancy for an instant that you have any sympathy
with such people; but I think it possible that you may misunderstand my
attitude toward your church. I have not the slightest feeling of enmity
against it as long as it does not do violence to me or mine, and while
its members are true to the doctrines of peace and charity which they
profess. As an artist I admire it. Its theology is the only one which
still retains binding and implacable obligations of form, consequently,
the only one that can inspire high art. I do not count the old Jews,
who are rapidly melting away. I am of the reformed Jews."

"You no longer expect the coming of the Redeemer, nor the return to
Jerusalem, nor the triumph of your people?" she asked, looking at him
in astonishment.

"We no longer believe in them," he replied.

"What, then, is left you?" she exclaimed.

He smiled slightly. "I expect and long for the redemption of mankind by
the spirit of God, and I believe that truth and charity will prevail,
though they may not descend from heaven to become incarnate in one
form. The Jerusalem my people will return to is the spiritual city of
the children of God. Is it not nobler than the pretty myths which have
been wasting our energies and dividing the brotherhood of men into
petty clans, all hating each other even while they professed that love
was their prime virtue?"

"But sacrifice," she said, "what did you mean by that?"

"We had truth and error mingled. The sacrifice was merely a remnant
of heathen customs. Peoples who knew nothing of Judaism nor of
Christianity had their offerings and sacrifices. The Jews were the
chosen people, finer and more spiritual than any other; and to the
souls of the chosen among them the Creator revealed his truths. They
renounced all heathenish doctrines, and into the few ceremonies and
customs they retained they infused a spiritual significance. As the
race deteriorated, this spiritual meaning was misinterpreted, and
became more and more literal and gross. The people fell into sin, and
for this the Creator punished them by taking away their power and
pre-eminence, and by scattering them over the face of the earth."

Honora listened intently; and when he had finished, she uttered but
one word. Clasping her hands and lifting her eyes, her heart seemed
to burst upward like a fountain, tossing that one word into air,
"Emmanuel!"

Not the primeval Creator alone, distant and awful, but God with us!
Into this vast and terrible void which had been spread out before her,
she invoked with passion the incarnate, the lowly, the pitiful, the
suffering God.

"We hold that sacrifice is a practice of divine institution retained
from our first parents, not an originally heathen custom," she added
after a moment, regaining her composure. "You are, however, obliged
to give up your belief in it, or be inconsistent. I can see now that
if you hold to the sacrifice, you must hold to the Redeemer; if to
the Redeemer, then you must believe in Christ, since the time is gone
by for expectation; and if you accept the Christ, you must be a Roman
Catholic."

"Precisely!" said the Jew. He had felt a momentary electric shock
at the passion of her first exclamation, and had seen with emotion
the flush and fire in her countenance. Now he smiled at her concise
statement of the case.

Miss Pembroke rose, for the last of the procession was passing. The
children were called back to their seats in the same order in which
they had left them, and a few simple exercises were gone through with
at the request of their visitor. All was well calculated to unfold and
inform their young minds, but nothing was for show.

Mr. Schöninger blushed for the mistake he had made in fancying that
any occupation on earth could be more refined and noble than Miss
Pembroke's, when it was conducted in Miss Pembroke's manner. It seemed
an occupation for angels. She possessed, evidently, in a preeminent
degree, the power to understand and interest children, and she
used that power to perfect ends. There was none of that personal
familiarity which he had dreaded to see, that promiscuous fondness and
caressing by which some women fancy they please children, when, in
fact, the finer sort of children are oftener than not displeased with
it. A kind touch of her fingers was to them an immense favor, and a
kiss would have been remembered for ever. But while they treated her
with profound respect, they approached her with perfect confidence and
delight. They gathered about her, and gazed into her sympathetic face,
bright and transparent with love from a bountiful woman's heart. They
looked at her as a sky full of little stars may look into a smooth
lake, and each saw its own reflection there, and was happy. In her soul
all innocent infantile thoughts and fancies were condensed, as cloud
and spray are condensed into water, and not only could she remember the
process, but she could reverse it at will, could evaporate a thought or
truth too strong for childish intellects, and give it in the form of
rosy clouds to wide, grasping, childish imaginations.

Only one exercise failed at first. The children were shy of singing
before the stranger. All their voices faltered into silence but one, a
rather fair voice of a little boy who was perfectly self-confident, and
who evidently expected applause.

Mr. Schöninger took no notice of the child. Its vanity and boldness
displeased him. "A shallow thing!" he thought; and said, "I see that
I must hire you to sing for me. You like fairy-stories, surely. Well,
sing me but one song, and I will tell you the story."

His voice and smile reassured them. Moreover, a gentleman, no matter
how splendid he might be, who could tell fairy-stories, could not be
very dreadful. They exchanged smiles and glances, took courage, fixed
their eyes on their teacher, and sang a pretty hymn in good time and
tune, and with good expression.

In their first essay the musician had caught a faltering little
silvery note, which had failed as soon as heard. In the second it
came out round and clear, a voice of surprising beauty. He marked the
singer, and called him forward as soon as the hymn was over. The boy
came awkwardly and blushing. He was the ugliest and most dingy pupil
there. Only a pair of melancholy, dark, and lustrous eyes, habitually
downcast, and a set of perfect teeth, redeemed the face from being
disagreeable. Through those eyes looked a winged soul that did not
recognize itself, still less expect recognition from others, but felt
only the vague weight and sadness of an uncongenial life. He gave the
impression of a beautiful bird whose every plume is so laden with mire
it cannot fly.

"You have a good voice, and should learn how to sing," Mr. Schöninger
said to him kindly. "I will teach you, if Miss Pembroke approves, and
will make the arrangements. Of course it will cost you nothing."

"He needs encouragement," the musician remarked when the boy had
returned to his seat; "and he needs to have his position defined before
the others. Do you not perceive that they despise him? He has the voice
of an angel, and he looks remarkable. And now for my story."

The children's eyes sparkled with anticipation, and the teacher leaned
smilingly to listen. Let us listen also, and become better acquainted
with Mr. Schöninger.

"Once upon a time, there was a great wrangle in a certain street,"
the story-teller began. "Five little boys and girls were quarreling,
and two dogs were barking. The neighbors put their heads out their
windows, and the policeman stopped. Mrs. Blake put her two forefingers
in her two ears, for the noise was near her step, and the five boys
and girls were all telling her together what the matter was, and whose
fault it was. Then the mothers called their children home, and two went
into Mrs. Blake's, for they were hers. This was the story she drew from
them: Anne Blake had said a cross word to one of the others, that other
had made a face at the next, the third had slapped the fourth, and it
went round the circle. So it seemed that Anne started the whole by
speaking a cross word.

"'Since you are sorry, I will talk no more to you about it,' her mother
said. 'But I wish you to go up to your chamber and sit alone a little
while, and think over a Chinese proverb which is written on this slip
of paper. You are ten years old, and must begin to think.'

"Anne went slowly up-stairs to her chamber, shut the door after her,
and sat down in a little cushioned chair by the window to read her
proverb. Its being Chinese did not prevent it from being good. This is
what she read: 'A word once spoken, a coach and six cannot bring it
back again.'

"The day was warm, and the curtain at the window swung with a lulling
motion, giving glimpses of blue sky with white clouds sailing over,
and, below, of the top of a grape-vine full of leaves and small green
grapes.

"Anne gazed at the sky till it made her feel sleepy--gazing at bright
things does make one sleepy--then she gazed at the grape-vine.
Presently, she saw something in this vine that looked like a tiny
ladder, hidden among the leaves. It looked so much like a ladder that
she leaned forward and pulled the curtain aside, to see more plainly.
Sure enough! It was the loveliest ladder, or stairway, winding down and
down. Its steps were dark, like vine branches, and there was a railing
at each side of twigs and tendrils, and it wound down and down, in
sight and out of sight. And, more wonderful still, it was no longer a
yard, with the city about, she saw, but a great vine covering all the
window, and glimpses of a moonlighted forest down below.

"'I must go down,' says Anne; and so down she went on the beautiful
stairs.

"Lights and shades fluttered over her, and the leaves clapped together,
and little tendrils caught at her dress in play. And by-and-by she
stepped on to the brightest greensward that could be, full of blue
and white violets. The trees arched over her, the air was sweet, and
there was a smooth pond near by. The water was so very smooth that
she would never have known it was water if the banks had not turned
the wrong way in it, and the trees grown down instead of up. A little
white boat, too, had another little white boat under it, the two keel
to keel. Swans ran down the shore as she looked, and splashed into the
water, dipping their heads under, and making the whole surface so full
of motion that the upside-down trees and banks and boat disappeared.
Words cannot describe how beautiful the place was. There was every kind
of flower, and hosts of birds, and the moonlight was so bright that all
could be distinctly seen. There were also a great many splendid moths
that looked like flowers flying about, and flapping their petals.

"But the most beautiful part was that everything seemed to breathe of
peace and love. The birds sang and cooed to each other, the blossoms
leaned cheek to cheek, the water laughed at the stones it ran over,
and the wet stones smiled back, the gray old rocks held tenderly
the flowers and mosses that grew in their hollows, and the mosses
and flowers held on to the rocks with their tiny roots, like little
children clinging to old people who are fond of them.

"'How beautiful it is to see them so loving,' Anne said. 'They are a
sort of people, too; for they look alive. I wish other folks would
be as good. I'm sure I try; but then somebody always comes along and
says something ugly; and then, of course, I can't help being ugly back
again.'

"'Oh! yes, you can,' said a sweet voice close by.

"Anne looked and saw a charming little lady standing beside her. She
was so beautiful that words cannot describe her, and she carried a
pink petunia for a parasol to preserve her complexion. For she was
exquisitely fair, and the moonlight was really very bright.

"'Oh! yes, you can,' she repeated when Anne looked at her. 'You can
give a pleasant answer, and then people will stop being ugly.'

"'I could do it if everybody else would,' Anne said. 'The beginning is
the trouble. How nice it would be if there were a king over all the
world, and he would say, Now, after I have counted three, all of you
stop being cross, and begin to love each other, and keep on loving a
whole hour. If you don't, I'll cut your heads off!'

"'That would not be love; it would be a make-believe to save their
heads,' the little lady answered. 'But there is such a king, and he has
commanded us to love each other, and....'

"Here she was interrupted by a loud flapping of wings and a terrible
croaking, and a great black bird, something like a bat, flew by; and
wherever it struck its wings other bats flew out, and the air grew
dark with them, and all the beautiful forest was changed. The stones
tried to stop the brook, and the brook tried to upset the stones; the
leaves struck each other, the swans and little birds began to pull each
other's feathers out. All was discord.

"And then there was a rolling of wheels, and a trampling of hoofs, and
a great yellow coach appeared drawn by six horses covered with foam.
The coachman looked as if he were driving for his life, and there was a
head thrust from each window of the coach, telling him to drive faster.
All the heads wore caps like dish-covers, and had long braids of hair
hanging down their necks, though they were men; and their eyes slanted
down toward their noses, instead of going straight across their faces.

"'We are trying to catch a wicked word that is ruining all the place,'
they said, 'but we cannot. A wicked word has wings.'

"'So has a kind word wings,' said the little lady. 'Send a kind word
after the cross one, and perhaps it may bring it back.'

"'You are right, madam,' said one of the Chinamen; and he nodded his
head till the long braid at the back of it wagged to and fro. And he
kept on nodding so queerly that Anne felt obliged to nod too, and so
he nodded, and she nodded, till he nodded his head off. And then she
nodded her head off--no, not quite off; but she nodded so that she
waked herself up. For she had been dreaming.

"Then she jumped up and ran down-stairs and out doors as fast as her
feet would carry her. And in ten minutes she was back again, all out
of breath, and full of excitement. 'Mother,' she said, 'a coach and
six can't do it, but a kind word can. I told Jane I was sorry, and she
told--and we all told each other that we were sorry, and then we were
glad.' The words were rather mixed up, but the meaning was all right."

"I am truly grateful to you for allowing me to come this afternoon,"
Mr. Schöninger said on taking leave. "My visit has been to me like a
drop of cold water to one in a fever, or like the sound of David's harp
to Saul. I am refreshed."

He looked both sad and pleased. "I was about to thank you for coming,"
Honora answered. "You have given me and the children much pleasure."

And so, with a friendly salutation, they separated.

She mused a moment. "If he could believe in the sacrifice, all would
follow," she thought.

Then she called the children to their prayers, but first said a word to
them.

"There is something, my dear children, that I want very much," she
said. "Oh! I long for it. I shall be unhappy if I do not have it. And I
want all of you to ask the Infant Jesus to give it to me for his dear
mother's sake. Ask with all your hearts. I will tell him what I wish
for."

Her wish was that Mr. Schöninger might believe that sacrifice was a
divine revelation, not a heathenish custom.

"That is all he needs from me," she thought. "I trust him. If he has
that to begin with, he will himself ask God for the rest."




ITALIAN CONFISCATION LAWS.


                 REVIEWED FROM AN AMERICAN STAND-POINT.

                              BY A LAWYER.

"No state shall pass any _ex post facto_ law, or law impairing the
obligation of contracts."[2]

This is indeed a moral law, and has been recognized as such by all
civilized nations.

Justice Curtis, in his _Life of Webster_ (vol. i., chap. 7, p. 165)
thus notices the decision in the Supreme Court which first gave the
scope and meaning of this clause in regard to charters of private
corporations:

  "The framers of the Constitution of the United States, moved
  chiefly by the mischiefs created by the preceding legislation of
  the states, which had made serious encroachments on the rights of
  property, inserted a clause in that instrument which declared that
  'no state shall pass any _ex post facto_ law, or law impairing
  the obligation of contracts.' The first branch of this clause
  had always been understood to relate to criminal legislation,
  the second to legislation affecting civil rights. But before the
  case of Dartmouth College v. Woodward occurred, there had been
  no judicial decisions respecting the meaning and scope of the
  restraint in regard to contracts, excepting that it had more than
  once been determined by the Supreme Court of the United States
  that a grant of lands made by a state is a contract within the
  protection of this provision, and is, therefore, irrevocable.
  The decisions, however, could go but little way toward the
  solution of the questions involved in the case of the college.
  They did, indeed, establish the principle that contracts of
  the state itself are beyond the reach of subsequent legislation
  equally with contracts between individuals, and that there are
  grants of a state that are contracts. But this college stood upon
  a charter granted by the crown of England before the American
  Revolution. Was the state of New Hampshire--a sovereign in all
  respects after the Revolution, and remaining one after the federal
  constitution, excepting in those respects in which it had subjected
  its sovereignty to the restraints of that instrument--bound by
  the contracts of the English crown? Is the grant of a charter of
  incorporation a contract between the sovereign power and those
  on whom the charter is bestowed? If an act of incorporation is a
  contract, is it so in any case but that of a private corporation?
  Was this college, which was an institution of learning, established
  for the promotion of education, a private corporation, or was it
  one of those instruments of government which are at all times
  under the control and subject to the direction of the legislative
  power? All these questions were involved in the inquiry, whether
  the legislative power of the state had been so restrained by the
  constitution of the United States that it could not alter the
  charter of this institution, against the will of the trustees,
  without impairing the obligation of a contract. If this inquiry
  were to receive an affirmative answer, the constitutional
  jurisprudence of the United States would embrace a principle of
  the utmost importance to every similar institution of learning,
  and to every incorporation then existing, or thereafter to exist,
  not belonging to the machinery of government as a political
  instrument....

  "On the conclusion of the argument the Chief-Justice (Marshall)
  intimated that a decision was not to be expected until the next
  term. It was made in February, 1819, fully confirming the grounds
  on which Mr. Webster had placed the cause. From this decision,
  the principle in our constitutional jurisprudence which regards a
  charter of a private corporation as a contract, and places it under
  the protection of the Constitution of the United States, takes its
  date."

We add a passage from Mr. Webster's speech in this case, as quoted by
the same author from a letter of Prof. Goodrich, of Yale College, to
Rufus Choate:

  "This, sir, is my case. It is the case not merely of that humble
  institution; it is the case of every college in our land. It is
  more. It is the case of every eleemosynary institution throughout
  our country--of all those great charities founded by the piety of
  our ancestors to alleviate human misery and scatter blessings along
  the pathway of life. It is more! It is, in some sense, the case of
  every man among us who has property of which he may be stripped,
  for the question is simply this: Shall our state legislatures be
  allowed to take that which is not their own, to turn it from its
  original use, and apply it to such ends or purposes as they in
  their discretion shall see fit?"

The charitable and religious institutions of Italy and the States of
the Church were founded under guarantees as strong at least as those
which assured the perpetuity of Dartmouth College, and were entitled to
as much immunity from confiscation and intrusion for all coming time.

When a law is in its nature a contract, and absolute rights have vested
under that contract, a repeal of the law cannot divest those rights,
nor annihilate or impair a title acquired under the law. A grant is
a contract according to the meaning given to the word by jurists. A
grant is a contract executed, and a party is always estopped by his own
grant. A party cannot pronounce his own act or deed invalid, whatever
cause may be assigned for its invalidity, and though that party be
the legislature of a state. A grant amounts to an extinguishment of
the right of the grantor, and implies a contract not to reassert that
right. A grant from a state should be as much protected as a grant from
one individual to another; therefore, a state is as much inhibited
from impairing its own contracts, or a contract to which it is a
party, as it is from impairing the obligation of contracts between
two individuals. A grant once made by the ruling or competent power,
creates an indefeasible and irrevocable title. There is no authority
or principle which could support the doctrine that such a grant was
revocable in its own nature, and held only _durante bene placito_.
For no ruling power, be it kingly, legislative, or otherwise, can
repeal a law or grant creating a corporate body, or confirming to them
property already acquired under the faith of previous laws or edicts,
and by such repeal vest the property in others without the consent or
default of the corporators. Such a procedure would be repugnant to the
principles of natural justice. A society or order of religious people
holding property in common or _in solido_, may be considered in the
character of a private eleemosynary institution endowed with a capacity
to take property for objects unconnected with government: it receives
gifts or devises, and other private donations bestowed by individuals
on the faith of its perpetuity and usefulness--such a corporation not
being invested with any political power whatever, or partaking in
any degree in the administration of civil government. It is merely
an institution or private corporation for general charity. It is
established under a charter, which was a contract, to which the donors,
the trustees of the corporation, and the governing power were the
original parties, and it was granted for a valuable consideration--for
the security and disposition of the property necessary for the
existence of the community, order, or society.

The legal interest, in every such literary and charitable institution,
is in trustees, and to be asserted by them, which they claim or defend
on behalf of the society or community for the object of religion,
charity, or education, for which they were originally created, and
the private donations made. Contracts of this kind, creating such
charitable or educational institutions, should be at all times
protected by the state, and their rights maintained by the courts
administered by a pure and just judiciary. Conquests or revolutions
cannot change the rights acquired under such contracts, and no state
should by any act transfer the rights of property theretofore acquired,
nor transfer from the trustees appointed according to the will of the
founders or donors. The will of the state should not be substituted for
the will of the donors, or convert an institution, moulded according
to the will of its founders, and placed under the control of people
of their own selection, into government property. Such action is of
course subversive of the original compact on the faith of which the
donors invested their gifts, donations, or devises, and is, therefore,
repugnant to every idea of honesty and good morals, for enforcing which
governments are instituted.

A grant to a private trustee, for the benefit of a particular _cestui
que trust_, or for any special, private, or public charity, cannot
be the less a contract because the trustee takes nothing for his own
benefit. Nor does a private donation vested in a trustee for objects
of a general nature thereby become a public trust, which a government
may at its pleasure take from the trustee. A government cannot even
revoke a grant of its own funds, when given to a corporation or private
person for special uses. It has no other remaining authority but what
is judicial to enforce the proper administration of the trust. Nor is
such a grant less a contract though no beneficial interest accrues to
the possessor. All incorporeal hereditaments, as immunities, dignities,
offices, and franchises, are rights deemed valuable in law, and
whenever they are the subject of contract or grant they should be held
as legal estates. They are held as powers coupled with interests, and
consequently are vested rights, and of which the possessors should not
be divested by any legislative body without their consent.

Chief-Justice Marshall (in U. S. _v._ Percheman, _7 Peters 86_) says:
It is unusual, even in cases of conquest, for the conqueror to do more
than to displace the sovereign and assume dominion over the country;
and that the modern usage of nations, which has become law, would
be violated; that sense of justice and right which is acknowledged
and felt by the whole civilized world, would be outraged if private
property should be generally confiscated and private rights annulled.

Justice Sprague (Amy Warwick, _2 Sprague 150_) says: Confiscations
of property, not for any use that has been made of it, which go
not against an offending thing, but are inflicted for the personal
delinquency of the owner, are punitive, and punishment should be
inflicted only upon due conviction of personal guilt.

The communities whose rights are now invaded and whose property is
confiscated, ought to be protected under the law of nations. For, by
this law is understood that code of public instruction which defines
the rights and prescribes the duties of nations in their intercourse
with each other. The faithful observance of this law is essential
to national character and the happiness of mankind. According to
Montesquieu, it is founded on the principle that different nations
ought to do each other as much good in peace, and as little harm in
war, as possible. The most useful and practical part of the law of
nations is instituted or positive law, founded on usage, consent,
and agreement. It is impossible to separate this law from natural
jurisprudence, or to consider that it does not derive much of its force
and dignity from the same principle of right reason, the same views of
the nature and constitution of man, and the same sanction of divine
revelation, as those from which the science of morality is deduced.
There is a natural and a positive law of nations. By the former, every
state in its relations with other states is bound to conduct itself
with justice, good faith, and benevolence; and this application of the
law of nature has been called by Vattel the necessary law of nations,
because nations are bound by the law of nature to observe it; and it is
termed by others the internal law of nations, because it is obligatory
upon them in point of conscience.

That eminent jurist, Chancellor Kent, says that the science of public
law should not be separated from that of ethics, nor encourage the
dangerous suggestion that governments are not strictly bound by the
obligations of truth, justice, and humanity in relation to other
powers, as they are in the management of their own local concerns.
States or bodies politic are to be considered as moral persons, having
a public will, capable and free to do right and wrong, inasmuch as they
are collections of individuals, each of whom carries with him into the
service of the community the same binding law of morality and religion
which ought to control his conduct in private life.

The law of nations consists of general principles of right and justice,
equally suitable to the government of individuals in a state of
natural equality and to the relations and conduct of nations; the
conduct of nations should be governed by principles fairly to be
deduced from the rights and duties of nations and the nature of moral
obligation; and we have the authority of lawyers of antiquity, and
of some of the first masters in the modern school of public law, for
placing the moral obligations of nations and of individuals on similar
grounds, and for considering individual and national morality as parts
of one and the same science.

The law of nations, as far as it is founded upon the principles of
natural law, is equally binding in every age, and upon all mankind.

The law of nature, by the obligations of which individuals and states
are bound, is identical with the will of God, and that will is
ascertained by consulting divine revelation, where that is declaratory,
or by the application of human reason where revelation is silent.
Christianity is an authoritative publication of natural religion, and
it is from the sanction which revelation gives to natural law that we
must expect respect to be paid to justice between nations. Christianity
reveals to us a general system of morality, but the application to the
details of practice is often left to be discovered by human reason.

Justice is of perpetual obligation, and is essential to the well-being
of every society. The great commonwealth of nations stands in need of
law, and observance of faith, and the practice of justice.

If the question was one to be decided by the civil courts according to
the American rules concerning rights to property held by ecclesiastical
bodies, the points involved might be presented as follows:

1. Where the property which is the subject of controversy is, by the
express terms of the deed or will of the donor or other instrument
under which it is held, devoted to the teaching, support, or spread of
a specific form of religious doctrine and belief.

2. Where the property is held by a religious congregation, which
by the nature of its organization is strictly independent of other
ecclesiastical associations, and, so far as church government is
concerned, owes no fealty or obligation to any higher authority.

3. The third is where the religious congregation or ecclesiastical body
holding the property is but a subordinate member of some general church
organization in which there are superior ecclesiastical tribunals
with a general and ultimate power of control, more or less complete,
in some supreme judicatory over the whole membership of that general
organization.

Respecting the first of these classes, it does not admit of a rational
doubt that an individual or an association of individuals may dedicate
property by way of trust to the purpose of sustaining, supporting, and
propagating definite religious doctrines or principles, provided that
in doing so they violate no law of morality, and give to the instrument
by which their purpose is evidenced the formalities which the law
requires.

And it is then the duty of a court of law, in a case properly brought
before it, to see that the property so dedicated is not diverted from
the trust which is thus attached to its use. So long as there are
persons qualified within the meaning of the original dedication, and
who are also willing to teach the doctrines or principles prescribed in
the act of dedication, and so long as there is any one so interested in
the execution of the trust as to have a standing in court, it must be
that they can prevent the diversion of the property or fund to other
and different uses.

This is the general doctrine of courts of equity as to charities, and
it is also applicable to ecclesiastical matters.

In such case, where the trust is confided to a religious congregation
or church government, it is not in the power of the majority of that
congregation, however preponderant by reason of a change of views on
religion, to carry the property so confided to them to the support of
new and conflicting doctrine.

A pious man building and dedicating a house of worship to the sole and
exclusive use of those who believe in the doctrines of the Holy Roman
Catholic Church, and placing it under the control of those who at the
time held the same belief, has a right to expect that the law will
prevent that property from being used for any other purpose whatsoever.
The law should throw its protection around the trust, and it is the
duty of courts of law to enforce a trust clearly defined, and to
inquire whether the party accused of violating the trust is using the
property so dedicated as to defeat the declared objects of the trust.
In such cases, the right to the use of the property must be determined
by the ordinary principles which govern voluntary associations.

The same rule prevails as to the class of cases coming within the view
of the third proposition, as to property acquired in any of the usual
modes for the general use of a religious congregation which is itself
part of a larger and general organization, with which it is connected
by religious views and ecclesiastical government, and which appeals
to the courts to determine the right to the use of the property so
acquired. That is, where property has been purchased for the use of
the congregation, and so long as any such body can be ascertained to be
of that congregation, and is under its control and bound by its orders
and judgments, or its regular and legitimate successor, it is entitled
to the use of the property.

In this class of cases, the rule of action which governs the civil
courts of the United States, as enunciated by the highest legal
tribunal, the Supreme Court, is founded upon a broad and sound view of
the relations of church and state, and is, that wherever questions of
faith or of discipline, or ecclesiastical rule, custom, or law, have
been decided by the highest of these church judicatories to which the
matter has been carried, the legal tribunals must accept such decisions
as final, and as binding on them in their application to the case
before them.[3]

In delivering the opinion of the court in that case, the learned Mr.
Justice Miller said:

  "In this country the full and free right to entertain any religious
  belief, to practise any religious principle, and to teach any
  religious doctrine which does not violate the laws of morality
  and property, and which does not infringe personal rights, is
  conceded to all. The law is not committed to the support of any
  dogma, the establishment of any sect. The right to organize
  voluntary religious associations, to assist in the expression and
  dissemination of any religious doctrine, and to create tribunals
  for the decision of controverted questions of faith within the
  association, and for the ecclesiastical government of all the
  individual members, congregations, and officers within the general
  association, is unquestioned. All who unite themselves to such
  a body do so with an implied consent to this government, and
  are bound to submit to it. But it would be a vain consent, and
  would lead to the total subversion of such religious bodies, if
  any one aggrieved by one of their decisions could appeal to the
  secular courts and have them reversed. It is of the essence of
  these religious unions, and of their right to establish tribunals
  for the decision of questions arising among themselves, that
  those decisions should be binding in all cases of ecclesiastical
  cognizance, subject to only such appeals as the organism itself
  provides for.

  "Nor do we see that justice would be likely to be promoted by
  submitting those decisions to review in the ordinary judicial
  tribunals.

  "The Catholic Church has constitutional and ecclesiastical laws
  of its own that task the ablest minds to become familiar with.
  It cannot be expected that judges of the civil courts can be as
  competent in the ecclesiastical law as the ablest men in the
  church. It would therefore be an appeal from the more learned
  tribunal in the law, which should decide the case, to one which is
  less so.

  "These views are supported by the preponderant weight of authority
  in this country."

And according to the American rule, where the subject-matter of
dispute, inquiry, or decision is strictly and purely ecclesiastical
in its character, it is a matter over which the civil courts should
not exercise any jurisdiction--a matter which concerns theological
controversy, church discipline, ecclesiastical government, or the
conformity of the members of the church to the standard of morals
required of them, the civil court has not and should not have any
jurisdiction. If the civil courts were at liberty to inquire into
the whole subject of doctrinal theology, usages, and customs, the
written laws and fundamental principles would have to be examined into
with minuteness and care, for they would be the criteria by which
the validity of the ecclesiastical decree would be determined in the
civil court. And that would deprive the authorities of the church of
their proper right and power to construe their own church laws, and
would open the way to the evil of transferring to the civil courts,
where the rights to property were concerned, the decision of all
ecclesiastical questions.[4]

Of all the cases in which this doctrine is applied, no better
representative can be found than that of Shannon _v._ Frost,[5] where
the principle is ably supported by the learned Chief-Justice of the
Court of Appeals of Kentucky, wherein he says:

  "This court, having no ecclesiastical jurisdiction, cannot revise
  or question ordinary acts of church discipline. Our only judicial
  power in the case arises from the conflicting claims of the parties
  in the church property, and the use of it. We cannot decide who
  ought to be members of the church, nor whether the excommunicated
  have been justly or unjustly, regularly or irregularly, cut off
  from the body of the church."

The same principle was laid down in the subsequent case of Gibson _v._
Armstrong,[6] and of Watson _v._ Avery.[7]

One of the most careful and well-considered judgments on the subject is
that of the Court of Appeals of South Carolina, delivered by Chancellor
Johnson in the case of Harmon _v._ Dreher.[8] That case turned upon
certain rights in the use of church property claimed by the minister,
notwithstanding his expulsion from the synod as one of its members:

  "He stands," says the chancellor, "convicted of the offences
  alleged against him by the sentence of the spiritual body of which
  he was a voluntary member, and whose proceedings he had bound
  himself to abide. It belongs not to the civil power to enter into
  or review the proceedings of a spiritual court. The structure
  of our government has for the preservation of religious liberty
  rescued the temporal institutions from religious interference; on
  the other hand, it has secured religious liberty from the invasion
  of the civil authority. The judgments, therefore, of religious
  associations, bearing on their own members, are not examinable
  here; and I am not to enquire whether the doctrines attributed
  to Mr. Dreher were held by him, or whether, if held, were
  anti-Lutheran, or whether his conduct was or was not in accordance
  with the duty he owed to the synod or to his denomination.... When
  a civil right depends upon an ecclesiastical matter, it is the
  civil court and not the ecclesiastical which is to decide. But
  the civil tribunal tries the civil right, and no more, taking the
  ecclesiastical decisions out of which the civil right arises as it
  finds them."

This principle is reaffirmed by the same court in the John's Island
Church case.[9] And in Den _v._ Bolton[10] the Supreme Court of New
Jersey asserts the same principle.

The Supreme Court of Illinois, in the case of Ferraria _v._
Vascouelles, refers to the case of Shannon _v._ Frost with approval,
and adopts the language of the court, that the judicial eye cannot
penetrate the veil of the church for the forbidden purpose of
vindicating the alleged wrongs of excised members; when they became
members, they did so upon the condition of continuing or not as they
and their churches might determine, and they thereby submit to the
ecclesiastical power, and cannot now invoke the supervisory power of
the civil tribunals.

And in the case of Chase _v._ Cheney, recently decided in the same
(Illinois) court, Judge Lawrence says: "The opinion implies that in the
administration of ecclesiastical discipline, and where no other right
of property is involved, their loss of the clerical office or salary
incident to such discipline, a spiritual court is the exclusive judge
of its own jurisdiction, and that its decision of that question is
binding on the secular courts."

In the case of Watson _v._ Ferris,[11] which was a case growing out of
the schism in the Presbyterian Church in Missouri, the court held that
whether a case was regularly or irregularly before the assembly, was a
question which the assembly had the right to determine for itself, and
no civil court could reverse, modify, or impair its action in a matter
of merely ecclesiastical concern.

The opinion of the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania, expressed in the
case of the German Reformed Church _v._ Seibert,[12] sets forth that
the decisions of ecclesiastical courts, like every other judicial
tribunal, are final, as they are the best judges of what constitutes
an offence against the word of God and the discipline of the church.
Any other than those courts must be incompetent judges of matters of
faith, discipline, and doctrine; and civil courts, if they should be so
unwise as to attempt to supervise their judgments on matters which come
within their jurisdiction, would only involve themselves in a sea of
uncertainty and doubt, which would do anything but improve religion and
good morals.

In the subsequent case of McGinnis _v._ Watson,[13] this principle is
again applied and supported by a more elaborate argument.

Lord Chancellor Eldon, upon delivering the opinion of the House of
Lords in the celebrated test-case of Craigdallie _v._ Aikman, reported
in 2 _Bligh_, 529 (1 _Dow_, 1), said: That they (the law lords) had
adopted this principle as their rule and guide for cases of dispute
respecting the right to property conveyed for the use of religious
worship--that it is a trust which is to be enforced for the purpose
of maintaining that religious worship for which the property was
devoted, and in the event of schism (the original deed having made no
provision for such cases) its uses are to be enforced, not on behalf of
a majority of the congregation, nor yet exclusively in behalf of the
party adhering to the general body, but in favor of that part of the
society adhering to and maintaining the original principles upon which
it was founded: the exclusive standard or guide by which conflicting
claims are to be decided is adherence to the church itself.

Regarding, therefore, church property, or the property of religious
societies, communities, or orders, in the same manner as the private
property of any other corporation or individual, it may with safety be
assumed as a settled and fundamental law that ought to be recognized
by every Christian and civilized state, that it is bound to make just
indemnity and compensation to the citizen or subject, society, or
corporation, or community, for all property taken under the pressure
of state necessity for the public good, convenience, or safety. The
eminent domain of the state should be so exercised as to work no
wrong, to inflict no private injury, without giving to the party
aggrieved ample redress. This doctrine was not engrafted on the public
law to give license to despotic and arbitrary sovereigns. It has its
foundation in the organization of society, and is essential to the
maintenance of public virtue in every government, whether a republic, a
monarchy, or a despotism. It is of the very essence of sovereignty, for
without it a state cannot perform its first and highest duties--those
required by justice and righteousness. Whenever, therefore, from
necessity a state appropriates to public use the private property of
an individual or of a corporation, lay or religious, it is obliged by a
law as imperative as that by which it makes the appropriation, to give
to the party aggrieved redress commensurate with the injury sustained.
Upon any other principle the social compact would work mischief and
wrong. The state might impoverish the citizen it was established to
protect, and trample on those rights of property, security for which
was one of the great objects of its creation.

All the elementary writers of authority sustain these views of the duty
and obligations of states.

Justice requires, says Vattel, that the community or individual be
indemnified at the public charge.

The taking, says Grotius, must be for some public advantage; as, for
instance, in time of war, the erection of a rampart or fortification,
or where his standing corn or storehouses are destroyed to prevent
their being of use to the enemy, in which case the person injured
should receive a just compensation for the loss he suffers out of the
common stock. The state is obliged to repair the damage suffered by
any citizen out of the public funds. The conversion cannot take place
either to gratify any whim, caprice, or fashion; it must be an actual
public necessity. For, do we not read of an instance where some king,
perhaps of Prussia, was erecting a magnificent palace at his capital,
and, in order to carry out the design of the architect, it became
necessary to remove a small unsightly tenement, the property of a poor
man, who, though so poor, would not sell his place or consent that it
should be removed, and there it remained for years, an eyesore perhaps
to many, and yet the king, as the chief depositary of justice, would
not permit it to be disturbed, although urged by his flatterers and
courtiers to do so, until in lapse of years the owner died, and his
successors consented to sell. The historian recalls the justice of the
king, that all honest and honorable rulers and men might follow such a
noble example of honor and justice. But can any one reasonably praise
such an act, and approve of the confiscation of the houses of religious
and charitable associations in Italy, and the very suppression and
wiping out of the corporation or society itself, without trial, or
charge of offence or crime other than the offence of doing good to the
human race without pay, fee, or reward here, but looking only to heaven
for recompense.

If the Italian government or parliament may to-day confiscate or
escheat the property of Catholic communities, and thus commit a breach
of the pact made by former rulers, emperors, or governments with the
founders of such communities, disregarding all inherent rights of
succession and perpetuity, may it not to-morrow also commit a breach
of its own compacts or implied guarantees, and confiscate or escheat
all the property of churches, school-houses, colleges, of other
denominations who have lately or are now building them within Italian
jurisdiction? For what obstacle is to prevent it doing so? Having
outraged and set aside as nought the moral or human law, styled law of
nations, in this respect, may it not do so again in any other, from
either whim or caprice? Unless there is some power left in public
opinion to restrain it, this is a dilemma from which all the arguments
of theoretical political economists or logicians cannot relieve them.

Therefore, is it not a question now well worthy the consideration
of all honest-thinking men, whether or not they should aid public
opinion in sending forth a note of warning against this doctrine
of confiscation--for else, perhaps, the disease may make a wider
sweep over the earth, and parliaments or congresses be elected for
the purpose of confiscating or escheating other property besides
church property or the property of religious or charitable houses or
communities?

Judging from the tenor and tone of American decisions--upon the
question involved--pronounced by some of our ablest and purest
men, this "confiscation," or, more expressively, this "spoliation"
of the property of the church and of religious orders, by Victor
Emanuel, under color of parliamentary enactments, and tested also by
recognized rules of international law, to say nothing of that higher
law which commands us to "do unto others, etc.," such "confiscation"
is utterly indefensible upon any doctrine other than that set forth
in the nefarious maxim, "To the victors belong the spoils," and
any acquiescence on the part of the Christian nations, Catholic or
non-Catholic, is simply disgraceful, and an act of homage to the prince
of this world which is in itself an act of dishonor towards God.

And as any title so acquired can only be maintained so long as the
usurper has the material power to occupy and defend, it is certain
that with the destruction of that power the true and rightful owners
may revive and assert their rights of ownership and possession, as the
lawful successors of the original grantors and founders, regardless of
any claims or incumbrances whatsoever made or suffered by intervening
holders or intruders.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by Rev. I.
T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,
D. C.

[2] Constitution of the United States.

[3] Watson _v._ Jones, _13 Wallace 729_.

[4] See Cardcross case, McMillan _v._ General Assembly of the
Presbyterian Church, 22 _D._ (_Scotch Ct. of Sess._) 270, decided 23d
December, 1859. Attorney-General _v._ Pearson, _3 Merivale 353_; Miller
_v._ Goble, _2 Denio 492_.

[5] _3 B. Monroe 253_.

[6] _7 B. Monroe 481_.

[7] _2 Bush 332_.

[8] 2 Speers' _Equity_ 87.

[9] 2 Richardson's _Equity_ 215.

[10] _7 Halstead 206_.

[11] _45 Missouri 183_.

[12] _3 Barr 291_.

[13] _41 Pennsylvania State 21_.




HOW GEORGE HOWARD WAS CURED.


To give up the battle of life at any age is bad, so long as a flicker
of life is left. It is like deserting the doomed ship whilst the
groaning planks hold together; like refusing to make one in the forlorn
hope, but choosing rather to sit down with closed eyes, and let death
come as it may. But to give up the battle of life at five-and-twenty,
when the battle can scarcely be said to have begun, whilst the future
lies hidden behind an uncertain mist, when the sinews are braced, the
eyes clear, the heart hopeful, the hair unsilvered--to give it up then
is like deserting the ship whilst all is fair sailing, like sneaking
from the ranks at first scent of the enemy. It is as cowardly as for
the sentinel to abandon his post or the ensign to surrender without
a blow the colors which he swore to defend to death; nay, as for the
husband to desert the wife he chose out of all the world before God to
be his until death. Yet this was what George Howard had done.

Of course a woman was in it, as she is in most difficulties here
below. And is it not her province? If she sometimes happen to be "in
it" a little too much, rather in the light of an obstacle than a
helper--well, the best and not the worst must be made of her under the
awkward circumstances. The first man, if Mr. Darwin will excuse the
heresy, set us a good example in this way. It was a pity that Eve did
not turn her ear away from the voice of the charmer; but as she did
the other thing, and so wrought upon her husband that he followed her
example, after all he made the very best of a very bad bargain, and,
like a true man, stuck to his wife. But to return from Adam to his
XIXth century descendant, Mr. George Howard: Why had that promising
young gentleman metaphorically "thrown up the sponge," and drawn aside
like a coward from the broad road of life, to linger on uselessly in
this little out-of-the-way French town where nobody knew him, where
nobody heard of him from the great city at the other side of the ocean,
which he left one fine morning a year or more ago without a word of
warning or a single good-by to the many friends whose kindly eyes had
looked hopefully upon him, and whose friendly lips had prophesied
success? Why had he gone out from this busy heart of the New World,
palpitating with promise and half-defined yearnings, to bury himself
away in this silent nook in an obscure corner of the south of France,
doing nothing, caring nothing, planning nothing, wearily waiting for
life to end?

As is generally the case with despairing five-and-twenty in the
masculine, and despondent seventeen or eighteen in the feminine, sex,
it was one of those peculiar difficulties known as "affairs of the
heart." Nobody ever knew the exact ins and outs of it; how far the
lady was to blame, and how far George had himself to accuse. Like many
a passionate, high-souled young man, where he bestowed his heart he
expected that heart to absorb and fill up the life and soul of the
woman he loved. That effect does follow generally, but by degrees
more or less slow. George was apt to love too fiercely and too fast.
But young, high-spirited girls like to be wooed before they are won.
Though their hearts may have been virtually taken by storm long before
the besieging party so much as suspect that a breach has been made in
the stubborn fortress, still they like to make a show of surrendering
at discretion, and marching out with all the honors of war, rather
than be instantly and absolutely overwhelmed by love. There is such
a thing as a surfeit of happiness. George Howard had probably made
this mistake. Such lovers as he are apt to start at shadows, imagining
them realities. The end of it was that George's fortress surrendered
to somebody else, married the conqueror, and was disgracefully happy.
Whether or not she ever cast a thought back on the bright young fellow
that once loved her so fiercely, who can tell? Probably not. She made a
good match--and contented wives soon drop romance; sooner than husbands
often. It is astonishing how easily the goddess we adore before
marriage descends from the clouds, walks the earth like a sturdy woman,
and becomes a practical, sensible wife. It may be a little unromantic
at first sight, but it is undoubtedly by far the best thing she could
do under the circumstances. But when poor George saw his goddess riding
about smiling and happy by the side of her husband, and that husband
not himself, he could not endure the sight. After lingering a little
in misery, he threw up his connections, and left the city for what
destination nobody knew.

George Howard was alone in the world. His mother had died early; his
father went off when George was twenty, leaving him fortune enough to
help him to make life as pleasant as he chose to make it for himself.
He was advancing rapidly in his profession--law--and had made a host
of friends when the collapse came. As is so often the case, his pride,
instead of sustaining him, sank under the blow. Most probably, if
the truth were told, the wound inflicted on his self-esteem rankled
deeper than that which had killed his love. The thought that another
man could succeed where George Howard had failed would have been gall
and wormwood to him in any case; but when the object of rivalry was a
woman's heart, and George Howard's were the rejected addresses, death
would be a small word to express the consummation of that gentleman's
misery; it was the annihilation of all that made life worth the living.
"Howard the jilted," he seemed to read in everybody's eye, when perhaps
not half a dozen persons knew anything about the affair. Jilted by a
girl! How could a man recover such a blow? What was there in the wide
world to fill up the void left in one when his mighty self shrank to
such insignificant proportions?

Common sense might have suggested that there was more than one woman
in the world, and that there lay a deeper fund of love in the heart
of a man than could be exhausted on the first girl he chanced to meet
and admire. It might have suggested also that failure in love did
not necessarily mean failure in matters which, after all, as far as
the world outside of our little selves is concerned, are of far more
importance than love. Man is not sent into this world for the one
purpose of being "married and done for," as the phrase goes. But when
did common sense find the ear of a lover, particularly of a lover
rejected?

So here was George Howard, clever enough, good-looking enough, and by
no means a bad fellow, self-stranded on the barren sand-banks of life,
with a short five-and-twenty years behind him, a future full of fair
promise still before him, hugging a useless sorrow in silent sadness,
and making that his bride.

He lived on listlessly from day to day. He mixed with no circle;
he knew nobody. He took his meals at his hotel, addressed a few
commonplaces to those he happened to meet, and passed most of his time
in the open air, taking long strolls into the country, walking up and
down the beach by the sea, watching the solitary sails that came and
went and faded out of sight--sadly, it seemed to him sometimes, as
though beckoning him back to a living world. There were few visitors
at the little town, save just during the hottest of the summer months.
Such as did come hurried away again as fast as they could. The train
rushed through it day after day, a crowd of peering faces would show
themselves a few moments at the windows of the cars, strange eyes
would stare curiously at the strange place, and pass on a moment after
as indifferent as before. Something of the instinct which prompts a
wounded animal to seek out a silent covert where it may lie down with
its wound and die alone, must have conducted George Howard to this spot.

Yet to a man who had only gone there for a short holiday, weary awhile
of the rush, and the struggle, and the incessant strain and roar of a
busier life, the little French town, with its quaint look and quaint
ways, might have offered a refreshing relief from the dust, and the
turmoil, and the worry of the world of politics and money, railroads
and trade. Many a one doubtless has at some time or other had the
wish to wake up some morning a century or two ago in a world that had
gone away. To such the placid evenings by the sea, the homely looks of
the inhabitants, the clean blouses of the men, the white caps of the
women, the busy tongues of the children, the long silver hair of M. le
Curé, the dances by the sea as the sun went down, the slow wains drawn
by drowsy oxen, the fuss and bustle of the weekly market-day, the big
_gendarme_ with his clanking sword, the white houses and their antique
gables, with the beat of the surf on the beach for ever, and the fresh
odor of the ocean pervading all places, would have seemed the delicious
realization of many a picture looked on and lingered over in a gilded
frame.

But on the deadened senses of George Howard these simple scenes, and
sights, and sounds fell as you might fancy the roll of the muffled
drums to fall on the one stretched out in the coffin who is being borne
speedily on by the living to his grave. They wake no life in him; he
makes no stir; he is let down into the earth--a farewell roll, and the
grave is closed over him for ever, whilst the bright world above seems
to smile the merrier that another dead man is hidden away.

Of course, this kind of life and mode of thought were rapidly telling
on him and bringing nearer and nearer the consummation he seemed to
desire. The step grew slower, the eyes began to lose their quick
lustre, the cheek its flush, the body its swing and half-defiant
bearing. The simple people round about looked at him silently, shook
their heads, and sighed as he moved by without noticing them. He grew
more and more attached to the beach, where he would stroll up and down
and sit for hours on the yellow sand, staring out blankly at the
broad water, casting a pebble into it from time to time, and watching
the circles that it made. There was something congenial to his nature
in the changeable face and mood, the smile, the frown, the hoarse
breathing, the sob, the sigh, the roar, the rage of the ocean. To all
these changes something within him gave a voice, until the very spirit
of the mysterious deep seemed to creep into his being, and make it an
abode there.

So he lived on, never writing to a friend, never yearning to go back to
the world he had quitted, and which still held out its arms to him. All
ambition, all desire of achievement, all common feeling with the world
into which he had been born, seemed to have gradually oozed out of him.
He had staked his happiness and lost, and now he only wished for the
end to come soon. It never occurred to him that he had possibly staked
his happiness at too low a figure. He only saw before him an empty
life with a dreary existence. At such stages, some men commit suicide.
He was not yet coward enough for that, though not Christian enough to
perceive that this world was not made for one man and one woman only,
but for all the children of Adam.

But happily, however man may reject Providence, and close his eyes to a
Power that shapeth all things for good, Providence mercifully refuses
to reject him without at least giving him plenty of opportunities,
humanly called chances, to come back to the possession of his senses,
and the fulfilment of the mission which is appointed unto every man.
And one of George Howard's chances came about this wise.

A favorite walk of his was along a winding road leading some distance
out of the little town up a lofty hill, from the summit of which the
eye could scan the sweeping circle of the waters, stretching out in
its glittering wonder to the verge of dimness, or, inland, where miles
and miles of fair pasture-land and vineyards spread away in gentle
undulations, with smoke rising from hollows in which hamlets slept, and
church spires clove the clear air, and airy villas crowned the pleasant
hills. Alternate gleams of sea and land shot through the tall poplars
that lined the road as it circled round the hill. At the top, buried
amid trees, and fronted by a garden filled almost the year through with
delicious flowers, was the Maison Plaquet, a sort of _café_, where
visitors could procure a cup of coffee, a glass of _eau sucrée_, or
the good wines _du pays_. This establishment was presided over by Mme.
Plaquet, a buxom dame with a merry eye and kindly voice, whose pleasant
face had become quite a part of the landscape. There was understood
to be a M. Plaquet somewhere, but he did not often show himself to
visitors. He left the whole business to madame, having a strong
suspicion that there was no woman like her in the world, and spent most
of his time trimming the flower-beds, pruning the trees, or tending to
the vineyard.

George was a frequent visitor at the Maison Plaquet. He would spend
hours in the garden dreaming. Madame was won by his handsome face
and the fixed sadness in his eyes, which always lighted up, however,
in response to her genial greeting. She half suspected that it was
something more than a love of nature which sent the _pauvre garçon_,
as she called him, away from friends, and home, and family, to sit
there day after day dreaming in her arbor, beautiful as it was. With
the chatty good-nature which in a Frenchwoman never seems offensive,
she would sometimes try to draw him out of himself, to learn something
about him that might help her to lift the settled cloud off his
handsome face. To Mme. Plaquet it seemed almost a sin against the good
God to wear a cloudy face always. But George was so jealously reserved
that she gave him up, with the secret conviction that it was love alone
that could inflict so deep a wound on so young a heart, and that love
alone could heal it.

One afternoon, whilst George was reclining in the arbor, a riding party
of gay cavaliers and dames showed themselves suddenly in front of the
Maison Plaquet. Exclamations of delight at the beauty of the scene
burst from one and another. One fair young girl stood her horse just
at the entrance to the arbor, and, to those within, completely filled
in the picture. Thus she met the dreamy eyes of Mr. George Howard. The
steed was a little restive, but with a firm though gentle hand she
curbed him until he stood still as death and she upon him. The light
hat she wore was thrown back, showing a shapely head with glossy curls,
around which the sun made a glory under the clustering blossoms. For
a moment horse and rider seemed to stand out startlingly clear from
the sky, and for that moment George allowed his eyes to linger there
as upon a striking picture. A moment after, the party had dismounted,
entered the arbor, and seated themselves at a table opposite to our
friend. As the centre figure of the picture which had attracted his
gaze passed, she glanced at him, and he had a momentary view of a
blooming cheek and a pair of those large, soft, but courageous eyes,
filled with that courage which makes a man reverence a woman--eyes
round, and full, and clear as a child's, that fear no evil without,
because they are conscious of none within. The party was a gay one, and
their gaiety grated on George's ear. He rose and sauntered down the
hill, a little sadder, if possible, than when he had ascended it.

After his departure, one of the gentlemen, an old acquaintance of Mme.
Plaquet's apparently, inquired of her who her strange visitor might be
whom he had met there more than once, and always alone.

Madame, with a sigh and many a shrug, and much amiable volubility,
told the company that she knew nothing at all about him, save that
he lived in the little town _en bas_, that he came there very often,
that he was evidently suffering from some great trouble, that he was a
good gentleman and always gave something to the poor when they asked
him, and that it was a great pity so handsome a young gentleman should
offend the good God by not being happy.

The ladies were quite interested in madame's narrative. Ladies will be
interested about good-looking young men who are suffering from that
romantic complaint, an incurable melancholy. But as madame's narrative,
eloquent and pathetic though it was, left them in much the same state
of enlightenment as before with regard to the interesting stranger, all
they could do was sigh a little, remount, and resume their gay tone.
Just as they were commencing the descent, a hare started and frightened
the horse of the young lady who had attracted George's attention. A
plunge, a rear, and an instant after it was out of sight, thundering
down the steep road at a speed that mocked pursuit.

George was strolling along in his listless way, stopping now at this
turn, now at that, to admire the scenery, pluck a flower or a leaf,
and muse a little. He had almost arrived at the foot of the hill, when
a cry from above and a clatter of hoofs broke on his ear. He stood at
a narrow turn between two high banks opening into the last bend of the
road, to listen and observe. A moment after, a horse with a lady on his
back came tearing down at a mad speed right on him. A glance showed
that the rider stood in imminent danger of her life, and that the only
means of saving her was to stop the animal in the midst of its wild
career. The thought and determination to do something had scarcely
time to flash through his brain, when the horse was on him; and how he
never knew, but he found himself dragging at the reins--a stumble of
the steed against the bank as it swerved, a fainting lady in his arms,
and a moment after a crowd of persons around them. He surrendered her
to the care of her friends, and, seeing her revive whilst they were
engaged in tending her, took occasion to slink away unobserved, as
though he had been guilty of some mean action. And the Maison Plaquet
saw him no more.

About a week after this occurrence, he was taking one of his usual
moody walks along the beach, his hands clasped behind him, and his eyes
following the golden path that led away over the waters down to the
sinking sun. He walked along listlessly, insensible to everything save
the subtle solemnity of the hour, when the brooding calm of the evening
began to settle over the crimson wave and the flushed earth. He did not
observe a figure leaning against a huge boulder that lay rosy-red right
in his path. The leaning figure was that of a young man, who, like
George, was surveying the scene, but with an air of genuine admiration
curiously tempered by the eye of a connoisseur examining a painting
as to the merits or defects of which his oracular opinion might be
called for at any moment by a listening world. Let us look at him as
he leans back there, so contented, to all seeming, with the world in
general, and possibly with himself in particular; for notwithstanding
an occasional touch of what in others would be called impertinence, but
in him was really rather assumed than natural, and, as he was wont to
say, often got him out of difficulties, Ned Fitzgerald was a fellow you
would like.

His slim, well-knit figure, clad in a light summer suit, his pleasant,
animated face surmounted by a straw hat that became him, his bright
eyes glancing around and taking all in in a sweep--the sinking sun, the
mingling colors on the waters, the flush on the hills, the blood-red
glow on the sands, the quiet circles of a solitary sea-bird that turned
and dipped its snow-white wings in the rosy light--to one looking at
him, he made nature seem all the more lovely and enjoyable for having
one who could feel its loveliness so thoroughly and so evidently.

The quick eye did not take long to pick out the slightly stooped
figure that seemed so wrapt in silent thought, and, as it neared
him, never turned its gaze from the dying sun. Mr. Ned Fitzgerald
watched its approach, and, with his usual tendency to be sociable,
evidently contemplated addressing it; when, as it came close enough to
distinguish the features, he started from his recumbent position, took
off his hat and tossed it wildly in the air, never waiting to catch it
again, but, rushing towards George, seized that astounded and miserable
mortal in his arms, and hugged him almost to suffocation before he
could see who it was, whilst the exclamation burst from him:

"Why, George Howard, by all that's impossible!"

Another hug and a longer one, and a hearty laugh, and a shake of both
hands up and down, and a look of genuine pleasure in the bright eyes
that seemed to throw a light over the kindly face--Ned's pleasantry
was contagious, and the first flush of surprise on George's face was
succeeded by a faint smile as soon as he recognized his old friend and
school-fellow, whilst a sort of moisture forced itself into his own
eyes. It was as though he had come back from the grave a moment to find
that after all the hand shaken so vigorously by an old friend--the
best-liked old friend of them all, who had studied with him, and fought
with him, and played with him, and got into all sorts of scrapes and
out of them with him, and built with him those bubble castles that boys
will build at school, destitute of nothing save foundation--was still
real flesh and blood, and that the heart throbbing within him was still
human.

"Why, Ned, old fellow, what in the name of wonder brought you here?"

"Destiny, my boy, destiny, fate--anything you please that may give
a sufficiently solemn turn to a landslip close by which interfered
considerably with locomotion, and forced me bag and baggage out of
my snug _coupé_, to set me down in this unknown corner of the earth,
absolutely without a soul to speak to, for one night. But I do believe
I could have endured a broken head as well as a broken journey for the
sake of dropping on you again, old boy."

Why young gentlemen, supposed to know the meaning of words, should
find such a secret fund of special endearment in the terms which they
so lavishly apply to one another of "old boy," "old fellow," or "old
man," is a mystery whose solution is still to appear. Young persons
of the opposite sex, as it is called--goodness knows why--are not in
the habit of addressing each other as "old woman," "old duck," or "old
maid." Such terms would be esteemed in them as anything but endearing,
although married ladies have been known to speak of their lord and
master as "a dear, good old thing." However, to return from this
digression, which is becoming dangerous, to the "old" men in question:

"Well, Ned, I am really glad to see you," said George, and then added
slowly, as the old chill came back to him, "and that's more than I'd
say to many an old acquaintance--now."

He looked away moodily to where the sun had gone down, as the gray
began to settle over the water. Ned took a quick glance at his friend,
and saw that, as he expressed it to himself, "all was not right
somewhere." He had seen very little of Howard since they left college,
and knew nothing of what had driven him from New York. However, he
determined to take no notice of his last remark for the present, but
said gaily:

"This sea of yours gives one a tremendous appetite. I move dinner.
There's nothing like dinner to liven up a man's wits. Come along,
George. We have had our fill of gorgeous sunsets and scenery for one
day. There's a poetry as well as a glare in the gaslight when it shines
on a well-spread table. What! you have no gas here? Happy people!
One tax the less. But it is to be hoped you find something to eat in
this backbone of the world. Now, come along, and we'll have all the
adventures by flood and field with the cigars."

Ned was at his best during dinner, though, for that matter, he seemed
always at his best. His presence gave a pleasant flavor to dishes which
time after time George had turned away from with disgust. He had an
original remark for everything. And the polite French waiter was rather
astonished as the dinner progressed to see M. O--art, as the domestics
called George, give vent to an occasional laugh, which grew and grew,
until the two old friends became almost as uproarious as a couple of
school-boys out for a holiday.

That delicious after-dinner moment having arrived when the cigars are
lighted and the legs stretched out in lazy contentment, without the
slightest regard for "the proprieties"--nobody but themselves being
present--they began their questionings and cross-questionings. George
was the first to start.

"Well, Ned, what in the name of good fortune brought you down here?
What are you doing? Still writing?"

"Yes. At present I am despatched on a secret diplomatic mission, which
of course it is impossible for me to divulge, by the editor of the
greatest daily in the world. You know what that means."

"Well, I can guess. The particular 'greatest daily' does not matter
much. There are so many."

"Yes; and the fun of it is, I write for them all. The six or seven
special correspondents who keep New York and London on the _qui vive_
with regard to European affairs, and who lay bare to their wondering
vision from time to time the real undercurrent of those affairs,
social, political, and religious, are often one and the same with your
Mephistophelian friend."

"Bohemianizing, eh? Why, I took you to be respectable, Ned. Ah! a
newspaper office is a sadly demoralizing place."

"Pshaw! What will you have? The public wants news, and somebody must
furnish it. People nowadays are much the same as people ever were.
Humanity must have something to talk about, or it could not exist.
Humanity is a woman."

"I agree with you there; that is why I have abandoned it."

"Oh! I see what you would say. There are two sides to that. But what
I mean is, we must talk, or the world will come to a stand-still. The
newspaper man nowadays furnishes the staple commodity on which the
world exercises its tongue."

"Nowadays, yes. Well, it's a poor commodity. Somebody has well called
it the 'cheap and nasty.'"

"Always the same, George; always the same. What was the cry of
the Athenians when S. Paul went amongst them? 'What news? _Quid
novi?_'--and the Athenians were the intellect of their time. To-day we
live too fast for the tongue; hence electricity, hence the daily."

"Hence the Bohemian?"

"Well, Bohemian is a much-misapplied word. It requires a sort of genius
to be a true Bohemian; erratic genius, if you like, but still genius.
Bohemianism is not all boots down at heel, crushed hat, and broken
elbows, five-cent cigars and lager-beer that a friend pays for, with
an occasional bottle of champagne when the pocket happens to be flush.
Look at me, for instance, supplying the six or seven leading dailies
with news. If I tell a lie one day, I contradict it the next. If I
send a false account to the government organ, I send an extra true one
to the opposition, and a trimmer to the free and independent. If the
government is malicious, the opposition is ultra pious; and if the
free and independent is scandalous, both unite in coming down on and
crushing it. To be sure, things get mixed up a little sometimes; but,
on the whole, matters are pretty evenly balanced, and in the end the
truth comes uppermost. Then all along you are supported by the secret
conviction that nobody ever believes a word you say."

"Whose fault is that?" asked George.

"The weakness of humanity, my dear fellow. You must not go too deeply
into things, nor expect a daily newspaper, with its villanous printers,
to be true as gospel. A newspaper correspondent is despatched to find
news; and if he can't find it...."

"He invents."

"Well, what is the use of imagination, unless you exercise it a bit?
But it is the greatest fun in the world to see yourself quoted by
opposite parties for opposite purposes."

"Yes, it must be amusing. Some people--old-fashioned people, to be
sure--might consider it a trifle dishonest, perhaps; but then, they are
behind the age."

Ned rose, laughed, and took a turn round the room. Standing opposite
his friend, he said:

"So, George, I find I have succeeded in giving you an exalted idea of
my character and ability already. Have you forgotten that famous gift I
had of extemporizing yarns at school? Well, to relieve your mind, the
devil--that is to say, Mr. Edward Fitzgerald--is not quite so black as
he has painted himself. Nor, indeed, am I quite so powerful and fluent
a writer as I have imagined. I am on a mission here, though; partly
business, and partly to take my sister back with me to New York. She
has been staying with some of her school friends, convent companions.
I was on my way to join them when this lucky accident tumbled me into
your hermitage. And now, what has brought you here? You seem quite
domiciled. Why, I expected to have heard great things of you by this
time."

"I? Oh! I am doing nothing," said George, with a sigh, coming back to
himself.

"Nothing! Well, that is not such a bad occupation when you only know
how to do it, and can find no other employment."

"Why, what else can a fellow do?"

Ned was fairly taken aback at this question. To ask him what a fellow
could do in this world was like asking him why he had teeth, or hands,
or a head, or life altogether. After an amazed stare at his friend, he
answered:

"Well, I suppose that what a man can do is generally best known to
himself, when, like you, he has life in his veins, brains in his head,
and money in his pocket. At all events, it is scarcely likely that you
were made for the precise purpose of burying yourself alive here."

"Oh! I don't know. It is not such a bad sort of life," said George
wearily. "Here I have no cares, and fuss, and bother, no visitors to
bore, and no bores to visit. Nobody comes to borrow or beg. There is no
necessity for playing at compliments with people for whom you do not
care a straw, and who care for you less. Here is, instead, the sea, and
the shore, and the woods, and the hills, a fair table, a good enough
washerwoman, and people around you who never speak till they are spoken
to. What more can a fellow want?"

Ned made no reply. He was puffing his cigar in silence, and following
the curling smoke with his eye as he blew it against the light--a
favorite fashion of his when thinking to himself. He was thinking
now, rapidly, how changed was his friend in so short a time. He was
wondering where all the ardent spirit and high hopes that fired him a
few years back had gone. Contact with the world, instead of crushing,
had raised his own hopes the more. Why had it not done the same for
Howard? He could find no solution to the difficulty; for life to him
was a glorious battle, and inaction worse than death. His friend must
have encountered some great shock, some bitter disappointment, at
the outset. He was seeking the clew in the smoke apparently. After a
painful pause, he at length asked:

"How long have you been here now, George?"

"On and off, a year or more. I go and come. I make short excursions
round about for a week or so sometimes, but I always return here."

"You entered a firm on the other side, did you not?"

"No; I was about to do so."

"And why didn't you? Were they cheats?"

"No."

"Did they fail?"

"No."

"Did _you_ fail? Did you lose any money in any way?"

"No, what makes you ask?"

"Because I want to find out what the trouble is with you. You are not
in love?"

"Good God! No!" exclaimed George almost fiercely, as he rose, strode to
the window, and stood there looking out at the moon.

The bitterness of his tone, the abruptness of his action, told the
observant Ned that unwittingly he had touched the right chord. He
indulged in a silent whistle to himself, and shook his head as a
good-hearted physician might over a hopeless case. Ned confessed
himself a bad hand at ministering to the love complaint. That was
the only ill for which he would advocate the calling in of a female
physician. For heart disease of this nature, Ned would, on his own
authority, grant a diploma to any suitable lady doctor; for he was
convinced of the utter inability of man to handle such a delicate
affair. So he shook his head despondently.

Whilst these thoughts were passing through the brain of the now
very wide-awake Mr. Fitzgerald, George seemed to have recovered his
usual dead calm, and, leaving the window as he proceeded to light
a fresh cigar, inquired, with a smile that seemed to anticipate a
characteristic answer:

"Ned, have you ever been in love?"

It was now Ned's turn to rise. He tore about the room frantically a
moment, dashed his hand through his hair, and finally, coming to a
stand-still before his amused friend, burst out:

"In love! Have I ever been in love? What a question to ask a man! Don't
you know my name? Did you ever hear of a Fitzgerald or any other of his
race who had not been in love? Why, man, I fall in love every day of my
life. How can I help it when every woman I see for five minutes falls
in love with me. I might say I have lost my heart so often that I don't
think there's a bit of it left to lose now; and still I go on falling
in love by sheer force of habit." And Ned "hove to" with a comic burst
of despair.

"You are a happy man, Ned," said George, laughing.

"Happy?" questioned Ned, half to himself, and as though the idea had
struck him for the first time in his life. "Well, I suppose I am. I
don't see much advantage to be gained by being otherwise."

"Nor I; but, for all that, people differently constructed from your
fortunate self cannot always help being otherwise."

"Bah! Of course they can; particularly in love matters. Love was not
meant to make a man mope, but to stir him up. Those old fogies in the
middle ages had a much truer idea of love, as of many other things,
than we have nowadays, with all our boasting. Ah! love then was the
genuine article. Not all sighs, and tears, and millinery, and newspaper
paragraphs, and mothers-in-law, and the lovers playing cat's-cradle
to each other. No; but the man went about his business, bearing his
love in his heart for a year and a day. He wore his lady's gage on his
helm, and, if his business happened to be the giving and taking of hard
knocks, why, he gave and took, his love and himself against the world.
He rode in the lists under his lady's eye, and proved himself a brave
man for her sake. Love nerved his arm, whilst it purified his heart and
softened his soul. Why did the wife gird the buckler on her lord? Love
was akin to religion then, marriage a sacrament, and not, as it now
is...."

"A social exchange, a trade carried on by the great Mother-in-law
Company, Unlimited--a thing of barter and loss, where dollars are
wedded to dollars by the magistrate, where youth and beauty sells
herself to old age for so much a year and her own carriage. O Ned, Ned!
what a pity we were not born in the middle ages!"

"Hallo!" said Ned, "I did not mean to go quite so far as that, George.
After all, they were men and women then, just as we are; and, though
one cannot help breaking out now and again on modern notions, one thing
is certain--for every true knight there is somewhere a true lady."

"Have you found yours yet, Ned?"

"Perhaps not, perhaps yes," said Ned, dropping a moment his light tone.
"Perhaps because I am not a true knight; perhaps because, though I
found a true lady, she was meant for somebody else. Because I may have
made one mistake, that is no reason why my true lady should not be
waiting for me somewhere, nor why I should fail to rejoice at seeing
two others happy, though my own toes may have been trodden on a little
bit. After all, the world is very wide and full of happy possibilities."

Something unusual in Ned's tone seemed to spring from real feeling
that lay concealed under his usual airy manner; perhaps suffering,
with which his good-nature cared not to trouble the sufficiently
trouble-laden world. For the first time in his life, George Howard
felt a little ashamed of himself, and conscious of something akin
to selfishness in his nature which he had never suspected there
before. It takes a very long time to see ourselves. Self-knowledge
comes piecemeal, and the pieces that go to make the human mosaic are
sometimes very ugly when seen alone, though they may pass muster in the
whole, and merge and be lost in its common symmetry.

When he awoke the following morning, and the thought came to him that
the usually dreary day was to be enlivened for once by the presence of
Ned Fitzgerald, the thought was not an unpleasant one; and when that
gentleman burst into his room with a bundle of sea-weed in his hand,
speckled all over with curious little shells, which he said he would
keep for Mary, the look of young, active, earnest life in his bright
eyes and diffused over his whole person seemed in some indescribable
manner to make the sun brighter and the air clearer. George began to
feel young again, and examined the shells and the slimy weed, over
which Ned gloated and expatiated, with an interest that would have been
a marvel to him yesterday.

"And who is Mary?" he asked, as that name passed Ned's lips more than
once.

"Why, the sister I was telling you about."

"Oh!" said George, and was silent.

That evening, it was arranged that Ned should go the next day, and
bring Mary back with him. As he found the little town so quaint and
quiet, he determined to stay a week or so with his old friend, instead
of going on directly to Paris, as he had intended; and George, to pass
the interval, made his first visit since the accident to his friend,
Mme. Plaquet.

That good dame was as angry as she could be with him. Why had he not
come to see her for so long? What had he been doing? Was he sick from
the dragging that _méchant_, the horse, had given him? How did she know
about it? Why, had not M. de Lorme and the ladies been there almost
every day since, and all on purpose to meet him and thank him for his
brave service? And now, was not mademoiselle going away, and her heart
breaking because she could not see her preserver, and thank him for
saving her life? And there was the card and the letter of M. de Lorme
waiting for him all these days. She would not have it sent, because
she expected monsieur to come every day. Ah! it was cruel!

George opened the letter, and found that it was an eulogium of M. de
Lorme on his gallantry and devotion, to which he was indebted for
the life, probably, of his charming young friend; that her brave but
unknown preserver would confer an honor on her and on M. de Lorme by
favoring them with his distinguished friendship; that it was cruel of
him to escape from them whilst they were all engaged with his charming
young friend; that he hoped he would excuse this mode of addressing
him, as, owing to the peculiarity of the circumstances, he knew of
no other; and that, as his charming young friend was about to leave
them, he would no longer deny them the opportunity, so much desired,
of paying the deep debt of gratitude they owed him, by allowing them
to testify in person their admiration of his admirable courage and
chivalrous devotion.

"Well, and what do you say?" asked Mme. Plaquet, as, with arms folded
and a general air of mistress of the situation, she surveyed her
mysterious young friend, whilst, with a half-amused countenance, he
read M. de Lorme's missive.

"Oh!" said George, "I don't know. What a fuss you French people make
about stopping a horse! There--don't say any more about it. I have a
friend staying with me who knows how to arrange all these matters, and
I will consult him. To-morrow or the day after he shall come to see
you. You will like him. Is the lady quite recovered?"

"Entirely. But she looked so sad when she came, and came, and never
found you. Ah! if I were a handsome young man, how many horses would I
not stop, only to get one such glance from such lovely eyes!"

The next morning, Ned was to return with his sister, and George went
down to the railway station to meet them. If he showed himself a trifle
more careful than he had been lately in his selection of a tie and
in his dress generally, and if anybody had entered at the time and
told him so, George would probably have been angry at the idea of his
returning to such weaknesses. There was Ned's pleasant face at the
window; there he is waving his hat; and here he is now introducing
Miss Mary Fitzgerald to his old friend, Mr. George Howard, to the
mutual astonishment and evident confusion of that lady and gentleman,
who blushed and turned pale by turns like guilty things. Even Ned
was dumfoundered a moment, and argued to himself, from these silent
but unmistakable signs of recognition between the parties, that his
ceremony of introduction was quite a superfluous piece of etiquette.

He broke the awkward silence in his characteristic fashion:

"Well, if you people know each other already, you had better say so at
once, and not let me make an ass of myself by going through a formal
introduction--a thing I always hate. Mary, do you know George, or don't
you?"

There were tears in Mary's large eyes, as, clinging a moment to her
brother, she sobbed rather than said:

"O Ned! this is the gentleman I told you of, ... to whom I owe my
life, ... of whom we were all speaking...." And then, turning the
luminous and still tearful eyes full on George, who could scarcely
stand up against the rush of mingled feelings that oppressed him, said,
with a genuine simplicity and native grace which were most moving, as
she took his hand in her own with an action at once gentle and natural:
"Sir, it was a bitter thought to me that I should be compelled to
leave France without knowing and thanking the brave gentleman who
risked his life to save mine. I had hoped to see you at M. de Lorme's,
and had so much to say to you. But now that I meet you," glancing
at Ned, "in this ... in this way, my heart is so full I can say
nothing...." And the gathering tears began to fall.

It was time for Ned to intervene:

"Oho! So you are the unknown knight whom M. de Lorme and the ladies
have been raving about; who goes around in sable sadness, rescuing
charming young ladies from perilous situations, and disappearing as
mysteriously as you come. Faith, my friend, there is a nice romance
concocted over you. But, George, my boy, I could say a great deal more
than my eloquent sister has done on this subject, only I know it would
be distasteful to you. However, we shall have it out together on the
quiet some day. But what a shame!" Ned rattled on as they made their
way to the hotel. "Here is all my nice little plot spoiled. Mary, I
gave him such a description of you. Let me see, George, what was she
like? Red-haired, freckled, middle-aged, and stout; short of breath and
tall of body; weighing one hundred and seventy pounds after dinner, and
a trifle less before." George looked disgusted, and Mary was laughing.
"You took snuff, Mary, and wore your carroty curls in little whisks of
brown paper half through the day. You had a vixenish temper, a liking
for toddy, and would insist on speaking French to the servants with
a beautiful Galway accent, and swore at them like a trooper for not
understanding you. It was only out of pure regard for your handsome
brother and for the sake of 'auld lang syne' that my friend George
would tolerate your presence at all. And here you are the whole time
old and valued friends, under mutual obligations to each other--you
for saving my middle-aged relative from being run away with and dashed
to pieces by a vicious brute, and my middle-aged relative for being
gracious enough to allow you to do anything of the kind. I declare it
_is_ shameful, and almost makes one take the rash oath of never telling
a good-natured lie again."

This harangue of Ned's set them both at their ease as though they had
known each other all their lives.

"And may I ask, Miss Fitzgerald, if this conscientious brother of yours
gave an equally accurate description of his old school-fellow?" said
George, laughing.

"Mary, don't tell.... He'll murder me...."

"I was instructed all the way along to be particularly kind and
attentive to a dapper...."

"No, not dapper ..." interjected Ned.

"Yes, dapper, Mr. Howard; I remember the word distinctly. A dapper
little old gentleman with a bald head and only one eye, who was as deaf
as a post, but would not allow any one to consider him so. I was led to
understand that he made excellent company at table, only that he simply
followed out his own train of thought, and his remarks consequently
were generally rather _mal-à-propos_; and in fact quite a lot of other
things that I cannot remember, save that I was to take him his drops
every morning at half-past eleven precisely, and always put six lumps
of sugar in his coffee, and none in his tea."

There was a merry dinner-party that evening at the hotel, and a long
ramble by the beach afterwards under the moon.

Mary had a great deal of Ned's happy nature in her, and between the
two, what with sailing, and riding, and long strolls, George could not
well help throwing off his despondency. The light soon came back to the
eye, the color to the cheek, the spring to the step, the gaiety to the
young heart, the belief that, after all, life was not such a bad thing,
and that there were pleasant places even in this miserable world for
those who sought them in the right spirit.

"Your friend George is getting quite gay," remarked Mary one evening,
as brother and sister sat alone, during the temporary absence of the
subject of that young lady's remark.

"Yes, poor fellow. He was in a sad way when I dropped on him. Going to
the dev--I mean the grave, fast."

"Why, what was the matter with him?"

"Oh! I don't know. Put his foot in it somehow."

"Put his foot in what?"

"In the wrong box, of course. How stupid you women are!"

"But what wrong box, Ned?"

That gentleman looked ineffable disgust at his beautiful sister, whose
eyes were fixed a little anxiously on his. Then taking the peachy
cheeks between both hands, he drew her face up to his own and kissed
her, saying, "There, Mary.... There are only two women in the world to
whom I would do that.... You are one--"

"And the other?" asked Mary, a little bewildered.

"Is to come," answered Ned enigmatically. "It will take some time
perhaps to find her. One makes a mistake sometimes among so many. When
he does, he puts his foot in the wrong box."

"And you think he--that is, Mr. Howard has quite recovered now?" asked
Mary, after a pause.

"Well, it looks as though he were very near it; but here he is to
speak for himself," said Ned, as George half bounded into the room,
flushed with exercise, and looking as handsome as any young lady could
wish.

But why give the stages of what all know so well and have heard
thousands of times told and retold? One morning, some months after,
the little French town looked very gay. There were green rushes strewn
at the door of the hotel, and all the towns-people turned out in gala
attire. There was the carriage of M. de Lorme, and an enormous bouquet
in the coachman's button-hole. There were more carriages, and more
coachmen, and more bouquets. Soon the church was filled with a buzzing
and excited crowd that hushed into silence as a bridal party moved up
the nave and stood at the steps of the altar, whilst the venerable
_curé_ in the name of God joined the hands together which no power on
earth may sunder. The sunlight fell softly on them through windows of
pictured saints. Mme. Plaquet was there, wiping her eyes, and weeping
silently, as she praised the good God, who had saved the _pauvre
garçon_ and brought it all about so wonderfully. M. Plaquet was there,
more convinced than ever that his wife was a wonderful woman; for had
not she made the match? Old women, and tender girls wept as the sweet
bride passed out a wife, amid showers of blossoms strewn in her path
by little white-robed children. They blessed her for an angel, and
her handsome husband, whom they all knew so sad, and who now looked
so happy. There was another happy face, with bright eyes and a sunny
smile, that attracted many an eye--the face, the eyes, and the smile
of Mr. Edward Fitzgerald. If the reader would know more of George's
history, it is being made. He has found his true lady-love, and is
proving himself a true knight. Ned, gay Ned, is as merry as ever. He
is called uncle now by a chubby-cheeked youngster with sturdy legs and
the large eyes of his mother, into whose innocent face his father often
gazes half anxiously, wondering will he ever come to imitate him in his
short-lived folly. Ned has not put his foot in the right box yet; so he
says, but rumor tells another tale. He may meet us again some day.




RECENT POETRY.


                           BY AUBREY DE VERE.

    We looked for peach and grape-bunch drenched in dew:--
    He serves us up the dirt in which they grew.




CRIME--ITS ORIGIN AND CURE.


It is no exaggeration to say that there is scarcely a man or woman in
the community who, upon taking up a morning newspaper, is not prepared
to find recorded in its pages at least one case of wilful murder or
some other atrocious infraction of the law, human and divine. Whether
it be homicide or uxoricide, attempt at either, or the criminal
indulgence of the baser passions; whether the result of artificial
excitement or the wilful premeditation of bad or diseased minds,
the effect is the same on the public, and the dreadfully frequent
recurrence of such offences--that the lives of the most harmless among
us are put in jeopardy equally with those of the most belligerent;
while the law, the first office of which is to protect the life, honor,
and property of the citizen, is practically ignored and defied.

This terrible prevalence of crime has been a fruitful subject of
comment, and while the supineness of the legal guardians of the general
welfare and the unaccountable stupidity or weak sentimentality of
jurymen have been unsparingly denounced, very little has been done in
the way of intelligent legislation to check the ever-flowing stream
of criminality. It is true that the common and the statute laws
have long ago prescribed death as the penalty for the commission of
murder, arson, treason, and one or two other high crimes, long terms
of imprisonment in state-prisons and penitentiaries for felonies, and
shorter terms in local prisons for minor offences, but all these wise
enactments do not appear to check the onward march of outrage and
lawlessness. The result is that abroad the good name of the Republic
suffers, while at home the very familiarity with deeds of violence and
dishonesty created by the sensational and minute newspaper reports is
debasing the youth of the country, and, by throwing a halo of romance
over their commission, robs them of half their repulsive and disgusting
features.

Still, while much indignation and more apprehension have been
manifested at the growth of crime and the apathy and ignorance of those
entrusted with the duty of repressing it, very little has been done
either to remove the causes which lead to its perpetration, or to visit
it with condign punishment when all other efforts have failed. This
mere theorizing over what is a tangible evil is deeply to be deplored.
Surely nothing can be more worthy of the attention of the statesman
and the philanthropist than the study and analysis of this frightful
social phenomenon, with a view of limiting its growth, even though
it were found impossible to lesson appreciably its present gigantic
proportions. It is well recognized that it is the primary duty of
all civil governments to protect the lives, liberties, and property
of their subjects, and our own national and state organizations,
clothed as they are with such ample powers and supported by popular
approbation, ought to be the foremost in discharging this trust.
Under arbitrary or usurping governments, such as those which dominate
Poland, Ireland, and Italy, it is generally difficult to execute what
is called the law, for the oppressed people are at enmity with their
oppressors, and take every opportunity to oppose and thwart what is
styled the administration of justice. They feel, and properly feel,
that "the world is not their friend, nor the world's law;" but with us
it ought to be far different. Here the laws are made by the people,
and it is understood for the people, and hence every good citizen
should feel a personal interest in the rectitude and exactitude of
their administration. He is not only injured in person and property by
imperfect and ignorant legislation, through his own carelessness, but
he violates his obligations to his fellow-man when through neglect, or
from unworthy motives, he does not do all in his power to prevent it.

However, to act intelligently as well as conscientiously in matters
of such gravity, the study of the origin of the evils which afflict
and disgrace our country, and the sources from whence they generally
spring, requires more attention than has usually been given, even
by those who most deplore their existence. It will not do to throw
down your newspaper after perusing accounts of three or four cases
of murder, and ask to what is the world coming? It is almost equally
useless to occasionally hang a criminal, or to send another to prison
for life. For the one so punished, a score at least escape, and the
demands neither of retributive nor distributive justice are satisfied.
The evil-disposed gratify their revenge by the commission of these
crimes, while their chances of punishment are no more than one in
twenty. Thus the plague that infests society daily becomes more noxious
and, as it were, epidemic.

Crime has its latitude and longitude, its nationality, classes, and
castes, its peculiar inciting causes, as well as the great vital
cause--the absence of true religious faith and practice. For instance,
it might be easily demonstrated that the many-nationed people of the
United States are addicted to special classes of crime, as distinct
and almost as obvious as their language, habits, and intellectual
idiosyncrasies. We speak now of the more flagrant violations of the
social compact, not with the intention of discriminating against any
class or race in the community, nor with the object of holding the mass
of any people, no matter what their origin or country, responsible for
the acts of a few among them--for after all the criminals are in a
small minority, fortunately, among all nations--but to point out the
nature and peculiar motives for the commission of offences against the
law as they exist among different classes of our population, so that
suitable remedies may be applied to the respective cases.

Outrages against law and justice depend to a certain extent on locality
for their distinctive character. The desperate hand-to-hand encounters
which have so long characterized a certain class of society in the
border states, are as different in motive from that of the cool
Connecticut poisoner, as the assassin of our aristocratic circles is
dissimilar to the ruffian of the slums.

When we ascribe homicide to the criminal classes of America, we do not
assume it to be a national sin, for though of late we have read of some
cases in New England and the West, and know of many deliberate ones
in this vicinity, we refer specially in our analysis to the remote
Southern and Southwestern states, where the bowie-knife, the rifle,
and the revolver are considered much more efficacious and prompt in
the settlement of disputes than the slower and less exciting appeal
to the courts. It may be said that this is the natural consequence
of the war, the termination of which has thrown out of employment
many desperate men habituated to the use of arms; but this is only
partially true, for the same state of society existed in New Orleans,
Arkansas, and along the banks of the Mississippi many years anterior
to the late internecine contest. Lawless men of every grade, gamblers,
horse-thieves, the idle, and the debauched, have for nearly two
generations infested those and neighboring localities; deadly quarrels
were constantly springing up, and were decided in a moment by the
death of one if not of both disputants; and the public authorities,
whenever they dared to interfere, were sure to be set at defiance, if
not maltreated. The same state of affairs exists to this day, but in a
modified form, and there seems to have been no way discovered to alter
it.

Still, the American people as a whole are not responsible for what
might be called a local disorganization of society, grown out of
their rapidly-extending settlements, whence flock naturally many
outcasts, vagabonds, and reckless men, anxious to escape the odium of
public opinion and the chastisement that awaited them in the older
and more thickly settled communities of the East. But our country,
with a better show of reason, may be accused of condoning, if not of
actually encouraging, a widespread system of political and commercial
dishonesty, an offence which, though not by any means as bad as the
taking of human life in its direct consequences, indirectly encourages
and promotes the commission of the greater crime. A legislator or a
judge who can be guilty of taking bribes, is sure, the one to make bad
laws and the other to execute good ones corruptly. Criminals who have
political or moneyed influence are allowed to escape with impunity,
with a _carte blanche_ to continue their nefarious business. Whoever
has read the proceedings of the several investigating committees in
Washington during the last session of Congress, and of our State Senate
acting as a court of impeachment during the summer of 1872, will hardly
doubt the truth of this assertion.

This spirit of bribery, false swearing and peculation we find
prevailing, among some of the most prominent members of the national
Congress, who, these investigations have shown, are not above the
acceptance of paltry bribes for the use or abuse of their high
delegated authority; we find it in many of our state legislatures,
particularly when a United States senator is to be elected or the
interest of a railroad company, a corporation, or a wealthy private
individual is to be subserved by forcing or retarding legislation; and
it is a matter of public notoriety that among the officers of municipal
corporations, notably our own, where integrity, if in any place, should
find a home, the most unblushing robbery, swindling, and false swearing
have prevailed for years. Again, let us look at the history of our
large banks and insurance companies. There is scarcely a week passes
but we hear of defaulting officers and clerks who, after years of
secret, continuous stealing and false entries, finally decamp, leaving
it to be discovered that the aggregate amount of their individual
abstractions reaches tens and hundreds of thousands. What makes this
"respectable" species of larceny so heartless and reprehensible is,
that the money so stolen does not actually belong to the institutions
themselves, but to the public, and generally the poorer classes, who
are depositors or policyholders. It is significant that in proportion
to the number of counting-houses superintended by their owners to the
number of banks and insurance companies the trust-funds of which are in
keeping of paid officials, the number of defalcations in the former are
as a mere nothing compared with those of the latter. Why? In one case,
the merchant is liable to lose his own money by negligence; in the
other, the president and directors lose only that of other people, and
thus a criminal betrayal of trust is added to swindling.

Now, these blots on the national escutcheon are of comparatively
recent date, and are the result mainly of two causes: the late war,
which suddenly elevated an ignorant and ignoble class to enormous
wealth, and the corruption of politics and politicians by the unguarded
and unchecked abuse of universal suffrage. The shoddyites and the
politicians, having no claim on the respect or esteem of honest men,
commenced a career of extravagance and vulgar display, which, if it did
not win the approbation of the judicious and refined, certainly was
well calculated to dazzle the moral vision of the vain and unstable.
Palaces, diamonds, and resplendent equipages became the order of the
day, and their effect on the integrity of the staid men of business
was marked and deleterious in the highest degree. Mrs. A., whose
husband before the war was doing a thriving little business and was
content with an occasional drive in a hired light-wagon, now enjoyed
the luxury of a private carriage and liveried servants; consequently
Mrs. B., whose husband was cashier in a bank at two or three thousand
a year, must have one similar. Mr. C., who was a resident of the Sixth
or Seventh Ward previous to his election to office, and occupied part
of a comfortable house, now lived in a handsome mansion on Madison
or Fifth avenues; hence Mr. D., who was confidential clerk in a
large importing house, abandoned his cosy cottage in the suburbs and
followed his old friend's example. Now, how are B. and D. to support
this luxury? Clearly, not out of their salaries. Having control of the
funds and enjoying the confidence of their employers, they abstract the
money and rush into Wall or New Streets to gamble in gold or stocks.
They are not common thieves--oh! no; they only borrowed from time to
time large sums of cash from the true owners, intending to return it;
but they never do so! For a short time they are lucky, and are able to
keep place in a course of wild dissipation with A. and C., but sooner
or later a crisis arrives, there is "a panic in the street," and they
lose all. Then follow flight, detection, and public exposure--in any
well-regulated community, we might add dishonor. But it is not so; for,
you see, this is the age of progress and enlightenment. The public
think very lightly of such matters, probably from their very frequency,
and soon forget them; the "knowing ones" condemn the fugitives only
for not having been "smart" enough; the bank or insurance authorities
compromise the felony for a consideration, for it is only the public,
not themselves personally, who have suffered; and, after a brief
sojourn in Europe or Canada, the criminals return to the bosom of their
families prepared to enter on some new field of peculation.

As for the political rogues, no one seems to heed their depredations.
Public opinion has become so vitiated that it is expected every man
in office will steal; in fact, some persons go so far as to say they
ought to steal, holding it a trivial affair to appropriate large
amounts of the people's money, while they would hesitate long before
advising any one to rob a till or strip a clothes-line. We recollect
an official in this city who for a wonder was so honest that he was
poorer when he resigned than when he accepted office. Upon being met
on an occasion by a friend and congratulated on having been able to
purchase one of the largest hotels in New York out of the "spoils," the
gentleman indignantly resented the insult in no measured terms. His
acquaintance laughed quietly, and walked away with an expression of
mingled pity and contempt on his countenance.

Now this lust for gain, this inordinate love of display, which leads
the inexperienced and weak-minded into so many unworthy actions,
should be abated, if we hope to preserve anything like commercial
honor and political purity. They are eating into the very vitals of
society, infecting the very highest as well as the lowest class in
the community; and though the consequences to which they lead may
not appear so heinous as other crimes, they are so far-reaching and
so general that they might well be classed with those to which the
law attaches its severest penalties. There was a time, not very far
distant, when the idea of attempting to bribe a senator, or what is
called "buying up" a state legislature, would have been considered
preposterous, and when the counting-house and the banker's desk were
considered the temple and altar, as it were, of honesty and integrity.
Why is it that so lamentable a change has taken place, and in so short
a time? Clearly, because an insatiate longing for the acquisition of
wealth, speedily and with as little labor as possible, has taken
possession of the present generation, and in a headlong pursuit of
fortune, honor, reputation, and conscience are too often cast aside and
forgotten. This should not be so in a country like ours of unlimited
resources, and where industry and ability need never look in vain for a
competency.

But a more diabolical crime against all law, natural, human, and
divine, is the system, so prevalent in some sections of this country,
of mothers depriving their inchoate offspring of existence even on
the very threshold of their entrance into the world. So unnatural is
this offence that it is beyond the power of language to reprobate it
adequately, and in charity we hope that the guilty votaries of ease
and fashion, who perpetrate such horrible atrocities, do not realize
the full turpitude of their acts. We had long refused to believe that
such a violation, not only of God's law, but of the strongest and
most beautiful instincts of our nature--the parent's love for her
child--existed to any great extent, but we have been so often assured
of it by physicians and other reputable persons conversant with such
matters, that we have been forced to admit as true the existence
among us of a crime that would disgrace the veriest savage. We are
assured that in certain localities, which we shall not particularize,
the evil is not only widespread but is growing into a custom, and
this extraordinary fact is adduced as one of the reasons why the
children of native-born parents are so few in proportion to those of
foreigners. If we were to look for a primary cause for such barbaric
criminality in merely human motives, we should fail to find one at
all commensurate with the enormity of the guilt. The wish of married
women to be freed from the care of young children, so that they, being
unincumbered by household duties and cares, may participate in outdoor
pleasures, attend the opera, the theatres, concerts, and ball-rooms,
has been advanced with some force as one of the reasons; but this is
not sufficient, for we find the heinous practice prevailing in remote
towns and villages where no such attractions are presented. The laws of
civil marriage and of divorce, as recognized in most of the states of
the Union; that curse of what is called modern civilization; that fatal
legacy handed down to us by the "Reformers," has much to answer for
in this respect. Protestantism has reduced the holy sacramental bond
of matrimony beneath the level of a limited co-partnership, degraded
the nuptial contract below the most trivial commercial obligation,
annihilated its responsibilities, destroyed its safeguards, and even
wishes to go further--to ignore the very shadow of marriage, from
which it has long since taken the substance. The purchase of a piece
of land or the delivery of a bale of goods is now attended with more
ceremony than that sacred rite at which our Saviour himself attended
in Galilee and at which he performed his first miracle! How deeply
has humanity been made to suffer for the bestiality of Henry Tudor
and the apostasy of the monk of Augsburg! Is it any wonder then that
a link, so thoughtlessly accepted and so lightly worn, should be as
unceremoniously sundered, and that the woman, who does not know but on
the morrow she may be either plaintiff or defendant in a divorce suit,
should be adverse to bringing into the world children which either
parent may claim or disown?

But the grand motive cause is to be found still deeper. If the truth
must be told, the masses of the people of this noble country are fast
sinking into intellectual paganism, beside which that of imperial
Rome was harmless and innocuous. Protestantism, as has often been
predicted, has nearly reached its logical conclusion--infidelity.
Read the sermons of the prominent sensational preachers, their
newspapers and periodicals, and what do you find in them? No stern
lessons of Christian morality; no appeals to the moral conscience or
exposition of the beauties of the cardinal virtues; no dogma, as befits
heaven-appointed guides; no doctrine such as only the ordained of God
can preach and teach; but, instead, stale tirades against Catholicity,
rehashed lyceum lectures, and fragments of stump-speeches delivered
before the last election and interlarded with pious ejaculations
to suit the occasion, apologies for being Christians at all, and
occasional efforts to explain away Christianity itself--all covered
over with a thin veil of cant and mock philanthropy.

Do we find these so-called ministers telling their congregations that
marriage is an indissoluble tie, which no man can burst asunder; that
the object of it is to enable husband and wife to live together happily
and to bring up their children in the love and fear of God; that to
take the life of an infant ante-natal is a dark, deadly, mortal sin;
that no living human being who has not received baptism can ever see
the face of God; and that whoever wilfully deprives her helpless babe
of that ineffable delight will have to account for that lost soul
to its Maker? Oh! no; that might shock the sensibilities of their
audiences, and might lead to their own expulsion from their livings. Is
it surprising, then, that a vice so much in harmony with the working
of human passions, as apparently devoid of all moral responsibility
as it is free from civil punishment, should be so frequently and so
freely indulged in by those whose base inclinations are unchecked and
unregulated by anything like true Christian teaching?

But what most surprises us is the appearance in the public prints
for the past two or three years of numerous cases of suicide. This
"self-slaughter" was a crime, we thought, confined to the older
nations of Europe almost exclusively. The Americans are neither a
despondent, an impoverished, nor a sentimental people; and yet we have
been exceedingly pained to read of men well-to-do in the world, many
of them being comfortable farmers and most of them advanced in years,
deliberately taking that life which God gave them for wise and useful
purposes, and voluntarily going before the judgment-seat of their
Maker with the crime of murder on their souls. The policy of the old
common law was to consider every suicide insane, but that was merely
a fiction to save his goods from confiscation by the crown; we would
fain believe that the numerous instances among ourselves were the
result of aberration of mind--doubtless some of them were; but others
have been planned and executed with such forethought as to preclude
the possibility of such a supposition. As we write, we have before us
a copy of a New York journal in which no less than four suicides of
Americans in various parts of the country are recorded.[14]

It has been debated whether the act of a suicide is, humanly speaking,
one of courage or cowardice: we are inclined to the latter opinion, but
the question is immaterial. Whatever be its character in that respect,
it is sure to originate in the absence of any belief which affirms a
hereafter, or in that morbid form of idiocy known as spiritualism,
which runs into the other extreme. In either case, it can only be
prevented by moral suasion, for the civil law is of course utterly
powerless in the matter; yet of all known crimes it is the most
seductive, and even might be called contagious.

Let us now turn to another class of our people--the adopted citizens,
and consider the peculiarities of their criminal classes. The largest
proportion of our immigrant population is from Ireland, and, coming
from a misgoverned and plundered land, many of them, indeed we think
a large majority, are very poor indeed, so destitute that they have
not means to bring them to the West, or into the rural districts, and
consequently remain in the large cities for life. We have observed that
deeds of violence committed by a certain class of Irish-Americans are
disproportionately large, when compared with the native population or
with those of other countries. We regret to be obliged to say so.

We yield to none in our respect, nay affection, for the children of
long-suffering and persecuted Ireland, but we would be untrue to
ourselves and unjust to the bulk of our fellow-citizens of Irish birth
were we to ignore or deny that but too many of them allow themselves to
be led into the commission of acts of violence not unfrequently ending
in deadly quarrel.

This should not be. As a rule, an Irishman is social, humorous,
and kind, affectionate in his family relations and disinterested
in his friendships. In this country he has all the advantages that
religion can afford, the churches are open to him every day, he is
not restricted in his attendance at divine service on Sundays, he
has always, particularly in cities and large towns, an opportunity of
hearing good, practical, and instructive sermons and discourses on
the duties of life, at least once a week; and the strength to resist
temptation, which the sacraments alone can give, is always within his
power to obtain.

Whence, then, originates this ungovernable passion, this desperate
recklessness that resists all control, and, disregarding consequences,
rushes madly into sin, makes man an outlaw among his fellows, and drags
him to the dungeon and the scaffold? We must not attribute it to his
defective education, the result of a jealous and tyrannical system of
government in his native country, though it may have something to do
with it; neither will the fact that many who had golden dreams before
they reached our shores failed to realize them, and so became heedless.
Poverty and destitution have been pleaded in extenuation, but they are
more a result than a cause; for no able-bodied man, if well-conducted,
need be in that sense either poor or destitute in this country, where
labor is ever in demand. No; the secret, if it be a secret, lies in
one word--intoxication, and, as a consequence, in the neglect of
the religious duties taught and performed in their younger days.
Intoxication is the demon that creeps into their souls, fires their
heated blood, plunges his victims into an abyss of crime and transforms
man, the noblest work of the Creator, into a ferocious brute. We are
aware that instances of forgery, arson, swindling, and premeditated
homicide--in fact, all offences requiring skill and deliberation--are
exceedingly rare among our Irish-born population, but that is no
reason why a few men born and baptized in the church, as little
children taught the great truths of religion in the simple words of the
catechism, and as adults weekly and almost daily within reach of moral
instruction and a participation in the benefits of the sacraments,
should by their neglect of religion, and their insane desire for
deleterious stimulants, disgrace the race from which they have sprung
and bring obloquy on the religion they profess to respect, but never
practise. Who ever heard of an Irish adopted citizen, a teetotaler or
even a uniformly temperate man, committing an atrocious crime or a
deliberate breach of the laws of his adopted country?

No better illustration can be given of the beneficial effects of
temperance on the Irish character than the following official
statistics taken from the _Life of Father Mathew_. The author says:

  "As a conclusive proof that the diminution of crime [in Ireland]
  was one of the necessary consequences of the spread of temperance
  among those classes of the community most liable to be tempted to
  acts of violence or dishonesty, some few facts from the official
  records of the time may be quoted here. They are taken from the
  returns of 'outrages specially reported by the constabulary,'
  from the year 1837 to the year 1841, both included. The number of
  homicides, which was 247 in 1838, was only 105 in 1841. There were
  91 cases of 'firing at the person' in 1837 and but 66 in 1841. The
  'assaults on police' were 91 in 1837 and but 58 in 1841. Incendiary
  fires, which were as many as 459 in 1838, were 390 in 1841.
  Robberies, thus specially reported, diminished wonderfully from
  725 in 1837 to 257 in 1841! The offence of 'killing, cutting, or
  maiming cattle' was also seriously lessened; the cases reported in
  1839 being 433, to 213 in 1841! The decrease in cases of 'robbery
  of arms' was most significant; from being 246 in 1837 there were
  but 111 in 1841. The offence of 'appearing in arms' showed a
  favorable diminution, falling from 110 in 1837 to 66 in 1841. The
  effect of sobriety on 'faction fights' was equally remarkable.
  There were 20 of such cases in 1839 and 8 in 1841. The dangerous
  offence of 'rescuing prisoners,' which was represented by 34 in
  1837, had no return in 1841.

  "Without entering further into details, the following returns of
  the number committed during a period of seven years, from 1839 to
  1845, must bring conviction home to the mind of any rational and
  dispassionate person that sobriety is good for the individual and
  the community:

                   Total
  Year.             No.
  1839             12,049
  1840             11,194
  1841              9,287
  1842              9,875
  1843              8,620
  1844              8,042
  1845              7,107

"The number of sentences of death and transportation evidenced the
operation of some powerful and beneficial influence on the public
morals. The number of capital sentences in eight years, from 1839 to
1846, was as follows:

                  No. of
  Year.         Sentences.
  1839              66
  1840              43
  1841              40
  1842              25
  1843              16
  1844              20
  1845              13
  1846              14

"The sentences to transportation during the same period, from 1839 to
1846, exhibited the like wonderful result:

                 No. of
  Year.        Sentences.
  1839            916
  1840            751
  1841            643
  1842            667
  1843            482
  1844            526
  1845            428
  1846            504

"The figures already quoted are most valuable, as they prove, beyond
the possibility of a doubt, that national drunkenness is the chief
cause of crime, and that sobriety is, humanly speaking, one of the best
preservatives of the morals of a people."[15]

When we recollect that during the years above reported the consumption
of ardent spirits had decreased one-half, though the population had
increased by at least a quarter of a million, the inexorable logic
of the figures above quoted becomes irresistible--intemperance is a
greater enemy of the Irish race than even her hereditary foe, England.

With the Germans it is different. They are by no means given to
indulgence in violent stimulants, though they, too, are a social
people, fond of enjoyment and of their national beverage, beer; yet
crime, and that of a very serious character, is not unusual among
them, particularly the killing of females. And here again we have the
evidence of the terrible havoc which the great rebellion of the XVIth
century against the church and her authority has wrought in the social
relations of mankind. Germany was the originator, the centre, and the
main supporter of that revolt on the Continent of Europe, and, having
been violently wrested from the seat of Catholic unity, has ever
since been groping in the dark, oscillating between heathenism and
transcendentalism, without stability or any sort of fixed principles.
The blight of the Reformation, so called, has eaten into the very
marrow of their family relations, and what would be deemed infamous for
women of other countries to do, is considered among a certain class of
this people, limited, it is true, a matter of course.

Once again, let us not be misunderstood. In ascribing this species of
offence to the Germans in the United States, we do not mean to say
that it is general to the whole body; on the contrary, we are happy
to know that it is confined to a few, for, as a whole, the people
from the north of Europe are perhaps the most law-abiding portion of
our citizens. We are well aware that in this city, and in the West
and South, there are many learned professors, devoted priests, and
devout congregations, all of German birth, as well as many reputable
merchants, mechanics, and professional men of the same nationality, who
worship God according to their hereditary customs; but we think we do
not go too far in saying that the majority of German-Americans have
practically no religion, that they never enter a church, say a prayer,
or perform any of the ordinary duties of a Christian. Some years ago,
the writer was introduced into a Germania society in a neighboring
city which consisted of over three hundred members, all gentlemen of
education and wealth. He subsequently visited it three or four times on
various Sundays, and always found its spacious suite of rooms crowded.
Upon enquiring where those persons went to church, his friend placidly
replied: "I don't think there is one of us ever goes to church; you
know I do not." If such an example is set by the "higher classes," what
can we expect from those in the lower scale of social life?

We often have had occasion to admire the way in which the Germans enjoy
themselves on week-days and Sundays; the order and good-fellowship
which prevail at their gatherings, their songs and instrumental music,
and the fact that they always bring with them their wives and children
to partake of their enjoyment. But our satisfaction at seeing them go
to the rural retreats on a Sunday morning, and return peaceably in the
evening after a long day of rational pleasure, has been considerably
lessened by the knowledge that no portion of the day, set apart
as a day of prayer as well as of rest, has been devoted by those
pleasure-seekers to the service of the great Giver of all blessings,
of happiness here and hereafter. Such practical defiance of God's law,
such ingratitude towards our common Father, such complete disregard
of the simplest requirements of religion, must necessarily blunt the
moral sense, more especially as it affects and weakens the sanctified
tie that binds husband and wife. It is therefore with more sorrow than
surprise that we read of so many cases among our German fellow-citizens
of men and women living with other persons' wives and husbands. Such
conditions are unlawful and short-lived, the fruitful source of anger,
jealousy, and discontent, and not unusually culminate in ill-treatment,
blows, and even death.

While we also ascribe the crime of the destruction of offspring to
the Germans, we do not mean to say that it is practised to any extent
among them, but that the foul crime is perpetrated in this and other
large cities almost exclusively by German quack doctors, male and
female; their victims being generally from other nationalities. For
this the German people are not so much to blame as our own press,
which publishes the advertisements of those miscreants and scatters
them broadcast on the world for a paltry consideration; and our state
legislatures, which have neglected until lately to enact proper
laws; and our prosecuting attorneys, who have failed to enforce such
enactments as we have on our statute-books against this class of rank
murderers.

Offences against property are almost exclusively in the hands of our
English criminals, if we except the horse-stealing of the Southwest.
Our most expert pickpockets, our most dexterous sneak-thieves, daring
highwaymen, and scientific burglars come from London, many of whom have
served her Majesty for a term of years in her penal colonies, and are
so well known to the detectives of the British metropolis that they
have sought new fields of enterprise in this country. They have been
preceded or accompanied by prize-fighters, gamblers, and keepers of
low dens called concert-saloons. The former they make the partners in
their labors and gains, and in the latter hot-beds of infamy they find
shelter and concealment. It may be said that this class of crimes is
far less reprehensible than those above enumerated, and so they would
be were it not that highway robbery and burglary sometimes terminate
in the taking of human life. Still, it must be said in justice that
we hear of very few cases of wilful homicide being perpetrated by the
English among us, though, like the French, suicide is not unknown
to them, but arises from different causes. The Briton "shuffles off
this mortal coil" through moroseness and despondency; the Gaul gaily
prepares to smother himself with carbonic acid gas from a morbid
sentimentality, and a contempt for the precious gift of life which he
is about to throw away.

Now, if all these offences were simply infractions of the municipal
law, we would naturally look to our legislatures, our courts, juries,
and sheriffs for their prevention or punishment, but they are not only
that, but breaches of the divine law, and we must depend likewise on
the efficacy of moral suasion to prevent if not to correct them. Public
opinion can do much to repress crime, the legislative, administrative,
and judicial branches of our various local governments, each in its
sphere, might effect far more good; but it is on the teachings of true
Christianity alone, and all the consequences that flow from it, that
we must rely if we wish to stem the tide of misery, vice, and outrage
which are fast surging over every portion of our fair land. The strong
arm of the civil power is potent to punish when the crime has been
committed, but weak indeed to prevent its perpetration. This higher
and nobler duty is reserved for religion, and for religion alone.
It is well enough to make concise and exact punitive laws, though
this is not always done; and to administer them fearlessly, honestly,
and intelligently, though the reverse is generally the case; still,
experience has taught us that wise enactments and impartial judges
have very little power to stay the promptings of bad hearts or repress
the temptations ever presenting themselves to men of vicious habits or
defective moral training. The church, and only the church, can rule
the mind and heart of man, can train him from his infancy, before he
knows or is responsible to any civil law, can strengthen him with the
graces of the sacraments, arm him with the most potent of all weapons
against sin--prayer--place constantly before his eyes the certainty of
everlasting bliss or eternal damnation, keep him in the "narrow path,"
and thus prevent the possibility of his being an enemy to society and
an outcast of heaven.

Next to the church comes the school. The importance of education to the
well-being of society can never be overstated. It may be well said that
it is in the school-room the seeds of vice or virtue are first sown, it
is there that the future benefactor or the enemy of his kind commences
his career in life, and it is upon the proper or vicious method of
teaching which he receives as a boy depends mainly his future course in
the world. No wonder, then, that the Catholic Church is so desirous of
superintending the training of those little ones who by the sacrament
of baptism have been made children of God and heirs to the kingdom of
heaven; that the zealous parish priest should mourn over the loss of
hundreds of the youth of his congregation, who, taught in Protestant
or infidel schools, have fallen away from the faith to plunge into
sin and vice. Is he to be blamed if he exhausts every resource and
strains every nerve to establish for his people a school where their
offspring will be guarded from worldly contamination, and trained in
all the beautiful morality of Catholic doctrine? Few seem to understand
the comprehensive meaning of the word education. The mere acquisition
of worldly knowledge is not education, the development of the highest
intellectual powers is not education, but only a part, and a secondary
part at that, of a complete education; for without inculcating
morality, justice, a high sense of honor, a noble disregard for self,
and a sympathy for the suffering and unfortunate, you curse man with a
disposition that is its own Nemesis, with unlawful desires that "make
the food they feed on," and simply enlarge his capacity for doing evil.

That this is the result of our present common-school system cannot well
be gainsaid in view of the general spirit of peculation and corruption
which prevails in those very portions of the country where such schools
are most numerous and best attended and supported. And this view is not
ours alone. Already we find the secular press, hitherto the strongest
opponents of denominational education, clamoring for a reform in our
method of public instruction. "We must have," says a leading daily
paper of this city, "a higher system of morals taught in our public
schools"; though the writer does not condescend to say how morals can
be taught without religion, or who are to be the teachers. Is it the
fagged-out teacher who tries to earn his salary by the least possible
labor, and who perhaps, in this respect, is as deficient as the
children themselves; or is it the trained priest or the lowly Christian
Brother, who has devoted himself heart and soul to the service of God
and of his creatures, and whose reward is not of this world?

Our common schools, with some modifications, are decidedly a New
England invention, but none the worse for that, for the early settlers
of that much-abused region, whatever may have been their other faults,
were neither an irreligious nor an immoral people. On the contrary
they were deeply imbued with a sense of the dignity of religion
and a reverence for its ministers, according to their limited and
erroneous but honestly entertained ideas; and being all of one way of
thinking, they established schools, at the public expense it is true,
but they took care that their peculiar theological notions should go
hand-in-hand with secular teaching. The minister, the elder, or the
deacon generally united with his clerical office that of schoolmaster,
and the morals as well as the intellectual qualities of the pupils
were sedulously developed and cultivated. Now all this is changed. The
foundation upon which the public-school system was built has crumbled
into dust, and the superstructure cannot and ought not to stand
longer. Our country is now composed of many nationalities, believing
in various creeds, and the task of educating the rising generation
should be remitted to each denomination to take care of and instruct
its own members. If we want to inculcate true lessons of morality and
integrity, to stop bribery, forgery, perjury, dishonesty, infanticide,
and homicide, we must change our system of education, or it is possible
that society, laboring under so heavy a burden of sin and dishonor,
will in the near future be crushed to pieces.

But for the adult immigrants who have never felt the baleful
influence of our public schools, what is the remedy? For the Germans
we would say, a more general attendance at divine service. They are
pre-eminently an organizing people: why do not those good German
Catholics who are so constant in their devotions establish more
societies, with a view to induce their erring compatriots to give up
at least a portion of that time now wholly devoted to pleasure to the
worship of God? This would be a work of great charity, and if earnestly
undertaken would doubtless be successful. The panacea that lies before
our Irish fellow-citizens is temperance--that observed, we venture to
say that they will be found among the most moral and orderly portion of
our population. In this connection we are glad to observe the untiring
energy exhibited by prominent laymen to organize and unite temperance
societies, and the encouragement given them by priests and bishops. Our
Irish friends must not forget that not only the honor of their native
land and the prosperity of their children in that of their adoption
depend on their good conduct and sobriety, but that, to a great extent,
the Catholic Church in America is contemned or revered in proportion
as they act against or in harmony with her doctrine and discipline. If
woe be denounced against whosoever gives scandal, a blessing is also
promised to those who, by their actions, glorify the name of God.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] New York _Times_, May 13, 1873.

[15] _Father Mathew: A Biography._ By John Francis Maguire, M.P. New
York: D. & J. Sadlier & Co. 1871.




THE TROUVERE.[16]


                           BY AUBREY DE VERE.

    I make not songs, but only find:--
      Love, following still the circling sun,
    His carols casts on every wind,
      And other singer is there none!

    I follow Love, though far he flies;
      I sing his song, at random found
    Like plume some bird of Paradise
      Drops, passing, on our dusky bound.

    In some, methinks, at times there glows
      The passion of a heavenlier sphere:
    These, too, I sing:--but sweetest those
      I dare not sing, and faintly hear.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] The Greeks called the poet "the Maker." In the middle ages, some
of the best poets took a more modest title--that of "the Finder."




MADAME AGNES.


                   FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.


CHAPTER XXIV.

LOUIS IS DISMISSED.

Such, then, was the state of affairs when Louis, after an absence of
ten days, returned to his usual occupation. The evening was somewhat
advanced when he arrived. Mr. Smithson, who was not in the habit of
doing anything hastily, thought it better to defer the interview till
the following day. The order to the porter was therefore countermanded,
and a servant sent to inform Louis that Mr. Smithson wished to see him
the next morning. Louis was quite startled at receiving so unexpected a
summons.

"What has happened?" he said to himself. "Can Mr. Smithson be
displeased at my long absence?... Has he heard of Adams' intended
conversion?... Perhaps Albert has obtained my dismissal." There was
nothing cheering whichever way he turned. He therefore passed a
restless night. Fortunately, he had a support that was once wanting: he
trusted in God, and could pray. Prayer does not remove our fears, but
it calms them. Besides, whatever misfortune threatens the Christian, he
feels it will never befall him unless it is the will of God. However
rude the blow, it is even changed into a blessing to him that turns
with confidence to the Hand that chastens. God is ever merciful,
especially toward those who truly hope in him.

Eugénie, better informed than Louis as to what had taken place, but
less pious, was at that very hour tormented by a thousand apprehensions
really justified by the circumstances. She saw the storm approaching,
and was sure it would overwhelm the one she loved. But what could
she do? She had already got into trouble by undertaking his defence.
She could only await in silence the result which was at hand. Then,
perhaps, she could decide on something, or wait still longer before
deciding. Thwarted affection more than any other sentiment in the world
relies on the help of time.

The next morning, Louis went to Mr. Smithson's office at the appointed
hour. They had not had a special interview for a long time. Louis
appeared as he usually did at that period--easy in his manners, but
cold and taciturn. Mr. Smithson, on his side, had recovered his usual
calmness. He ceremoniously offered the engineer a chair, and thus began
the conversation:

"Monsieur, I have thought it proper to have an immediate explanation
with you. Your long absence has been unfortunate on many accounts.
Moreover, a fact has recently come to my knowledge, or rather, a series
of facts which have occurred in my manufactory, by no means agreeable
to me."

"I acknowledge, sir," replied Louis, "that my absence was long--much
longer than I could have wished. But you would regard the motives that
kept me away from the mill as a sufficient excuse, if you knew them."

"I am already aware of them, monsieur, and admit that they were
reasonable. But as you had a sufficient excuse for absenting yourself,
you did wrong not to communicate it before leaving."

"It would have been better to do so, I acknowledge; but I was sent for
in haste, and obliged to leave without any other notice than a note. I
have since been so absorbed in care as to hinder me from thinking of
anything else."

"Very well, monsieur, we will say no more about that. There remains
the other occurrence that has vexed me. You have excited religious
doubts in the mind of a poor fellow of my own belief who is young and
inexperienced--considerations that should have checked your propensity
to make proselytes."

"Excuse me, sir, if I beg leave to correct an inexactness--quite
involuntary, I am sure, but a serious one--in the expressions you have
just made use of. I made no effort to induce this man to abandon his
religion. He first came to me, and said...."

"What he said was prompted by certain things in your evening
instructions. You dwell on the necessity of the Catholic faith; you
infuse doubts in the minds of the workmen who do not partake of your
convictions."

"I have never directly attacked any religion."

"Your indirect attacks are more dangerous."

"What could I do?"

"Your course was all marked out beforehand. Employed in an
establishment the head of which belongs to a different faith from
yours; exercising an influence perhaps beneficial to the workmen by
means of your evening-school, your library, and your visits to their
houses, but exercising this influence in my name and under my auspices,
you ought not to have allowed yourself to wander off to religious
subjects."

"Excuse me, sir, I did not and could not. Have the goodness to listen
to my reasons. Morality without religion is, in my opinion, merely
Utopian. That the Anglican religion sanctions morality I do not deny.
Nor can you deny that it is supported in a most wonderful manner by the
Catholic Church--indeed, my conscience obliges me to say the faith is
its most efficient support. In talking to the workmen, who are nearly
all Catholics, I give them moral instructions in the name of the belief
they practise, or ought to practise."

"That was a grave error, as it soon proved. In consequence of your
imprudent course, a weak-minded man was led to the point of changing
his religion. As I am of the same faith, this was an insult to me. Such
a thing could not occur in my establishment without my consent, and it
was inadmissible. If Adams had persisted, I should have discharged him.
Toleration has its limits."

"Ah! he has not persisted?"

"No; his fears were imaginary, and only needed calming. I have used
no other means of leading him back but persuasion. Friendly reasoning
brought him back to the point where he was a month ago. Nevertheless, I
do not wish a similar occurrence to take place. We must decide on the
course you have got to pursue. My wishes may be summed up thus: either
you must give up attempting to exercise any influence over my workmen,
apart from your official duties, or you must bind yourself by a promise
never to touch on religious subjects before them, either in public or
in private."

"Does this prohibition apply equally to the Catholic workmen and those
of other religions?"

"To all indiscriminately. I must say to you, with my habitual
frankness, that you manifest a zeal for proselyting that displeases me
and excites my fears."

"What fears, monsieur?"

"I fear that, knowingly or unknowingly, you are the agent of the
priests. They always seek, I know, to insinuate themselves everywhere,
and to rule everywhere. I will not tolerate it on my premises."

"You have a wrong idea of the Catholic priesthood, monsieur. The love
of power imputed to the clergy it would be difficult to prove. I am not
their agent, for the reason that they have no agents. If I desire to
do some good to those around me, this wish is inspired by the Gospel,
which teaches us in many places to do all the good we can. Now, to
bestow money or food on the poor, to instruct the ignorant in human
knowledge merely, is but little. We should, above all, give spiritual
alms. The alms their souls need is the truth.... For me, the truth is
Catholicism."

"I suppose, then, monsieur, with such sentiments, you cannot accept the
conditions I propose?"

"No, monsieur, I cannot. Doing good in the way you wish would have but
little attraction for me. I had the serious misfortune to live for many
years as if I had no belief. Now I have returned, heart and soul, to
the faith, I wish to make myself truly useful to others, and to repair,
if possible, the time I have lost. I wish, therefore, to take the stand
of a Catholic, and not of a philanthropist--to be useful, not to appear
so."

"Monsieur, I have always had a high respect for people of frankness
and decided convictions, and they entitle you to my esteem; but, your
convictions being opposed to mine, we cannot live together."

"I regret it, sir, but I am of your opinion."

"I assure you, monsieur, that my regret is not less than yours.
But though forced to separate for grave reasons, there need be no
precipitation about it."

"Just as you please, monsieur."

"Well, you can fix the day of your departure yourself."

Mr. Smithson and Louis then separated. Mme. Smithson had succeeded! A
quarter of an hour later, she imparted the agreeable news to Albert.

"We are rid of him!" said Albert. "Well, for lack of anything better, I
will content myself with this semi-victory. I shall never forget, aunt,
the service you have done me on this occasion. I have no hope now of
marrying Eugénie, but I am sure the other will never get her, and that
is a good deal!"

"You give up the struggle too readily," said Mme. Smithson, in a
self-sufficient and sarcastic tone. "I am more hopeful about the future
than you."

Eugénie was likewise informed that very morning of all that had taken
place. Her mother took care to do that. The news, though anticipated,
agitated her so that she came near betraying her feelings. But she saw
in an instant the danger to which she was exposing herself. Making
an energetic effort to recover herself, she laughed as she said: "My
cousin ought to be quite satisfied. Poor fellow! if he undertakes to
rout all he looks upon as rivals, he is not at the end of his troubles.
There are a great many men I prefer to him!"

While this was taking place at Mr. Smithson's, Louis was so distressed
that he shut himself up in his chamber to recover his calmness. He came
to see me that very evening, and related all that had occurred.

"I cannot blame Mr. Smithson," he said. "Every means has evidently
been used to prejudice him against me. There is some base scheme at
the bottom of all this. I have quietly obtained information which has
convinced me of Adams' hypocrisy. He never intended to change his
religion. His only aim was to get me into inextricable difficulty. He
has succeeded. It remains to be discovered who prompted him to do all
this.... I have tried in vain to get rid of a suspicion that may be
wrong, for I have no proofs; but it is continually recurring to me."

"And to me also. Yes, I believe Albert is at the bottom of it all."

"Well, that is my idea. But what can I do? Unmask him? That is, so to
speak, impossible. Even suppose I succeeded, it would not destroy the
fact that Mr. Smithson regards me with distrust, and has people around
him who depict me in odious colors. And in the end, how could I confess
my love for his daughter? I have lost my property through my own fault.
I am not sure that Mlle. Eugénie loves me. Even if she cherished a
profound affection for me, I have reason to believe her parents would
regard it with disapprobation. Whichever way I look at things, I cannot
hide from myself that my hopes are blasted!... It is the will of God: I
submit; but the blow is terrible."

"Poor friend! you remained too long with me. It was your prolonged
absence that has endangered everything. Allow me, by way of consoling
myself for my regret, to give you my advice. I feel as if it were
Victor himself who inspires me: he loved you so much!... Remain at
Mr. Smithson's some days longer. Instead of manifesting any coolness
towards him, appear as you used to. Everything is not lost as long as
you retain his esteem. If you meet with Mlle. Eugénie, do not avoid
her. The time has come when she ought to know you as you are. Yes, we
have at last arrived at the decisive hour which Victor spoke of the
night before he died. Mlle. Eugénie must now be enabled to appreciate
you as you deserve. She must pity you.... She must love you! If this
is not the case, however sad it will be to give up an illusion without
which it seems impossible to be happy, renounce it, and acknowledge
without shrinking: 'She does not love me; she never will love me; she
is not the wife God destines me.' But do not act hastily. Believe me,
if she is intended for you, whatever has been done, nothing is lost.
But it is my opinion she is intended for you."

These words did Louis good. "I hope you are not deceived," said
he, "and this very hope revives me. I will try to believe you are
right. We will do nothing hastily, therefore. But do you not think I
could now venture to disclose my sentiments to Mlle. Eugénie, if I
have a favorable opportunity, and see it will give no offence? One
consideration alone restrains me--I fear being suspected of seeking her
hand from interested motives."

"The time for such suspicions is past. If Eugénie still cherishes them,
it will lower her in my estimation. She is twenty-two years of age.
She has a good deal of heart and an elevated mind, and is capable of
deciding her own destiny. I therefore approve of your plan. If she
loves you, she will have the courage to avow it to her parents. If she
does not love you, she has sufficient courage to make it evident to
you."

"How I wish the question already decided!"

"No youthful impulsiveness! You need more than ever to be extremely
cautious while feeling your way. Your situation is one of great
delicacy. Act, but with deliberation."

Such was pretty nearly the advice I gave Louis, often stopping to give
vent to my grief, which was as profound as ever. He left me quite
comforted. Though he did not say so, for fear of being deceived, he
thought Eugénie loved him, and believed, with her on his side, he
should triumph over every obstacle. When a person is in love, he clings
to hope in spite of himself, even when all is evidently lost.


CHAPTER XXV.

ALL IS LOST!-THE PROSPECT BRIGHTENS.

Louis spent several evenings in succession with me. He briefly related
how the day had passed, and afterwards took up the different events,
and enlarged upon them. He often found enough to talk about for hours
upon the sometimes ungrateful theme. I can still see him sitting
opposite my mother and myself in the arbor in the little garden behind
our house. Everything was calm and delightful around us in those
beautiful autumn evenings. Louis alone was troubled. In vain we tried
to restore peace to his soul: it was gone!

I never comprehended so thoroughly all the power of love as then. The
profound sadness in which I was at that time overwhelmed rendered me
inaccessible to such passionate outbreaks--such fits of elevation
and depression as Louis was then subject to. I gazed at him with a
cool, dispassionate eye, but with the affectionate compassion with
which we regard a friend who is trying to make himself unhappy. I was
astonished; sometimes I was even--yes, I acknowledge it--irritated to
see how utterly he gave himself up to the passion he had allowed to
develop so rapidly in his heart. Doubtless my poor friend remained
resigned to the will of God, but not so completely as he thought. It
is true, even when his mind was apparently the most agitated, we felt
that piety was the overruling principle; but then, what a struggle
there was between the divine Spirit, which always seeks to infuse
calmness, and the gusts of passion that so easily result in a tempest!

Ah! I loved my husband too sincerely, and I recall other loves too
pure, to dare assert that love is wrong. But believe me, my young
friend, I do not exaggerate in adding that, if love is not always
censurable, it is in danger of being so. We are told on every hand
that love ennobles the heart and tends to elevate the mind; that it is
the mainspring of great enterprises, and destructive of egotism. Yes,
sometimes; ... but for love to effect such things, what watchfulness
must not a person exercise over himself! How much he must distrust his
weakness! What incessant recourse he must have to God! Without this,
the love that might ennoble is only debasing, and to such a degree as
to lead unawares, so to speak, to the commission of acts unworthy, not
only of a Christian, but a man.

Allow me, my friend, continued Madame Agnes, to make use of a
comparison, common enough, but which expresses my idea better than any
other. Love is like generous wine. It must be used with sobriety and
caution. Taken to excess, it goes to the head, and makes a fool of the
wisest. You are young. You have never loved. Beware of the intoxication
to which I allude! If you ever do love, watch over yourself; pray with
fervor that God will give you the grace of self-control. The moment
love becomes a passion--an overruling passion--ah! how its victim is to
be pitied! When reason and conscience require it, you can--I mean with
the divine assistance--banish love from the heart where it reigns; but
believe me, it will leave you as an enemy leaves the country it has
invaded--with fearful destruction behind. And first of all, it destroys
one's peace of mind. The soul in which passion has reigned continues to
bear marks of its ravages a long time after its extinction!...

Louis had arrived at this deplorable state; he had not full control
over his heart; his happiness depended on the success of his love.
Eugénie's image beset him everywhere. The word is hard, I confess, but
it is true. He attached undue importance to whatever had the least
bearing on this predominant thought. One day, he announced he had
seen Albert walking with a melancholy air. He was sad, then. But why
should he be sad unless his cousin had treated him coldly? And Louis
hastily added by way of conclusion: "Mlle. Eugénie knows all I have to
annoy me; she follows me in thought, she participates in my sorrows,
she repays me for them...." Another day he had really seen her. She
passed by his window, lovelier than ever, but more thoughtful. She was
doubtless as anxious as he to be freed from the suspense in which they
both were.

At last he came with important news. He had had the unhoped-for
happiness of meeting Eugénie. She was advancing towards him, blushing
with embarrassment, and was the first to greet him, with an expression
so friendly as to leave no doubt of her sentiments. He returned her
salutation, but was so overpowered with emotion that he could scarcely
speak. After some words of no importance, he said: "I am going to leave
you, mademoiselle."

Eugénie replied that she should regret to see him go. Then, as if to
intimate he had enemies in the house, she added: "More than one--I wish
I could say all--will be as afflicted as I at your departure. I refer
to those you have benefited, and to whom you might continue to do good."

"Yes," said Louis, "it is hard to have to leave my work incomplete.
However limited it is, my soul is in it. But I must not make myself out
a better Christian than I am. It is not my work I shall leave with the
most regret...." He dared not complete the expression of his thought.

Eugénie, generally so self-restrained, was visibly affected and
intimidated. She was about to reply, when Mme. Smithson suddenly made
her appearance. It looked as if she kept watch over her daughter. When
she saw her talking with Louis, she could not conceal her annoyance.
Saluting him in a freezing, insolent manner, she said: "Eugénie, what
are you doing here? Your cousin is hunting everywhere for you to go to
town with him!"

"There is no hurry," replied Eugénie, resuming her habitual coolness
and dignity. She went away, taking leave of Louis with a visible air of
decided sympathy.

This brief interview was sufficient to render Louis' hopes legitimate.
I agreed with him that Eugénie would have behaved very differently if
she regarded him with antipathy, or even with indifference.

"There is no doubt she knows all that has taken place," said I to my
friend. "If there is any plot against you, she cannot fail to be aware
of it, or, at least, suspect it. Under such circumstances, the very
fact of her showing you unmistakable sympathy is a sufficient proof
that she loves you."

At this time, an occurrence took place that had an unfortunate effect
on me, and created new difficulties in Louis' path. It was then in
the latter part of the month of September. The summer had been rainy
and unpleasant. The rains increased in September, and soon caused
an alarming rise in all the rivers. I was then at the end of my
stay in the little village of St. M----, where I lived unknown to
the Smithsons. Faithful to my request, Louis had told no one of my
temporary residence in the vicinity.

Excuse me for giving you here some topographical details, perhaps
somewhat difficult to comprehend, but necessary for you to know in
order to understand what follows.

St. M---- is situated in a charming valley. In ordinary weather, the
current of the Loire is below the level of the valley through which
it winds with a majestic sweep. When a rise occurs, the plain would
at once be inundated were it not protected by a dike which the water
cannot cross. This dike did not extend to Mr. Smithson's manufactory,
though but a short distance from St. M----. When, therefore, the
river got very high, the mill ran the risk of being inundated. The
dwelling-house alone was out of danger, being on an eminence beyond the
reach of the waters of the Loire, even when it joined, swelled by the
junction, the small stream that drove Mr. Smithson's machinery.

Having given you some idea of that region, I will now resume my story.
One evening, then, towards the end of my stay at St. M----, Louis told
me the Loire was rising fast. He assured me, however, before leaving,
that there was no danger. "No matter how strong or high the current,"
he said, "the dike secures you from all danger. It is as firm as a
rock."

My friend was mistaken. The bank had certain weak places which the
water had undermined without any one's being aware of it.

Towards eleven o'clock, there was a tremendous noise in every
direction. People were screaming and rushing around the house: the
dike had given way! The water had reached the ground floor. My mother,
my sister, and myself were lodged on the first story. The proprietor,
beside himself, and frightened enough to alarm every one else, came up
to tell us we must make haste to escape; his house was not solid; we
were in danger of being carried away.

"The water is only rising slowly," he said. "By wading two or three
hundred yards, we can reach the causeway. There we shall be safe;
for the ground is firm, and the causeway extends to St. Denis. The
inundation cannot reach that place, for it is built on a height."

I did not lose my presence of mind in the midst of the alarm. Victor's
death had destroyed all attachment to life. If my mother and sister had
not been in danger as well as myself, I should have remained where I
was, trusting in God, not believing I was under any moral obligation to
escape from a house which might withstand more than was supposed; as it
did, in fact. But my mother and sister lost all reason, so to speak.
Wild with terror, they fled, and I followed them. When we got down to
the ground floor, we found the water had risen to the height of about
six inches. There was a mournful sound in every direction which made us
tremble. We sprang towards the causeway. I was at that time in delicate
health. I had been suddenly roused from sleep. The distance I had to
wade through the cold water had a fearful effect on me. When we reached
the causeway, they had to carry me to St. Denis: I was incapable of
walking.

While we were thus flying from danger, Louis committed a series of
generous but imprudent acts which became a source of fresh difficulties
to him. He was sitting alone in his chamber, when, about half-past ten,
he heard a dull crash like a discharge of artillery at a distance.
He hastily ran down into the court, entered the porter's lodge, and
inquired where the noise came from that had alarmed him.

"I do not know, monsieur," replied the man, "but I have an idea that
the levée has given way. At a great inundation twenty years ago, the
Loire made a large hole in the dike, which caused a similar noise. I
know something about it, for I was then living near...."

This was enough to alarm Louis, and just then a man passed with a torch
in his hand, crying breathlessly: "The dike has given way at St. M----!
Help! Quick! The village will be inundated!"

These words redoubled Louis' terror. St. M---- would be inundated;
perhaps it was already.... I was there ill, and knew no one!

"Is there any danger of the water's reaching us?" asked Louis of the
porter.

"The mill? Yes, ... but not Mr. Smithson's: that is impossible. The
house stands twenty feet above the river."

Eugénie and her parents, then, had nothing to fear. I alone was in
danger--in so great a danger that there was not a moment to be lost.

"Go and tell Mr. Smithson all that has happened," said Louis. "I am
going away. I am obliged to. I shall be back in half an hour, or as
soon as I can."

Of all the sacrifices Louis ever made, this was the most heroic. In
fact, had he remained at his post, he might have saved the machinery,
that was quite a loss to Mr. Smithson. Instead of that, he hurried
off without any thought of the construction his enemies might put on
his departure. To complete the unfortunate complication, Mr. Smithson
had an attack of the gout that very day. When I afterwards alluded to
his imprudence in thus risking his dearest interests, as well as life
itself, Louis replied: "I knew Eugénie had nothing to fear; whereas,
you were in danger. I had promised Victor on his death-bed to watch
over you as he would himself. It was my duty to do as I did. If it were
to do over again, I should do the same. Did Victor hesitate when he
sprang into the water to save me? And he did not know who I was."

The house I had just left was about half a league from the mill. The
water was beginning to reach the highway, though slowly. Louis kept
on, regardless of all danger, and arrived at our house in feverish
anxiety. I had been gone about fifteen minutes, and the water was
much higher than when we left. Louis learned from a man who remained
in a neighboring house that I was safe: we had all escaped by the
causeway before there was any danger. He added that I must be at
St. Denis by that time. Louis, reassured as to my fate, succeeded in
reaching another road, more elevated, but not so direct to the mill.
This road passed just above the Vinceneau house. When Louis arrived
opposite the house, he saw the water had reached it. He heard screams
mingled with oaths that came from the father, angry with his wife and
daughter. Having returned home a few moments before, the drunken man
was resisting the efforts of both women to induce him to escape. Louis
appeared as if sent by Providence. He at once comprehended the state
of affairs. His look overawed the drunken man, who left the house.
They all four proceeded toward the mill. There was no nearer place
of refuge. The first people they saw at their arrival were Durand,
Albert, and some workmen. An insolent smile passed over Albert's
face. He evidently suspected Louis of having abandoned everything for
the purpose of saving Madeleine Vinceneau. But he did not dare say
anything. Louis intimidated him much more than he could have wished.
He resolved, however, to make a good use of what he had seen. Louis at
once felt how unfortunate this combination of circumstances was, but
the imminent danger they were in forced him to exertion. It was feared
the walls of the manufactory might give way under the action of the
water, if it got much higher, and it was gradually rising.

Louis set to work without any delay. The workmen, who had hastened
from every part of the neighborhood to take refuge at Mr. Smithson's,
began under his direction to remove the machinery that was still
accessible. They afterwards propped up the walls, and, when these
various arrangements were completed, Louis, who had taken charge of
everything, occupied himself in providing temporary lodgings for the
people driven out by the inundation.

Mme. Smithson and her daughter had come down to render assistance. The
refugees were lodged in various buildings on a level with the house.
Louis would have given everything he possessed for the opportunity of
exchanging a few words with Eugénie at once, in order to forestall
the odious suspicions Albert would be sure to excite in her mind.
But he was obliged to relinquish the hope. Mme. Smithson and Albert
followed her like a shadow. Louis could not approach her without
finding one or the other at her side. Overcome by so fatiguing a night,
he went towards morning to take a little repose. He felt sure fresh
mortifications awaited him in consequence of what had just taken place,
and he was right.

When he awoke after a few hours' sleep, his first care was to go and
see Mr. Smithson. He related what he had done, without concealing the
fact of his abandoning the mill to go to my assistance. Mr. Smithson
was suffering severely from the gout. He was impatient at such a time
to be on his feet, and was chafing with vexation.

"I cannot blame you, monsieur," he said. "The life of a friend is of
more consequence than anything else. Whatever be the material loss
I may have to endure at this time in consequence of your absence, I
forbear complaining. But it was unfortunate things should happen so.
If I had only been able to move!... But no.... You will acknowledge,
monsieur, that I am the victim of misfortune.... Did you succeed, after
all, in saving the person whose fate interested you more than anything
else?..."

"She had made her escape before my arrival. I hurried back, but, on the
way, a new incident occurred. An unfortunate family was on the point of
perishing. I brought them with me, as there was no nearer asylum."

"Are these people employed at the mill?"

"The woman works here; her husband elsewhere."

"What is their name?"

"Vinceneau."

"I think I have heard of them. The father is a drunkard; the mother is
an indolent woman."

"You may have learned these facts from Mlle. Eugénie, who takes an
interest in the family, I believe. I recommended them to her."

"Was that proper?... I have every reason to think otherwise.... But it
is done. We will say no more about it. And since I am so inopportunely
confined to my bed, I must beg you to continue to take charge in my
place, watch over the safety of the inundated buildings, provide for
the wants of the people who have taken refuge here, and, above all,
have everything done in order."

Louis was uneasy and far from being satisfied. There was a certain
stiffness and ill-humor in Mr. Smithson's manner that made him think
Albert had reported his return to the mill with the Vinceneau family.
He attempted an explanation on this delicate subject.

"_Mon Dieu!_ you seem very anxious about such a trifling affair,"
said Mr. Smithson. "It appears to me there is something of much more
importance to be thought of now.... It is high time to try to remedy
the harm done last night...."

Louis felt that, willing or not, he must await a more propitious time.
He went away more depressed than ever.

The whole country around was inundated. I was obliged to send a boat
for news concerning my young friend, and give him information about
myself. The unfortunate people who had taken refuge at Mr. Smithson's
were at once housed and made as comfortable as possible. It happened
that Durand and some others were put in the same building with the
Vinceneau family. Nothing occurred the first day worth relating.
Louis watched in vain for an opportunity of seeing and speaking to
Eugénie. He only saw her at a distance. The next morning--O unhoped-for
happiness!--he met her on her way to one of the houses occupied by the
refugees. She looked at him so coldly that he turned pale and his limbs
almost gave way beneath him. But Eugénie was not timid. She had sought
this interview, and was determined to attain her object.

"Whom have you put in that house?" she asked, pointing to the one
assigned to the Vinceneaus, which was not two steps from the small
building occupied by Louis himself.

"The Vinceneau family and some others," replied Louis.

At that name, Eugénie's lips contracted. An expression of displeasure
and contempt passed across her face. Then, looking at Louis with a
dignity that only rendered her the more beautiful, she said: "Then you
still have charge of them? I thought you gave them up to me."

"I have had nothing to do with them till within two days, mademoiselle.
It was enough to know you took an interest in their condition." He then
briefly related all that had taken place the night of the inundation,
and ended by speaking of the letter I had written to relieve his
anxiety. He finished by presenting the letter to Eugénie, under the
pretext of showing her the reproaches I addressed him. I wrote him
that, before troubling himself about me, he ought to have been sure he
was not needed at Mr. Smithson's.

Eugénie at first declined reading the letter. Then she took it with a
pleasure she endeavored to conceal. Before reading it, she said:

"Why did you not tell me your friend was at St. M----?"

"I have been greatly preoccupied for some time, and I seldom see you,
mademoiselle. It was in a manner impossible to tell you that my poor
friend had come here to be quiet and gain new strength in solitude."

"I should have been pleased to see her." So saying, Eugénie, without
appearing to attach any importance to it, read my letter from beginning
to end.

Thus all Albert and Mme. Smithson's calculations were defeated. There
is no need of my telling you the inference Louis' enemies had drawn
from the interest he had manifested in the Vinceneau family.

"He left everything to save them, or rather, to save that girl," said
Mme. Smithson. "He would have let us all perish rather than not save
her."

My being at St. M----, and my letter, threw a very different light
on everything. Thenceforth, Louis, dismissed by her father, and
calumniated by her mother and Albert, was, in Eugénie's eyes, a victim.
And he had risked his own life to save that of his friend. It is said
that noble hearts, especially those of women, regard the _rôle_ of
victim as an attractive one.

When Eugénie left Louis, there was in the expression of her eyes, and
in the tone of her voice, something so friendly and compassionate
that he felt happier than he had for a long time.... To obtain this
interview, Eugénie had been obliged to evade not only her mother's
active vigilance, but that of her cousin and Fanny. This vigilance,
suspended for a moment, became more active than ever during the
following days. It was impossible to speak to Louis; but she saw him
sometimes, and their eyes spoke intelligibly....

The water receded in the course of a week. Louis profited thereby to
come and see me, and make me a sharer in his joy. I was then somewhat
better. I passed the night of the inundation in fearful suffering,
but felt relieved the following day. My dreadful attack of paralysis
did not occur till some weeks afterwards. I little thought then I had
symptoms of the seizure that has rendered my life so painful.

The refugees were still living at the manufactory, the Vinceneau family
among them. Louis had scarcely returned to his room that night, when
he heard a low knock at his door, and Madeleine Vinceneau presented
herself before him.

                            TO BE CONTINUED.




THE NAPOLEONIC IDEA AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.


                      FROM THE CIVILTA CATTOLICA.


I.

For several weeks past, we have heard much of Louis Napoleon
Bonaparte.[17] Nothing less than his mournful physical death, on the
9th of January, 1873, was needed to draw him from the oblivion to
which Italian liberals consigned him after his political death of
September 2, 1870. It would seem that from the imperial grave opened
at Chiselhurst went forth a bitter reproach against the unexampled
ingratitude of those who saw the tombstone of Sedan close over his
empire with mute impassibility and secret joy. Now to the cowardly
silence of two years succeeds an uproar of elegies and praises. Remorse
for having left the conqueror of Solferino in the mire of the Meuse
is lulled to sleep by the wailing of hired mourners; as if the shame
of basely forsaking him could be masked behind a block of unblushing
marble.

No man was ever more fatal to himself than Napoleon III. All which was
his by usurpation or right turned against him in the end. His worst
humiliations were the work of his own hands. He destroyed himself,
and the words of the Christian Demosthenes were truer of him than of
others: _Nemo nisi a se ipso læditur_.

Now, by a final mockery of fortune, he is punished after death by
having bier and tomb dishonored with the apotheosis of the Italian
party who laud to the skies the weapon that worked his ruin--the ruling
idea of his reign.

This idea, which necessarily failed because it was impracticable, and
in its failure reduced him to nothing, is his sole title to compassion
or glory in the opinion of this faction. But as the cruel irony
contains a historical lesson, useful for the present and the future, we
will study it by the light of facts, incontestable except to the blind.


II.

Such were the contradictions, perplexities, and duplicity of Louis
Napoleon Bonaparte upon the throne, that he was often believed to be
a prince reigning at hap-hazard. Indeed, it is said, now that he has
left the earth, that the history of his incomprehensible reign will be
the most difficult work ever undertaken. This seems to us a mistake,
if a distinction be made between the man and the prince, his life and
his reign. The man and his life will always seem inextricable, for he
used all means that suited his convenience, and in their choice gave
preference to no moral rule or principle of honesty; following openly
or hiddenly the mutable interest of each day. But the prince and his
reign, in spite of apparent contradictions, are easily understood by
the simple study of the political end which he invariably proposed to
himself.

This end is not hidden. His youthful writings, and the series of
his imperial documents, read by the light of the actions of his
administration, make it plain. He aimed at reestablishing and
consolidating in his dynasty the power of the First Empire, and at the
elevation of France to the headship of Europe, reorganized in its
territorial divisions according to the law of nationality, and in its
institutions in accordance with the forms of Cæsarean democracy.

An author who has read his books, and confronted them with the
achievements of his reign, thus sums up the new _Napoleonic idea_
constantly pursued by Louis in his youth, middle life, and old age, in
exile, in prison, and on the throne:

"Peoples distributed according to their needs and instincts, belonging
each to a self-elected country, provided each with a constitution fixed
yet democratic; devoted at their choice to works of civil industry
destined to transform the world; Europe, free in her various nations,
consolidated almost into a federated republic, with France as its
centre; France aggrandized and forming the clasp in the strong chain
of free intercourse; universal exhibitions to encourage nations in the
exchange of reciprocal visits; European congresses, where governments,
laying aside arms, could compose their differences; Paris, the imperial
city _par excellence_, wonderfully embellished, raised to the honors of
capital of the world, metropolis of wealth and wisdom, under the wing
of the Napoleonic eagle, offering to the two hemispheres the rarest
discoveries in science, masterpieces of art, exquisite refinements of
luxury and civilization."[18]

                _Divisum imperium cum Jove Cæsar habet!_

Such was the intoxicating dream of the life and reign of Napoleon III.,
the idea which he believed himself created to carry out--a combination
of the designs of Henry IV. and the aspirations of Augustus, mounted on
the frail pedestal of the principles of 1789.

In fact, proceeds our author, "Within and without the confines of
the Empire, this idea was reduced to two words: reconstruction
and reconciliation, based upon the principles of the French
Revolution. Here was to be the general synthesis of all external and
internal politics in France and Europe: Reconstruction of nations
founded on national will within and without; effected by a single
instrument--_universal suffrage_--applied to the determination of
the nationality as well as of the sovereign and the government;
reconciliation of nations among themselves, and of the divers classes
composing them, thanks to an equal satisfaction of the rights and
interests of all."[19]

That nothing might be wanting to the enchantment of his fair dream, the
young prisoner of Ham contemplated a double mission of giving peace and
glory to France. "War was to consolidate peace, imperial battles were
to give repose to the world. Thus the famous device, _The Empire and
Peace_, came to bear a sublime significance."[20]

In short, the Napoleonic idea had for its ultimate aim the
aggrandizement and European omnipotence of France under the dynasty of
the Bonapartes, through the universal means of popular suffrage with
_plébiscites_, forming a basis of a new national and international
right, opposed to the old historical right of peoples. The other
three principles of territorial compensation, non-intervention and
accomplished facts, were special means and passing aids to be used
according to opportunity for carrying out intentions.


III.

Louis Napoleon received his political education from his uncle exiled
in the Island of St. Helena, and from the Carbonari, among whom Ciro
Menotti enrolled him in Tuscany, in the year 1831.[21] In these two
schools he acquired the fundamental idea of reconstructing European
countries according to nationality. But he did not see that, in the
hands of Napoleon I. and of the Carbonari, this idea was a strong
weapon of destruction, not a practical or powerful argument for
reconstruction. Bonaparte, gaoler of European potentates, and the
Carbonari, persecuted by them, wished to use it to destroy the order
of things established by the Holy Alliance in the treaty of Vienna
of 1815, upon the right, more or less defined, of legitimacy. On the
pretext of restoring political nationality to peoples, the first
Napoleon bequeathed to his heirs the command to excite Italy and
Hungary against Austria; Poland against Russia and Prussia; Greece and
the Christian principalities against Turkey; Ireland, Malta, and the
Ionian Isles against England; hoping that the changes originating in
this movement, and the gratitude of these nations, would make easy to
his heirs the extension of French boundaries and the recovery of the
imperial crown.

The Carbonari worked with the same pretext to overthrow princes and
substitute themselves, with a view of introducing into states their
anti-Christian and anti-social systems.

The so-called principle of nationality resolved itself, then, with
Napoleon I. and the Carbonari, into a pure engine of war--into a
battery which, after destroying the bulwarks of the opposite principle
of legitimacy, should give into their hands nations and kingdoms.
That Louis Napoleon, in prison, a fugitive, a conspirator, should
support himself with this flattering principle, and dexterously dazzle
with it the eyes of those who could help him to recover the sceptre
of France, can be easily understood; but that, after obtaining this
sceptre by a network of circumstances wholly foreign to the principle
of nationality, he should adopt that principle as the final aim of
his empire and the corner-stone of his own greatness and of French
power--this, in truth, is hard to understand.

But that it was the case is only too clear. He spent the twenty years
of his dominion over France in coloring the design which he had puzzled
out twenty years before, dreaming over the memories of St. Helena, and
plotting in the collieries of the Carbonari.


IV.

To a sagacious mind which had well weighed the true worth of the
Napoleonic idea, even before the new emperor attempted its fulfilment,
terrible dangers and obstacles must have presented themselves.

After a succession of wars and successful conspiracies had led nations
to an independent reconstruction within natural frontiers, what
increase of territory could have accrued to France?

Suppose Italy, Poland, Hungary, and Iberia adjusted on this principle,
would their power have remained so equalized as to leave France secure
of preponderance?

If Germany had been so reconstructed, to the certain advantage of
Prussia, was there not a risk of exposing France to a shock which might
have proved fatal?

According to the theory of natural limits, the aggrandizement which
France could have demanded in compensation for protection and
successful warfare would have been reduced to some additions towards
the Alps, the Pyrenees, and in Flanders; to a few thousand square
kilometres, and perhaps three or four millions of inhabitants. Towards
the Rhine, we cannot see what the Empire could have claimed without
contradicting the theory itself. Germany has maintained that Alsace
and half of Lorraine, incorporated with French soil, are German, and
has forced them to a legal annexation to her territory. Now, were
these slender acquisitions, so disproportioned to the acquisitions of
neighboring countries, worth the cost of turning Europe upside down,
and subjecting France to a chance of political and military ruin?

Louis Napoleon rejoiced in the thought of one day resuscitating the
fair name of Italy, extinguished for many years, and restoring it
to provinces so long deprived of it. This sounds well; but was this
resurrection to end in a united kingdom, or in the simple emancipation
from foreign rule? And granted that unity could not be prevented,
and that it should prove equal to the imaginary union of Spain and
Portugal, was it really advantageous to create alongside of France,
from a platonic love of nationality, two new states of twenty-five
millions of souls each, capable of supplanting her later in the
Mediterranean.[22] And if Prussia, taking advantage of the loss
of Italy and Hungary to her rival Austria, had united in a single
political and military body the scattered members of Germany, would it
have been useful and hopeful for France to feel herself pressed on the
other side by a kingdom or empire of fifty millions of inhabitants, a
military race of the first order?

Moreover, what would have become of the Roman Pontiff in this
renovation of countries, governments, and juridical laws. The Pope is a
great moral power, the greatest in the world. If his independence were
to give way before the principle of nationality, what would become of
his religious liberty, so necessary to the public quiet of consciences.
Could a pope, subject to an Italy constructed in any way soever,
increase the light, peace, and tranquillity of France and the rest of
Europe? Would the palace of the Vatican, changed into a prison, have
accorded with the imagined splendors of the Tuileries?

Finally, a new international and national right, which should have
sanctioned, in accordance with popular suffrage, the obligation of
non-intervention and accomplished facts, far from reconciling nations
and various classes of citizens among themselves by superseding the
inalienable right of nature, would have become a firebrand of civil
discord, an incentive to foreign wars, and a germ of revolutions which
would have plunged Europe into the horrors of socialism.

An eagle eye was not needed to see and foresee these weighty dangers.
However affairs might have turned, even if they had succeeded according
to every wish, it is indubitable that the ship of Napoleonic politics,
following in its navigation the star of this idea, must eventually have
struck on three rocks, each one hard enough to send ship and pilot to
the bottom: the Papacy, Germany, and Revolution. The Papacy, oppressed
by the Italy of the Carbonari, would have taken from France her
greatest moral force. Germany, in one way or another, strongly united
in her armies, would have tried, as in 1813, to overwhelm the Empire.
Revolution, kindled and fed from without, would have gathered strength
in France to the ruin of the Empire.

These rocks were not only visible, but palpable to touch. Napoleon III.
saw them, felt them, and used all the licit and illicit arts of his
administration to avoid them. In vain; it was impossible. He should not
have followed the guidance of his enchantress, his idea; following it,
perdition was inevitable.


V.

Perhaps history offers no other example of a man who has grasped the
sceptre under conditions so propitious for good and so opposed to evil
as those under which Louis Napoleon Bonaparte began his reign; or of
one who has so pertinaciously abused his advantages to his own ruin and
that of others.

The vote of the better and larger portion of the French nation had
raised him to the throne, that he might save them from the hydra of
socialism, and stop the course of political changes in France. Europe,
just recovering from terrible agitations, welcomed his elevation as a
pledge of order and peace. Catholics of every country rejoiced over
it almost as the reward of the uncontested restoration in Rome of the
principality of S. Peter. Interest and conscience seemed to unite in
inducing him to take the triumphal road of justice which must lead to
certain glory.

But _cum in honore esset non intellexit_.[23] He seemed to wish to take
this path. But, in fact, he showed that he was preparing to follow
another by the ephemeral light of that _idea_ which he worshipped on
the imperial throne with the same devotion which he had professed in
prison and in exile.

The Crimean war, to a participation in which he invited little
Piedmont, predestined by him to enjoy the benefits of Italian
resurrection, helped him to cut the knot of the Holy Alliance, to
humble Russia and set her at enmity with Austria, to create by a
_plébiscite_ the first of his national unities--that of the Roumanian
Principalities--and to introduce at the Congress of Paris that
subalpine diplomacy which, endorsed by him, sowed the seeds of the
contemplated Italian war.

Meanwhile, the daggers and bombs of the Pianori, Tibaldi, and Orsini
came to remind him that, before being Emperor of the French, he had
been an Italian Carbonaro, and that he was expected to keep his oaths.
It is said that, after the explosion of Orsini's bombshell, a friend of
the assassin, to whom Napoleon complained confidentially of this party
persecution, replied: "You have forgotten that you are an Italian."

"What shall I do?" asked his majesty.

"Serve your country."

"Very good. But I am Emperor of the French, a nation hard to govern.
Can I sacrifice the interests of my people to accommodate those of
Italy?"

"No one will prevent you from studying the interests of France when
you have promulgated the independence and secured the unity of your
country. Italy first of all."[24]

But he had less need of spurring than was supposed.

After the secret negotiations of Plombières, he attacked Austria in
the plains of Lombardy, and, having subdued her, he inaugurated the
resurrection of Italy according to his idea, which, presiding over the
work, showed itself unveiled, with all the magnificence of territorial
compensation, universal suffrage, non-intervention, and accomplished
facts, as we all know.


VI.

But the Napoleonic ship got lost irreparably among the three rocks
above named. Between the Mincio and the Adige it met Germany in
threatening guise; in Rome, the betrayed pontiff rose up; and in Paris
revolution lifted her savage head. For eleven years Bonaparte struggled
to save the ship from the straits into which his Italian enterprise
had driven it; but the more earnest his efforts, the worse became the
entanglement, until the tempest of 1870 split the vessel in the midst
with awful shipwreck.

His crimes towards the Pope, the ignoble artifice of insults couched in
reverential terms, of perfidy, lies, and hypocrisy, alienated from him
not only Catholics, but all those who honored human loyalty and natural
probity. The so-called Roman question, a compendium of the whole
Italian question, ruined the credit of Napoleon III., unmasked him, and
made him appear as inexorable history will show him to posterity--a
monster of immorality, to use the apt expression of one of his former
sycophants.[25]

Prussia, after checking him at the Mincio in 1859, cut short in his
hands the thread of the web woven in 1863 to regenerate Poland on the
plan of Italy. God did not permit a good and noble cause like that of
Poland to be contaminated by the influence of the Napoleonic idea; and
this seems to us an indication that he reserves to her a restoration
worthy of herself and of her faith. Prussia also held him at bay during
the Danish war, into which he threw himself with closed eyes, in the
mad hope of conquering Mexico, and making it an empire after his own
idea. This whim cost France a lake of blood, many millions of francs,
and an indelible stain; it cost the unfortunate Maximilian of Austria
his life, and his gifted wife her reason. Prussia solemnly mocked at
him in the other war of 1866, when, leagued with Italy by his consent,
she attacked the Austrian Empire.

It was the beginning of that political and military unity of Germany
which was destined to make him pay dear for the work of unity
accomplished beyond the Alps by so many crimes.[26]

Lastly, Prussia, choosing the occasion of the vacancy of the Spanish
throne, and seconded by him in the promotion of an Iberian unity like
that of Italy, and prepared by a subalpine marriage, drew him into the
toils where he left his crown and his honor.

Step by step with the barriers opposed by Prussia to the foolish
policy of Napoleon III. in Europe went the anxieties caused in the
empire by revolution. Losing gradually the support of the honest
Catholic plurality of the French, he thought to reinforce himself by
flattering his enemy, demagogism, and by unchaining gradually passions
irreligious, anarchical, destructive to civilization. Taking all
restraint from the press, he removed every bar to theatrical license,
gave unchecked liberty to villany, free course to nefarious impiety and
a Babylonish libertinism, and finished by opening the doors to public
schools of socialism. But as outside France his duplicity and cowardly
frauds had drawn upon him the hatred and contempt of accomplices and
beneficiaries, so at home they excited discontent and distrust among
all parties.

On the 2d and 4th of September, 1870, he reaped at Sedan and in Paris
the crop sowed by him in 1859. Germany broke his sword, and the
Revolution his sceptre. The Napoleonic idea touched the apex of its
triumphs.


VII.

The old Prince Theodore of Metternich, after 1849, predicted of Louis
Bonaparte, then only President of the French Republic, that he would
restore the Empire, and ruin himself as revolutionary emperor in Italy.
Donoso Cortès, Marquis of Valdegamas, predicted a little later that
Bonaparte, after becoming emperor, would work very hard, but the fruits
of his labors would be enjoyed by another; by whom he could not say.
Both these shrewd statesmen knew Louis Napoleon, the secret chains
which bound him to his party, and the idea which clouded his mind, and
both hit the mark; for Napoleon III. made every effort throughout his
reign to play the revolutionary emperor in Italy; and, with all his
refined policy, he worked for no one but the King of Prussia. Thanks
to this policy, William enjoys the vassalage of the only two national
unities created by the Napoleonic idea: the Roumanian, whose head is a
Prussian prince, and the Italian, whose kingdom has become a Prussian
regiment of hussars. He enjoys the German Empire reared on the ruins of
that of France; and, moreover, he enjoys European supremacy, taken from
France with the keys of Paris, and five _milliards_ poured by her into
the Prussian treasury, to pay expenses. In his own good time we shall
see for whom Bismarck has made and still makes the King of Prussia work.

Such are the weighty consequences of that idea whose execution
Bonaparte believed was to make the world over again, and raise his race
and France to the summit of power--a political calamity, military ruin,
and a dynastic downfall the most terrible which history has to record.

In conclusion, the dogma of nationality for which French liberalism
played the fool with Napoleon has caused the loss to France of two
provinces as opulent as those which Bonaparte took from Italy in homage
to the same dogma. The principle of non-intervention, so carefully
guarded by Bonaparte at the cost of the Roman Pontiff, and so loudly
applauded by French liberalism, has borne fruit to France in her hour
of sorest need, in the desertion of all those states, and especially of
Italy, who owed their existence to French blood, and gold, and honor.

The new right of 1789, perfected by Napoleonic Carbonarism, of which
Bonaparte, with the approval of French liberalism, made himself the
apostle in Europe to the disturbance of the best-ordered countries,
has sprung up for France in the joys of Sept. 4, 1870, in the delights
of the Commune of 1871, and in the comfort of her present peace and
security.

Thus has Bonaparte's idea crushed him and reduced him to nothing.
The unhappy man has had not only the anguish of suffering historical
dishonor while yet alive, but also that sharpest pang of seeing all
the most celebrated works of his reign destroyed. The destruction,
military, moral, political, and in part material, of France, which
he hoped to raise to the summit of greatness; the destruction of the
palaces of Saint Cloud and the Tuileries, embellished by him with
Asiatic magnificence; the destruction of popular votes, those wings
which bore him from exile to the throne; of the treaty of Paris, that
crowned his Crimean victories; of the glory of the French name in
Mexico with the empire founded by him; of the treaty of Prague, for
which he well-nigh sweated blood in opposing the union of Germany under
Prussia: in short, all his enterprises have resulted in smoke. Only
one remains--the subalpine kingdom of Italy, for whose formation and
support the wretched man staked crown and honor. But before closing his
eyes for ever, he tasted the sweetness of his last treachery in seeing
that kingdom pass from his bondage to that of the conqueror of France.
If God still allows it to his soul, he may now see his beloved Italy,
with a Prussian helmet on her head, bend over his tomb, and shed two
crocodile's tears--the only kind of tears which he deserved. Let us
see what the Napoleonic idea has lavished upon her blind idolater--the
defeat at Sedan, the burning of Paris, the lonely tomb at Chiselhurst.
It was an idea conceived without God and his Christ, and against them,
and therefore unable to bring forth anything but ruin and death. And
certain ruin and death it will bring on him who shall hope to live and
grow great under its influence.

FOOTNOTES:

[17] This was written soon after the death of Louis Napoleon.

[18] "La politique du second empire, essai d'histoire contemporaine,
d'après les documents, par M. Anatole Leroy-Beaulieu"--_Revue des Deux
Mondes_, April 1, 1872, pp. 552-53.

[19] _Revue des Deux Mondes_, p. 554.

[20] Ibid. p. 552.

[21] _La Reine Hortense en Italie, en France, en Angleterre, pendant
l'année 1831; fragments extraits de ses mémoires inédits, écrits par
elle même_, pp. 55-56. Paris, 1834.

[22] _Idées Napoléoniennes_, p. 143.

[23] Psalm xlviii. 21.

[24] _Univers_, Jan. 21, 1873.

[25] He was in science a phenomenon, in history an adventurer, in
morality a monster (_Le Siècle_, Jan. 12, 1873). Amid the labyrinth of
contradictions in which Bonaparte enveloped his thoughts concerning
the political condition in which he meant to place the Roman Pontiff,
it is impossible to decide what was his true conception, or whether he
had formed any fixed and definite plan. In 1859, when he dreamed of
three kingdoms in Italy, one subalpine, a second for his cousin Jerome,
and a third for his cousin Murat, Napoleon III. traced upon the map
of the Peninsula with his own hand a small circlet enclosing the new
Pontifical state, including Rome, and five provinces. At the end of
that year, the dream vanished through the opposition of Lord Palmerston
in the famous _opuscule, The Pope and the Congress_, where he showed
a wish to restrict the dominion of the Holy Father to Rome, converted
into something like a Hanseatic city. In Sept., 1863, according to
the revelations of Marquis Carlo Alfieri (_L'Italia Liberale_, p.
83), who declares himself well informed, Bonaparte consented to the
"gradual withdrawal of French troops from Rome, so arranged that, on
the departure of the last French battalion, the territorial dominion
of the Pontiff should be reduced to the city of Rome, the suburban
campagna, and the road and port of Cività Vecchia." So the Pope would
have remained king of a city, a road, and a port. In 1867, when the
nation obliged Bonaparte to go to the aid of the Pontiff, assailed
by the _irregolari_ of Italy, he wished the state to remain as it
was left after the dismemberment of 1860, and commanded the Italian
regulars to withdraw from Viterbo and Frosinone, which they did with
military punctuality. In that year, and during the perplexities (says
_l'Armonia_ of Jan. 12, 1873), there came to visit him in Paris an
illustrious Italian who enjoyed his confidence, and had been decorated
by his imperial hand with the cross of the Legion of Honor. This
gentleman, engrossed with the position of the Pope, was lamenting it
with Napoleon III., and remarked that, unless reparation were made, the
Revolution would enter Rome. The ex-emperor replied: "So long as Pius
IX. lives, I shall never permit it. After the death of Pius IX., I will
adjust the affairs of the church." If we question whether after his
dethronement the unhappy man approved the accomplished fact of Sept.
20, 1870, _l'Opinione_ of Jan. 18, 1873, removes all doubt. It tells
us that an individual (generally supposed to be Count Arese, a great
friend of his), visited him at Chiselhurst, and, when the conversation
turned to Rome, where the Italian government was established, Napoleon
III. said with entire frankness that he had personal engagements with
the Pope, to which as emperor he could never have proved faithless; but
that, since his dethronement, Italian politics had passed beyond his
action. And he added: "This was to be foreseen as being in the order
of facts, and it is not an occasion for turning back." From which we
may infer that he wished the temporal power of the popes to cease with
Pius IX., without caring to substitute for their necessary liberty any
other guarantee than that of chance. This will be enough to convince
posterity that Napoleon III. was not a statesman of the first order.

[26] A partisan or well-wisher has tried to represent Napoleon as an
edifying Catholic. The _Univers_ of January 25, 1873, has a curious
panegyric, in which it is affirmed that he loved our Lord Jesus Christ.
In the Gospels, our Lord has taught us a rule for judging those who
love him and do not love him: _By their fruits you shall know them_
(Matt. vii. 16). Now, the long and crafty war of Bonaparte against
Christ in his vicar, and the unbridled license given to Renan and to
irreligious papers to blaspheme at will the divine majesty of Jesus
Christ, while he severely punished those who offended his own imperial
majesty, give the true measure of his love for Jesus Christ. By the
argument of facts constant, public, and notorious, Napoleon III. is
judged. He has been for the church and for Christian society a great
scourge of God, one of the worst precursors of Antichrist. We shall
believe in his pretended conversion when we have seen a single action
which shall disclaim and make amends for the immense scandal of his
Julianic persecution of Catholicity. His repentance at the hour of
death, of which we have no solid proof, we leave to the infinite mercy
of God, who certainly could inspire him with it. But it is not out of
place to remember the words of S. Augustine about similar conversions:
Of certain examples we have but one--the good thief on Calvary. _Unus
est ne desperes_, but _solus est ne præsumas_.




MY FRIEND AND HIS STORY.


I had been spending the winter with a friend in poor health in the
South of France. I will not name the place, but it was one of the
loveliest spots on the northern Mediterranean coast. Perhaps I shall
have something to tell of it at another time.

After prolonging our stay till we began to feel that a change would be
beneficial, we travelled on along the glorious old Cornice road into
Italy, and sat ourselves down among the palms and olives of a region
that, on account of its eastern vegetation and general likeness to
the Holy Land, is often called "the Jericho of the Riviera."[27] For,
in truth, when the traveller climbs the steep <DW72>s and staircases
of that old town, pierced by narrow, winding troughs of streets, tied
together, as it were, by old crumbling bridges and arches, built as a
protection against continual earthquakes; and after groping through
what is more like a labyrinth of subterranean caves than a town of
civilized build, he gains the crest of the hill, and looks down from
the sanctuary of the Blessed Virgin which is its crown, the actual
Holy Land itself seems spread below his feet. There are the very
outlines of Palestine: The stony slabs and tilted strata of crag and
ridge; the aromatic shrubs; the wealth of sad olives, fruit-bearing
to an extraordinary degree; the vast tanks, haunted by bright-green,
persistently serenading frogs; the lizards darting in the hot glare;
the flat-topped, low houses, and the women carrying jars of the
identical Eastern forms on their heads. The very dark-skinned men and
women themselves have the like sad, sweet, mournful Eastern eyes; for
throughout the Riviera there is a large admixture of Arab blood, as
many Arab words are crystallized in the strange, rough _patois_ of the
speech.

In this wild, bright, solemn country, I found and made the friend whose
story I am going to tell; and, if it is disappointing at first to the
expectant, I shall ask them to wait till they near the end.

We lived in a not very comfortable boarding-house outside the town,
chosen on account of its position, and being quite removed from the
noise of the sea, which those acquainted with the Mediterranean will
thoroughly understand; for there is no noisier or more aggravating
sea-shore than that which is poetically the tideless, waveless,
sapphire-like mirror of the old Tyrrhenian. In this house I soon made
out my friend--a white dog with black points, shaven to the shoulders,
and of Spitz breed, as his tail, put on very high up, and twisted with
a jaunty, self-asserting _swirl_ over his back, denoted, but with an
undoubted bar sinister in his shield--some English spaniel or terrier
"drop," which, strange to say, gave him a power of persistence, a
dauntless courage, and loving faithfulness, such as I never saw in any
dog before; and yet I know about dogs and dog ways, too.

The first thing my friend did--his name was Cicarello, abbreviated to
Cico, and anglicized to Chick--was to lift himself up very high on his
toes, erect every hair into a wire, and growl so as to show all his
beautiful young white teeth at my approach and outstretched hand.

"Chick! how dare you, sir? Come along, be a good little dog, and let me
scratch your back; you don't know how nice it is, dear!"

But the growling and defiant looks continued, as Chick lay down on his
own chosen step of the stairs. I pushed him with my foot, and said
emphatically:

"Chick! you're a _nasty_ little dog!" At which candid opinion, Chick,
sulkier and crosser than ever, settled himself to sleep.

It was not long, however, before Chick, like all other dogs, succumbed
to the dog mesmerism of that hearty good-will and affection in which
dogs are apt to trust with a much more generous confidence than men. He
began by licking my hand, then came to my room for water, and at last
was won from his disreputable habits of straying from one wine-shop
to another about the town, into which he had fallen from not being
made happy and comfortable at home. One day, he condescended to offer
himself for a walk, and we went through sundry tortuous lanes to some
olive-terraces above the town. Once there, the dog's unbounded delight
was pretty to see. He rolled among the fresh grass and hop-clover,
thickly sprinkled with lovely red _gladioli_; he careered in and out
of the olive-trees, as if weaving some mystic, invisible witch-web;
and then, rushing back to me, barking sharply in a high falsetto, he
sprawled at full length on the ground, wagging his bushy plume over his
back, and saying, in the clearest speech of his wonderful brown eyes,
"I am not a nasty little dog _now_. Thank you for making me so happy!"

My friend, whom I had long loved with all my heart, was easily made
happy. The one thing necessary to him was some sort of master whom he
could love. With any such, his queer, sullen temper brightened, his
thoroughly obstinate will grew docile, his eyes watched every motion
and indication showing his master's wishes, and, if anything were
given into his charge, no amount of tempting or frightening could win
or scare him from his trust. His chiefest delight was running after a
stone or cork, in which also his ways were special to himself. When the
stone was found or dug up--that very stone and no other--Chick would
stand with one paw placed upon it, looking down at it with crest and
tippet erect, and exactly as if it were some sort of live game. If no
notice were taken of his dumb appeal, he would snatch up the stone,
and carry it on, but always with appealing looks to have it thrown
again. On the olive-terraces, among the grass and wild flowers, where
he always became intensely excited, he would run round the stone,
growling, roll upon it in a kind of frenzy, and snap at every one who
came near. When I gravely called or spoke to him, he would relinquish
this _Berserk_ mood, and, wagging his brush, lick my hand as if to
beg pardon for such childishness, and return to the decent sobrieties
of ordinary life. I need scarcely say that it was only because the
over-excitement was bad for himself that he was ever controlled in his
fancies and conceits; for dogs, even more than children, should be
allowed to express their own character and make their own happiness, in
unimportant things, in their own way.

Chick attached himself to me in the most persistent way. He took walks
with me, scratched at the room doors to be where I was, ran up and down
stairs after me on every errand, used my room, like the dogs at home,
as the "United Dogs' Service," and slept on a chair at the foot of my
bed. Even when left at the church door during daily Mass, when I vainly
thought him securely pent within gates and rails, the padded door would
be shoved open, and Chick, with his ears and twisted tail

"Cocked fu' sprush,"

and his whole bearing that of "the right man in the right place," would
scuttle over the stone pavement, scent me out, and ensconce himself
beside my chair. At meals he took his seat beside me, in which he would
rear himself up unbidden in the drollest way, lolling back with perfect
ease, and gracefully holding one forepaw higher than the other, as if
addressing the party. Sometimes he would even emphasize his remarks by
bringing one paw down on the table, and, amid the shouts of laughter
he occasioned, would look us steadily in the face, as if enjoying the
joke as well as the rest. He learnt to sit up with a shawl round him, a
napkin-ring on his nose, and one crowning his head; to hold biscuit on
his nose untouched till bidden to eat, and even to stand quite upright
in the corner, watching with the gravest intelligence till he was told
to come out. In short, as I said before, if the one motive-power of
love were found, Chick's genius seemed to know no limit.

But, meanwhile, the day was drawing near when the deep and most real
grief must be suffered of leaving my friend. Our temporary rest was
over, and our faces were bound to be turned towards home. Chick, also,
took good note of the preparations for departure, and I read in his
eyes that he guessed their import, and knew that our separation was
drawing near. Never for an instant would he let me move out of his
sight, except for Mass, when I locked him up in my room. His exceeding
joy at my return was one of the most touching things I ever felt. When
every other demonstration had been made, he would get up on his hind
legs, and gently lick my face, not as a dog usually does, but just
putting out his tongue, and touching my cheek. This special act always
seemed to say, "_Can_ you go away and leave me behind? Why not take me
with you?"

The consciousness of this feeling wrought so strongly that the question
was seriously mooted between my friend and me of buying Chick and
carrying him with us to England. But there were great difficulties in
the way. The expense was no small addition, besides the anxiety and
added fatigue of another fresh thing to lead about and struggle for in
stations and waiting-rooms, being, as we were, only a party of women,
neither strong nor well, and already burdened with a superfluity of
luggage and _impedimenta_. So the mournful decision was come to that
it could not be. Our last walks were taken, our last gambols on the
olive-terraces played out, and it seemed to me as if every hour Chick's
eyes became more tenderly loving and more devotedly faithful. And
soon I should be far out of reach and ken, while he must be left in
the careless, indifferent, _dog-ignorant_ hands to which he belonged.
Doubtless the many well-read and cultivated people who are in the habit
of reading this periodical have already set me down as a remarkably
foolish person; but what will they say when I confess there were
moments when the very thought of leaving Chick without certain bed and
board, water at will, and sympathy in his ways and love, made me weep
real, scalding tears, and not a few?

Out of the very abundance of thoughts and pain some light appeared; and
one fine day, when the heat was fierce, I put on my hat, Chick took up
a stone, and we both made our way to a large villa in the neighborhood,
occupied by a family from Wales, whose acquaintance we had happily
made: what sort of people they were the story of my friend will show,
at least to those, in my eyes, the truest aristocracy of the world--the
people who have an inbred love of dogs! On this visit, I remarked that
Chick, instead of walking on his toes and wiring his hair as he usually
did with strangers, accepted the whole party as friends, and showed off
all his stock of accomplishments with as much docility as if we had
been at home by ourselves. On the other side, Mr. and Mrs. Griffith--as
I shall call them--thoroughly appreciated the dog, and, seeing this,
I made my proposition--an unblushing one, considering that they had
already rescued two other dogs from ill usage--that they should also
possess themselves of Chick. Having once broken the ice, I launched
into a moving description of his wretched plight, and greater misery
when we should have gone, as well as the reward they would reap from
Chick's delightful ways. They laughingly took it all in good part, and
said, if they had not already an Italian Spitz which they had sent
home, and a dancing dog just brought on their hands, they might have
thought of Chick. I took poor Chickie home, therefore, with a heavy
heart, though I did not yet give up all hope; and, because I did not,
I put him under S. Anthony's care, and asked _him_ to suggest to these
dear people to buy Chick and give him a happy home.

The eve of our departure was a few days after this, and, when Chick
followed me up-stairs to bed as usual, I took him in my arms, and told
him I was going away; that nothing on earth should ever have made me
leave him but the being obliged to do so; that I had put him under S.
Anthony's care, who I was sure would find him a friend; and that he
must be a good, brave little dog, and hold on for the present without
running away. Chick licked away my tears, looking at me with his brave
brown eyes full of trust, as I kissed him over and over again before
going to bed. But afterwards I could never tell how many more tears I
shed at leaving Chick friendless and alone.

The next morning very early, I wrote a last appeal to Mrs. Griffith,
which I carried out to the post myself, that it might be sure to reach
her; and then the carriage came to the door, and we drove away, seeing
Chick to the last on the door-step, sorrowfully looking after us with
his steady brown eyes.

It was a long time before I myself learnt the second chapter of my
dear friend's story. Mrs. Griffith duly got the note, and, being
much touched by it, she went to the boarding-house to call on me,
thinking that I had been left behind for a week, not yet recovered
from an illness, and also wishing to get another view of Chick.
Neither of these objects being gained, she returned home with a strong
feeling "borne in" upon her mind that Chick must be rescued at any
inconvenience to themselves. Not long afterwards, she and her husband
were asked by the owner of the boarding-house to go and look at it,
as she wished to sell or let it on lease. They both accordingly went,
chiefly with a view to seeing Chick. After a long visit and much
conversation, Mrs. Griffith did at length see the poor little dog lying
panting in the sun in the garden, where there was not an atom of shade.
She called the attention of the owner to him, and told her that the
dog was suffering and in great want of water. His mistress made some
careless reply as usual, and passed on, still talking, down the stairs,
when, at the front door, Mrs. Griffith chanced to look down into the
court, and there saw poor little Chick stretched on his back in the
violent convulsions of a fit. She hastily summoned her husband, who,
after one glance, vanished into the lower regions, instinctively found
a pump and a large pan, and reappeared to drench the poor little dog
with a cold-water bath, strongly remonstrating with his owner the while
that any one with eyes or ears could have seen how suffering the animal
had been from heat and thirst.

Ah! Chickie! Chickie! did any thought cross your dog's mind then of
the "United Dogs' Service" of my room? Alas! when I heard of it, how
did I not feel for my dear little friend, proclaiming by every mute
appeal his urgent need, and bravely suffering on in silence near to
death, while not a hand was lifted to give him even the cup of cold
water which brings with the gift its reward! By dint of much bathing
and rubbing for nearly an hour from Mr. and Mrs. Griffith, while his
owner looked on in stupid amazement at this waste of time and trouble
on "only a dog," Chick recovered breath and life and was able to take
some physic administered by the same kind hands. And then, at last,
an agreement was entered into that he should be made over to these
generous friends on certain conditions, one of which was that he should
be left to guard the house where he was for the present; for though
much was not given to my poor little friend, much was required from him
by his wretched masters.

A few days afterwards, Mrs. Griffith felt restless and uneasy, and
told her husband she should like to have Chick in their possession
before the time stipulated; for she felt afraid he might come under the
fresh police regulations for putting an end to all stray dogs during
the raging heat. Mr. Griffith laughed at her "fidgets," but went to
the boarding-house, nevertheless, to comply with her wishes. He was
met at the door with the announcement that Chick had run away, and
had not been heard of for two days! Grieved and completely disgusted
at the heartless neglect which had again driven the poor dog from his
so-called home, Mr. Griffith hurried back to his wife with the news,
and she, like the true woman and mother she is, sat down and burst into
tears. Mr. Griffith caught up his hat, and hurried out to the police,
set several Italian boys whom he taught, and who loved him well, to
search everywhere for the missing Chick, and did not return to his own
house till late, completely worn out with the heat and worry.

Some time later, he was told that one of his Italian boys had come, and
was asking to see him; and, as soon as he was ordered in, the boy, who
knew what pain he was giving, sorrowfully told his news that the police
had seized upon the "bravo Cico"--the half-shaven dog whom everybody
knew and loved--"and...."

"Well, and where is he?" cried Mrs. Griffith, her husband, and the
child in one breath.

"Ah! signora, Cico è morto!" (Cico is dead).

"Dead! How do you know? Where?"

"Signora, the police take the dogs they find to the Mola (breakwater),
and, if they are not claimed before the next night, they make away with
them. Ah! Cico was a bravo, bravo canino!" (a brave little dog).

Looking at his wife's face, Mr. Griffith quickly despatched the boy,
and, once more taking up his hat, this brave and good man again sought
the police office, where the news was confirmed that Chick was dead.
Still hoping against hope, Mr. Griffith said, "There are many white and
black dogs; I should like to see his dead body."

This, backed by other _arguments_, admitted of no demur. The foreign
English lord must be humored in his whim, and he should be conducted to
the poor dead Chickie's dungeon. On the way, Mr. Griffith amazed his
wife by rushing into their house like a "fire-flaught," calling out for
a piece of cold meat and a roll and butter "as quick as possible!"

"But Chickie's dead--the poor dog's dead!" she began. But he waved his
hand and vanished, running down the street with his coat flying in
the wind. He, too, almost flew across the reach of sand and driftwood
to the Mola, and up to the prison door of the dark, airless, filthy
hole into which poor little Chick had been thrust, like a two-legged
criminal guilty of some horrible crime, from the last Saturday
afternoon till this present Monday night. Not a single drop of water
had been vouchsafed him; but the fiendish cruelty which characterizes
people ignorant of the habits and sufferings of animals, while denying
the dog this one necessary, had instigated the police to leave him a
large piece of poisoned meat.

"Signore," said a magisterial voice from among the idle crowd which
had gathered to see what miracles the English lord was going to
work--"signore, if the dog will not eat, he is mad, and you must not
take him away!" And a lump of hard, mouldy black bread was thrown down
before the seemingly lifeless body of poor little Chick, who of course
made no sign.

"E matto! E matto!" (he is mad) cried many voices.

"Chickie! Chickie! dear little doggie, come and speak to me!" cried
Mr. Griffith, who was nearly beside himself at the bare sight of what
the bright, happy little creature had become, and the thought of what
his sufferings had been. Chickie heard the voice, recognized his kind
helper, opened his eyes, and, feebly dragging himself up from the
ground, came forward a step or two towards the door, which caused a
general stir of dread and horror among the spectators, and made the
police half close the door, lest the terrible monster should break
loose upon them. Mr. Griffith forced himself into the opening, and
threw his bit of cold meat to Chick; but he had suffered too much to
be able to eat it, and turned from it with disgust, though he feebly
wagged his brush in acknowledgment to his kind friend. Almost in
despair, but calling the dog by every coaxing, caressing name he could
think of, Mr. Griffith then held out to him a morsel of well-buttered
roll, and, again wagging his brush, Chick smelt at it, took it, and ate
the whole of it in the presence of the august crowd.

Mr. Griffith felt that he could throw up his hat, or dance for joy, or
misbehave in any other way which was most unbecoming to a staid country
gentleman; but all he actually did was to pull a piece of cord quickly
out of his pocket, and say, "I can take the dog home with me now,
can't I?"

"You can take him to the owner, signore. And on payment of ten francs
to the police" (for the poisoned meat?), "and with the owner's consent,
the dog will be yours."

The prison door was then opened a little wider for the cord to be
tied round Chick's neck, when, behold! he spied the moment of escape,
and, refreshed with his morsel of roll, and not knowing what more the
cruelty of man would devise, the plucky little dog rushed through
the crowd, and raced along the shore to the town as hard as he could
go, Mr. Griffith after him at the top of his speed, to a certain
low wine-shop, where also Chick had a true friend. And there Mr.
Griffith found him, after drinking nearly a bucketful of water, in
the convulsions of another and most terrible fit! His generous friend
carried him home in his arms, tucked up his sleeves and gave him a warm
bath, physicked him, nursed him, washed and combed the vermin of his
loathsome prison-hole from him, and, with untiring pains and a love
that never wearied, brought the brave little doggie back to life and
health.

       *       *       *       *       *

The story of my friend is told. Chick's last appearance in his native
town was when making a triumphal progress through it in a carriage
with his master and mistress; he sitting up on his hind legs in his
old fashion, lolling back against the carriage-cushion with one paw
raised, while every man and boy they met saluted the English lord and
lady with lifted hats and delighted cries of "Cico! Cicarello! Bravo!
bravo canino!" Chick was eventually brought home to England by that
best of masters whom S. Anthony had found for him, to whom he has
attached himself so devotedly that nothing but force will induce him to
leave him by night or day. And that master and I are of one mind--that
a braver, cleverer, more loving, or more faithful dog could never be
found.

FOOTNOTES:

[27] The Riviera "di Ponente" and "di Levante" is the Mediterranean
coast from Nice to Genoa and beyond.




THE LOVE OF GOD.


The chief thing that is to be regarded in him that doth anything, is
the will and love wherewithal he doeth it. O Redeemer of the world!
although thou has done much for us, and given us great gifts, and hast
delivered us from many mischiefs, and hast promised us thy eternal and
everlasting bliss, yet is all this, being so much that it maketh one
astonished and afraid, far less than the love that thou bearest us.
For love thou gavest thyself unto us: thou camest down from heaven,
thou tookest flesh, and diest; and through the unspeakable love that
thou borest us, thou hast created and redeemed us, and gavest thyself
unto us in the Blessed Sacrament of the Eucharist, and deliveredst
us from so many evils, and promisest us so great goods. Thy love is
of such force towards us, that the least favors that thou doest us,
coming polished with such singular fine love, we are never able to be
sufficiently thankful for it, nor to requite, although we should thrust
ourselves into flaming furnaces for love of thee.--_Southwell._




A FRENCH POET.[28]


It is often said among those who assert much and investigate little
that the control of science, of literature, and of art has passed
beyond the domain of the ancient church, that her children have given
up the contest, and that she no longer produces distinguished men.
It seems to be an understood thing that sound Catholicism is not
consistent with proficiency in any branch of the higher pursuits,
and that every artist, scientist, and _littérateur_ ceases to be a
good Christian in proportion as he is successful in his profession.
There has been some apparent excuse for such an impression gaining
ground, but it is none the less an erroneous impression. Especially
of late years has it been triumphantly refuted, and nowhere with
more _éclat_ than in the very stronghold, the _sanctum sanctorum_
of free thought and private judgment--England. There has arisen in
that land of successful and jubilant materialism, that citadel of
rationalism in matters of religion, a knot of men formidable for
their learning, their eloquence, their taste, and their wit. But if
even in England, under the shadow that was yet left hanging over the
church from the effects of three hundred years of repression, the
vitality of the old "olive-tree"[29] was amply proved by the grafting
in and prosperous growth of so many new branches, still more was the
fruitfulness of the ancient mother and mistress of all knowledge
shown forth in Catholic France. That country has suffered sorely; it
has been the experimental plaything of the world, it has been torn
by unchristian politicians, gagged by Cæsarism, drenched in blood by
demagogism; it has been deluged with a literature as shameless as it
was attractive, until the name of France has become identified in
the minds of many with deliberate and organized immorality. It is
asserted that the names of her most famous novelists are synonymes
of licentiousness; that her philosophers openly preach the grossest
materialism; and that those of her _littérateurs_ who are not absolute
libertines are undisguised Sybarites. Never was country so thoroughly
and deplorably misrepresented as this Catholic land, whence have come
three-fourths of the missionaries of the world, armies of Sisters of
Charity, the most impetuous and the bravest of the Pope's defenders,
the most indefatigable scientific explorers, the purest of political
reformers. If France must be judged by her literature, she can point
to Montalembert, Ozanam, Albert de Broglie, Eugénie de Guérin, Louis
Veuillot, Dupanloup, Rio, Lacordaire, Mme. Craven, Pontmartin, La
Morvonnais, as well as to Balzac, Dumas, Eugène Sue, George Sand, and
Alfred de Musset. If by her art, De la Roche, Ary Scheffer, Hippolyte
Flandrin, vindicate her old Catholic historical pre-eminence; if by her
science and her philosophy, there are Ampère, Berryer, Villemain, even
Cousin. Everywhere the old sap is coursing freely, and in the ranks of
all professions are champions ready to do battle for the old faith
that made France a "_grande nation_." But those we have mentioned,
especially the distinguished and brilliant cluster, Montalembert, de
Broglie, Lacordaire, and Dupanloup, had eschewed the old legitimist
traditions, and, without detracting from their fame, we may say that
they were eminently men of the XIXth century. The charm and poetry
of chivalry, fidelity to an exiled race, the spell of the white flag
and the golden _fleur-de-lis_, were in their minds things of the
past; noble and beautiful weapons, it is true, but useless for the
present emergency, like the enamelled armor and jewelled daggers which
we reverently admire in our national museums. The old monarchical
traditions needed a champion in the field of literature where their
conscientious and respectful opponents were so brilliantly represented,
and this they found in Jean Reboul, the subject of this memoir.

One would have thought that the legitimist poet would have arisen from
some lonely castle of Brittany, and have borne a name which twenty
generations of mediæval heroes had made famous in song. One would have
pictured him as the melancholy, high-spirited descendant of Crusaders,
orphaned by the Vendean war, inspired by the influence of the ocean and
the majestic solitude of the _landes_.[30]

He would be likely to be a Christian Byron, a modern Ossian, far
removed from contact with the world, almost a prophet as well as
a poet. But as if to render his personality more marked, and his
partisanship more striking, the champion of legitimacy was none of
these things. Instead of being a noble, he was a baker; instead of
a solitary, a busy man of the world--even a deputy in the French
Assembly in 1840. Who would have dreamt this? Yet when God chose a king
for Israel, he did not call a man of exalted family to the throne,
but "a son of Jemini of the least tribe of Israel, and his kindred
the last among all the families of the tribe of Benjamin."[31] So it
fell out with the representative who, among the constellation of more
than ordinary brilliancy which marked the beginning of this century in
France, was to uphold the old political faith of the land. There was
doubtless some wise reason for this singular and unexpected choice.
Reboul was a man of the people, a worker for his bread, that it might
be known what the people could do when led by faith and loyalty; he was
from Nîmes, in the south of France, not far from Lyons and Marseilles,
that his attitude might be a perpetual protest against the wave of
communism and revolution which had its source in the south; he was,
so to speak, a descendant of the Romans--for Nîmes was a flourishing
Roman colony and its people are said to retain much of the massiveness
of the Roman character--that he might rebuke the mistaken notion of
those who make of the old republic a type of modern anarchy, and
desecrate the names of Lucretia and Cornelia by bestowing them on
the _tricoteuses_[32] of 1793, or the _pétroleuses_ of 1870. It must
have been a special consolation to the exiled representative of the
Bourbons, the object of such devoted and romantic loyalty, to follow
the successes and receive the outspoken sympathy of so unexpected and
so staunch an adherent. Uncompromising in his championship of the
"_drapeau blanc_," Reboul was politically a host in himself, and,
untrammelled as he was by the traditions and prejudices that hedged in
the nobles of the party, he was able to mingle with all classes, speak
to all men, treat with all parties, and yet to carry his allegiance
through all obstacles, unimpaired and even unsuspected.

Jean Reboul was born at Nîmes on the 23d of January, 1796. His father
was a locksmith and in very modest circumstances. His mother was early
left a widow, with four young children to provide for. Jean, who was
the eldest, and of an equally thoughtful and energetic character,
soon contrived to relieve her of the anxieties of her position, by
establishing himself in business as a baker. Whatever ambitious and
vague longings he might have had even at that early period we do not
know, but can easily guess at, and his sacrifice of them already
endears the future poet to our hearts. How he ever after preferred
the claims of his family to his own convenience, and refused to take
from them the security which his lowly trade gave them, and which the
precarious success of a literary career might have taken away, we shall
see later on. But Reboul did not forego his poetical aspirations; he
published various detached pieces in the local journals of Nîmes, he
circulated MS. poems among his friends, and his name began to be well
known at least in his native town. It was not till 1820, however, that
the outside world and the literary assemblies of Paris knew him. He
gave half his day to the labor of his trade and half to intellectual
work and hard study, and the activity of his character, as well as
the rigorous measurement of his time, so arranged as never to waste
a moment, made this division of labor prejudicial to neither one
employment nor the other.

In physique he was tall, athletic, and stately enough for a Roman
senator. His features were cast in a large and massive mould, his dark,
brilliant eyes were full of meridional fire, and his abundant black
hair seemed a fitting frame for his manly, fearless countenance. Even
in old age and when dying, a friend and admirer recorded that "his face
has suffered no contraction, but has wholly kept the purity of those
sculptural lineaments so nobly reproduced by the chisel of Pradier; it
even seemed to have borrowed a new and graver majesty from the dread
approach of death; ... even death appeared, as it were, to hesitate to
touch his form, and seemed to draw near its victim with the deepest
respect." His vigorous life, his active intelligence, his inflexible
uprightness of character--everything seemed to point him out as a man
beyond the common run of even good men. We shall see his character as
developed in the admirable letters which form the basis of this sketch.
Type of a Christian patriot, he towers above his contemporaries by
sheer nobility of soul, and is an example of that moral stature to
which no worldly honors, no political position, no hereditary rank can
add "one cubit." _Pro Deo, Patria et Rege_ was his lifelong motto, and
it may safely be said that if France had many such sons, no one in the
past or in the future could have rivalled or could hope to rival "la
grande nation."

His first volume of collected poems was published in 1836, and one
by one eminent men of letters, struck by the beauty, severity, and
freshness of his diction, sought out the new light and entered into
brotherhood with him. His lifelong friendship with M. de Fresne,
however, dated from 1829, when he had already published _The Angel
and the Child_,[33] in a Paris magazine, and other pieces at various
intervals in local periodicals. A traveller from the capital knocked at
the unknown poet's door, and the tie knit by the first external homage
that had yet come to Reboul, was never dissolved. The letters from
which we draw his portrait, as traced by himself, were all addressed
to this first friend. In 1838, another and more illustrious visitor
came to the baker's home at Nîmes, the patriarch of revived Christian
literature in France, the immortal Châteaubriand. He tells the story of
his visit himself:

"I found him in his bakery, and spoke to him without knowing to whom I
was speaking, not distinguishing him from his companions in the trade
of Ceres; he took my name, and said he would see if the person I wanted
was at home. He came back presently and smilingly made himself known to
me. He took me through his shop, where we groped about in a labyrinth
of flour-sacks, and at last climbed by a sort of ladder into a little
retreat (_réduit_) something like the chamber of a windmill. There we
sat down and talked. I was as happy as in my barn in London,[34] and
much happier than in my minister's chair in Paris."

Reboul was an ardent Catholic, an uncompromising "ultramontane," as
their enemies designate those who refuse to render unto Cæsar the
things that are God's. He took a keen and sensitive interest in the
struggles of religion against infidelity, the prototypes, or rather
the counterparts, of those we see now waging in Italy and Germany. On
the occasion of one of these attacks on the church in 1844, he writes
these trenchant words:

"The sword is drawn between the religious and the political power: if I
were not a Frenchman before being a royalist, and a Catholic before a
Frenchman, I should find much to rejoice at in this check to the hopes
of a certain part of the episcopate who honestly believed in the reign
of religious freedom, on the word of the revolutionists. But, good
people! if revolution were not despotism, it would not be revolution."

The unity of the church struck him as immeasurably grand. Speaking of
the great Spanish convert Donoso-Cortes and his religious works, he
says:

"What a marvellous faith it is which makes men situated at such
distances of time and place think exactly alike on the most difficult
and deepest subjects!"

A most striking passage in his writings is the following opinion on the
Reformation:

"Forgive my outspokenness," he writes to his friend M. de Fresne,
"if my opinion differs totally from yours. No, the Reformation was
_not_ an outburst of holy and generous indignation against abuses and
infamies. This indignation possessed all the eminent and virtuous men
_in_ the church, but it was not to be found among the reformers. The
Reformation, on the contrary, came to legalize corruption and bend
the precepts of the Gospel to the exigencies of the flesh. Luther was
literally the Mahomet of the West. Both acted through the sword: the
one established polygamy, the other divorce, a species of polygamy far
more fatal to morals than polygamy proper. If you would know what the
Reformation really was, look at its founders and abettors, and see if
chastity was dear to them. Henry VIII. married six wives, of whom he
divorced two and executed two more; Zwinglius took a wife, Beza took a
wife, Calvin took a wife, Luther took a wife, the landgrave of Hesse
wished to take a second wife during the lifetime of his first, and
Luther authorized him to do so. The caustic Erasmus, whose Catholicism
was not very strict, could not help saying that the Reformation was a
comedy like many others, where everything ended with marriages. The
real reformers of the church, those who reformed her not according to
the gospel of passion, but the Gospel of Jesus Christ, were S. Charles
Borromeo, S. John of the Cross, S. Teresa, S. Ignatius Loyola, and
thousands of holy priests and bishops."

Not to weary the reader by constant comments on the text which reveals
this great Christian thinker's mind, we will append the following
significant quotations from his letters with as few breaks as possible.
They are gathered from a collection extending over a period of more
than thirty years:

"The secrets of the church are ruled by a divine order, and to judge
of them according to merely human fears or prudence, is to mistake the
nature of the church, and to ignore her past. Time takes upon itself
the vindication of decisions arrived at by a legitimate authority,
even though it be a temporal one; ... truth will come to the surface,
and is often manifested by the very men apparently most earnest in
combating it.... I believe this work (a religious publication of M. de
Broglie) is an event, as much because of the author's character and the
principles which his name is understood to represent, as because of the
epoch of its publication. This frank confession in the belief of the
supernatural in the teeth of the public rationalistic teaching of the
day--ever striving to wrap Christ in its own shroud of philosophical
verbiage and to bury him in the grave from which he had risen--makes
us pray to God and praise him, ... that _his kingdom may come_....
The struggle nowadays is between God made man, and man making himself
God.... I wonder that you take the trouble to break your head thinking
about these German dreamers (atheists); for my part, I gave orders long
ago to the door-keeper of my brain, if any of these gentleman should
ask for me, to say that I was '_not at home_.' These old errors served
up with the new sauce of a worse darkness than before seem to me very
indigestible.

"Genius which devotes itself to evil, far from being a glory, is but a
gigantic infamy. Plato is right when he calls it a fatal industry.

"The French Revolution has done in the political world what the
Reformation did in the religious world; it has taken from reason her
leaning staff, and reason, trying to stand alone, has caused the things
we have seen--and so, alas! at this moment, the Revolution cries out
for a principle, but is itself the negation of all principle."

In politics, as we have seen, Reboul was a staunch legitimist, but a
shrewd observer. He was no dreamer, though his belief in the ancient
Bourbons was with him a perfect _cultus_. He never swerved from the
road which he had traced for himself. As a poet, his native city was
proud of him, France held out every honor to him, fellow-_littérateurs_
of all shades of opinion welcomed him as a brother, governments
flattered him, the people looked up to him. Had he been ambitious,
civic and parliamentary honors were ready for him; had he been venal,
his career might have been brilliant, lucrative, and idle. In 1844,
the mayor of Nîmes, M. Girard, proposed to him a change of occupation,
offering him the position of town-librarian, as more suited to his
tastes than the trade he followed. He was assured that this appointment
would entail no political obligation, that perfect independence
of speech and action would be guaranteed to him, but, says M. de
Poujoulat: "Reboul, intent above all on the services he could render
the cause among his own surroundings, and solicitous of hedging in
the dignity of his life with the most spotless integrity, refused the
mayor's offer. He did not even seek to make a merit of his refusal;
his friends knew nothing of it; M. de Fresne alone was in the secret,
and it was not divulged till years after." The Cross of the Legion of
Honor was twice offered him: once by the government of Louis Philippe,
through the agency of the minister M. de Salvandy, who was fond of
seeking out honest and independent talent, but the loyal poet answered
briefly: "He who alone has the right to decorate me is not in France";
and again by the empire, when it was urged that the decoration was a
homage such as might have been respectfully offered in _les Arènes_
(the Roman amphitheatre at Nîmes). Reboul proudly yet playfully
replied that "he had not yet quite reached the state of a monument,"
and feeling plenty of vitality left in him, did not need the red
ribbon. He explains to his friend M. de Fresne that he asked the God
of S. Louis to enlighten his perplexities, to lift his soul above all
small vanities, to deliver him from political rancor, if he harbored
any, and to guide him to a decision which would leave him at peace
with himself. "I have not the presumption," he adds, "to think that I
received an inspiration from above, but I believe in the efficacy of
prayer. I know not if I was heard, but at any rate I did my best."

There is a grand Christian simplicity in this, which marks Reboul as a
man far beyond the average. Nothing dazzles him, because he always has
the glory of God before his eyes. His friend M. de Poujoulat says of
him:

"I find in Reboul a penetrating and serious good sense, broad views,
as it were luminous sheaves of thought; I see in him an unprejudiced
and discriminating observer of the affairs of his day. The noise of
popularity is not glory, and the stature our contemporaries make for us
is not our true one, but one raised by artifice and conventionality.
Here was a man who looked down from the height of his solitude, said
what he thought, and in his judgment forestalled the verdict of
posterity. Reboul was interested in the individual works of his day,
but he had only scant admiration for the age that produced them. His
conscience was the measure of his appreciation both of men and events,
and it was a measure hardly advantageous to them."

In 1836, a few of his friends clubbed together to offer him at least
a pension, in the name of "an exile" (the Comte de Chambord), but he
refused even this with touching disinterestedness, saying: "There is
but one hand on earth from which I should not blush to accept a gift:
the representative of Providence on earth. The gifts of this hand
increase the honor and independence of the recipient, and bind him to
nothing save the public weal, but adverse circumstance having sealed
this fount of honor, I could not dream of drawing aught from it, for
_l'exil a besoin de ses miettes_,[35] and it is rather our duty to
contribute to its needs than to draw on it for our own." Later, when
pressing necessity made it incumbent upon him to accept help from
his friends and his sovereign, as he loyally called the exiled Comte
de Chambord, it was so great a sorrow to him that he could scarcely
enjoy the material benefit of such help. The poor and faithful poet
had "dreamed of leaving earth with the memory of a devotion wholly
gratuitous," and was sincerely grieved because it could not be so.
He received several letters from the Comte de Chambord and his wife,
some written in their own hand, others by their secretary, and he
addressed himself several times to these objects of his _cultus_ in
terms of impassioned yet dignified loyalty. Henri V. fully appreciated
his homage, and treated him as a friend rather than a stranger. Reboul
visited the royal family at Frohsdorf, their Austrian retreat, and
received the most flattering marks of attention. To him it was not
a visit so much as a pilgrimage; his devotion to the person of his
sovereign was but the embodiment of his principle of fealty towards
hereditary monarchy. Speaking of the Requiem Mass celebrated at
Nîmes, in October, 1851, on the occasion of the death of the Duchesse
d'Angoulême, daughter of Louis XVI., he says:

"She had made a deep impression, and left durable memories among the
working classes of our town, on her passage through Nîmes some years
ago.... The people, my dear friend, the Christian people, recognizes
better than _les beaux-esprits_ what true greatness is, and is ever
ready to bow before the majesty of a nobly-borne sorrow. No orator
could adequately describe the appearance of our church to-day. This
great gathering _en blouse ou en veste_,[36] these faces browned
by toil and want, bore an expression of nobility and gravity fully
suitable to such an occasion.... When one still has such courtiers, is
exile a reality?"

Reboul would never allow that the irregularities of its representatives
were enough of themselves to condemn a system. We have seen how, while
recognizing the degeneracy of many churchmen in the XVIth century,
he yet denounced the pretended reformers who sought this pretext for
attacking the church, and in politics his judgments were equally clear
and impartial. "If," he says, "it is still possible to be a republican
despite the Reign of Terror, it is not impossible to be a royalist
despite a few moral deviations which have disgraced some of our kings.
Was the _Directoire_ (a genuine republican product) an assembly of
Josephs? And the houses of our day--are they not of glass? It is not
wise, therefore, to be incessantly throwing stones.... After all, I
return to my original argument: notwithstanding the shadows which
darken the great qualities and high virtues of many of our kings, can
you find anything better?"

Reboul's political faith is traced at length in the following
paragraph, which may be called statesmanlike, since it contains a
theory of government: "The sovereign is by all means a _responsible_
agent, but I add to this, that the people also, when it makes itself
sovereign, is equally responsible. The habit of thought which separates
the one from the other is one of the misfortunes of our times. Without
_sovereignty_ there can be no nation, nor even a people. There remains
but an agglomeration of individuals. When I say _sovereign_ you know,
if you understand the language of politics, that I mean any legitimate
form of government. This is applicable to all governments. Be sure
that it is nonsense to talk of a nation as making its own sovereign.
A "nation" which as yet has no sovereignty is no more a nation than a
body without its head is a real body."

Reboul not only believed in sovereignty, but in an aristocracy as a
necessary part of a sound national system. Commenting upon a political
article by M. de Villemain, he gives his ideas thus: "He is mistaken
if he believes, as he says he does, that a people can enjoy freedom
without an _aristocracy_, or, if this word is too much of a bugbear
in the ears of our age, without an intermediate class between the
sovereign and the people. Equality is a fine thing, but revolutionary
journalists must make up their minds that equality can only be arrived
at by the raising of one man and the lowering of all the rest. It is
almost a truism to say so, but these truisms are not bad things in
politics, being so often borne out by experience, and, alas! by the
convulsions of empires."

Our poet and politician could be witty when he liked, and, had he
not been so earnest a Christian, his satirical humor would have been
more often exercised on those from whom he differed so widely in
opinion. This humor crops out sometimes, as when, on the occasion of
an agricultural show (no very congenial fête to a man of his stamp),
he quaintly says: "I do not demur to any rational encouragement given
to agriculture, but I fancy Sully, to whom it owes so much, would not
have been quite so extravagant in the choice of honors such as are
now heaped upon it. A public and gratuitous show, convocation of the
Academy, the municipal council, the prefect of the department, all that
fuss for the coronation of a few dumb animals! Do you not see in this a
providential sarcasm--a people allowed to crown swine after uncrowning
its kings!"

A significant prophecy is contained in the last words of the following
paragraph: "I begin to doubt the efficacy of all these intellectual
struggles; our times need a stronger logic than that of pamphlets, and
I fear (God forgive me for the despairing thought)--I fear that some
great misfortune alone is capable of curing France." How terrible the
cure was when it came we all know, but we have yet to see whether it
has been efficient.

His brief career as deputy to the Constituent Assembly in 1848
derives a peculiar interest for the reader by reason of the seeming
contradiction it presents to his settled political creed. But Reboul
judged things by a higher standard than that of party prejudice. "A
Frenchman before a royalist," he vindicated his patriotism by active
measures in those stormy days when more voices were needed to speak for
the right in the councils of the nation. No doubt, with his unfailing
discernment, he saw the incongruity of his actual position as a man of
the people with that refusal of office which was in a certain sense
becoming--nay, required--in a legitimist of noble birth. He says of
his nomination: "I had firmly refused before, being certain of my
own incompetency, but our population would not hear reason. These
good people imagine that, because one can scribble verses, one can
therefore represent a borough. I was not able to disabuse them; it was
made a question of honor and patriotism, and how could I refuse any
longer? Here am I, therefore, who have always lived far from political
gatherings, I a man of retirement and study, thrown into your whirlpool
without well knowing what will happen to me there."

He was not happy as a deputy. M. de Poujoulat says that Reboul's
countenance in those days was that of a man bored to death. When, the
following year, he retired from these unwonted honors, he thanked God
for "having rescued him from the storm," and wrote to a friend: "I am
quite happy again, and do not at all regret the honors I have left.
I wonder what interest there can be in such heated disputes about
vulgarized issues! I never felt more at home than I do now, and nothing
whispers to me that I have had any loss."

Of a young and unfortunate colleague in the Assembly, a man who had
mistaken an irrepressible momentary exaltation for a genuine vocation,
and from a porter had vaulted to the position of a deputy, while he
further aspired to that of a poet, Reboul says with grave sympathy and
sterling sense: "His blind ambition often astounded me, but it was so
candid and so genuine that I had not the heart to condemn it. I have
often grieved over this frank nature, this child who, in his gambols,
_would_ handle as a whip which he could use the serpent that was to
bite him. The best thing for him would be to go back to his trade in
the teeth of the world, and to make use of his strength and youth; he
would find in that a truer happiness than in the shadow of an official
desk, or in the corruptions of the literary 'Bohemia,' but such an
effort, I fear, is beyond his strength of mind." With what special
right Reboul could give this sound, if stern, advice, we shall see
presently.

In poetry Reboul's inspiration was purely Christian, austere in its
morality, and trusting rather to the matter than the form. He believed
that the times required a poetic censorship, incisive, rapid, and
relentless; poetry was "the mould that God had given him in which to
cast his thoughts," and he felt bound to use it in season for God's
cause, without stopping to elaborate its form and perhaps weaken its
effect. Thus it came about that he was essentially a poet of action,
mingling with his fellow-men, following the vicissitudes of the day
and bearing his part valiantly in the battle of life. He was not of
the contemplative, subjective order of poets, nor was he among the
sensualists of literature. His art was to him neither a personal
consolation, occupying all his time and plunging him into a selfish yet
not unholy oblivion of the world, nor yet an instrument of gain and a
pander to the evil passions of others. It was a mission, not simply a
gift; a "talent" to be used and to bring in five-fold in the interests
of his heavenly Master. Many of his friends objected to the crudity of
form which sometimes resulted from this earnest conviction, and later
in life he did set himself to polish his style a little more. All his
verses bear this imprint of passionate earnestness; he speaks to all,
kings and people; he tells them of their duties in times of revolution,
he urges men to martyrdom, if need be, that the truth may triumph;
he exalts patriotism, fidelity, and disinterestedness, and loses no
opportunity to wrap wholesome precepts in poetic form. His style is
vigorous and impetuous, yet domestic affections are no strangers to
his pen. The world knows him as the author of "The Angel and the
Child," which has been translated into all languages from English to
Persian[37] and inspired a Dresden painter with a beautiful rendering
of the song on canvas. He says of himself: "With me, poetry is but the
veil of philosophy," and in this he has unconsciously followed the
dictum of a great man of the XVth century, Savonarola, who, in his work
on the _Division and Utility of all Sciences_, records the same truth:
"The essence of poetry is to be found in philosophy; the object of
poetry being to persuade by means of that syllogism called an example
exposed with elegance of language, so as to _convince_ and at the same
time to _delight_ us."[38]

Corneille was his favorite French poet, and his admiration for the
Christian tragedy of "Polyeucte" prompted him to write a drama in the
same style, called the "Martyrdom of Vivia." The scene was placed in
his own Nîmes, in the time of the Roman Empire. The piece was full
of beauties, and above all of enthusiasm, but, as might have been
expected, it was hardly a theatrical success. He says himself: "The
glorification of the martyrs of old is not a sentiment of our day"; but
when "Vivia" was performed under his own auspices in his native town
the result was far different. It created a _furor_, and everything,
even the accessories, was perfect. Every one vied with each other to
make it not only a success in itself, but an ovation to the author.
Reboul, when he once saw it acted in Paris, was so genuinely overcome
by it that, leaning across the box toward his friend M. de Fresne, he
whispered naïvely with tears in his eyes: "I had no idea that it was so
beautiful."

As a poet, he utterly despised mere popularity, and has recorded
this feeling both in verse and in prose. In his poem "Consolation
in Forgetfulness" he asks whether the nightingale, hidden among the
trees, seeks out first some attentive human ear into which to pour its
ravishing strains? Nay, he answers, but the songster gives all he has
to the night, the desert, and its silence, and if night, desert, and
silence are alike insensible, its own great Maker is ever at hand to
listen. But it is useless to translate winged verse into lame prose;
the next verse we will quote in the original:

    "Un grand nom coûte cher dans les temps où nous sommes,
    Il fant rompre avec Dieu pour captiver les hommes."

The same idea is reproduced in his correspondence:

"The revolution has for a long time usurped, all over Europe, the
disposal of popularity and renown, and, alas! how many Esaus there
are who have sold their birthright for a mess of celebrity!... Our
excellent friend M. Le Roy had a quality of soul capable of harmonizing
with the sad memories of fallen greatness! Our _siècle de grosse
caisse_[39] has lost the secret of those high and sublime feelings
which the reserve of a simple-minded man may cover."

When, in 1851, his friends wished to nominate him as a candidate
for the French Academy, the highest literary honor possible, Reboul
answered M. de Fresne thus: "Your kind friendship has led you astray.
What on earth would you have me do in such a body? Though I may, in
the intimacy of private life, have spoken to you of whatever poetic
merits I have, I am far from wishing to declare myself seriously the
rival of the best talent of the capital. Such pretension never entered
my head. Nay, in these days I might have written _Athalie_ and yet
deem myself unfit for the Academy. In revolutionary times, things
invade and overflow each other, and nothing is more futile than the
lamentations of literary men over the nomination of politicians to the
vacancies of the French Academy. The revolution has always jealously
guarded her approaches; the _Institut_ is her council." Ten years
later he congratulates himself that things have so far mended among
academicians as that "one may pronounce God's holy name in the halls of
the academy"; but he steadily refused to be nominated for a _fauteuil_.

Reboul's relations with the great men of his day were active and
cordial. No party feeling separated him from any on whom the stamp of
genius was set equally with himself. He corresponded with distinguished
personages of all countries, English, French, Italian, etc., admired
and appreciated the literature of foreign lands, followed the
intellectual movement of Europe in every branch of learning, and
supplied by copious reading of the best translations his want of
classical knowledge. The Holy Scriptures and the patristic literature
of the church were familiar and favorite studies with him; in every
sense of the word, he was a polished and appreciative scholar.
The accident of his birth and circumstances of his life in no way
interfered with this scholarship, and it would be a great mistake to
suppose that he was but a phenomenon, a freak of nature, a working-man
turned suddenly poet, but having beyond the gift of ready versification
no further knowledge of his art or grasp of its possibilities. In 1834,
having addressed to Lamennais a poetical warning and remonstrance, he
says that, receiving no answer, "he is appalled by the silence of
this man. Heaven forefend that the pillar which once was the firmest
support of the sanctuary should be turned into a battering-ram!..." The
Christian world knows that this prophecy came true, but there are those
who believe that on his death-bed the erring son was drawn back to the
bosom of his mother.

In 1844, Reboul was chosen as spokesman by the deputation of Nîmes to
the reception awarded M. Berryer by the town of Avignon. He says: "The
illustrious orator said so many flattering things to me that I was
quite confounded. He called me his _friend_.... Then, addressing us
all, his words seemed so fraught with magic that the immense audience
hung breathless on his lips, but when he began to speak of France his
voice, trembling with love of our country, took our very souls by
storm, and you should have seen those southern faces all bathed in
tears of admiration. We had need of a respite before applauding--but
what an explosion it was!" At another time he writes: "Where has
Berryer lived that he should be able to escape the influence of the
hazy phraseology of our age and keep intact that eloquence of his, at
once so clear and so trenchant?"

Manzoni's genius seemed to make the two poets, though not personally
acquainted, companions in spirit. M. de Fresne, who knew the Milanese
_littérateur_, was charged with Reboul's homage to him in verse, and
Reboul himself speaks thus of the impression made on a friend of his by
Manzoni's _Inni Sacri_:

"We read and admired everything in the book. The hymn for the 5th of
May particularly struck Gazay; he was quite beside himself, as I knew
he would be. This nature, rugged and trenchant (_osseuse et brève_),
which is so impatient of the milk-and-water[40] style of literature,
found here a subject of enthusiasm; he rose from his chair, walked up
and down the room with gigantic strides, and barely escaped breaking
through the floor."

His judgment of Victor Hugo is both interesting and striking. In 1862,
when _Les Misérables_ was published, he comments thus on the great
herald and apologist of revolution:

"It is always the same glorification of the convict-prison and the
house of prostitution, a theme which has for many years been dragged
over our literature and our drama. I do not like Hugo's _bishop_ any
more than Béranger's _curé_; the former is a fool and the latter a
drunkard. The author of _Les Misérables_ is vigorous in his style,
no doubt, but he carries the defects of this quality to the last
pitch of absurdity. The style is vigorous and rugged, true--but
_c'est du 'casse-poitrine' et du 'sacré chien,' de l'eau-de-vie de
pommes-de-terre_.[41] I do not know what to expect from the next two
volumes, but up to this it all seems to me to breathe the air of a
low public-house (_buvette de faubourg_). The ostentatious praise of
the socialist organs confirms this opinion. The multitude, as well
as kings, has its flatterers. I think that honest poverty, lacking
everything, and yet shutting its eyes and ears to temptation, would
have been a type worthier of the author's reputation, if it were only
for a change!"

A year later, in 1863, we see Reboul reading with interest a criticism
of Lamartine on this same work, and recording his satisfaction at the
implied condemnation. "But," says our poet, "it is only, alas! the
blind leading the blind. One is astonished to see the devastation
created in these two great intellects by the forsaking of principle."

His relations with Lamartine were close and affectionate, but his
admiration for the poet yet left him a severe measure for the man. In
1864, he wrote him an address in verse on dogma, or rather, as he calls
it, divine reason, as the foundation of all legislation, and from his
reasons drew consequences not over-favorable to the "historian-poet."
"But," he says, "I tried to be respectful without ceasing to be frank."
Lamartine answered him a few months later, and promised him a visit.
Reboul then says of him: "I found him as amiable, as much a friend as
ever; there must be something great in the depths of that man's heart.
May Providence realize one day my secret hopes for his soul's welfare."
When seven years before Lamartine came to see him at Nîmes, Reboul was
his _cicerone_ to the ruins and sights of the Roman colony, and the
exquisitely graceful compliment of the world-known poet to his brother
artist was thus worded: "This is worth more than all I saw during my
Eastern journey." Of Lamartine's poetical genius, and Victor Hugo's
claims to the renown of posterity, Reboul has no doubt, for he says
that the former's _Lac_ and the latter's lyrics "will never die."

The reader may like to know the opinion of Lamartine himself on Reboul.
We find it in his _Harmonies Poétiques_, where he dedicates a piece to
him entitled "Genius in obscurity," and appends the following anecdote,
which will remind us of Châteaubriand's earlier visit. This was the
first time the two poets met, and, like most of Reboul's friendships,
it was sought by the greater man--or rather, should we not say the
higher-placed rather than _greater_?

"Every one knows the poetical genius, so antique in form, so noble
in feeling, of M. Reboul, poet and workman. Work does not degrade.
His life is less known; I was ignorant of it myself. One day, passing
through Nîmes, I wished, before going to the Roman ruins, to see my
brother-poet. A poor man whom I met in the street led me to a little,
blackened house, on the threshold of which I was saluted by that
delicious perfume of hot bread just from the oven. I went in; a young
man in his shirt sleeves, his black hair slightly powdered with flour,
stood behind the counter, selling bread to a few poor women. I gave my
name; he neither blushed nor changed countenance, but quietly slipped
on his waistcoat, and led me up-stairs by a wooden staircase to his
working room, above the shop. There was a bed, and a writing-table,
with a few books and some loose sheets of paper covered with verses. We
spoke of our common occupation. He read me some admirable verses, and
a few scenes of ancient tragedy, breathing the true masculine severity
of the Roman spirit. One felt that this man had spent his life among
the living mementos of ancient Rome, and that his soul was, as it were,
a stone taken from those monuments, at whose feet his genius had grown
like the wild laurel at the foot of the Roman bridge over the Gard.

"I saw Reboul again in the Constituent Assembly. His was a free soul,
born for a republic; a heart simple and pure, and whose like the people
needs sorely to make it keep and honor the liberty it has won, but will
lose again unless it be tempered by justice and hallowed by virtue."

It will be seen that Reboul himself did not agree with Lamartine's
estimate of him, nor indeed with many of the great poet's religious
and political views; but the tribute to our hero is only rendered more
honorable by this dissidence of opinion.

Many other names might be added to the list of Reboul's literary
acquaintances. Montalembert, at whose request he paraphrased in verse
the famous article published in the _Correspondant_, "Une Nation en
deuil," a plea for Poland written by the author of _The Monks of the
West_; Père Lacordaire, Mgr. Dupanloup, M. de Falloux, Mme. Récamier,
Mme. de Beaumont, a graceful poetess, Canonge, his fellow-poet of
Nîmes, Charles Lenormand, and hosts of others. Artists too he held
in great honor: Sigalon, a painter full of promise, of a poor family
in Nîmes, and whom Reboul characterizes as one who, had he lived,
would have been a modern Michael Angelo; Orsel, of whom he speaks
in these enthusiastic terms: "I showed my friends some of Orsel's
sketches, which they found more _true_ and more _holy_ than Raphael's
style. I will not go so far, for the judgment of ages and of so many
connoisseurs unanimously proclaiming the supremacy of the great
Italian is a stronger authority in my eyes than the exclamation of a
few men in a given moment of enthusiasm. Still I was astounded. Some
vague remorse seized me when I reflected that I had regarded this man
with indifference, not yet knowing his works! But when I think that
I actually read so many of my bad verses to one who had before his
mind's eye such holy and beautiful types, and that he was good enough
to listen patiently, it is not admiration, but veneration that I feel
towards him."

Reber, the musician, who in 1853 was deservedly elected member of the
_Institut de France_, and Rose, a young sculptor, whose Christian
genius was worthy of being placed in contrast (in his admirable
_bassi-relievi_ of the Stations of the Cross in the church of S. Paul,
at Nîmes) with the perfection of Hippolyte Flandrin's magnificent
frescos, were also among Reboul's artistic friends. In a comparison
instituted by our poet between popular and high art, we find the
following pungent comment: "M. Courbet has painted women fitted, by the
rotundity of their dimensions, to be exhibited at a fair, and his name
is incessantly in the papers. On the other hand, M. Ingres is seldom if
ever mentioned!"

Reboul's voluminous letters to M. de Fresne trace unconsciously a most
noble moral portrait of the writer. Here are a few characteristic
touches, putting in relief his manliness and freedom from petty
vanities or weak susceptibilities. There was not the shadow of a
meanness in Reboul's mind; his soul was simplicity itself, and was
rather like those dark, deep waters of some of the American lakes, at
whose bottom every pebble is distinctly visible.

"One of the advantages of the position in which it has pleased God to
place me," he says, "is that I hear the truth told me point-blank and
without any circumlocution whatever, and, thank God, I am inured to
this. I have found out since that what once galled my pride has had
other and important results, so that both friend and foe have served
me.... I bow to nothing save that which is _beautiful everywhere and at
all times_, and progress to my mind signifies only the fashioning of
my works more and more according to this eternal standard. If I do not
succeed, therefore, be sure that it is through human helplessness and
not intentional profanation."

He thus distinctly recognizes his art as a mission, a sacred thing
to be reverently handled, and not _profaned_ by compromises with
the local and accidental spirit of the age. And again: "If the poet
condescends to these intrigues behind the scenes, he loses what should
be his greatest treasure: the consciousness of his own dignity.[42]
Theatrical plaudits, success, all that is outside ourselves: the poet
should seek to live at peace with his own soul, for alas! man cannot
fly from himself, and woe to him if he has need to blush for his deeds
before the tribunal of his own conscience.... There is too much water
in the wine of success to inebriate me.... Time, which is God's mode
of action, deprives us little by little of everything which can be
salutary guardianship, until that supreme moment when it leaves us
face to face with itself alone. Let us strive to prepare ourselves for
this awful _tête-à-tête_." Reboul possessed the true pride of a noble
heart which consisted in doing simply every duty required of him alike
by his poor condition and his admirable talent. Of the former he never
showed himself ashamed and repeatedly refused to change it; yet this
refusal was perfectly honest. If he was in no ways ashamed of his lowly
origin, at the same time he was equally far from making it a boast. On
the publication of his _Traditionelles_ (a volume of detached poems)
M. Lenormand devoted to it a laudatory and appreciative article in the
_Correspondant_. Reboul noticed this in the following words: "I have
only one observation to make, however: I would rather they had left
the 'baker' out of the question, certainly not because the allusion
humiliates me, but because I fear that it points towards making an
exception of my verses, as a moral _lusus naturæ_, and it is my ardent
wish, on the contrary, to be judged quite outside such circumstances.
I can say this the more frankly, because I have never, in my
_Traditionelles_, disguised my origin, and indeed, did I not fear to
be suspected of that hateful plebeian pride, I should even say that I
would not exchange my family for any other. This is between ourselves."

And again, when the question of his nomination to the French Academy
was under discussion, he wrote a very similar sentence: "I can hardly
tell you why I would not accept this candidature. This, perhaps, will
best render my idea: I am not of the stuff of which academicians are
made. This is no outburst of plebeian pride--the most insolent pride
of any; it is merely my true estimate of my own position." At another
time he said, excusing himself for not having asked a person of high
position and a friend of his to the funeral of his mother: "Whatever
ignorance and enviousness may say to the contrary, there are barriers
between the different classes of society which cannot be disregarded
without unseemliness. My 'neglect' was but the consequence of this
conviction."

He has left carelessly here and there embedded in the text of an
everyday letter some phrase which seems like a proverb, so beautiful
and comprehensive is it. For instance, speaking of the costliness
of the Paris _salons_, he says: "The most beautiful abodes, my dear
friend, are those where the devil finds nothing to look upon." Of the
degeneracy of modern thought he speaks thus: "These noble convictions
are passing away, and every thing is subjected to the feeble equations
of reason; all things are discussed, calculated, weighed, and the
heart would appear to be a superfluity of creation, so little are its
holy inspirations followed!"

And of books and their readers he says: "We do not all read a book
alike, but each takes from it only what his individual nature is
capable of appropriating. The prejudices of divers schools of
literature, the rivalry of various political, philosophical, and
religious opinions, are all so many spectacles through which we judge
the beauties or defects of any work."

Reboul's domestic life was a calm and simple one; his mind craved
no pleasures beyond its silent circle, save those which he found in
books; and his attachment to his native city and his humble home was as
touching as it was sincere. His trade gave him enough for a modest and
assured way of life, and he coveted no more. It was a less precarious
source of gain than literature alone would have been; it supported his
family in comfort, and, above all, left his own mind at ease; and it
was only towards the end of his life that, having generously assisted
a relation in financial difficulties, he found himself in real want.
Then only, and not till then, did he accept, with touching sadness and
humility, the help his friends and his heart's sovereign, the Comte de
Chambord, had repeatedly pressed upon him in happier days. His greatest
relaxation was an hour spent with his family or a few chosen literary
friends in his _mazet_, an enclosed garden with a little dwelling
attached, in which were a sitting-room and a kitchen, but no bed-rooms.
We do not know if this is a peculiar institution of Nîmes alone or of
the whole south of France. It is constantly mentioned by Reboul, and
his letters are often dated from it--nay, his verses were sometimes
composed there. It was a luxury of his later days, not of the time when
he received Châteaubriand and Lamartine in the "windmill chamber."

Reboul suffered for ten years before his death from a constitutional
melancholy, which the distraction of several interesting journeys in
Italy, Switzerland, and Austria only temporarily relieved; his general
health gave way by degrees, and he died on the 29th of May, 1864. He
who had vowed his life to the glory of God and his church was called
away from earth on the feast of Corpus Christi, having been completely
paralyzed on the left side three days before. He recovered neither
speech nor--to all appearance--consciousness, and his death was as
peaceful as a child's. His native town celebrated his funeral with all
the pomp of civic and religious honors; the Bishop, Mgr. Plantier,
made a funeral oration over his grave, and a monument was soon raised
to his memory by his grateful and admiring fellow-citizens. More than
that, the city of Nîmes took charge of his family and assured their
future, as a fitting homage to the man whose life had been so nobly
independent, so proudly self-supporting. The Roman colony could not
bear to see Reboul's helpless relatives the pensionaries of a stranger,
and the care it extended to them was delicately offered not as a boon
but a right. People of all classes, all religions, all political
opinions united in mourning their great compatriot. We can end with
no tribute of our own more fitting than M. de Poujoulat's warm and
eloquent words: "Noble triumph of honest genius, of sublime and modest
virtue! many things will have fallen, many footsteps have been effaced,
while yet Reboul will be remembered. The only lasting glory is that in
which there is no untruth. Reboul has left like a Christian a world
and an epoch which often grieved his faith. He has gone to that heaven
which he had seen in his poetic visions, and in which his imagination
had placed so many noble types. He himself has now become a type such
as the Christian muse would fain see placed in the immortal fatherland
of the elect."

The recording angel may well have sung over his tomb these triumphant
words of the Gospel:

"Well done, thou good and faithful servant; because thou hast been
faithful in a few things, I will set thee over great things: enter thou
into the joy of thy Lord."

We have thus endeavored to present a portrait of a character not often
met with in our literature. This man of the people, and yet a royalist;
this delicately-toned poet, and yet a man of sturdy common sense,
affords a curious and interesting study. What has won our especial
admiration is his inflexible adherence to principle in all that
concerns faith and the rights of the Holy See.

FOOTNOTES:

[28] _Lettres de Jean Reboul de Nîmes, avec une Introduction par M. de
Poujoulat._ Michel Lévy Frères. Paris, 1866.

[29] Romans xi. 24.

[30] Uncultivated tracts of land bordering the sea-shore of Brittany.

[31] 1 Kings ix. 21.

[32] This name was given to the market-women who had their regular
seats around the guillotine, and _knitted_ diligently, at the same time
insulting the victims while the executioner did his bloody work.

[33] See a translation of this poem in THE CATHOLIC WORLD for July.

[34] Alluding to his own vicissitudes during the French emigration.

[35] Literally, "Exile needs even its very crumbs."

[36] Smock-frock, or working-clothes.

[37] By Monchharem, a young Persian attached to the staff of Marshal
Paskievicz.

[38] See the second article on Jerome Savonarola, CATHOLIC WORLD, July,
1873.

[39] Literally "big-drum century."

[40] More expressive in the original, _le blanc d'œuf battu_--literally
"white of eggs beaten up."

[41] Untranslatable: the meaning is, that the vigor is that of a
prize-fighter, the ruggedness not of a philosopher, but of a low
ruffian.

[42] Simpler and more forcible in the original: _le sentiment de
lui-même_--"the consciousness of himself."




MARY.


    Dear honored name, beloved for human ties,
      But loved and honored first that One was given
    In living proof to erring mortal eyes
      That our poor flesh is near akin to heaven.

    Sweet word of dual meaning: one of grace,
      And born of our kind Advocate above;
    And one by memory linked to that dear face
      That blessed my childhood with its mother-love,

    And taught me first the simple prayer, "To thee,
      Poor banished sons of Eve, we send our cries."
    Through mist of years, those words recall to me
      A childish face upturned to loving eyes.

    And yet to some the name of Mary bears
      No special meaning, or no gracious power;
    In that dear word they seek for hidden snares,
      As wasps find poison in the sweetest flower.

    But faithful hearts can see, o'er doubts and fears,
      The Virgin link that binds the Lord to earth;
    Which to the upturned, trusting face appears
      Greater than angel, though of human birth.

    The sweet-faced moon reflects on cheerless night
      The rays of hidden sun to rise to-morrow;
    So unseen God still lets his promised light,
      Through holy Mary, shine upon our sorrow.




MORE ABOUT BRITTANY: ITS CUSTOMS, ITS PEOPLE, AND ITS POEMS.


All great national gatherings dating from an early period have a
religious origin. The assemblies of the Welsh, Bretons, and Gauls were
convoked by the Druids, and in the laws of Moëlmud are designated
"the privileged synods of fraternity and union which are presided
over by the bards." These, in losing their pagan character under
the influence of Christianity, nevertheless retained many of their
forms and regulations, together with the customary place and time of
meeting. True to her prudent mode of action among the peoples she was
converting, the church, instead of destroying the temples, purified
them, and, instead of overthrowing the menhir and dolmen, raised the
cross above them.

It was almost invariably at the solstices that the Christian assemblies
of the Celtic nations were accustomed to take place, as the pagan ones
had done before them, when, in the presence of immense multitudes, the
bards held their solemn sittings, and vied with each other in poetry
and song, while athletes ran, wrestled, and performed various feats
of agility and strength. In Wales, the sectaries who divided the land
amongst them have deprived these assemblies of all religious character
and association whatsoever, and the manners, language, and traditions
are all that remain unchanged. In Brittany, on the contrary, the
religious element is the dominant one, and impresses its character
not only upon the antique observances, but also upon the rustic
literature--that is to say, the poesy--with which the land abounds.

The most favorable opportunities for hearing these popular
ballads occur at weddings and agricultural festivities, such as
the gathering-in of the harvest and vintage, the _linadek_, or
flax-gathering--for it is believed that the flax would become mere
tow or oakum unless it were gathered with singing--the fairs, the
watch-nights, when, around the bed of death, the relatives and
neighbors take their turn to watch and pray, while those who are
waiting pass much of the time in singing or listening to religious
ballad-poems of interminable length, or ditties like the following,
_Kimiad ann Ene_--"The Departure of the Soul"--which chiefly consists
of a dialogue between the soul and its earthly tenement:

                       THE DEPARTURE OF THE SOUL.

  Come listen to the song of the happy Soul's departure, at the
    moment when she quits her dwelling.

  She looks down a little towards the earth, and speaks to the poor
    body which is lying on its bed of death.

                                 SOUL.

  "Alas, my body! Behold, the last hour is come; I must quit thee and
    this world also.

  "I hear the rapping of the death-watch. Thy head swims; thy lips
    are cold as ice; thy visage is all changed. Alas, poor body! I
    must leave thee!"

                                 BODY.

  "If my visage is changed and horrible, it is too true that you must
    leave me.

  "You are, then, unmindful of the past; despising your poor friend,
    who is, alas! so disfigured. Likeness is the mother of love:
    since you have no longer any left to me, lay me aside."

                                 SOUL.

  "No, dearest friend, I despise you not. Of all the Commandments,
    you have not broken one.

  "But it is the will of God (let us bless his goodness) to put
    an end to my authority and your subjection. Behold us parted
    asunder by pitiless death. Behold me all alone between heaven and
    earth, like the little blue dove who flew from the ark to see if
    the storm was over."

                                 BODY.

  "The little blue dove came back to the ark, but you will never
    return to me."

                                 SOUL.

  "Nay, truly, but I will return to thee, and solemnly promise so to
    do; we shall meet again at the Day of Judgment.

  "As truly shall I return to thee as I now go forth to the
    particular judgment, the thought of which, alas! makes me tremble.

  "Have confidence, my friend. After the northwest wind there falls a
    calm on the sea.

  "I will come again and take thee by the hand; and wert thou heavy
    as iron, when I shall have been in heaven, I will draw thee to me
    like a loadstone."

                                 BODY.

  "When I shall be, dear Soul, stretched in the tomb, and destroyed
    in the earth by corruption;

  "When I shall have neither finger nor hand, nor foot nor arm, in
    vain will you try to raise me to you."

                                 SOUL.

  "He who created the world without model or matter has power to
    restore thee to thy first form.

  "He who knew thee when thou wast not shall find thee where thou
    wilt not be!

  "As truly shall we meet again as that I now go before the terrible
    tribunal, at the thought whereof I tremble,

  "Feeble and frail as a leaf in the autumn wind."

       *       *       *       *       *

  God hears the Soul, and hastens to answer it saying, Courage, poor
    Soul, thou shalt not be long in pain. Because thou hast served me
    in the world, thou shalt have part in my felicities.

  And the soul, always rising, casts again a glance below, and
    beholds her body lying on the funeral bier.

  "Farewell, my poor body, farewell! I look back yet once more, out
    of my great pity for thee."

                                 BODY.

  "Cease, then, dear Soul, cease to address me with golden words.
    Dust and corruption are unworthy of pity."

                                 SOUL.

  "Saving thy favor, O my body! thou art truly worthy, even as the
    earthen vessel that has held sweet perfumes."

                                 BODY.

  "Adieu, then, O my life! since thus it must be. May God lead you to
    the place where you desire to be.

  "You will be ever awake and I sleeping in the grave. Keep me in
    mind, and hasten your return.

  "But tell me, why is it thus that you are so gay and glad at
    leaving me, and yet I am so sad?"

                                 SOUL.

  "I have so exchanged thorns for roses, and gall for sweetest
    honey."

  Then, joyous as a lark, the soul mounts, mounts, mounts, ever
    upwards towards heaven. When she reaches heaven, she knocks at
    the gate, and humbly asks my lord S. Peter to let her enter in.

  "O you, my lord S. Peter! who are so kind, will you not receive me
    into the Paradise of Jesus?"

                               S. PETER.

  "Truly thou shalt enter into the Paradise of Jesus, who, when thou
    wast on earth, didst receive him into thy dwelling."

       *       *       *       *       *

  The soul, at the moment of entering, once more turns her head, and
    sees her poor body like a little mole-hill.

  "Till we meet again, my body--and thanks--till we meet again, till
    we meet again in the valley of Jehosaphat.

  "I hear sweet harmonies I never heard before. The day breaks, and
    the shadows are fled away.

  "Behold, I am like a rose-tree planted by the waters of the river
    of life."

This dialogue bears a remarkable resemblance to at least three similar
compositions by S. Ephrem Syrus, Deacon of Edessa, who died A.D.
372. With the Breton poem it may not be uninteresting to compare the
following wild Northern dirge, which may be unknown to some amongst our
readers:

                       SCOTTISH LYKE-WAKE DIRGE.

    "This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
      Every nighte an' alle,
    Fire, an' sleet, an' candle-light,
      An' Christe receive thy saule.

    "When thou from hence away art paste,
      Every nighte an' alle,
    To whinny-muir thou comest at laste,
      An' Christe receive thy saule.

    "If ever thou gavest hosen or shoon,
      Every nighte an' alle,
    Sit thee down an' put them on,
      An' Christe receive thy saule.

    "If hosen an' shoon thou never gavest nane,
      Every nighte an' alle,
    The whinnes shal prick thee to the bare bane,
      An' Christe receive thy saule.

    "From whinny-muir when thou mayest passe,
      Every night an' alle,
    To Brig o' Dread[43] thou comest at laste,
      An' Christe receive thy saule.

    "If ever thou gavest meate or drinke,
      Every nighte an' alle,
    The fire shall never make thee shrinke,
      An' Christe receive thy saule.

    "From Brig o' Dread when thou mayest passe,
      Every night an' alle,
    To Purgatory fire thou comest at laste,
      An' Christe receive thy saule.

    "If meat or drink thou never gavest nane,
      Every nighte an' alle,
    The fire will burn thee to the bare bane,
      An' Christe receive thy saule.

    "This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
      Every nighte an' alle,
    Fire, an' sleet, an' candle-light,
      An' Christe receive thy saule."

Not in Brittany alone, but also in most of the country parts of France,
the villagers have a custom during the winter of assembling in each
other's cottages--or in a barn, if no other room of convenient size
should offer--for the _fileries du soir_, when, by the light of a
single candle, or the blazing logs upon the hearth, round which all sit
in a circle, the women sew or spin, while some of the company take it
in turn to sing or tell stories, or occasionally to read aloud for the
amusement or instruction of the rest. Besides singing ballads which are
already known, it not unfrequently happens that the villagers compose
a new one amongst themselves during one of these _veillées_. Some one
arrives, it may be a pilgrim, a beggar, or a neighbor, and relates
something which has just happened; while the hearers are talking
it over, probably another person comes in, bringing fresh details;
interest becomes more and more excited, and all at once there is a
general cry, "Let us make a song about it." The poet most in renown
amongst the company is called upon to make a beginning, to which he
accedes, after the customary amount of entreaty has been gone through.
He improvises a strophe, which every one repeats after him; a neighbor
continues the song, which is again repeated by all; a third adds his
share, and so on, every new verse being taken up by all present, and
repeated with the rest; and thus a new ballad, the composition of all,
repeated and learned by all, flies on the following day from parish to
parish, on the wings of its _refrain_, from _veillée_ to _veillée_,
and speedily finds its place among the poetry of the land. Most of the
Breton ballads are composed thus by collaboration, and this manner of
producing them has its name in the language; it is called _diskan_
(repetition), and the singers are _diskanerien_.

But it is especially at the _Pardons_, or feasts of the patron saints,
that are to be heard in their greatest perfection historical ballads,
love-ditties, and songs on sacred subjects; and we turn again to the
interesting pages of M. de Villemarqué, from which we have already
drawn so largely, for a description of these festive occasions.

Every great _Pardon_ lasts at least three days. On the eve, all the
bells are set ringing, and the people busy themselves in decorating
the church. The altars are adorned with garlands and vases of flowers,
the statues of the saints clothed in the national costume, the patron
or patroness being distinguished by the habiliments of a bridegroom
or a bride. The former has a large bouquet, tied with long and
bright- ribbons; the white head-dress of the latter glitters
with a hundred little mirrors. As the day declines, the church is
swept and the dust scattered to the winds, that it may be favorable
to those who are coming to the morrow's festival. After this, every
one places in the nave the offering he has brought the patron saint.
These offerings generally consist of sacks of corn, bundles of flax,
soft white fleeces, cakes of wax, or other agricultural productions,
just as in the days of Gregory of Tours, who mentions the "multitudo
rusticorum, ... exhibens lanas, vellera, formas ceræ, etc."[44]

Dancing then begins, to the sound of the national _biniou_, the
bombardo, and tambourine, in front of the church, or by the fountain
of the patron saint, or it may be near some ancient dolmen, which
serves as a seat for the fiddlers: it is even stated that not more than
a century ago dancing took place in the church itself--a profanity
which the clergy invariably set themselves against, the bishops
excommunicating obstinate offenders.

In some places, bonfires are lighted at night upon the eminence on
which the church is built, and on the neighboring hills. As soon as the
flame leaps up the pyramid of dry leaves and broom, the crowd walks in
procession twelve times round it, reciting prayers or singing. The old
men surround it with a circle of stones, and place a cauldron in the
centre, in which, in ancient times, meat was cooked for the priests,
but in the present day it is filled with water, into which children
throw pieces of metal, while a circle of beggars, kneeling around it
bare-headed, and leaning on their sticks, sing in chorus the legends
of the patron saint. It was exactly thus that the old bards sang hymns
in honor of their divinities, by the light of the moon, and round the
magic basin encircled with stones, in which was prepared the "repast of
the brave."

On the following morning, at break of day, arrive from Léon, Tréguier,
Göelo, Cornouailles, Vannes, and all parts of Basse Bretagne, bands
of pilgrims, singing as they proceed on their way. As soon as they
descry from afar the church-spire, they take off their large hats,
and kneel down, making the sign of the cross. The sea is covered with
a thousand little barks, from whence the wind brings the sound of
hymns, whose solemn cadence keeps time with the stroke of the oars.
Whole cantons arrive, with the banners of their respective parishes,
and led by their rectors. As they approach their destination, the
clergy of the _Pardon_ advance to receive them, and, at the moment of
their meeting, the crosses, banners, and images of the saints are bent
towards each other by way of mutual salutation, as the two processions
form themselves into one, while the church-bells make the air resound
with their joyous clamor. When Vespers are ended, the procession comes
forth, the pilgrims arranging themselves according to their different
dialects. The peasants of Léon may be recognized by their green, brown,
or black habiliments, and bare, muscular limbs; the Trégorrois, whose
gray garb has about it nothing particularly original, are remarkable
among the rest for their full and melodious voices; the Cornouaillais
for the costliness and elegance of their richly embroidered blue or
violet coats, their puffed-out pantaloons and floating hair; while
the men of Vannes, on the contrary, are distinguishable by the sombre
color of their apparel. The cold, calm aspect of their countenances and
bearing would scarcely lead one to suspect the determination of this
energetic race, of whom neither Cæsar nor the Republican armies could
break the will, and whom Napoleon designated as "frames of iron, hearts
of steel."

As the procession pours forth from the church, nothing can be more
curious than to observe these close ranks of peasants, in costumes
so varied and at times so strange, with their heads uncovered, their
eyes cast down, and the rosary in their hands; nor anything more
touching than the hands of weather-beaten mariners in their blue shirts
and barefoot, who are come to pay the vow that has saved them from
shipwreck and death, bearing on their shoulders the fragments of their
shattered vessel; nothing more impressive than the sight of this
countless multitude, preceded by the cross, traversing the sandy or
rock-scattered beach, while the sound of its litanies mingles with the
murmurs of the ocean.

Certain parishes, before entering the church, halt first at the
cemetery. There, among the graves of their forefathers, the most
venerable peasant with the lord of the canton, and the most exemplary
village-maiden with one of the young ladies of the manor, stand on the
topmost step of the churchyard cross, and, with their hands placed on
the Holy Gospel, solemnly renew their baptismal vows in their own names
and on behalf of the prostrate multitude.

The pilgrims pass the night in tents erected on the plain, and do not
retire to repose until a late hour, remaining to listen to the long
narrative poems on sacred subjects which the popular bards wander
singing from tent to tent.

This first day is wholly consecrated to religion, but secular pleasures
awake with the sound of the hautboy on the following morn.

The lists are opened at noon. The tree of the prizes, laden with its
strange variety of fruits, rises in the centre, while at its foot lows
the chief prize of all--the heifer--with its horns gaily decked with
ribbons. Numberless competitors present themselves. Trials of strength
or skill, wrestling, racing, and dancing, continue without intermission
until the evening is far advanced.

The first two nights of the _Pardon_ are devoted to wandering singers
of every description, such as the millers, the tailors, the ragmen,
beggars, and _barz_; but the last is exclusively the right of the
_kloer_ or _kler_, of whom, as well as of the first-named personages,
we will mention a few particulars. The chief difference between the
miller and the other popular minstrels is that he returns every evening
to his mill; but, like them, he makes the round of the country, passing
through the cities, towns, and villages, entering the farm-house and
the manor, going to fairs and markets, and hearing news, which he
puts into rhyme as he goes on his way; and his songs, repeated by the
beggars, who are rarely the composers of ballads themselves, soon find
their way from one end of Brittany to the other.

The tailor's special characteristic is caustic wit and raillery. "His
ear is long," says the Breton proverb, "his eye open day and night,
and his tongue as sharp as his needle." Nothing escapes him. He makes
a song upon everybody without distinction, saying in verse that which,
he would not dare to say in prose, and yet often so disguising his
satire that it is keenest where at first sight least evident. All the
value of his songs depends upon their actuality. He is learned in
all the gossip of the place, and if perchance on his homeward way he
lights upon a couple of lovers, happy in the seclusion of a wood, they
find themselves next day the subjects of his malicious muse, and their
mutual appreciation proclaimed to all the neighborhood. Of the miller
and the ragman much the same may be said; and yet it is but just to add
that, with all the pleasure they find in laughing at their neighbor,
they are never guilty of calumny against him.

The _barz_ occupies a higher place in the order of singers than
any other, the _kloer_ only excepted. He represents the wandering
minstrels, shades of the primitive bards, who were reproved by
Taliessin for their degeneracy even in his day, and for living without
regular occupation or fixed dwelling-place, serving as echoes of
popular gossip, and spending their days in wandering from one assembly
to another. The self-same reproaches one hears at this present day,
addressed to the same class of people by the Breton priests.

And yet some few rays of their former glory linger around the race.
Like their ancestors, they celebrate noble and worthy deeds, dispensing
praise or blame impartially to small and great. Those of the ancient
bards who were blind made use of a sort of tally-stick, of which the
arrangement of the notches served to fix certain songs in their memory.
This species of mnemonics, which is known in Wales as _Coelbren y
Beirdd_--the Alphabet of the Bards--is still in use among the _barz_ of
Brittany. They also invariably observe the old bardic law which forbade
them to enter any house without previously asking permission by singing
the customary salutation at the door: "God's blessing be upon you,
people of this house: God's blessing be upon you, small and great!"
and never entering unless they receive the answer: "God's blessing be
also upon you, wayfarer, whoever you may be." If they do not hear this
speedily, they pass on their way.

Like the ancient Cambrian bards, they are, by virtue of their
profession, a necessity at every popular festival. They betroth the
future husband and wife, according to antique and unvarying rites,
previous to the performance of the religious ceremony; they enjoy great
liberty of speech, and exercise a certain amount of moral authority
over the minds of the people; they are loved, sought for, and honored
almost as much as were their bardic ancestors, though moving in a less
elevated sphere.

The name of _kloer_ (_kloarek_ in the singular) is given to the youths
who are studying with a prospect of entering the ecclesiastical state.
They are identical with the Welsh _kler_, or school-clerk, and in the
time of Taliessin occupied, as they still occupy, the place of bards,
forming a class by themselves of scholar-poets.

The Breton _kloer_ generally belong to the peasantry or to the
trades-people of the country towns. The ancient episcopal sees of
Tréguier and Léon, Quimper and Vannes, attract them in the largest
numbers. They arrive there in bands from the depths of the country, in
the national costume, with their long hair, and their rustic simplicity
and language; most of them being from about eighteen to twenty years
old. They live together in the faubourgs; the same garret serves for
bed-room, kitchen, dining-room, and study. This is a far different
existence from that which they led among the woods and fields, and
it is not long before a complete change has come over them. With the
lessening of muscular strength, their intellect and imagination develop
themselves. The summer vacation takes them back to their village homes
at the season in which, says a Breton poet, "young hearts expand with
the flowers," and when temptations abound; thus it not unseldom happens
that the _kloarek_ returns to his studies with the thorn of a first
love in his heart. Then there arises a tempest in his soul--a struggle
between the love of the creature and the Creator. Sometimes the former
is the stronger; isolation, homesickness, leisure, contribute to
develop a sentiment of which the germ only exists. A remembrance, a
word, a melody, or the sound of some wild instrument which breaks on
his ear and recalls his home, makes it suddenly burst forth. Then he
throws his class-books into the fire, renounces the ecclesiastical
state, and returns to his native village.

But it is far oftener that the higher devotion wins the day. In either
case, however, the scholar-poet must, according to his own expression,
"comfort his heart" by making his confidences to the muse.

By an instinct natural to all but truly popular poets, the _kloer_
never write their compositions. They are wise in this. "The memory of
hearing," as it was called by the ancient bards, is much more tenacious
than the "memory of letters." To write and print their songs would be
to give up having them learnt by heart, and repeated by generation
after generation.

Once become priests, the _kloer_ burn that which they have worshipped;
thus Gildas declaims against the bards, forgetting, in his monk's
habit, that in his youth he had made one of their number. As _kloer_,
these scholar-poets disdain the songs of the wandering minstrels; as
priests, they equally disdain the lays of the _kloer_. And yet, as
priests, they do not cease to sing; but that which lingered on the
earth now finds its wings and takes a heavenward flight, and the sacred
songs and canticles which express the warm devotion of their hearts
imprint themselves on the memory of the people, and are, like prayers,
transmitted from age to age. It is thus impossible to know the date of
their compositions, except by knowing the exact period at which their
authors lived.

With regard to the religious events which are the theme of the
_legends_, it is different. These compositions belong to the domain of
historical songs and ballads, and owe their popularity to their being
the expression of traditions already widely known among the people.

We close our notice with the translation of a little poem by a young
_kloarek_ of Léon. It is his farewell to earthly love--a farewell which
is apparently made more easy by outward accidentals than can always be
the case under similar circumstances. It is entitled

                    ANN DROUK-RANS; OR, THE RUPTURE.

    Ah! knew I how to read and write as I know how to rhyme,
    A song all new I would indite, and in the shortest time!

    Behold my little friend, who comes! towards our house comes she,
    And, if the chance befals, she'll may-be speak awhile with me.

    "Sweet little friend, but you are changed since last I saw your face;
    'Twas in the month of June, when you the _pardon_ went to grace."

    "And if, young man, so changed I am, what wonder can there be?
    When, since the _pardon_ of the Folgoät, death has stood by me;
    For 'twas a raging fever that has made the change you see."

    "Sweet friend, come with me to the garden; there a little rose
    First opened out its dewy bud when Thursday morning rose.
    Upon her stalk, so fair and gay, her new-born beauty shone;
    The morrow came--her beauty and her freshness all were gone.

    "Sweet friend, the door of your young heart I bade you well to close,
    That naught might enter to disturb that garden's still repose;
    But, ah! you did not listen, and you left ajar the door,
    And now the flower is withered up that showed so fair before.

    "For fairer things than love and youth this world has not to give,
    But in this world nor love nor youth have oft-times long to live;
    Our love was like a summer cloud that melts into the sky,
    And passing as a breath of wind that dies with scarce a sigh."

FOOTNOTES:

[43] In some versions, "To _Razar Brig_ thou comest at laste."

[44] "Multitude of peasants, ... exhibiting wool, fleeces, forms of
wax, etc."




A VISIT TO THE GRANDE CHARTREUSE.


It was a glorious September morning; the freshness of the night was
still perceptible, although the rays of the sun were filling the air
with a genial warmth, when, issuing from the fortified gates of the
beautifully situated town of Grenoble, I turned my steps towards the
celebrated monastery of the Grande Chartreuse.

I made an early start, as the road before me was long, consisting of
an uninterrupted series of steep ascents, with the exception of the
first few miles that lay along the banks of the Isère. This level and
comparatively uninteresting country is soon passed, and the traveller,
quitting the high-road at the village of Voreppe, strikes into the
mountains. On reaching the brow of the hill that rises above that
village, a most beautiful panorama presents itself to the view. The
fertile and far-famed valley of Grêsivaudan spreads far away to the
left and right, shut in on either side by rocky mountains, capped by
dark pine forests. The snowy crests of the Alps are conspicuous, while,
through the centre of the valley, the Isère, in its sinuous course,
gleams in the sun like a silver thread, contrasting with the dark,
luxuriant green of the hemp and the gay autumnal tints of the vine.

Commanding a like enchanting view, and nestled in the hills a few miles
from Voreppe, is the Convent of Chalais. Founded as a Benedictine abbey
in the XIth century, it became later on a dependence of the Grande
Chartreuse. At the Revolution, it was sold as national property, but it
was destined once again to revert to its pious use; for in 1844 it was
bought by the Père Lacordaire for the sons of S. Dominic, whose order
he had just restored in France. Often in after-years did he seek there,
in the presence of nature's loveliest aspects, some slight repose for
his overworked body and ardently active mind.

The road from Voreppe to St. Laurent du Pont appeared to me exceedingly
dreary and monotonous, more so, perhaps, than it really was, from the
contrast its bare and rugged hills presented to the luxuriant and
richly varied scene on which I had just been gazing. So pleasant,
however, were the anticipations that filled my mind that the distance
was accomplished in a very short time; and a few minutes sufficed for
refreshment at St. Laurent.

The village is poor; its church, which is a new building, was built,
like most of those in the neighborhood, by the charity of the monks
of the Chartreuse; indeed, the village itself has been several times
rebuilt by their generosity, having frequently, owing to the quantity
of wood used in the construction of its houses, been burnt almost to
the ground.

The most beautiful part of the whole journey is now at hand. Within
a mile of St. Laurent is the entrance to the famous gorge that bears
the name of Desert of S. Bruno. My expectations were raised to the
highest pitch; for I had always heard that the scenery of this gorge
would alone repay the traveller his journey thither, even if the
monastery and its surroundings were entirely devoid of interest. I was
not, however, free from misgivings; for how often does that which in
itself is really beautiful disappoint us when compared to the bright
visions that had charmed our imagination! Such at least was the lesson
experience had taught _me_; but to-day I was to learn something new,
for the reality far surpassed my most sanguine expectations. Never
shall I forget the majestic grandeur of the scenery that continued to
unfold itself to my view at every turn of the road until I reached
the monastery. The most striking scene of the whole journey, and the
one to which the memory loves best to revert, is without doubt the
entrance to the Desert de S. Bruno; here both nature and man seem to
have combined to render the features of the landscape picturesque and
sublime. The mind is totally unprepared for what is coming. During the
first mile after leaving the village, the road has been pleasantly
winding along the banks of the Guiers Mort, among wooded hills, and
through rich mountain pastures--nature in its softer rather than in its
grander aspects--and it is at a sudden turn of the road, at a point
where the valley seems shut in on all sides, that the entrance to the
gorge bursts upon the sight, seemingly as if the rocks had been rent
in two to form a passage just sufficient to admit the foaming torrent,
while the road is carried along the face of the mountain, now rising
perpendicularly from the water's edge to an immense height. A ruined
archway, on which is still visible the arms of the Carthusian order,
here marks the limits of the former domain of the monastery, and,
with the bold, single-arched bridge which carries the road across the
stream, and the rustic iron forge that crouches under the opposite
rocks, adds a picturesque beauty to the grandeur of the spot.

Until you reach the convent--that is to say, for about eight
miles--the beauty of the scenery never for a moment diminishes; the
road, which shows great engineering skill, follows the course of the
torrent, which it crosses several times. At each turn the view varies;
sometimes distant glimpses of the snowy peaks of the Alps are obtained;
at other times you are so completely shut in by the mountains that
nothing is visible save the magnificent forests that cover their sides.
The size of some of the pines in these forests is very remarkable; one
could almost imagine that they dated back as far as S. Bruno. I could
not refrain from thinking, as I gazed on them, what scenes they must
have witnessed, and what strange tales they could unfold were they able
to speak; of how many could they tell who passed along that road after
bidding the world an eternal farewell--men who had seen life in all its
gayest moods, and, having tasted its unsatisfying honors and delights,
sought peace and happiness in repentance and self-denial; youths who
wore still unsullied their baptismal robes, and fled hither to preserve
that innocence that fears even the contact of a sinful world. They
could tell how the great S. Hugh had returned sorrowfully along that
road from the calm home of his dear Chartreuse, to accept, for God's
greater glory, the far distant see of Lincoln, and the dreary task of
struggling against an unprincipled king and a corrupt court; they could
tell of many others who, like him, had humbly trod that path, thinking
to hide themselves from dignities and honors, but had been recalled
by the all-penetrating wisdom of the church to wear the mitre or the
purple.

About midway between St. Laurent and the monastery there rises by the
side of the road a most singular pinnacle-shaped rock, ascending
perpendicularly to a considerable height, and called the Pic de
L'Œillette. In connection with this rock an amusing story is told of
an Englishman, who, having heard that no one had ever reached its
summit, determined to secure that honor for his country. Accordingly,
he commenced the task with a thorough good-will, and, after much
labor, succeeded in accomplishing it to his satisfaction. As soon
as his enthusiasm, which showed itself in the form of three genuine
British cheers, had in some measure subsided, he began to think of
descending; to his dismay, he discovered that to descend would be more
than difficult--indeed, to all appearance, impossible; and it was not
until he had passed several hours in his very uncomfortable position,
meditating, let us hope, on the vanity of human greatness, that he was
able to let himself down in most inglorious fashion by the aid of ropes
brought to him by some peasants.

Owing to the height of the surrounding mountains and narrowness of
the gorge, no distant views of the monastery are obtained; and the
traveller comes very suddenly on the imposing pile, which, from
its extent, resembles a small village. Without being remarkable in
architecture, it is decidedly picturesque; the high pitch of the roofs,
rendered necessary by the heavy falls of snow which occur during seven
months of the year, and its six belfries rising to various heights,
give it a striking and quaint appearance.

Before entering its solemn portals, a few words on the origin and
history of the monastery may not be out of place. S. Bruno, after
quitting the world, selected this spot, at the invitation of S. Hugh,
the holy Bishop of Grenoble, as a suitable place where, in imitation of
the fathers of the desert, he, with six disciples, might lead a life
of solitude and prayer. At first each recluse built himself a separate
cell; but in time, as their number increased, the rude huts grew into
a large and regular monastery. The site of this early settlement,
now marked by the Chapel of S. Bruno and Notre Dame de Cassalibus,
was higher than that of the present structure, which was chosen some
thirty years after the death of the holy founder, when the original
buildings were destroyed by an avalanche. During its long existence,
many have been the vicissitudes the convent has experienced; frequently
burnt almost to the ground, pillaged by ruthless nobles or fanatical
heretics, it has always risen again from its ruins; and in riches or in
poverty, in prosperity or in adversity, its inhabitants have given the
same noble example of austere virtue, unbounded charity, and generous
hospitality.

The Revolution of 1789 found the Carthusian order at the height of its
prosperity; in France alone it counted no less than seventy houses,
with immense possessions in lands and revenues. These, of course, were
seized by revolutionary greed, and the poor monks driven forth into
the world, even from the uninviting solitudes of S. Bruno's desert.
With 1815 came the restoration of religion in France, and the return of
the scattered members of the religious orders. The Grande Chartreuse
once more afforded shelter to the children of S. Bruno, but bereft
of all its lands and forests, which had been either expropriated by
the state or sold as national property. In July, 1816, possession was
taken in the name of the order by Dom Moissonnier, superior-general. A
happy day it was for the inhabitants of the surrounding country, who
had not forgotten the kind and generous friends of whom they had been
deprived for twenty-four years; and the welcome they gave the returning
fathers proves that then, as to-day, the cry against religious orders
proceeded, not from the people, but from that class, more noisy than
numerous, whose sole aim is the destruction of Christianity and the
gratification of their own evil passions.

The part of the building reserved for the reception of strangers forms
one side of the spacious courtyard, into which you enter through the
principal gateway; it contains four large dining-halls and a great
number of bed-rooms, often, however, insufficient for the visitors who
in the summer crowd to view this lovely spot, and to see something of
that wondrous, and in our days unfamiliar, institution--monastic life.

During one's stay at the monastery, which, unless by special
permission, is limited to three days, one must be content with
Carthusian fare--a curious mixture of vegetable soups, omelettes,
carp--of which there seems to be a never-failing supply--and wild
fruits from the mountains. Meat is never allowed within the precincts
of the convent; not even in case of serious illness is the rule relaxed
for the monks.

The long walk and the invigorating purity of the mountain air had
sharpened my appetite, and I did ample justice to the viands placed
before me, meagre in quality certainly, but not in quantity, finishing
with a glass of the famous _liqueur_. I contented myself with a short
stroll after dinner, as at so high an altitude the air is cool after
sunset; indeed, few are the evenings here, even at midsummer, that
people are not glad to assemble for a short time around the glowing
logs before retiring to rest.

At midnight, the great bell tolls forth for matins, at which the
visitor is permitted to assist in a small gallery looking into the
church. A solitary lamp lights but dimly the large and naturally sombre
interior. It is an impressive sight to behold in that solemn gloom
the white-robed monks entering one by one, and, after prostrating
themselves before the altar, noiselessly take their places in the
choir. The office lasts until two in the morning. The chant is low and
monotonous, unaccompanied by any musical instrument.

Every morning at ten, a father whose special duty it is to entertain
visitors shows you over the monastery, explaining everything with the
most genial courtesy, answering with perfect affability the oftentimes
foolish and ignorant questions that are addressed to him. The visit
lasts about an hour and a half.

The chapel is spacious and lofty but exceedingly plain, and contains
nothing to interest the antiquarian. The largest room in the building
is the chapter-hall, which is finely proportioned, and is decorated
with portraits of the first fifty generals of the order, and copies of
the celebrated paintings by Lesueur representing the life of S. Bruno.

By far the most interesting part of the whole convent is the cloister,
in shape a very long parallelogram, the two side galleries being 721
feet in length; into them open the cells of the monks. In the centre of
the cloister is their burial-ground; and thus their abode in life is
separated by but a few steps from their final resting-place. The graves
of the generals of the order are alone marked by stone crosses; all
others lie beneath the greensward unmarked, unnamed. The cells are now
but rarely shown. They are all alike, consisting of two rooms one above
the other; each has a small garden. Food is passed to the inmates
through a wicket opening into the corridor of the cloister; for it is
only on Sundays and certain feast-days that the monks dine in common in
the refectory; even then the strictest silence is observed.

The library is not extensive; the most valuable books and manuscripts
were given, at the Revolution, to different public libraries. The
_liqueur_ for which the Grande Chartreuse is so renowned, and which now
forms the principal source of income for the convent, is manufactured
in a house quite apart from the main buildings. The process is, of
course, not shown to visitors, for the recipe used--aromatic herbs of
various kinds--is kept a secret; and hitherto all attempts to imitate
this _liqueur_ have been failures. The manufacture occupies a large
staff of lay brothers. The fathers take no part in it; their lives are
purely contemplative. It takes fully two days to explore the environs,
and more time may profitably be spent in doing so should the tourist
happen to be either an artist or a botanist. The former will find
numberless points of view worthy to adorn his album, while the latter
will revel in the luxuriance of the wondrous flora which clothes the
neighboring hills. The lover of mountain-climbing will find a pleasant
and easy day's work in the ascent of the Grand Som, and on a fine day
will be amply repaid by the extensive prospect the summit commands.
The less enterprising will probably be satisfied with the many pleasant
walks through the woods and sloping pastures that surround the
monastery, of which varied and striking views may be obtained at every
turn.

It was not without a feeling of sincere regret that, on the last
evening of my stay, I ascended one of those <DW72>s to take a farewell
view of the venerable pile. The last rays of the setting sun lit up the
high-pitched roofs and cross-topped belfries; a solemn silence reigned
in cloister and courtyard, in chapel and cell. It was a scene on which
one could gaze with unmixed pleasure, awakening as it did in the mind
feelings so calm and peaceful--a scene so full of all that spoke of
future hopes, so empty of all that recalled the fleeting joys of the
present!

But the sun had sunk behind the horizon, and the shades of evening,
fast closing around, warned me that it was time to cease my musings,
and seek, for the last time, the shelter of the hospitable convent-roof.

Early next morning, I was back again to the noisy world, with its
crowded streets, bustling hotels, and busy railways; but I shall
ever bear in my memory the pleasant recollections of that wonderful
combination of the austere charms of monastic life with the most varied
beauties of nature, which I have endeavored to describe in these few
pages on La Grande Chartreuse.




TO NATURE.


    Nature, to me thy face has ever been
      Familiar as a mother's; yet it grows
      But younger with the wearing years, and shows
    Fresher--unlike all others I have seen.

    The "beings of the mind," though "not of clay"--
      "Essentially immortal,"[45] and "a joy
      For ever"[46]--even these may pall and cloy,
    For all that poets gloriously say.

    Yea, and thy own charms, Nature, when portrayed
      By hand of man, become the spoil of time.
      The seasons mar, not change, them: in sublime
    Repose they reign--but evermore to fade.

    Whence comes, then, thy perennial youth renewed?
      Thy freshness as of everlasting morn?
      God's breath is on thee. Of it thou wast born,
    And with its fragrance is thy life bedewed.

    Nor can I need aught sterner than thy face
      To wean me from the things that pass away.
      _Not_ by autumnal lesson of decay,
    Or vernal hymn of renovating grace,

    But by this fragrance of the Infinite;
      For here my soul catches her native air,
      And tastes the ever fresh, the ever fair,
    That wait her in the Gardens of Delight.

  LAKE GEORGE, August, 1873.

FOOTNOTES:

[45]

    "The beings of the mind are not of clay:
      Essentially immortal, they create
    And multiply in us a brighter ray
      And more belov'd existence."

                                  --_Byron._

[46]

    "A thing of beauty is a joy for ever."

                                          --_Keats._






PARIS HOSPITALS


                FROM THE FRENCH OF M. L'ABBE O. DELARC.

Hospitals convey two very different impressions. If gone over on
the day specified for public admittance, everything will be found
in perfect order, every article used, every place, will shine with
cleanliness; the patients will be seen lying under white coverlets
behind the folds of neatly drawn curtains, and the men in attendance
will be attired in their best uniforms. Every repulsive object has
been put out of sight. But should the visitor command sufficient
influence to obtain admission when he is not expected, when no
preparations have been made for the public, he will acquire a more
correct idea of human infirmity. The atmosphere is thick and heavy,
the flickering night-lamp scarcely sheds its pale light around. Here
lies one whose groans disturb his fellow-sufferers; there shrieks the
victim of fever, endeavoring in his delirium to tear away from the
_infirmier_ who is holding him down; further on, half-closed curtains
insufficiently conceal the mortal remains of such or such a "Number,"
who expired a few hours ago. Other details, too harrowing to retrace,
shall be omitted, but their fearful reality may not be lost sight of
in a faithful account of what scenes do occur in a hospital. A heavy
coffin is from time to time viewed at the foot of one of the beds. It
awaits the corpse of the sufferer, with whom his nearest survivor may
have exchanged converse on the preceding day. These, in short, are
some of the sights witnessed without the delusive cover of science or
preparations for a public exhibition.

The aversion of the poor for benevolent institutions of this kind is
hereby explained, although incessant efforts are being made in France
to improve the condition of hospitals in a material point of view;
and all the objections now made are to be attributed to mismanagement
in the past rather than to shortcomings in the present. In spite of
progress, nevertheless, the word "hospice" and the thing itself have
retained a signification which is replete with mournful forebodings. On
the other hand, repugnance for hospitals is perfectly legitimate when
grounded on serious motives, and especially when inspired by a feeling
of family love. That man would be worthless indeed who could abandon
his relatives to public charity without experiencing some kind of
sorrow at being unable to keep them, through a trying illness, in his
own home. Examples of moral desertions are nevertheless too frequent
in Paris. Physicians are well acquainted with those sham patients who
prefer hospital bread to any other, because they have not to earn it.
There are, however, certain adversities here below which defy all human
foresight, which destroy old-established positions, and render the
efforts of a whole laborious lifetime unprofitable. A large portion
of some lives is spent in contending with unforeseen, unsuspected
vicissitudes. Many may therefore die in a hospital who deserved better;
but, as a general rule, this end is brought on by a long course of
dissipation, and by oblivion of the most sacred duties. A hospital is
not unfrequently the last _stage_ on which retribution is played out.

When families are averse to trust their sick to public charity for
reasons given above, it is wise not to argue with natural pride,
founded, after all, on a praiseworthy motive; yet all who are anxious
to relieve the suffering members of Jesus Christ are none the less
bound to improve the present condition of hospitals, as far as they
have it in their power so to do.

The following pages are published for the purpose of showing how much
there is to be done. Not all the good-will nor all the experiments
tried by physicians, managers, and almoners for the alleviation of
bitter suffering, will ever be superfluous. Objections ever will be
made to hospital treatment that cannot be remedied; and, do what we
may, the most active Christian charity will never replace the tender
care of a mother, daughter, or sister.

After a careful examination of the question, the first lesson acquired
is that home relief is the best solution to the problem of misery and
illness in needy families; it encourages the lower classes, besides, to
perform their domestic duties.

In one case out of ten, it is highly prejudicial to remove a patient
from his surroundings; moreover, it loosens the family tie, and in
Paris especially, where these bonds are so slight and so incessantly
undermined by false theories, it is a more damaging course than
elsewhere.

Statistics are very justly resorted to for the solution of many of our
problems, but their conclusions cannot be blindly adopted in medical
cases; physicians themselves often warn us against glancing them over
without investigation. Figures do, however, undeniably prove that
mortality in hospitals is much larger than in private dwellings. A
considerable number of patients, to whom fresh air is a boon, cannot
breathe a vitiated atmosphere with impunity. Crowding is particularly
prejudicial to the wounded and in lying-in hospitals. "In 1861," says
Dr. Brochin, in his _Encyclopædia of Medical Sciences_, "the proportion
of patients cured by home relief was 49 to 100, while the proportion
of deaths in private dwellings was 9 to 100. During this same period,
deaths in the hospitals were 13 to 100. The average space of time
required for the treatment of each patient in his own home is from 14
to 39 days; in the hospitals, from 25 to 83. The average cost of a
patient per day is 1 fr. 19 c.; the entire treatment of each, 16 frs.
90 c.; whereas, in the hospitals, a patient costs 2 frs. 25 c. per day,
and 61 frs. 45 c. for an entire cure. These figures plead in favor of
home relief."

A great deal has been said in these latter times of those immense
edifices pompously called "Model Hospitals." There is Lariboisière,
for instance, and the new Hôtel Dieu. It would have been wiser had the
government spent less in one instance, and been more lavish in another;
for, while these magnificent buildings were being erected, palaces were
also in course of construction all over the capital, and the laboring
classes, thus driven from their workshops, were compelled to seek
lodgings up in attics or in out-of-the-way localities. If some trouble
had been taken to cleanse and widen the poor man's tenement, or had
something been done towards putting him in the way of getting food at
little cost, we should boast fewer façades, fewer sumptuous edifices,
but the work would be more meritorious.

Physicians have energetically opposed the idea of accumulating so large
a number of patients in the Hôtel Dieu as it was originally intended
it should contain. Let us trust the observations of experienced men
will be taken into consideration, and that the number of beds will be
diminished before final arrangements are completed.


HOSPITAL BEDS.

Our beds are too close; and another thing which strikes a foreigner
on visiting our hospitals is that the divisions which are supposed
to seclude one patient from his neighbor, are perfectly useless for
that purpose. In many cases, they are done away with altogether. The
proximity of beds varies, however, according to the different asylums.
Some of the buildings were not intended for hospitals, and their
managers have had to turn rooms into wards in the best way they could,
in spite of defective architecture. It is difficult to specify the
exact distance kept between the beds; but an idea can be conveyed when
I state that any patient, by stretching his arm out, without any great
exertion could easily touch his neighbor's hand.

In many hospitals, the beds have been coupled by two and two, so that,
if two patients are thus closer to each other on one side, the distance
is larger from other patients on the opposite side.

There is, however, always space enough left for a night-table between
every two beds. In most hospitals, beds are hung round with white
calico curtains; but in some asylums they are omitted, and in these
there is literally nothing to hide patients from view. Such a system
of total exposure is perfectly inhuman. I should say it originates in
a spirit of _medical socialism_; for it compels sufferers to exhibit
their wounds to each other during the doctor's visit. Some men and all
women cannot endure this ordeal without a struggle. Why not sympathize
with that which can be alleviated, if not entirely cured? What would
be our feelings if, when brought low by fever and diet, we had to lie
near a man who is breathing his last, and to remain in full view of
his corpse for long hours after he had expired? But, as before said,
the larger number of hospital beds are hung round with curtains,
maintained in opposition to our Paris doctors, who have repeatedly
protested against them, insisting that all hangings draw unwholesome
miasms, and are therefore receptacles of contagion. This objection is
not unfounded; eminent practitioners experience great uneasiness on the
subject, and the curtain difficulty has often been debated by managers
of sanitary institutions.

Endeavors have been made to obviate the evil by a renewal of hangings
every six months; in spite of the great expense, the difficulty exists.
It is next to impossible to ventilate a ward encumbered to excess
with beds and hangings; and, if the principals of hospitals do still
advocate curtains, it is because they are actuated by motives of a
_moral_ order. In M. Husson's _Study of Hospitals_ we find: "These
calico divisions are a great comfort to female patients; it is a great
relief to them to be able to conceal their diseases from the public
gaze, and thus to isolate themselves from surrounding wretchedness.
This feeling of modesty, or shyness in other cases, will long resist
the most eloquent exhortations of our doctors on general salubrity."

Our present hospital regulations do not carry out the purpose for which
curtains are intended. It is usual to draw them all back at eight A.M.,
and they are left open until the doctor's visit is over and the wards
have been swept. This lasts till about mid-day. The consequence of
this arrangement is that, during the most delicate operations, such as
the dressing of wounds, the doctor's examination, and the change of a
patient's linen, there is no sort of privacy around the sufferer, no
more consideration shown for women and young girls than for others.
In the day-time, another regulation prevails. Inspectors forbid
concealment behind the curtains on account of the difficulty they would
experience on surveying proceedings in the wards. For these reasons,
the curtains are elegantly looped aside, and contribute more to the
decoration of the beds than to use.

Every ward contains two rows of beds, placed along the lateral walls in
such wise that the patient's head is near the wall, and his feet turn
towards the centre of the ward. Why could not a low partition, covered
over with stucco, be raised between each bed? This separation need not
exceed 1 metre 50 centimetres in height, nor 1 metre 50 centimetres
in width. It would part the beds, and not obstruct ventilation in the
upper regions or down the central passage. If the ward were lighted by
a sufficient number of windows to allow of one being opened in each
of these "cells," the circulation of so much fresh air would greatly
benefit the sick.

The front of each cell being open, surveyors would find their task
rendered easy, neither would their inspection be hindered by a small
iron rod being affixed to the outer side of each partition, on which
two light curtains might be drawn in case of a death, or when it were
absolutely necessary that a patient should enjoy privacy. The slight
screens would not entail the same inconvenience as those which are in
use at present, as they are mounted on a very complicated plan all
around the beds. Whenever a decease occurs, the stucco coating of the
low divisions should be washed with a sponge. It is well known that
stucco is not a receptacle for contagion in the same degree as drapery.

Such is the kind of cabinet each patient should have to himself, and
it should be wide enough for a chair and night-table to find place by
his bedside. These and a crucifix are the indispensable articles every
patient has a right to. This system would greatly simplify our hospital
beds, now consisting of so many and such cumbersome pieces.

A little space might possibly be lost; a ward now containing
twenty-five patients would only hold eighteen; but, on the other hand,
what an improvement, and how much healthier an arrangement in a medical
point of view!

Patients have certain communications to make to their friends on the
days set aside for public admission which are not intended for the
hearing of strangers; and, when the hour of death is nigh, it is but
natural they should be allowed to hold converse with their relatives
without any witnesses. Even this semi-retirement is denied them
under the present system; whereas the plan proposed would secure the
preservation of family secrets. It will, perhaps, be alleged that the
patient would thus be isolated from his fellow-sufferers. By no means.
As above remarked, the cells would be open down the central passage,
and each patient could see his opposite neighbor. This, added to
the going to and fro of _infirmiers_, doctors, sisters, and regular
visitors, affords quite enough excitement for an invalid.

Neither is this an innovation. It was once tried at Munich, and, if but
imperfectly carried out, no hygienic objection was made to it. We find
this organization existed in one of the oldest hospitals in France,
the Tonnerre Hôtel Dieu--a monument described by M. Viollet Leduc in
his work, _Dictionnaire Raisonné de l'Architecture Française du XI.
au XVI. Siècle_. The learned writer says this institution can bear
comparison with the most boasted foundations of the present day. In
the archives of the Tonnerre Hospital we find the following document.
I quote because it forcibly reminds us of S. Vincent de Paul: "The
poor are provided for in this institution, and the convalescent are
kept a whole week after their cure, when they are sent away with a
coat, a shirt, and a pair of boots. A chapel will be added having four
altars. The brothers and sisters in charge are twenty in number; they
are bound to provide food and drink for the wayfarer; to board pilgrims
and strangers, clothe the poor, visit the sick, comfort the prisoner,
and bury the dead. The brothers and sisters will not take their meals
before the sick have been attended to...."

On closing this paragraph, a question arises whether people in the
dark, middle ages were not more solicitous for the poor than in the
XVIIIth century. A glance down a report written for Louis XV. on the
Hôtel Dieu will corroborate this.

We shall doubtless hear it objected that partitions between hospital
beds will inconvenience the doctors and medical students; that it will
be difficult to approach patients; and young physicians will declare
they cannot follow the _chef's_ instructions near enough. It will be
said, further, that, when any operation is going on, the limited space
allowed by a narrow cell must exclude the use of surgical instruments.

The following considerations clear the first of these objections;
but, in a strict sense of the word, the only essential thing is
that the physician should not be impeded in his movements round the
sufferer. He, his assistants, and about seven or eight more are all the
spectators necessary, and these form a sufficiently large audience. The
central passage down all wards affords room for more. Even as the beds
are now placed, it is not easy for a larger number to get nearer.

As to operations, they are carried on in a special hall, to which the
patient is carried; patients never are operated on in the wards.


THE DOCTOR'S VISIT.

The great everyday occurrence in a hospital is the doctor's visit.
It begins at about eight A.M., and lasts till eleven. The _chef_, a
term designating the head-physician, examines each sufferer in turn,
inquires into his or her state, and dictates prescriptions, which
are taken down by an outdoor student. He is also attended by indoor
students, other outdoor students, postulants, and auditors. The two
latter must have gone through a course of two years' study before they
are privileged to walk the hospitals. The postulant is not admitted
before he has gone through a special examination, and then becomes an
outdoor student. The highest degree under doctor is that of an indoor
student; all are, therefore, familiar with medical science excepting
the auditor, who, though he may have studied two years in the schools,
is but a dilettante--a kind of amateur authorized by the _chef_ to
follow him on his rounds with the students. Many even call themselves
auditors who slip in unperceived with the crowd. When the head-doctor
is followed by all these young men, his _cortége_ is very numerous.
There are often as many as fifty in our principal hospitals, seldom
less than thirty in the minor ones. Thus, without any amplification
of a known fact, a patient has to see about forty strangers round his
bed every day. He is operated on in public. Not a line of his features
contracted by pain escapes the notice of indifferent spectators; not a
motion of his muscles is unheeded. The professor meanwhile develops his
medical theories on the living body, studying the "case" with care.

Let us for a moment imagine that your own daughter is lying at the
hospital. She is twenty; you have brought her up with all the care
and solicitude parents owe to their children; you have often said in
her hearing that modesty is the loveliest adornment; that it replaces
whatever else is wanting, and can be replaced by nothing. For twenty
years, you have watched the growth of her budding virtues; her
Christian advancement has been your daily care. Her state now requires
she should see an eminent physician once every day. Look into your
heart. What is the sensation you feel there at the idea of her being
examined by forty or fifty medical students besides?

It is an indignant protest against their attendance.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is the mission of a priest to be made the confidant of many sorrows;
he has to suffer with the sufferer, to mourn with the mourner; and
he can state that, of all trials which attend medical treatment in
hospitals, there is not one more distasteful than the doctor's visit,
especially to women. I appeal to any who have heard patients converse
together; I appeal to any brother in the ministry. Is this not the
great cause of repugnance for hospitals?

On the other hand, medical science has certain rights; doctors have
to go through an apprenticeship, practitioners must follow a course
of practice on living beings before they are qualified for operations;
it is therefore indispensable that the head-doctor should be followed
by disciples, and the height of absurdity to require he should go
round the wards alone. It is necessary, likewise, that postulants and
students should be present; for it frequently occurs that they are
called on to dress wounds during the doctor's absence.

Their attendance is consequently unavoidable; but, this being the case,
it is all the more desirable, in the name of female modesty, and in the
name of common respect for a needy suffering female, that the presence
of noisy _auditors_ should be done away with. They crowd the wards,
and learn very little. It should be with medical science as with every
other: students ought to have become familiar with the rudiments and
theories of their profession before they practice; and a few years
in the private schools should be gone through before beginners walk
the hospitals. The crowd is perfectly intolerable at the hour of the
doctor's visit in our best hospitals, especially at the _Cliniques_
and _Charité_. This might be remedied by each medical student being
bound to keep to one asylum for an allotted space of time, let us say
one year, after which he could be removed to another. One of the good
effects instantly resulting from this would be that our central city
hospitals, instead of being crowded to the neglect of others, would
find the number of spectators greatly thinned for the benefit of minor
hospitals now forsaken. The great thing in all questions relating
to benevolent asylums is to examine whence the stand-point is taken
for their consideration. Two principles present themselves: common
sense and humanity say that physicians and surgeons are intended
for hospitals, not hospitals for physicians and surgeons. Medical
science--and here we allude to the materialistic and unsound branch of
that science--replies: "By no means. Inconvenience must be tolerated,
science and progress go foremost."

Let us manfully, though sadly, give up a share for scientific progress
(which is not an imaginary thing); and, on looking into it, let us
reflect on the bitterness of that irony which so often leaves us to
utter the word _equality_, coupled with that other word, _fraternity_,
which is just as little understood. Hospitals will not answer the end
for which they were instituted until the smallest of those who flee
hither to hide their misery and sufferings obtain the same respect,
deference, and care lavished on the man who owns a yearly income.

Some time ago, a woman afflicted with an internal disease was carried
to a hospital. The head-doctor examined her on the following morning,
and immediately concluded that her case was too grave to be remedied.

He declared any attempt made to operate on her would prove fatal and
hasten death; the only thing he could do was to prescribe lenients,
in order to alleviate intense agony so long as life held out. The
young students around him urgently insisted on the operation being
performed; whereupon the physician, turning towards them, and finding
expostulation unprofitable, said: "If this patient were my wife,
gentlemen, I should not attempt what you suggest, I should leave her
in peace; you must, therefore, not expect me to do otherwise by this
woman...."

Such words as these should be engraved in letters of gold on the hearts
of all practitioners.


THE POOR MAN'S DEATH.

A fact that has often been set forth by Christianity is that the
secrets of man are revealed on his death-bed. Then it is that
every syllable he utters, every motion of his spirit, are full of
significance. The smallest sign is a ray of light by which a whole
lifetime can be read; and, if the amount of faith in a man is thus
disclosed, how easy it is to compute the amount of faith in a nation
from what is supplied by observation in so many single cases!

_O mors! bonum est judicium tuum!_--O death! thy judgments are
equitable!

No man is better qualified than the priest to look into this matter. A
large portion of his time is spent by the dying, and my own personal
experience has confirmed me in the following observations.

The most striking features as regards faith in the dying are moral
dejection and an almost total absence of hope. These are the inevitable
consequences of the efforts which have for some time been made to
uproot religious principle from the hearts of the people. It is no
wonder that hope fled with her divine sister, faith. Can any thinker
form a notion of the state of a man who has been down-trodden all his
life, who has been looked on as a bearer of burdens and a _misérable_,
and who has nothing to hope for in a future state?

We read in Holy Writ that, when the waters of the deluge began to
decrease, and Noe looked out of his ark after his arduous struggle
with the elements, he saw a dove, bearing an olive-branch, fly towards
him; the bird was the herald of good news, the harbinger of future
deliverance.

Our poor, when exhausted by long adversity, look out in vain for the
dove, and that hope which carries peace and help seldom brightens their
last moments. Death to such as these is nothing but acquiescence in
blind fate. What can a priest do in such cases? Teach and enlighten.
Very true; but the patient's physical condition does not give him much
time to do this thoroughly, nor can the sufferer always attend to the
little the priest can do. The thing left to be tried is the awakening
of the dying man's memory. The priest therefore recalls the scenes of
boyhood, talks of a mother's teachings, of the village church, the
long-forgotten first communion, etc., etc. If the poor man come from
the South or from Alsace, the _patois_ of his native place rouses
wonderful reminiscences; but it is useless to attempt reasoning. A
plain-spoken statement of fact that is neither commonplace nor trivial
often creates a great impression. It is a mistake to use unrefined
phraseology in the hope of redeeming the illiterate by descending to
the level of their intelligence; the lower classes prefer plain but
elevated language, and value the price of the liquid according to
the cost of the vase in which it is contained. Returns to God in the
last day are very scarce and always leave much room for the mercy
of the Almighty; but it is something to have brought about a desire
for the last sacraments, and to have been able to set forth, though
imperfectly, one or two of the great truths of Christianity.

Three dissolving elements have greatly hastened the degenerate
condition of Paris workmen, and, in general, of the lower classes in
this capital. They are the wine-shop, the club, and the journal.

The enormous rate at which wine was taxed under the Empire forced the
heads of small families to give up keeping a provision of _ordinaire_
in their cellars; and, as wine could not be kept at home, it had to
be fetched from the nearest wine-shop. There was also an additional
reason why the usual barrel could not be kept. Houses no longer afford
the luxury of a cellar to each flat, and those who could have afforded
to pay the duties had no room for a cask of wine from the provinces.
But there was the wine-shop; and alcoholic mixtures,  with
dyeing tinctures or logwood, were resorted to instead of the wholesome
draught of thin but unadulterated wine which every Frenchman, a few
years ago, was so accustomed to. When once the habit is acquired of
turning in at a wine-shop, many are the baneful results which ensue;
first drunkenness, then extravagance, bad associates, low talk and
discussions round the counter, broils--all of which soon get the better
of an originally upright conscience unsupported by firm principle.

The evil effects of drink were never known to breed in France such
a cankerous wound as that which has spread among us since the siege
and the _Commune_. Prior to these melancholy events, alcoholic
patients were only now and then brought to our hospitals, but they
have increased out of all proportion within the last few years.
There can be no mistaking such cases with the following symptoms:
delirium, inflammation of the lungs, extraordinary irritability, then
languor and that sudden debility which is the forerunner of death. No
sooner did a _Communist_ suffer amputation than he expired; for it is
almost impossible to operate on men who are in a continual state of
intoxication.

Paris clubs were first heard of towards the end of the Empire. M. Emile
Ollivier thought a good deal of these gatherings; but they have, in
reality, proved to be a most disastrous institution. The only good
they accomplished was to propagate a correct idea of the _intellectual
and moral degeneracy_ of our people. The lower classes met for no
other purpose than that of uniting all their ignorance and hates.
What errors, what curses, fell from those short-lived tribunes! What
frantic applause welcomed false theories! No European nation could
have resisted this trial, much less than any other the French, who are
so credulous, so fickle, so sensitive to all outward impressions. The
seeds which bore such noxious fruit under the _Commune_ were first sown
within Paris clubs.

As to the public press, it would be loss of time and space to
demonstrate how that has contributed to general demoralization. The
_Siècle_, the _Opinion Nationale_, etc., are read at all wine-shops.
The smallest fault or misdemeanor committed by any one connected
with the clergy is exposed by these journals to general scandal,
aggravated by spiteful comment, exaggerated, then thrown as a rare
morsel to open-mouthed multitudes. Such manœuvres are very hurtful
with an unenlightened populace, who never discriminate between
religion and those who profess it. To them the priest and the faith
are synonymous. If the former is immoral, the latter can be good for
nothing. A certain amount of logic is wanting by which the contrary
could be demonstrated; but the larger proportion are incapacitated for
so intellectual an effort. It would lead too far were I to analyze
more closely the workings of the three causes which have destroyed our
religious and moral convictions. Suffice it that the wine-shop, the
club, and the journal have exercised a pernicious influence, and that
our working-classes have not the means in their power wherewith to
avert it so long as their education is considered complete at the age
of _twelve_. From the day a mechanic commences an apprenticeship, he
never hears the name of God, unless it is coupled with some curse on
the lips of his elders. The church, Jesus Christ, the sacraments, soon
become objects of derision.

In short, the end of such an educational system and of such a life is
that the poor man who is carried to a Paris hospital, there to die,
knows that he will no sooner have breathed his last than his body will
belong to medical students; and as to his soul, that better part which,
had it been cultured, would have been a glorious harvest for eternity,
he cannot comprehend any discourse concerning it; if compelled to
listen because he cannot help himself, he falls back on his pillow in
morose indifference.

When a nation, once so devout, has come to this, some anxiety is felt
for its future; and the words addressed to Ezechiel the prophet rise to
our lips: "Lord, can a new life ever animate these scattered bones?"


THE POOR MAN'S BURIAL.

The deeper we dive into the subject of Paris hospitals, the more are
we impressed by the melancholy spectacle of extreme misery presented.
It is as if we stepped into Dante's circles, and saw nothing before us
but horror; only here we look stern facts in the face, and have nothing
to do with grand poetic conceptions. It is life, it is reality, it is
anguish in a most poignant form; for I have now to speak of the mortal
remains of Christians, of brothers, of men like ourselves. When a death
occurs in the Paris hospitals, the corpse of the departed remains
for one or two hours in the ward, after which space of time it is
enveloped in a sheet and carried out on a litter by two _infirmiers_.

None who have ever seen this abandoned _cortége_ will forget it. The
corpse is instantly conveyed to an amphitheatre, where it is left,
after being stripped of every thread of linen which covered it. Here
it lies for forty-eight hours or more, according to the arrangements
made by relatives, or to orders received from the authorities. When no
objections are made by relatives, indoor and outdoor students proceed
to the autopsy of the body.

Laws and regulations have been laid down, by which a certain number
only of dead bodies are allowed for medical science; but these rules
are frequently infringed, and too much precipitation has often been the
cause of needless distress in poor families.

When the necessary formalities have been gone through, the corpses
in the amphitheatre are divided into two series: those claimed by
relatives, and those which are left to public charity.

We shall see what becomes of both, after a few preliminary
considerations.

The mortal remains of all Christians are sacred in the eyes of
Catholics. We never erect a temple, or build an altar, without
consecrating a spot therein for the relics of a saint, which lie thus
honored, like the corner-stone of an edifice.

Neither does the church authorize Mass to be said in any place not
having a consecrated place for relics; and on such alone may the body
and blood of Christ rest during the holy sacrifice.

Our belief in the resurrection of the body; our assurance that
Christians will, on a future judgment day, either rise in glory or
stand to hear their eternal condemnation, renders it impossible for us
to look on the mortal remains of Christians as do materialists and the
professors of unbelief. What to the latter is nothing but a dead body,
a fit object for study, is to us a sacred deposit whence immortality
will germinate. It is, therefore, no wonder if Catholics are so
solicitous to obtain proper burial for such remains. In this instance,
as in all others, Christianity is in perfect harmony with the tenderest
aspirations of our kindred.

When it so happens that relatives of the deceased can afford to pay
down the sum of fourteen francs (eight for a coffin, and six for the
municipal tax), a bier is provided, and the body is buried; if the
deceased leaves behind enough money to cover the above expenses, he is
buried in like manner, and, if any sum remains over, it is employed
according to the will expressed by the deceased. In some cases,
survivors are willing to incur more expense than that which is included
in an outlay of fourteen francs; for, although this insignificant sum
is sufficient for a coffin, it does not suffice for a shroud nor for
any body-linen.[47] Moreover, if the family cannot afford to pay fifty
francs over and above the fourteen required, the body is interred in
the common grave.

The common grave! What a train of sad thought this lugubrious idea
gives rise to! It is no longer, thank God! what it was; the bodies
are not now thrown, as before, pell-mell in a deep grave. A coffin is
provided for each, according to the rule given above; but even in our
days, the burial of a poor man is not what it should be.

Fancy a long ditch, in which the coffins are sunk as close as possible,
and in juxtaposition; the spaces between are filled up with children's
coffins, so as to leave no intervening space. When the soil is covered
over this vast grave, it is not possible for each to have a cross
above, and it is impossible, likewise, for relatives to know the exact
spot occupied by the remains of a beloved parent. Grave-diggers have,
of late, had orders to allow more room for the coffins; but until
a radical rule is enforced, and until each corpse is authorized to
have a separate grave, relatives of the departed are at the mercy of
grave-diggers.

However narrow and confined the space thus left for each coffin in
the common grave, that small share is only allowed for five years.
After that short length of time, the bodies are exhumed, and the bones
gathered to the catacombs. The big ditch, now vacated, again yawns for
what the diggers call "a fresh set," and soon the work of decomposition
again silently commences for another term of five years, and so on for
all time.

Leaving every other consideration aside, does it not strike every
reader that the period allowed for rest in the common grave is much too
short? Many bodies are dug up in good preservation when thus brutally
disturbed, and there are persons who can testify to the horror they
have experienced when called on, by some untoward circumstance, to be
present at these impious exhumations.

I shall not add to it by overdrawing this sufficiently painful picture;
it does not become the pen of a priest to color with such ghastly
elements. My object is simply to state plain facts--to be exact, and
not leave room for the slightest contradiction.

Arguments have been advanced in favor of the good influence of this
supreme misery of the common grave. It is hoped that such an end
will be avoided, and that it will carry a lesson with it--a horror
for relying on public charity; but it nevertheless deals a direct
blow at every feeling of respect for kith and kin. Is not the grief
caused by eternal partings deep enough, without being increased by our
acquiescence in the total abandonment of the tomb?

Any one in authority who could suppress the common grave, and give
every poor man separate burial--any one who, having done this, could
render such a tomb inviolable for a reasonable term of years, would
confer an immense blessing on Parisians.

When M. Haussmann gave out the project of a large burial-ground at
Méry-sur-Oise, it met with opposition in all quarters. It was alleged
that to send corpses out of Paris by special railway conveyances would
be considered disrespectful to the dead. But, we would inquire, is the
present system of interment in the common grave calculated to inspire
respect? The distance of a few miles, of even a few leagues, would be
nothing compared with the privilege of a separate tombstone over a
separate grave; and it would be much wiser to have remote cemeteries,
provided they were hospitable. This question of the common grave not
only interests those who die within the hospitals; it is also of
importance to the indigent wherever they die in misery--a state many
have fallen into since the war and the _Commune_.

The above disclosures are certainly very melancholy, and yet I have
only described the case of the more fortunate among the poor--of those
who have, after all, a hallowed spot to rest in after death. There are
some to whom even this boon is denied.

The interests of science and those of families being here antagonistic,
it is necessary to quote a few figures:

On the 1st January, 1867, the number of sick in the Paris hospitals was
6,243. In the course of that year, the number was increased by 90,375;
total, 96,618. Out of this total, 79,897 left the hospitals cured;
10,045 had died. There remained, therefore, on the 1st January of the
following year, 6,676 sick persons. In 1869, the number of invalids in
the hospitals was 93,355, out of which 82,283 left cured; 10,429 had
died on the 31st December of the same year.

We have, in short, an average of 10,000 deaths every year; and the
result shown by the above furthermore is that the proportion of deaths
to invalids is about that of 1 to 8½. I will not dwell on this latter
conclusion, which, however, proves the danger of accumulating a large
number of cases under the same roof, and also the necessity of a
reform in our establishments. I will pass on to the 10,000 deaths
resulting from the report. In this average number, there are from
1,000 to 1,500 claimed by relatives, who purchase a right of separate
burial for _fifty_ francs; and there are from 3,500 to 4,000 who are
conveyed to the common grave. The remaining 5,000, not claimed by any
relative or friend, are dissected, either at the Ecole de Médecine
or at the Rue Fer-à-Moulin. These corpses are used after dissection
for the manufacture of skeletons, for anatomical institutions, for
museums, etc., etc. The _detritus_ collected when these purposes have
been accomplished are carried promiscuously in biers to the Hospital
Cemetery, which is situated near the Fort of Bicètre, not far from Turg.

No spectacle can be more distressing than that of this cemetery, to
which access is gained by a side door in the wooden palings that
fence it round. It is a dreary plain, and has no sign to show it is
consecrated to the departed. The ridges look more like trenches than
graves. No living being has been led here by love to mark the mounds
with a cross, neither is this sign of redemption erected over the door,
as it is in the smallest hamlet; no holy-water is sprinkled over these
graves. Why should no difference be made here between a churchyard and
a public field? I again repeat that these 5,000 corpses are those of
the deceased not claimed by relatives; and this it is which constitutes
a striking inequality between the indigent who die in their own homes,
and those who die in the care of public charity. When a poor man dies
on his own bed, and has not left any provision for his burial, the
_mairie_ of his _arrondissement_ has to provide a coffin gratis, and
the municipal tax is suppressed; whereas no such generosity as a coffin
is granted in the hospitals. A man dying here without the fourteen
francs mentioned is carried to one or other of the amphitheatres. There
is no favor shown, even were the departed your own mother. Fourteen
francs for a ransom, or the heart of the parent that beat for you is
the prey of medical students. A priest is sent for when the corpses
have been dissected. It is then his duty to stand up, facing the
mutilated remains, and to read the prayers for the dead. When this
ceremony is over, they are conveyed to the hospital cemetery. Need I
insist that the religious rite performed as I have described is of
little consolation to those who are left behind? It is not a separate
service for each of the deceased; several bodies lie together, or
rather, the members of their bodies--a galling sight, which surviving
relatives avoid. Neither can it be defended; for, until the religious
ceremony has been performed, the remains are not collected in a
coffin; they lie unshrouded, a hideous exposure of human flesh.

I here repeat that I am not opposed to medical science, nor to the
dissection of certain corpses; it is an unavoidable process for the
benefit of progress in surgery, and for that of the living; what I have
in view is the welfare of the state as acquired by respect for ties of
kindred, and by veneration for the mortal remains of Christians.

There is a middle course to be adopted very evidently--a course by
which surgery and science generally would be promoted and the religious
convictions of Christians not trampled under foot. I propose that,
when any person claims the body of a parent or relative in the first
degree, that person should be privileged to obtain gratuitous burial,
if he or she prove utter incapacity to meet the expenses. This proof
is acquired by a certificate from the almshouses, by receipts from the
_Mont de Piété_ (Loan Bank), by a line from the _mairie_, and other
sources. A relative in the first degree implies a father, mother, wife,
husband, son or daughter, brother or sister. Even were grandfathers
and grandmothers included, the 5,000 corpses left to hospital charity
would not be greatly diminished; 4,000 bodies would remain at least for
dissection--those of wandering strangers, of lawless, unknown persons
mostly--and surely this is a high figure for the indigent population
of one capital. There are no better surgeons in Europe than those of
Göttingen, Wurzburg, Salerno, Montpellier, Vienna, and Berlin, and yet
these cities have not near so many dead bodies in their amphitheatres.

I say that a Christian must feel deeply for those who are left
without proper burial, a sign on their tombs, a stone to perpetuate
their memory for a few years. All this is replaced by the jests of
indifferent students; and, instead of the friendly parting kiss, there
is the surgeon's instrument on a loved brow.

O old reminiscences of the early catacombs! how far off, how faint, are
you now. Who is there in this large city that remembers what a work of
mercy it is to bury the dead? O village churchyards! in the centre of
which rises the humble church-spires; O graves! over which the fervent
kneel every Sunday--graves that never open to give up their dead; O
hallowed spots! around which thoughts of God are united with thoughts
of our dear ones, and where the past is folded, as it were, hand in
hand with the future, how do I prefer you to these grand cemeteries, in
which there is so much show for one or two, and nothing for the poor
man who will want no more!

FOOTNOTES:

[47] When an invalid enters a Paris hospital, the shirt he had on is
taken from him. It would be but charitable to return it to the family
in case of death.




A WEEK AT THE LAKE OF COMO.


For perfect quiet and certain inspiration, the poet or artist could
hardly choose a more suitable summer roost than any one of the villages
that fringe the Lake of Como; while for health the advantages of
this neighborhood are unrivalled. It combines the beauty of softened
lines and veiled colors that distinguishes Italy with that more
bracing atmosphere peculiar to Alpine countries. The lake is there
for luxurious midnight expeditions under the Italian sky--romantic
glidings in boats which, if neither so graceful nor so mysterious as
the gondolas of Venice, are yet picturesque enough in their--only
apparent--cumbersomeness; the mountains are there for English
pedestrian exercise, for long, delightful, tiring walks over crag and
scanty vineyard, and, beyond that, through chestnut woods and cypress
clearings, till the limit of bareness begins to warn you of Alpine
snows; excellent little hotels are there, hardly spoiled by the many
but quickly fleeting guests whom the shabby little black steamboat
brings in cargoes three times a day--hotels with clean, dapper
bed-rooms and bay windows overlooking the lake--hotels where you can
always get plenty of fresh milk and graceful Italian civility. Then
there are villas by the score, some to be hired, and many more utterly
forlorn and deserted; others well cared for, pleasantly tenanted by
happy, unpretending Italian families, and wearing a general air of
attractive, half-civilized rusticity. You feel that life must go on
very smoothly within their walls; that bright, artless women and
children chatter and laugh away their brief summer holiday in those
spacious verandas and vine-trellised piazzas; and that conventional
restraint is an unknown spirit there. You wish that you had a right to
enter such an abode, or money enough to create one for yourself just
for three months at a time; then may be you pass by another kind of
dwelling, with broad, grass-grown steps meeting the water like those of
the palaces of Venice; with a great rusty iron gate and railing showing
tarnished remains of heraldic gilding; with a garden now overgrown with
weeds, but whose tall hedges of box or ilex suggest the statuesque
style of the XVIIth century; with melancholy fountains innocent of
water, and Etruscan-shaped stone vases once filled with flowers, and
now holding only a little stagnant rainwater; with another flight of
gaunt steps leading up to a porch and innumerable stone balconies and
terraces notched with half-ruined carvings of the Renaissance; moss and
mould everywhere, life nowhere; funereal cypresses mounting guard over
mutilated statues of fauns and wood-nymphs; rats and mice peopling in
reality the marbled-paved halls of the mansion; and ghosts--in your
imagination--pacing up and down the broad, deserted corridors. Then,
if you are of a poetic turn of mind, you forget the brightness, the
freedom, the _laisser-aller_ of the peopled villas, and wish that you
were lord of this vast, melancholy, romantic pile, the natural scene
of some stately poem, the fitting frame of some picture like Millais'
pathetic "Huguenot Lover," the sure source of an inspiration lofty,
noble, vague, and richly proportioned. Everything is on a scale of
magnificence, such as suggests only extravagance to our dwarfed notions
of the proprieties of life; a modern visitor feels a pigmy in those
vast, re-echoing halls; he almost expects some Brobdingnag halberdier
in cloth of gold and scarlet to catch him up by the hair as some insect
curiosity, or at least to order him out as an impertinent intruder;
the great marble staircase seems to be alive with the shades of the
noble throngs who, in Spanish doublets, jewelled _toques_, needle-like
swords, and stiff neck-ruffs, used to parade the courtly scene--in
fact, he finds himself utterly overwhelmed by the phantoms of a
greatness that is dead; swamped by the flood of modern days that has
brought in a generation of monkeys to consume their lives in efforts to
fill the place of a generation of lions.

Again, the traveller may find other sights among the villas of the
Lake of Como--less pleasant sights, too, and jarring on the artist's
sense of fitness; as, for instance, when he finds a wealthy and prosaic
_paterfamilias_, of the class who do not know and care less what
antiquity means--unless it may mean shabbiness--established in placid
and ludicrous possession of some stately abode such as we have named.
Of course, this unappreciative being, with his robust wife and chubby
olive-branches, is of the great, dominant, self-sufficient Anglo-Saxon
race, with its grand physical contempt of everything that is foreign,
but its keen national determination to take timely advantage of
everything that is cheap. He may be from our own or the other of the
Atlantic shores; from the cotton-mills of England or the oil-wells of
America; but he will invariably be a man of prosaic and practical
tendencies, quite impervious to the romance of his new home, but
perfectly alive to its value as a good speculation and an economical
venture. You will never find an artist or a scholar thus established;
_they_ will be penned up in a white-washed room of some peasant's
cottage, or, if lucky members of their craft, in the "best room" of
the _Signor Curato's_ little presbytery. They, too, are on the lookout
for cheap lodgings; but what is cheap to the careful millionaire is
the height of impossible extravagance to the gifted brain-worker.
And for our part, if we had to share the home of either of these two
classes of lake tourists, we should much prefer a shake-down at the
white-washed cottage, with the human counterweight of the artist, than
the surroundings of marble halls, spacious, deserted gardens, and
ghost-haunted staircases, if balanced by the incongruous presence of
the prosperous family before mentioned. What poetic justice is it which
sternly forbids the tenantship of such abodes to be interchanged?

Just such a beautiful place--but, luckily, not thus tenanted--is a
villa on the Lake of Como, just opposite the sharp end of the tongue of
land which, jutting into the lake to the distance of half its length,
cuts it into the shape of a Y. We passed it every day on our way to the
chapel. It was formerly, if we remember rightly, the pleasure-house
of Queen Caroline of England during her exile. No one ever goes there
now, and its aspect is as suggestive, as gloomy, as pathetic, as Edgar
Poe or Mrs. Radcliffe could have wished. Just beyond it, on the narrow
slip of land which runs parallel to the lake at the foot of the abrupt
mountains, is a private chapel, built over the family vault of the
Marquises of A---- and Counts of S----, an old Savoyard family of
great piety and high origin. The land around here is part of their
patrimonial estate, and the chapel contains two or three very beautiful
monuments of white marble, exquisite in carving and finish, but hardly
very Christian in taste.

Further up, and to be reached by a pleasant, rugged path right behind
our little hotel, was another church--a village parish church this
time, a much more homely and _homelike_ place--served by a gentle old
_curato_. The view over the lake from the jasmine-covered parapet
surrounding this church was lovely--so peaceful that it suggested
rather the possible surroundings of a holy soul just released from the
body than the actual home of a busy, struggling, mortal life.

To heighten the illusion, the moon rose slowly as we descended the
same path, and her broad silver shield, as it passed seemingly behind
the crags of the mountains on the opposite shore, became momentarily
stamped with the irregular outline of dark rocks, simulating to our
imagination the turrets and spires of a spectre city. Soon the path
of light traced by her rays upon the waters began to shine like the
Israelites' guiding pillar in the wilderness, and we felt tempted to
try a water-excursion as a fitting ending to our day. The beauty of
the scene, as the shadows grew darker and the moonlight more intense,
is indescribable. Our silent party in the boat did not even attempt to
admire it _out loud_. The hills, purple-black in the foreground, rising
out of the lake as walls of onyx from a crystal floor, grew stone-gray
as they receded from sight and mingled their colors with the unearthly
white of the Alpine snow-peaks in the far distance. These last seemed
as though hung like a bridal wreath between earth and heaven, resting
on the dark, undistinguishable masses of the chestnut woods covering
the lower spurs. Now and then a bell would ring out in the still night
air--a brazen voice rolling from some village belfry--and waking the
mountain echoes till its sound died away in a silver murmur, mingling
with the plashing of our steady oars, and gently reminding us that our
lives had floated one hour nearer to God. But lovely as the scene was
by night, it is difficult to call it less lovely by day. Opposite our
temporary home was Bellaggio, one of the most frequented of the lake
villages--a tiny hamlet of white houses clustered together in a grove
of cypresses, and perched on a rocky ledge overlooking the shore. The
tall, columnar trees scattered among the houses almost suggested the
idea of a peaceful burying-ground, the white cottages from a distance
seeming no bad substitutes for marble tombstones. A gray-blue mist--the
last Italian beauty that clings to this fairy-like outpost of Italy,
invaded by Alpine breezes and watched by craggy sentinels--hangs over
the dormant village; the fir-trees of the neighboring villa--the
show-place of the lake, the Villa Serbellone--waft their scented breath
over its houses, while at its foot lie the hot-houses and orangeries,
etc., by which the owner of this beautiful garden property tries to
emulate English taste. The Villa Serbellone is almost a tropical
marvel; the profusion of flowers; the scent of southern blossoms,
cultivated with assiduous care; the ivory-like magnolia, framed in its
dark and massive foliage; the starry orange flowers; the pineapple,
in its luscious perfection of growth--all denote the sunny land of
spontaneous productiveness; while the velvet lawns, emerald- and
closely shaven; the trim gravel-walks, rolled to the exact point of
firmness required in an English garden; the marble vases, overflowing
with creepers of carefully chosen and judiciously contrasted shades;
and the thousand-and-one dainty little contrivances to make the most
of every natural advantage, display the art of that northern land to
which its very disadvantages of climate have taught the secret of
enhancing every beauty and almost creating new ones by its industry.
There is little to distinguish the Lake of Como beyond its beauty of
atmosphere and scenery--little or no historical interest, no ruins,
castles, or towns with momentous remembrances of troubled times in the
past. The churches are plain, and generally in bad taste--in fact,
beyond the reach either of gorgeousness or even of simple restoration;
for the mountain population and the fishermen of the shore are very
poor, and the inhabitants of the lake-side villas only come to Como for
the summer. But these poor parishioners have spiritual riches, if not
temporal comforts: the faith of the Italian, and the _naïve_ enthusiasm
of mountaineers. One day, after landing for a moment during one of
our boat excursions, we fell into conversation with an old woman,
her brown, wrinkled face lighted up by eyes of the intensest black,
sparking with a vigor strangely in harmony rather than in contrast with
her age, and her dress, in its picturesque, but we fear uncomfortable
dilapidation, quite a study for a painter. She was very devout, and,
when she found that we were _forestièri_, anxiously asked if we were
Christians. This reminds us of what happened in the North of Ireland to
a Catholic English lady of distinction. Her husband was a Protestant,
and she accordingly started alone one day to find the church, which
she knew to be somewhere in the neighborhood of the place at which
she was temporarily staying. It was not a Sunday. She lost her way,
and, meeting an old woman, asked her to set her on the right road for
the Catholic "Chapel." The old dame looked very suspiciously at the
elegant costume of the questioner, and well knowing, by the accent,
that she was foreign to Ireland, asked her in return, with incredulity
stamped on every expressive feature: "Shure, she was not a Catholic?"
And, indeed, the English convert did not succeed in persuading the old
Irishwoman that she was her sister in the faith, until, opening her
dress, she showed her the scapular round her neck, and put the rosary
into her hand. These marks of orthodoxy quite convinced the staunch
old Catholic, and the English lady reached the church at last. Having
satisfied herself, with a sort of joyful surprise, on this cardinal
point, our Italian friend discoursed very volubly of the Madonna, her
own priest and mountain church, and the Pope. We had some beads with
us blessed by the Holy Father, and offered her the choice of one of
the set. She was reverently delighted with the opportunity, and with
many blessings and thanks, as gracefully expressed as a poet could
have wished or done himself, she made her selection. How her precious
spiritual nearness to the Holy Father, rendered more palpable by the
sight of the plain brown rosary, seemed realized in her mind's eye! She
kissed the beads again and again in a transport of devotion, and in
simple, straight-forward language expressed her love and loyalty to the
Supreme Pontiff. There are few women in Italy, high or low, who have
not the same feeling for the head of the church; and those who have it
not are by no means among the most exemplary wives and mothers.

We were at Como--or rather, on the shores of the lake--in March as
well as in June. The spirit of the scene was just a little more dreamy
in the former month than even in the latter, chiefly because there
were very few tourists, and the steamboats went up and down the lake
at longer intervals than in the summer. The great heat showed no
signs of its advent; the vegetation was tender and yellow-green, yet
not scant; for the hills, whose cold breath tempers the torrid heat
of Lombardy, also protect the lake from the biting winds that one is
used to associate with the mention of March. It was possible to go
out boating and walking even at noon, though the nights were none the
less beautiful and inviting; but perhaps, at that time of the year,
the loveliest hour was early morning. It was with such a remembrance
that we left the lake. After five o'clock Mass, we rowed over to the
projecting tongue of mainland that cuts the waters in two, and got
into a light open carriage of the country, _en route_ for Milan. The
air was delightfully fresh, the sun had just risen, and a rosy, hazy
tint lay over everything. It might have been the Bosporus, so tranquil
and softened was the scene. Indeed, many travellers have likened
this lake to the Bosporus, its narrow, river-like course between
the shelving mountains being, they say, quite a reproduction of the
oriental marvel, though it does not produce the oriental languor
characteristic of the other. Our road for some time lay in a direction
in which we could see both branches of the lake; then, swerving to
one side, we passed through miniature mountain passes, green meadows
with many water-mills, and pretty villages embowered in trees. There
was somewhat of northern dampness in the atmosphere, but its effect
on the pasturage was certainly satisfactory, the turf in many places
being almost worthy of the Emerald Isle. As the hours sped on, our
appetite began to make itself felt; we had brought nothing with us,
not even sandwiches, and the drive was lengthening beyond our original
calculations. The wayside inns were practically useless, the wine was
like vinegar, and bread not always forthcoming. At length, at a place
where we changed horses for the last time before reaching Milan, and
after we had been enjoying the beauties of nature for ten hours on an
empty stomach, we found something eatable, though not in a superfluous
quantity. Not long after, we were regaling ourselves on a banquet of
fish fried in oil, and an adequate supply of bread and butter, served
in the irreproachable Milan hotel, once the palace of a fallen family,
and where our _privato_ dining-room had formerly been the _Sala di
Giustézza_, in which feudal lords sat dispensing justice to their clan
of retainers or hangers-on! And with this, farewell to the queen of
Italian lakes!




ODD STORIES.


IV.--THE INDIA-RUBBER MAN

One thousand three hundred and ninety-seven years ago, the city of
Cadiz was startled by rumors of the presence of a mysterious person,
whose irrepressible activity was the fear and wonder of many. Perhaps,
from a certain dusk which pervaded his countenance, it came to be
gossipped that he was an Indian by birth, and had arrived in Spain by
way of Africa. If, however, his color was no fair sign of his origin,
the manuscripts found in his apartments betrayed his affinity with the
Oriental stoics. Be this as it may, the devices and doings of Don Ruy
Gomia de Goma had so impressed the traditions of Cadiz that the maker
of ballads, Gil Cantor, sung of him in language the puzzling quaintness
of which we have endeavored to smooth out as follows into modern
English:

    Oft have I seen, e'en now I see,
      The presence I would ban;
    'Tis he, the Afreet of my dreams,
      The India-rubber man!

    I pick him out among the crowd
      As nimbly he goes by,
    And points his gum-elastic nose,
      And blinks his vitreous eye.

    'Tis said he prowls the streets at night,
      And, spite of the police,
    With India-rubber ease commits
      Ingenious robberies.

    Abounding Mephistopheles
      On stealthy tiptoe comes,
    And, as he chokes you for your purse,
      He shows his frightful gums.

    Avoid, my friend, his outstretched hand--
      That hand of gum and glue;
    And, ere he catches you, beware
      The friend of caoutchouc.

    Fate tries in vain to crush him out,
      She studies how to kill;
    But, no--this grim contortionist
      Is standing, springing still.

    One day, ten ruffians clubbed him down--
      He wasn't dead for that;
    Up, grinning in their faces, sprang
      That horrid acrobat.

    An agile politician, now
      The public back he mounts,
    And much the rabble like him for
      His gumption and his bounce.

    He rises with the rise of stocks,
      No crisis keeps him down;
    And, dancing on a dividend,
      He goes about the town.

    He pesters busy men of trade,
      And on their beds at night
    A gum-elastic nightmare sits,
      And will not quit their sight.

    Oft have I marvelled at the man,
      And searched his meaning more;
    So many people set him down
      A terror and a bore.

    Elastic, everlasting soul!
      In gloomy ages back
    They must have tried to stretch him out
      A martyr on the rack!

    Victor, alas! and victim he--
      His wretched fate I scan;
    And much I pity, if I scorn,
      The injured rubber-man.

Doubtless the whimsical Gil has here turned a venerable legend to a
subtle purpose of satire; for it appears, from a number of traditions,
that Don Ruy distinguished himself as a trader, courtier, gallant, and
knight-errant. He grew rich, because no debtor ever got rid of him till
payment, and, as a cavalier, the grace and flexibility of his carriage
and motions were the admiration of ladies. Thus it was that, though
denounced by jealous grandees as one sprung from the vulgar, and, in
fact, an upstart, his first appearance at court was a triumph, and all
the more so from the great ease of his genuflexion, and the modest
liveliness of his manner and deportment. The fact, however, which first
drew the general attention of Cadiz to the new cavalier was an open
insult which, it was alleged, he had cast upon the proud escutcheon
of the fair Doña Gumesinda Vinagrilla de Miraflores de Albujuera y
Albuquerque, Countess Delamar and Marchioness Delcampo.

The story runs that the marble heart of Doña Gumesinda had never
yielded except to the blandishments of the bold and nimble Don Ruy. One
day, addressing her at the court in terms of insinuating gallantry, he
stretched out his arms with so fine a gesture of command and entreaty
that the noble maid all at once resolved that no one should win her
love save the flexible and fascinating philosopher; being well assured
of the softness of his heart and the tenacity of his affections. Good
right, then, had Don Ruy to stand one night under her leafy bower, and,
according to the fashion of the times, sing a piteous ditty:

    Mi corazon es suave
      Como la goma dulce,
    Mis lagrimas se corren
      Con la resina triste;
    Oid mi cancion elastica,
    Oid mi cancion, señora![48]

Having thus appealed to the fair Gumesinda, he ascended at a leap into
a leafy refuge formed by the vines and trees near her window, and
prepared to finish his song, when he felt that one of his legs was
being pulled violently from below.

Nothing daunted, he allowed his covert enemies to pull it quite to the
ground, while, still seated near his lady's bower, he sang in strains
that moved her heart to more purpose than his disturbers had moved his
limbs. Tired of their vain attempt to budge him, they let go of his
leg, to their no small surprise at the suddenness of its springing
back. Immediately he leaped down, and laid about him; and, though
twice he was hit in vital parts by the infuriated relatives, and, in
fact, should have been run through, he was so invulnerably spry and
spirited that he killed a dozen or more of them before he embraced
the terrified Gumesinda with his outstretched arms, and carried her
away, bending somewhat under his burden. A large force of _alguacils_
barred his path, however, and he was brought, not without trouble,
before the chief magistrate of the city, who, being also a relative
of Doña Gumesinda, put him immediately to the rack. Vain, and all too
vain, was the cruel act of torture to extenuate the body and bones,
or conquer the irrepressible being, of Don Ruy Gomia de Goma. Gliding
on tiptoe behind his jailers, he one day escaped, and in the night
danced a fandango on the bed and body of the Governor of Cadiz. Who was
he? the good folk of Cadiz asked themselves time and again. Some few
visionaries said that he was the spirit of free inquiry, that could
never be put down or put out; and other wiseacres averred that he was
the veritable spirit of mischief, always upturning and turning up.

FOOTNOTES:

[48]

    My heart is soft
      As sweetest gum,
    My tears they flow
      With resin sad;
    Hear my elastic song,
    Hear my song, lady!






NEW PUBLICATIONS.


  HISTORICAL SKETCHES. Third Series. By John Henry Newman, D.D.

  THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY, defined and illustrated. By the same.
    London: Basil Montagu Pickering. (New York: Sold by The Catholic
    Publication Society.)

It would perhaps be proper to say that the revised edition of Dr.
Newman's writings bears the same relation to their original publication
that fulfilment and prophecy sustain to each other. In the one we see
the germ, the promise, and in the other the matured and mellowed fruit.
In the former, we foresee the inevitable result of the principles set
forth, on a mind so single and intent on the truth. And it is because
they do not reflect the perfect image of the truth he now holds that he
would blot some of the lines therein written. In the latter, readers
will again meet the same wise simplicity and transparency of style
which charmed them before, and which mark all the products of his pen.

As a study of diction, Dr. Newman's works are richly worth whatever
they cost. We doubt if any author of the time has done more to bring
both writers and speakers down from the stilts formerly thought
essential in the expression of thought. Almost unconsciously, the
leaven of his pure idiomatic English has worked, until its influence is
shown in a large number of written and spoken productions, both at home
and abroad. As a reflex of a truthful, honest soul, deeply solicitous
for the spiritual welfare of his kind, they have a pathos and unction
which will have an ever-increasing influence as time goes on.

The first of the above-mentioned volumes embraces the matter which bore
the title, _The Church of the Fathers_, on its first appearance in the
_British Magazine_; and the latter was published as _The Scope and
Nature of University Education_.

  SACRED ELOQUENCE; OR, THE THEORY AND PRACTICE OF PREACHING. By Rev.
    Thomas J. Potter. Troy: P. J. Dooley. 1873.

This work is too well known to require any notice at our hands, having
received the warmest commendation of the hierarchy and press on its
first appearance in England. While this edition will hardly please
those who are fastidious in the matter of print and paper, it presents
an argument to the pockets of purchasers which many of our seminarians
will highly appreciate. Our clerical readers are already aware that
the _Sacred Eloquence_ was prepared for the author's own class in the
Missionary College of All Hallows, and resulted from the necessity felt
for a work adapted to English-speaking students in that department.


BOOKS RECEIVED.

  From BURNS, OATES & CO., London (New York: Sold by The Catholic
    Publication Society): Sermons for all Sundays and Festivals
    of the Year. By J. N. Sweeney, D.D. Vol. II. 12mo, pp. vi.
    498.--Spain and Charles VII. By Gen Kirkpatrick. 8vo, pp. 87.--A
    Theory of the Fine Arts. By S. M. Lanigan, A.B., T.C.D. 12mo, pp.
    xiii. 194.

  From D. & J. SADLIER & CO., New York: Bible History. By Rev. James
    O'Leary, D.D. 12mo, pp. 480.

  From HENRY HOLT & CO.: Dimitri Roudine. By Ivan Turgénieff. 18mo,
    pp. 271.

  From BENZIGER BROS., New York: Neue Fibel, oder: Erstes Lesebuch,
    für die Deutschen Katholischen Schulen in den Vereinigten
    Staaten von Nord-America. Bearbeitet von mehreren Priestern und
    Lehrern.--Zweites Lesebuch, und Drittes Lesebuch, of the same
    series 12mo, pp. 58, 120, and 276.

  From KELLY, PIET & CO., Baltimore: A Course of Philosophy,
    embracing Logic, Metaphysics, and Ethics. By Rev. A. Louage,
    C.S.C. 12mo, pp.




THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XVIII., No. 104.--NOVEMBER, 1873.[49]




SPIRITUALISM.


CHAPTER I.

  "Spiritus sunt vagi, et insinceri, pervolantes et
  perscrutantes."--_S. Max. Taur., Tract. iv., Cont. Pag._

It can hardly be denied that the question of spiritualism is forcing
itself every year more and more upon the public attention; and that
a belief in the reality of its phenomena, and, as almost a necessary
consequence, a suspicion of their at least partially preternatural
character, is on the increase amongst honest and intelligent persons.
By preternatural phenomena, I mean manifestations of the operation of
intelligences that are not clothed in flesh and blood; for with other
than such as are so clothed, in the way of the senses, which is the way
of nature, we have no acquaintance.

I believe that few will examine seriously and patiently the phenomena
of spiritualism as a whole without coming upon much that they cannot,
without doing violence to their natural instincts, attribute to
anything but preternatural agency. Whether they reduce this to white
spirits or black, red spirits or gray, will depend for the most part
on the religious prepossessions of the inquirers. I have said the
phenomena as a whole, because some of these, such as cases of tables
turning, upon which the hands of the company are resting, and, again,
many of the communications through mediums speaking in trance or
otherwise, do not necessarily suggest preternatural interference.

The phenomena on which I am inclined to lay most stress are, 1st,
physical manifestations--the movement or raising in the air, without
contact of any sort, of heavy bodies, whether animate or inanimate;
2d, intelligent manifestations involving the communication of true
information through a human medium, which was unknown at the time both
to the medium and recipient. Such phenomena are not unfrequent at
successful séances, and spiritualists have a right to demand that we
should criticise their successes rather than their failures.

For examples of the phenomena of modern spiritualism, we shall depend
mainly upon two volumes: _Experiences in Spiritualism with D. D.
Home_, and the _Report of the Committee of the London Dialectical
Society_. The former is a well-known though unpublished relation of
seventy-eight séances; the relaters are gentlemen whose names are
guarantees for intelligence and honor. Of these séances, some were held
in rooms which Mr. Home had never before entered, others in a variety
of rooms belonging to gentlemen taking part in the proceedings. The
supposition of concealed machinery, possible enough were it question
of the magician's own den, is thus effectually precluded. The _Report_
is a still more remarkable volume. Even if spiritualism were exploded
absolutely, this volume would still retain its interest as a unique
collection of mental photographs representing every attitude which it
is possible for the human mind to take up with regard to spiritualistic
phenomena, from irreconcilable repulsion, through every shade of
intelligent hesitation, to complete acceptance.

The _Report_ consists of the reports of the séances of six experimental
subcommittees, minutes of the examination before the General Committee
of spiritualist witnesses, letters on spiritualism from a great number
of literary and scientific persons, and communications in the shape
of experiences and speculative essays on spiritualism by some of its
principal adherents.

Subcommittee No. 1 (_Rep._, p. 9) declares itself to have "established
conclusively" "the movements of heavy substances without contact or
material connection of any kind between such substances and the body
of any person present." This is confirmed by Subcommittee No. 2, and
embodied in the general report. Amongst a great mass of well-attested
phenomena, I select the following: "Thirteen witnesses state that they
have seen heavy bodies, in some instances men, rise slowly in the
air, and remain there without visible or tangible support." "Fourteen
witnesses testify to having seen hands of figures not appertaining to
any human being, but lifelike in appearance and mobility, which they
have sometimes touched and even grasped." "Eight witnesses state that
they have received precise information through rappings, writings,
and in other ways, the accuracy of which was unknown at the time to
themselves or to any persons present, and which, on subsequent inquiry,
was found to be correct." Many of these experimental séances took place
without the presence of any professional mediums. Subcommittees 1 and
2 declare that they have never used them, and these were particularly
fertile in instances of independent movement, No. 1 having witnessed no
less than fifty such motions.

There is absolutely no room for a suspicion of trickery, neither
is it more rational to suppose that the phenomena had no objective
existence, but were the mere phantasms of the excited imagination
of the company; for the witnesses testify that they were in no such
state of excitement, and their recorded conversation and behavior are
incompatible with any such supposition. Again, such excitement acts
spasmodically and irregularly; but, as a rule, the phenomena are seen
by all equally. In the few cases in which individuals have manifested
abnormal excitement, the séances have been frustrated. Subcommittee No.
2 sent for a neighbor to witness the phenomena when in full operation,
and they presented precisely the same aspect to him as they did to the
members of the séance.

There remains, then, a large number of objective phenomena of the kind
mentioned which have to be accounted for. Three hypotheses have been
advocated with more or less success, which I shall proceed to consider
in order.

1st. Unconscious cerebration expressing itself in unconscious muscular
action. 2d. Psychic force. 3d. Spirits. I would remark that the first
and second agree, in so far as they make the source of the phenomena
internal; they differ in that the first would make them the result
of a known law, the action of which had been previously detected,
whilst the second supposes a previously unknown law or force of which
spiritualistic phenomena are the sole evidence.

I.

The doctrine of unconscious cerebration is thus expressed by Dr.
Carpenter (_Rep._, p. 272): "Ideational changes take place in the
cerebrum, of which we may be at the time unconscious for want of
receptivity on the part of the sensorium, but of which the results
may at a subsequent period present themselves to the consciousness,
as ideas elaborated by an automatic process of which we have no
cognizance." Dr. Carpenter's ground for "surmising" that "ideational
changes" may be received unconsciously, and subsequently recognized,
and that the consciousness or unconsciousness of the reception depends
upon their being presented or not in the sensorium, is the following
analogy: The cerebrum, "or rather its ganglionic matter in which
its potentiality resides," stands in precisely the same anatomical
relation to the sensorium that the retina does; but visual changes
may be unconsciously received in the retina when the sensorium is
inoperative, and may be subsequently recognized. The reality of this
automatic reception and elaboration of ideas is confirmed by the
phenomena of somnambulism, which show "that long trains of thought may,
with a complete suspension of the directing and controlling power of
the will, follow the lead either of some dominant idea or of suggestion
from without." This doctrine, when applied to explain the intelligent
manifestations of spiritualism, comes to this, that you cannot argue,
from the fact that a man informs you truly of something which he could
not possibly have learned elsewhere, and which you know you were
never aware of in the ordinary sense of the word, that he is informed
by a superior intelligence; for you may have received unconsciously
into your cerebrum the information in question, or have unconsciously
elaborated it from premises so received, and may have communicated it
to your informant by unconscious muscular action.

I must do Dr. Carpenter the justice to admit that he nowhere, so
far as I have seen, attempts to apply his doctrine in detail to the
higher phenomena of spiritualism. He is contented with stating it
as indicating the direction in which a solution of such phenomenal
difficulties as do not seem to him wholly incredible is to be looked
for.

I have every wish to speak on matters of physiological experiment with
the modesty befitting my comparative unfamiliarity with the subject.
I have no difficulty in admitting all that Dr. Carpenter says, in his
article on "Electro-biology and Mesmerism" (_Quart._, Oct., 1853),
on the action of dominant ideas, whether original or suggested,
in the production of the phenomena of somnambulism and mesmerism;
but I hesitate as to the possibility of receiving in the form of an
unconscious ideational change such a piece of information as this: "I
have another sister besides those I am used to reckon"; and of its
recovery, not as an image or sensation such as a dream might leave,
but as an unequivocal assertion of a fact clothed in all its native
confidence. The nerve modification, which I suppose the "ideational
change" comes to, is here understood to play the part, not merely of a
bell whose prolonged vibrations, when taken cognizance of, may more or
less suggest the individual visitor, but of a photographic negative,
set aside, indeed, and overlaid, but from which at any moment exact
representations may be taken. This theory appears to me to belong to
the category of those which, to borrow Dr. Carpenter's expression
(art., p. 535), "cannot be accepted without a great amount of evidence
in their favor, but which, not being in absolute opposition to
recognized laws, may be received upon strong testimony, without doing
violence to our common sense." I must add that I have met with no such
evidence either in the _Quarterly Review_ or elsewhere. When we ask for
instances, in which modern science is ordinarily so fertile, it is at
least suspicious that the only at all adequate examples produced in the
brilliant article, "Spiritualism and its Recent Converts" (_Quart._,
vol. 131, 1871), are taken from the very spiritualistic phenomena
under discussion. Let us, however, for the moment grant all that is
expressly demanded on the score of unconscious cerebration, and then
see how far it affords an adequate explanation of the phenomena of
spiritualism. Of course, independent physical manifestations, such as
the subcommittees report, fall entirely without the sphere of this
explanation; and Faraday's ingenious machine for testing muscular
action has no place where there is no contact of muscles. But what are
we to say to communications such as the following (_Rep._, p. 195),
made to Signor Damiani, at Clifton? He asked of the rapping table,
"Who is there?" "Sister," was rapped out in reply. "What sister?"
"Marietta." "Don't know you; that is not a family name. Are you not
mistaken?" "No; I am your sister." He left the table in disgust, but
afterwards joined in another séance at the same house. "Who are you?"
he asks. "Marietta." "Again! Why does not a sister whom I can remember
come?" "I will bring one." "And the raps were heard to recede, becoming
faint and fainter, until lost in the distance. In a few seconds, a
double knock, like the trot of a horse, was heard approaching, striking
the ceiling, the floor, and, lastly, the table. 'Who is there?' 'Your
sister Antonietta.' That is a good guess, thought I. 'Where did
she pass away?' 'Chieti.' 'When?' Thirty-four loud, distinct raps
succeeded. Strange! My sister so named had certainly died at Chieti
just thirty-four years before." "How many brothers and sisters had you
then? Can you give me their names?" "Five names (the real ones), all
correctly spelt in Italian, were given. Numerous other tests produced
equally remarkable results." He is much perplexed, naturally, about
this sister "Marietta," and writes to his mother about her. He is
answered that, "on such a date, forty-four years before, a sister had
been born and had lived six hours, during which time she had been
baptized by the midwife by the name of Mary." Now, this is not a
case of an isolated bit of information that may have been given and
forthwith wholly disconnected from the current of life, as an Indian
child might have been told, on the eve of its voyage to England, that
a certain tropical berry was poisonous, which it never saw again. In
Signor Damiani's case, the sleep of unconscious cerebration must have
been very deep that so interesting a fact should not have been waked up
by all the friction it must have sustained every time of the thousand
of times that he asserted himself and his five brothers and sisters to
the exclusion of any others.

But these difficulties sink into the shade when we try to carry out
the explanation a step further. We have to explain not merely how
Signor Damiani knew, but how the medium knew, the astonishing fact. I
can understand how emotions of various kinds may be read in muscular
motions; how the almost inevitable slight hesitation at certain
critical letters may suggest them to the keen and practised observer;
but how, amongst all the threads of thought which cross the human mind,
the very one which must needs be the slenderest and most remote should
get itself expressed by unconscious muscular action, and how another
should read the hieroglyph, I simply cannot conceive. Nothing I have
met with in the wildest spiritualism is half so difficult to believe.

Here is another instance, from the testimony of Mr. Eyre (_Rep._,
p. 179). This gentleman wanted the register of the baptism of a
person born in England, and who had died in America a century ago. He
was led to suppose that this would be found either in Yorkshire or
Cambridgeshire. He hunted for it for three months, and then, in broad
daylight, without saying who he is or what he wants, consults a medium.
He says: "Before leaving home, I wrote out and numbered about a dozen
questions. Among them was the question, 'Where can I find the register
of the baptism I am searching for?' The paper with the questions I had
folded and placed in a stout envelope, and closed it. When we sat down
to the table, I asked, after some other questions, if the spirits would
answer the questions I had written and had in my pocket. The answer
by raps was, 'Yes.' I took the envelope containing the questions out
of my pocket, and, without opening it, laid it on the table. I then
took a piece of paper, and as the questions were answered--No. 1, 2,
and so on--I wrote down the answers. When we came to the question,
where I could get the register of the baptism, the table telegraphed,
'Stepney church,' and, at the same time, Mrs. Marshall, senior, in her
peculiar manner, blurted out, 'Stepney.' Being at that time a stranger
in London, I did not know there was such a place. I went on with the
questions I had prepared, and got correct answers to all of them. A few
days afterwards, I went to Stepney Church, and, after spending some
days in searching, I there found the register of the baptism, as I had
been told."

Here the medium had not even the light of the questions by which to
read the unconscious expression of unconscious cerebration. One cannot
help wondering what may be the muscular expression for "Stepney church."

The writer in the _Quarterly Review_, to whom I have before referred,
shall give us the next example from his own experience (vol. 131, p.
331). He owns that, on one occasion, he was "strongly impressed" by a
spiritualistic manifestation. "He (the medium, Mr. Foster) answered, in
a variety of modes, the questions we put to him respecting the time and
cause of the death of several of our departed friends and relatives,
whose names we had written down on slips of paper, which had been
folded up and crumpled into pellets before being placed in his hands.
But he brought out names and dates correctly, in large red letters on
his bare arms, the redness being produced by the turgescence of the
minute vessels of the skin, and passing away after a few minutes like a
blush. We must own to have been strongly impressed at the time by this
performance; but, on subsequently thinking it over, we thought we could
see that Mr. Foster's divining power was partly derived from his having
the faculty of interpreting the movements of the top of pen or pencil,
though the point and what was written by it was hid from his sight; and
partly from a very keen observation of the indications unconsciously
given by ourselves of the answer we expected." Indubitably in the
case of two accomplices, a preconcerted system of movements of the
top of the pencil might be made to indicate what was written; but,
considering the enormous variety of ways of writing, that any one can
acquire the art of so reading chance writing is incredible. At best
this explanation only applies to the questions. The answers, which were
given "correctly," in the shape of dates and causes of death, etc., in
red letters on the medium's arm, must have been read in the reviewer's
unconscious contortions. The force of the reviewer's admission of the
accuracy of these communications is not affected by the fact that
when _another_ way of answering questions was adopted--viz., the
questioner pointing successively to the letters of the alphabet, until
interrupted by the rap--there were indications of his manner being read
by the medium. Again, it is little to the purpose that "the trick by
which the red letters were produced was discovered by the inquiries
of one of our medical friends"--a most curiously vague statement, by
the bye--for the mystery to be explained is not the red letters, but
the correctness of the information they conveyed. There is nothing in
the necessity of some sort of _rapport_ existing between the medium
and his questioner inconsistent with the spirit hypothesis; there is
nothing in the subsequent experiments of the reviewer even tending to a
natural explanation of what had so strongly impressed him; and yet he
is able to shake off the strong impression triumphantly. One begins to
appreciate the eloquent words of Professor Tyndall:[50] "The logical
feebleness of science is not sufficiently borne in mind. It keeps down
the weed of superstition not by logic, but by slowly rendering the
mental soil unfit for its cultivation."

I recognize with gratitude, as one of the many services Dr. Carpenter
has done to science, his full admission of a series of facts in
connection with mesmerism and animal magnetism, until the other
day looked upon with suspicion by medical men and physiologists;
and, further, I am ready to admit that the influence of unconscious
cerebration upon some of the phenomena of spiritualism is probable
enough. But I maintain that it is distinctly inadequate as an
explanation. Its main use, as applied to spiritualism, has been that
of a learned label to attract the attention of scientific men--a
scientific rag wherewith spiritualism may cover its nakedness, but
which all the ingenuity in the world cannot convert into clothes.


II.

Numbers of intelligent persons, men distinguished in science, in
literature, in the learned professions, but whose "mental soil" has not
been rendered wholly unfit for the cultivation of all germs foreign
to the philosophy of the day, have acknowledged that the phenomena of
spiritualism are not only veritable, but inexplicable by any known
law. "The absolute and even derisive incredulity which dispenses with
all examination of the evidence for preternatural occurrences,"[51]
of which Mr. Lecky boasts as one of the results of civilization,
has certainly lost ground of late. Professor De Morgan says: "I am
perfectly convinced that I have both seen and heard, in a manner which
should render unbelief impossible, things called spiritual which cannot
be taken by a rational being to be capable of explanation by imposture,
coincidence, or mistake. So far I feel the ground firm under me."[52]
Mr. Edwin Arnold (_Rep._, p. 258) speaks to the same effect: "I regard
many of the 'manifestations' as genuine, undeniable, and inexplicable
by any known law or any collusion, arrangement, or deception of the
senses." And so we come very much to what S. Bonaventure said in the
XIIIth century: "Some have said that witchcraft is a nonentity in the
world, and has no force, save merely in the estimation of men, who, in
their want of faith, attribute many natural mishaps to witchcrafts;
but this position is derogatory to law, to common opinion, and, what
is of more importance, to experience, and so has no foothold."[53]
Law has, indeed, long ceased to have anything to say on the subject,
and popular sentiment, if not converted, has at least been reduced to
shamefaced silence; but once again experience claims her rights, and,
in a great wave extending across two hemispheres, the experience of
spiritualism breaks upon us, and the opposite opinion is found to lack
foothold. Even in this XIXth century, men are beginning to admit that
magic or mysticism, call it what you will, though overrun as ever with
trickery and delusion, is for all that no nonentity, but a long-ignored
reality, worthy, not of derision, but of patient examination. True many
of those who go furthest in their recognition of the genuineness of the
phenomena do not attribute them to spirits; still, however this may
be, no advocate of psychic force can deny that many of the so-called
marvel-mongers of the middle ages were at least no mere blind leaders
of the blind, but the witnesses of phenomena none the less true because
it has been for so long the fashion to ignore them.

In the middle ages, people thought that these marvels were the work of
spirits good or bad, or at least the result of their co-operation with
man. For such an hypothesis, modern science has an almost invincible
repugnance, in which I think there is much that is excusable. It is
not that the man of science necessarily disbelieves in the existence
of spirits; but the idea of their possible interference in phenomena
which he has to consider exercises a disturbing influence upon all his
calculations. He is as irritated as though he should be called upon to
submit to, and make allowance for, the tricks of mischievous children
who jerk his arm or clog his machinery. Again, he is haunted with the
notion that, by admitting the spirit hypothesis, he is contributing
to the inauguration of an era of disastrous reaction. To the eye of
his imagination, the bright, open platform, the familiar instruments,
each a concrete realization, in honest metal, of a known law, the
intelligent modern audience, his own classical tail-coat and white
neckcloth, melt away, and he sees himself propitiating fickle spirits
with uncouth spells, at the bottom of a mediæval grotto:

    "A shape with amice wrapped around,
    With a wrought Spanish baldric bound,
    Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea."

Not that the evil dream could ever be realized in its integrity; but
still, when once a spiritualist reaction has set in, who will venture
to fix its limits? And so, forgetting that the spirit hypothesis in
nowise excludes the operation of psychic conditions, he insists upon
every indication of such conditions, as though they were the key to
everything, and there were no indications of any other agency. His
"mental soil," perhaps, does not permit him to deny the reality of the
phenomena of spiritualism, or to talk of unconscious cerebration as a
sufficient explanation; and so he is contented to raise his altar to
an unknown god, provided only he may baptize him into the dynasty of
science by the name of "Psychic Force."

Psychic force has still to be defined. It is the unknown cause of
certain effects, taking its color from them only. With reference to
independent physical manifestations, it is the power to produce "the
movement of heavy substances without contact or material connection."
In this sense, Arago "is stated" to have reported to the Academy of
Science, "that, under peculiar conditions, the human organization
gives forth a physical power which, without visible instruments, lifts
heavy bodies, attracts or repels them, according to a law of polarity,
overturns them, and produces the phenomena of sound."[54] When
considered in relation to the whole mass of spiritualistic phenomena,
its vague, unsatisfactory character becomes still more apparent. The
nearest approach to a definition of psychic force, in its larger sense,
that I have met with occurs in Mr. Atkinson's communication (_Rep._,
p. 105): "It is nothing more than the ordinary and normal power of our
complex nature acting without impediment" (consciousness being one of
the impediments), "and diverted from its usual relations, though in
some cases abnormal conditions clearly favor the development." It is
hardly possible to mistake the pantheistic character of this passage;
for this unconditioned nature, underlying personal consciousness,
which, in virtue of its being unconditioned, knows all and can do
all, what else can it be but a common nature, an _anima mundi_, a
world-god? according to the pantheistic conception of Averrhoes, "an
intelligence which, without multiplication of itself, animates all
the individuals of the human species, in respect to their exercising
the functions of a rational soul."[55] I am convinced that psychic
force, if drawn out as the one solution of spiritualism, can end in
nothing short of this; but, on the other hand, I readily admit that the
"_anima mundi_" or rather, "spirit of nature," as advocated by Dr. H.
More, Glanvil, and, if he is not misrepresented, the famous Carmente
doctor, John Bacon,[56] is not pantheistic. More, formally rejecting
the doctrine of Averrhoes as "atheism," insists that the "spirit of
nature" is substantially distinct from, though in intimate relations
with, individual souls. He defines it to be "a substance incorporeal,"
how far possessing "sense and animadversion" he may not determine, but
certainly "devoid of reason and free-will," "pervading the whole matter
of the universe, and exercising a plastical power therein, according
to the sundry predispositions and occasions in the parts it works
upon, raising such phenomena in the world, by directing the parts of
matter and their motion, as cannot be resolved into mere mechanical
powers."[57]

As capable of holding automatic thought, processes, or their embryons,
such a spirit might lend itself as a vehicle of direct intellectual
influence between soul and soul, as also, of course, between souls
and spirits of another sort. But it must be remembered that, if this
might in some measure account for the intercommunication of thought,
it in no way tends to explain the genesis of information of which
all concerned are ignorant. That some such brute intelligence acts
as intermediary would seem to be borne out by the frequent spaces of
hopeless incoherency, like nothing so much as the shaking up of loose
type, which prelude and interrupt spiritual communications when the
intelligent will that would fain direct matters has not yet seized the
reins, or has dropped them from its grasp.

Whatever may be thought of the theory, the following passage from the
first edition of Glanvil's _Vanity of Dogmatizing_ is worth quoting.
The story in it was suppressed in subsequent editions, as too romantic
for the taste of the day:[58] "That one man should be able to bind the
thoughts of another, and determine them to their particular objects,
will be reckoned in the first rank of impossibles; yet, by the power
of advanced imagination, it may very probably be effected; and history
abounds with instances. I'll trouble the reader but with one, and the
hands from which I had it makes me secure of the truth on't.

"There was very lately a lad in the University of Oxford, who, being
of very pregnant and ready parts, and yet wanting the encouragement
of preferment, was by his poverty forced to leave his studies there,
and to cast himself upon the wide world for a livelihood. Now, his
necessities growing daily on him, and wanting the help of friends
to relieve him, he was at last forced to join himself to a company
of vagabond gypsies, whom occasionally he met with, and to follow
their trade for a maintenance. Among these extravagant people, by the
insinuating subtility of his carriage, he quickly got so much of their
love and esteem as that they discovered to him their mystery; in the
practice of which, by the pregnancy of his wit and parts, he soon grew
so good a proficient as to be able to outdo his instructors. After he
had been a pretty while exercised in the trade, there chanced to ride
by a couple of scholars who had formerly been of his acquaintance. The
scholars had quickly spied out their old friend among the gypsies, and
their amazement to see him among such society had well-nigh discovered
him; but by a sign he prevented their owning him before that crew,
and, taking one of them aside privately, desired him with his friend
to go to an inn not far distant thence, promising there to come to
them. They accordingly went thither, and he follows; after their first
salutations, his friends inquire how he came to lead so odd a life as
that was, and to join himself with such a cheating, beggarly company.
The scholar-gypsy, having given them an account of the necessity which
drove him to that kind of life, told them that the people he went with
were not such impostors as they were taken for, but that they had a
traditional kind of learning among them, and could do wonders by the
power of imagination, and that himself had learnt much of their art,
and improved it further than themselves could; and, to evince the
truth of what he told them, he said he would remove into another room,
leaving them to discourse together, and, upon his return, tell them the
sum of what they had talked of; which accordingly he performed, giving
them a full account of what had passed between them during his absence.
The scholars, being amazed at so unexpected a discovery, earnestly
desired him to unriddle the mystery. In which he gave them satisfaction
by telling them that what he did was by power of the imagination,
his fancy binding theirs; and that himself had dictated to them the
discourse they held together while he was from them; that there were
warrantable ways of heightening the imagination to that pitch as to
bind another's; and that, when he had compassed the whole secret, of
some parts of which he said he was yet ignorant, he intended to leave
their company, and give the world an account of what he had learned.

"Now, that this strange power of the imagination is no impossibility,
the wonderful signatures of the fœtus, caused by the imagination of
the mother, is no contemptible item. The sympathies of laughing and
gaping together are resolved into this principle; and I see not why
the fancy of one man may not determine the cogitation of another,
rightly qualified, as easily as his bodily motion. This influence seems
to me to be no more unreasonable than that of one string of a lute
upon another, when a stroke on it causeth a proportionable motion in
the sympathizing consort, which is distant from it and not sensibly
touched. Now, if this notion be strictly verifiable, it will yield
us a good account of how angels inject thoughts into our minds, and
know our cogitations; and here we may see the source of some kinds of
fascination. If we are prejudiced against the speculation, because we
cannot conceive the manner of so strange an operation, we shall indeed
receive no help from the common philosophy; but yet the hypothesis
of a mundane soul, lately revived by that incomparable Platonist and
Cartesian, Dr. H. More, will handsomely relieve us; or, if any would
rather have a mechanical account, I think it may probably be made out
some such way as follows: Imagination is inward sense; to sense is
required a motion of certain filaments of the brain, and consequently
in imagination there is the like; they only differing in this, that
the motion of the one proceeds immediately from external objects, but
that of the other hath its immediate rise within us. Now, then, when
any part of the brain is strongly agitated, that which is next, and
most capable to receive the motive impress, must in like manner be
moved. Now, we cannot conceive anything more capable of motion than the
fluid matter that is interspersed among all bodies and is contiguous
to them. So, then, the agitated parts of the brain begetting a motion
in the proxime ether, it is propagated through the liquid medium, as
we see the motion is which is caused by a stone thrown into the water.
Now, when the thus moved matter meets with anything like that from
which it received its primary impress, it will proportionably move
it, as it is in musical strings tuned unisons; and thus the motion
being conveyed from the brain of one man to the fancy of another,
it is there received from the instrument of conveyance, the subtile
matter, and the same kind of strings being moved, and much what after
the same manner as in the first imaginant, the soul is awakened to the
same apprehensions as were they that caused them. I pretend not to any
exactness or infallibility in this account, foreseeing many scruples
that must be removed to make it perfect. It is only an hint of the
possibility of mechanically solving the phenomenon, though very likely
it may require many other circumstances completely to make it out."

There are abundant records of the marvels wrought by the imagination,
when, under the influence of desire or fear, or even simple
expectation, the attention is concentrated upon a particular spot or
a particular set of circumstances; but of the conditions and nature
of the operation almost nothing is known. It would seem as if there
were a tendency in every act of the imagination to create that which
it conceives, although it is only in rare cases that any palpable
result ensues. Various cases of recovery from the gravest illness,
some of which involved the arresting active, organic mischief, are
recorded as brought about by the vehement impression made upon the
imagination by a remedy supposed, but never really applied. The action
of imaginative sympathy is even more startling. Dr. Tuke relates the
following of a lady well known to him: "One day, she was walking past a
public institution, and observed a child, in whom she was particularly
interested, coming out through an iron gate. She saw that he let go the
gate after opening it, and that it seemed likely to close upon him, and
concluded that it would do so with such force as to crush his ankle;
however, this did not happen. 'It was impossible,' she says, 'by word
or act, to be quick enough to meet the supposed emergency; and, in
fact, I found I could not move, for such intense pain came on my ankle,
corresponding to the one I thought the boy would have injured, that I
could only put my hand on it to lessen its extreme painfulness. _I am
sure I did not move so as to strain or sprain it._ The walk home--a
distance of about a quarter of a mile--was very laborious, and, in
taking off my stocking, I found a circle round the ankle, as if it had
been painted with red-currant juice, with a large spot of the same on
the outer part. By morning, the whole foot was inflamed, and I was a
prisoner to my bed for many weeks."[59] In another case referred to by
Dr. Tuke, "a lady of an exceedingly sensitive and impressible nature,
on one occasion when a gentleman visited her house, experienced a very
uncomfortable sensation so long as he was present, and she observed
a spot or sore on his cheek. Two days after, a similar spot or sore
appeared on her cheek, in precisely the same situation, and with the
same characters."[60]

I have no fault to find with Dr. Tuke for extending this same principle
of sympathetic attention to the case of stigmatization, when he
says of S. Francis, absorbed in ardent realization of the Passion of
Christ, "So clearly defined an idea, so ardent a faith intensifying its
operation, were sufficient to reflect it in his body."[61]

I cannot help thinking that the Fathers recognized the creative power
of the imagination when they denounced so fiercely the masquerading
in beast-skins on the calends of January. "Is not all this false and
mad when God-formed men transform themselves into cattle, or wild
beasts, or monsters?"[62] The numerous accounts of the were-wolf
transformation, both in classical and mediæval times, all point in the
same direction; and Mr. Baring-Gould brings good authority for thinking
that the etymology of the "Barsark" rage of the Norsemen designates it
as an outcome of their bear-skins.

The direct action of the imagination upon external objects, attributed
to Avicenna (_Muratori della Fantasia_, p. 268), is, of course,
something further. The Arabian philosopher is reported to have said
that, "by a strong action of the fancy, one might kill a camel." At the
same time, the signature on the fœtus, not merely of the emotion of the
mother's fear or desire, but of the object or occasion of it, would
seem to imply some action _ab extra_, as well as such cases as that of
the sympathetic bruise referred to above.

That the ordinary acts of the imagination, for all their airy and
impalpable play, do leave behind them most momentous results, forming,
as it were, the very mould and measure of our whole life, is a matter
of constant experience. Hence it is that castles in the air are often
so costly, to say nothing of the danger that, though we have built
them ourselves, we may find them haunted.

I am quite prepared to admit what the Germans have called a night-side
of nature--that is, various rudimental powers of doing many things
of a seemingly miraculous character, which powers do very probably
often co-operate in the production of spiritualistic phenomena, and
under peculiar organic conditions, without any spiritual influence,
may be brought into considerably developed action. Moreover, as it is,
of course, in the investigation of these natural bases of magic that
science will succeed so far as it succeeds at all, it is only right
that it should expatiate in them. My complaint is that the modern
attempt to reduce spiritualism to psychic force involves an inadequate
analysis of the facts presented; and spiritualists have surely some
ground to complain of the _prima facie_ disingenuousness of a manœuvre
which, in regard to the same phenomena, began with, "This is not
natural, therefore it is certainly not true," and ends with, "This is
true, therefore it is certainly natural."

However much the scientific mind of the day may dislike the
preternatural stand-point, yet it may be that, seeing "an absolute
and derisive incredulity" is no longer regarded as the one scientific
attitude, some examination of the views entertained by Catholic writers
on the subject may not be without interest. Many of the acutest amongst
them for ages have given great attention to the phenomena of mysticism,
although mainly engaged in the consideration of their moral and
ascetical bearings. Before leaving this second hypothesis, I propose
to bring together such passages from the schoolmen as seem to make the
largest allowance on the side of psychic force. Whilst there are, I
think, sufficient indications that the scholastics generally admit
psychic force as a natural basis and concurrent cause in many of the
phenomena of both divine and diabolic mysticism, it must be allowed
that passages dwelling at any length on this point have at least the
merit of rarity.

Görres taught, reasonably enough, I conceive, in his _Mystik_, that
there is a physical basis for the great mass of miracles wrought by
Almighty God in and through his saints; that is to say, that they do
not, ordinarily speaking, involve the creation of an entirely fresh
power, but are rather the result of a divine excitation of a power
already existing in germ. Of course, he who "of these stones can raise
up children to Abraham" only subjects himself to the laws which he has
made in so far as it pleases him to do so; and the scholastics were
right in their insistence upon what they called the "obediential" power
of things--that is, their inherent capacity of becoming anything in
the hands of their Creator. Of course, too, it is often impossible to
ascertain in a given case whether God is using that _altum dominium_
which he possesses as Creator, or, on the other hand, is merely
developing previously existing powers. Everything tends to persuade us
that all nature, and especially the human soul, is full of rudimental
powers which may be developed, 1st, by the special, immediate action of
the Creator; 2d, by spiritual influences, good and bad; 3d, by certain
abnormal conditions of the bodily organism. I conceive that these
rudimental powers form a common natural basis for the great mass of
both divine and diabolic miracles, and that sometimes they may attain
to a considerable degree of development without any special influence,
divine or diabolic. The existence of such a common basis would seem
to be implied in the fact that the devil has been able to imitate
successfully and really, as in the case of Pharao's magicians, so many
of the divine miracles; for we know that he can at most develop what
already exists, without having the least power to create what is not.
We cannot imagine that God would ever create where he might develop,
according to the scholastic principle which Sir William Hamilton has
translated into the Law of Parsimony: _Deus non abundat in superfluis_.
To take a particular example, Görres maintains that the ascetic and
mystic process which the mind of the saint goes through by abstraction
from earthly things, and the habit of celestial contemplation,
does really co-operate in the phenomenon, so common in ecstasy, of
levitation. In which case, the saint would be rather aided by God,
acting upon his body through his soul, to rise in the air, than,
properly speaking, lifted up by him. This levitation is common enough
in the best authenticated cases of diabolical possession; and, if it
does not occur in cases presumably natural, at least a wholly abnormal
lightness and agility is not unfrequent in some of the movements of
somnambulism. We find an example of this in the following narrative,
taken from a rare treatise of the Benedictine Abbot Trithemius (sæc.
15), entitled _Curiositas Regia_ (p. 29): "Let any one who knows
nothing of nature tell me if the specific gravity of the body can be
lightened by the action of the mind. I, with two witnesses to back
me, will relate what I myself experienced when a boy at school. One
night, we were four of us sleeping in one bed; my companion rose from
beside me, as asleep as ever he was, the moon in its fifteenth night
shining in upon us, and wandered all over the house as though he were
awake, with his eyes shut. He climbed the walls more nimbly than a
squirrel. He a second and a third time clambered up on the bed, and
trampled upon all of us with his feet; but we felt no more of his
weight than if he had been a little mouse. Wherever his sleeping body
came, at once all the fastenings of the doors fell back of their own
accord. With exceeding swiftness, he got to the top of the house, and,
sparrow-fashion, clave to the roof. I am telling what I saw, not what I
heard in idle talk. This would seem to be the part, not of a body, but
of a spirit which freely uses its native power, so to speak, when the
corporal senses are bound, and it wanders outside the mansion of the
body.... We do not suppose that this will appear wonderful to the wise,
who have a true conception of the power and nobility of the human mind,
which in some respects is accounted the equal of the angels, being only
separated from them by the interposition of the body."

After speaking of the miracles wrought, first by the invocation of
faith, second by sanctity, which commands the ministration of angels,
third by the assistance of demons through explicit or implicit compact,
he continues: "Some persons add to these three ways a fourth, saying
that the mind or spirit of the man himself can naturally work its
miracles, provided only it knows how to withdraw itself from the
accidental, in upon itself, above the exercise of the senses, into
unity. Those who can compass this undertake to work marvels, to
predict the future, to lay open the secrets of men's hearts, to dispel
diseases, and suddenly to change men's counsels." Trithemius is willing
to admit that some such power exists, whilst denying that it can attain
to any perfect exercise without some external assistance from good or
evil spirits. He gives the same account with Görres of the ecstatic
_volatus_, viz., that the power of God co-operates with the energy of
the saint's soul.

William of Auvergne, Bishop of Paris, in the beginning of the XIIIth
century, recognizes the reality of several of the phenomena of
spiritualism, and indicates a natural basis. Thus, speaking of the
mirrors upon which magicians make their patients look, he says that no
images are seen in the glass, but that what takes place is "a bending
back of the mind's edge upon itself--of his mind, I say, who looks
upon such an instrument; for its brightness forbids the mind's vision
exteriorating and directing itself, and flings it back and reflects
it in such sort that it cannot but look into itself."[63] Within the
mind, he says, all sorts of wonders may be read, for therein abides the
light "to which our souls in respect to their noble powers are most
closely united; and one of the wisest Christians saith that 'this light
is the Creator ever blessed,' meaning by these words that betwixt our
minds and the interior light, which is God, there is no intermediary,
according to the prophet's word, which, addressing the Creator, saith,
'The light of thy countenance is sealed upon us, O Lord'; that is,
thy lightsome countenance, which is naught else but thyself." Whilst
acknowledging that this light is "sealed," and that its rays do but
break out like lightning flashes in a dark night, and confessing that
he has long been cured of that error of his youth, the notion that the
purification and abstraction necessary for such inward vision could
be profitably achieved without the "grace of the Creator," he yet
maintains that this light is, up to a certain point, communicated
according to a natural law, analogous, it would seem, to that of the
infusion of life. He considers that a melancholy temperament favors
this abstraction, and insists that melancholy madmen, in virtue of
their abstraction, do receive true irradiations of this divine light,
although indefinitely fragmentary (_particulatas et obtruncatas_),
"wherefore _naturally_ they begin to discourse like prophets of divine
things, yet continue not to talk so, save for a little while, but
lapse into words of accustomed folly." He attributes this relapse to
their shattered condition and the excess of the melancholy fumes which
overpower them.

Whatever may be thought of the theory, few can have seen much of
mad persons without noticing the noble fragments with which their
disjointed talk is not unfrequently interspersed. The present writer
has often heard one of the persons concerned relate the following story
of a madman's prophecy:

The narrator, with two lady friends, had just been received from
Anglicanism into the Catholic Church in Italy, and they were
anxiously looking forward to the new phase of life awaiting them in
England. They were all three going over a lunatic asylum at Palermo,
when suddenly one of the inmates strode up to them, and with great
solemnity, touching each of them in turn, said to one of the ladies,
"_Il Paradiso_"; to the other, "_La Madalena_"; and to the gentleman,
"_Molto, molto d'Argento_." Of the two ladies, the first died a holy
death on the threshold of her Catholic life, whilst the other entered
an order devoted to the reformation of fallen women. The third part
only remains unfulfilled, and may possibly mark the relapse into our
author's _desipientia consueta_.

William of Auvergne extends these natural divine irradiations even to
the minds of animals, for which he entertains a most unscholastic-like
respect: "Yea, this light (splendor) is given to dogs to hunt out the
most secret thieves; ... for the dog perceives not the thief himself,
and the sense of smell represents him not; for a thief, as such, has no
odor."

Trithemius and William of Auvergne may be regarded as authors who lay
an exceptional stress upon the natural basis of the supernatural. The
former indicates the possibility of the alteration of the specific
gravity of the body by the action of the soul within it; the latter
suggests a system of natural revelation akin, it would seem, to what
one meets with in the mesmeric or somnambulistic trance.

The somnambulistic and mesmeric states would seem to be substantially
identical, although the latter involves a relation of subjection to
the will of another which is not necessary, though possible, at least
in some degree, to the former. Somnambulism very frequently produces
the phenomenon of the exaltation of the natural powers; for instance,
when in a somnambulistic state, the singer sings more sweetly, the
dancer dances more gracefully, than in their normal condition. The same
exaltation of natural power has been stated sometimes to take place in
deranged persons, as Lamb indicates was the case with himself, in his
letter to Coleridge: "Dream not, Coleridge, of having tasted all the
grandeur and wildness of fancy till you have gone mad. All seems to me
now vapid, comparatively so." I remember being told by an intelligent
person very fond of singing, who was subject to occasional fits of
derangement, that, when mad, his voice gained in compass a good octave;
even if this proves to be nothing but a lunatic's delusion, it is
sufficiently curious that somnambulism should effect in reality what
madness vainly imagines.

From time to time, somnambulism seems to open a door in the soul to a
source of natural revelation, such as William of Auvergne speaks of.
The following authentic instance is particularly noteworthy, because
the possibility of expectation, having produced, as it often does, what
was expected, is precluded. At a school at Thorp Arch, in Yorkshire,
at the beginning of the present century, a boy was known to be a
somnambulist. One night, the usher saw him rise from his bed and wander
down-stairs into the school-room. He followed, and saw the boy go to
his desk, take out his slate, and write. On looking over his shoulder,
he read: "On such a day of such a month next I shall die." The boy
almost directly after went up to bed, and the usher took the slate to
the head-master. They agreed to say nothing about it, and another slate
was substituted. The boy went on with his routine life, apparently
quite unconscious that anything was impending; and, indeed, it is on
all hands admitted that somnambulists in their waking state recollect
nothing of their somnambulism. When the day came, the boy died.

Sister Anne Catherine Emerich (1774-1824), an ecstatica of Westphalia,
has expressed herself with considerable precision on the subject of
mesmerism. Whilst earnestly warning people against its use as to the
last degree dangerous, she admits that the phenomena are objective, and
that the power brought into action is _substantially_ natural. What
she says is so remarkable that I shall not hesitate to quote at some
length.[64]

  "My impression in regard to it [mesmerism] was always one of
  horror, and this sprang less from the thing itself than from the
  enormous danger to which I saw such as practised it almost always
  fall a prey.

  "The practice of magnetism borders on that of magic; in the
  former, indeed, there is no invocation of the devil, but he comes
  of himself. Whoever gives himself up to it plucks from nature
  something that cannot be lawfully won except in the church of
  Jesus Christ, and which cannot keep its power of healing, and
  sanctifying, except in her bosom. Nature, for all such as are not
  in active union with Jesus Christ by true faith and sanctifying
  grace, is full of satanic influences. Magnetic subjects see nothing
  in its essence and in its relation of dependence upon God; they
  see everything in a state of isolation and separation, as if they
  were looking through a hole or crack. They see one ray of things;
  and would to God this ray were pure--that is to say, holy! It is in
  God's mercy that he has veiled and separated us from one another;
  that he has raised a wall between us. Since we are all full of
  sin, and exercise influence one upon the other, it is well that
  we should be obliged to interpose some preamble before seducing
  one another and reciprocating the contagious influence of the evil
  spirit. But in Jesus Christ, God himself made man is given us as
  our head, in union with whom we can, when purified and sanctified,
  become one--one body--without bringing into this union our sins and
  evil inclinations. Whoever would bring to an end in any other way
  this separation which God has established is uniting himself, after
  a most dangerous fashion, to fallen nature, in which he reigns with
  all his allurements who drew it to its fall.

  "I see that magnetism is essentially true; but in that veiled light
  there crouches a thief who has broken his chain. All union amongst
  sinners is dangerous, interpenetration more especially so. But when
  this befalls a soul that is altogether cloudless; when a state, the
  condition of whose clairvoyance is its simplicity and directness,
  falls a prey to artifice and intrigue, then _one of the faculties
  of man before his fall--a faculty which is not quite dead_--is in a
  certain manner revived, to leave him more unarmed, more mystified,
  and exposed internally to the assaults of the demon. This state
  is real--it exists; but it is covered with a veil, because it is a
  spring poisoned for all except the saints.

  "I feel that the state of these persons follows a course in certain
  respects parallel to mine, but moving in an opposite direction,
  coming from elsewhere, and having other consequences. The sin of
  a man with only the faculty of ordinary vision is an act wrought
  by the senses or in their forum. The inward light is not thereby
  darkened, but speaks in the conscience, and urges from within, like
  a judge, to sensible acts of repentance and penance. It leads us
  to those remedies which the church administers under a sensible
  form--the sacraments. Then the sensitive part is the sinner, and
  the inward light the accuser.

  "But in the magnetic state, when the senses are dead, when the
  inward light receives and yields impressions, then that which
  is holiest in a man, the interior watcher, is exposed to deadly
  influences, to contagious infection of the evil spirit, such as the
  soul in the state of ordinary wakefulness can have no consciousness
  of, owing to the senses, subject as these are to the laws of time
  and space. At the same time, it cannot free itself of its sins by
  the purifying remedies of the church. I see, indeed, that a soul
  altogether pure and reconciled with God, even in the state in which
  the whole interior life is open, may chance not to be wounded by
  the devil. But I see that if she has previously consented to the
  least temptation, as very easily happens, especially to those of
  the female sex, Satan is free to play his game in the interior
  of the soul, which he always manages in a way to dazzle her with
  the semblance of sanctity. The visions become lies, and, if she
  perchance discover some way of healing the mortal body, she pays a
  costly price for it in the secret defilement of an immortal soul."

With regard to another kindred phenomenon, viz., the projection of the
thinking soul in a visible envelope, there is a remarkable passage in
S. Augustine (_De Civ. Dei_, lib. xviii. 18). He is speaking of a story
he heard when in Italy of men being turned into asses by enchantment,
and made to carry burdens:

  "To say nothing of the soul, I do not believe that a man's body
  could any how by demons-craft be turned into bestial limbs and
  lineaments; but the fantastic part of man's nature (which, in the
  processes of thinking and dreaming, is countlessly specificated,
  and which, though itself no body, yet with wondrous swiftness, when
  the man's bodily senses are holden in sleep or bondage, adapts to
  itself the images of bodies) may be presented in some I know not
  what ineffable way, under a bodily form, to the senses of others,
  the while their bodies be elsewhere alive, indeed, but with their
  senses much more heavily and mightily bound than in sleep. And
  that fantastic part appears to the eyes of others, as it were,
  incorporated in the likeness of another creature; and such the man
  seems to himself to be, and to carry burdens. While burdens, if
  they be real bodies and not fantastic, the demons carry to deceive
  spectators, who see on the one hand the burdens, which are real; on
  the other the beasts, which are mere appearances."

The phenomenon described, or rather suggested, by the saint is
substantially identical with that of the wraith, or apparition of the
spirit of a living person, when the soul is supposed to be projected
in a visible envelope under the influence of some strong emotion, the
bonds uniting soul and body being indefinitely stretched, without
being broken. Fanciful as this sounds, the apparition of the wraith is
perhaps the best authenticated of all ghost phenomena.

Plutarch (_De Gen. Soc._ p. 266) would seem to indicate the same
phenomenon. The Neoplatonic interlocutor, having distinguished the
intelligence (νοῦς) from the soul (ψυχή), inasmuch as the former is not
properly the body at all, except by reflection, as light in a mirror,
but floats above the man's head, bound to the incorporated soul and
yielding light for its conduct, says, in respect to the case of one
Hermodorus, whose soul was supposed periodically to leave his body:
"But this is not true, for his soul did not go forth from his body,
but, slackening and loosing the reins to the intelligence (the δαίμων,
as the wise call it, regarding it as something external), allowed it
circumgyration and circum-frequentation (περιδρομὴν καὶ περιφίτησιν),
and, when it had seen or heard anything, to bear in the tidings."

Catholic theologians, although commonly denying that the soul can
be separated from the body in natural or diabolical ecstasy, admit
generally that, in the case of the divine _raptus_, this separation, or
rather projection--for death is supposed not to ensue--may take place;
although many of them--amongst others Benedict XIV. (_De Beatif._, lib.
iii. cap. 49)--deny that, in fact, such separation ever does occur.
On this question, Cardinal Bona (_De Discret. Spir._, cap. 14) says:
"Whether the soul, in the higher or more vehement rapt, sometimes
leaves the body, or can leave it, is a doubtful and difficult question;
for the apostle, caught up into the third heaven, professed that he
knew not whether this was in the body or out of the body; and what so
great a man did not know it is not for us to define. 'For who,' saith
Augustine, most learnedly disputing of the rapt of Paul, 'would dare to
say he knew what the apostle said he did not know?' The same ignorance
possessed S. Teresa's mind; for, describing the effects of rapture in
_The Castle of the Soul_, mans. 6 c. 5, she says: 'Whether in the body
or out of the body these things take place, I cannot tell: I certainly
dare not affirm on my oath either that the soul is then in the body,
or that the body can, in the meanwhile, live without the soul.' Then,
making use of some similitude to explain the matter, she ends by saying
she knows not what to say. But S. Catherine of Sienna, herself a divine
patient (_Epist. xii. ad P. Raym._), does not hesitate to affirm for
certain that her soul sometimes left her body and tasted the sweets
of immortality; which occasional separation of the soul and body it
is manifest could take place, not by the powers of nature, but by the
omnipotence of God." I would suggest that separation or projection
would seem to admit of degrees, some of which may be possible to other
powers short of omnipotence.

To this phenomenon of projection I should be inclined to reduce the
majority, if not all, the cases of replication or bilocation recorded
in the lives of the saints. Benedict XIV. (_De Beatif._, lib. iv. pars.
i. cap. 32), when discussing the apparitions of living saints, is
careful to explain that he is not pretending to entertain the question
of the possibility of "one and the same body of a living man being at
the same time in two places, which philosophers call replication."
Both S. Thomas and S. Bonaventure insist upon the intrinsic
impossibility of the presence of a body "extensive"--_i.e._ clothed
in its dimensions--at the same time in more than one place. That
this is so, De Lugo, whilst advocating against Vasquez the contrary
opinion, intrepidly admits. We may add that the fact of trilocation
being unheard of is, so far, an argument against the possibility of
replication; for once admit that replication is possible, and there is
no reason for limiting to duality of presence.

It would seem to be essential to the phenomenon of projection that
the body remain in a trance during the process. When simultaneous
intelligent activity has been proved, the hypothesis is shown to be
insufficient. The best authenticated cases, however, of so-called
bilocation seem to me to fail precisely in this proof of simultaneity.
Take, for instance, the wonderful miracles of this kind related of
S. Alphonso Liguori, such as his preaching in the church and hearing
confessions in the house at the same time; the possibility either of
his having passed, with miraculous rapidity of course, from the one
place to the other, or, again, of the projection of his soul, does not
seem to me to have been fairly disproved.

Setting aside the hypothesis of replication, the apparitions of saints
simultaneously existing elsewhere need not be the result of projection,
as it is quite conceivable that they may be represented by their
angels. This seems to be suggested by S. Augustine (_De Cura Gerenda
pro Mortuis_, cap. 10). Such representation would cover simultaneous
activity should this be proved. For the perfection of the phenomenon
of projection, we require the patient's own testimony that he and no
other has been consciously acting in some place where his body was not,
and, in default of witnesses, some proof that he has been there. For
obvious reasons, such self-testimony is very rare in the lives of the
saints. The most remarkable I have met with is the following from the
_Life of S. Alphonso Liguori_ (vol. iii. p. 417, Orat. Series). It is
unfortunately defective in there having been no witnesses at the term
of projection:

  "In the morning of the 21st of September, 1774, after Alphonso
  had ended Mass, contrary to custom, he threw himself into his
  arm-chair; he was cast down and silent, he made no movement of any
  sort, never articulated a word, and said nothing to any one. He
  remained in this state all that day and all the following night;
  and, during all this time, he took no nourishment, and did not
  attempt to undress. The servants, on seeing the state he was in,
  did not know what was going to happen, and remained up and at his
  room door, but no one dared to enter it.

  "On the morning of the 22d, he had not changed his position; and
  no one knew what to think about it. The fact was that he was in a
  prolonged ecstasy. However, when the day became further advanced,
  he rang the bell to announce that he intended to celebrate Mass.
  This signal was not only answered by Brother Francis Anthony,
  according to custom, but all the people in the house hurried to him
  with eagerness. On seeing so many people, his lordship asked what
  was the matter, with an air of surprise. 'What is the matter?' they
  replied. 'You have neither spoken nor eaten anything for two days,
  and you ceased to give any signs of life.' 'That is true,' replied
  Alphonso; 'but you do not know that I have been with the Pope, who
  has just died.'... Ere long, the tidings of the death of the Pope
  Clement were received; he passed to a better life on the 22d of
  September, at seven o'clock in the morning, at the very moment when
  Alphonso came to himself."

To all appearances, precisely the same phenomenon is to be found both
in the diabolical and the natural order. Innumerable instances are
recorded of diabolical projection. Here is one quoted by Görres from
Senert (_De Morbis Occultis_): "A woman, accused of being a were-wolf,
anointed her body in the presence of the magistrate, who promised her
her life if she would give him a specimen of her art. Immediately after
the anointing, she fell on the ground, and slept profoundly. She awoke
three hours after, and, on being asked where she had been, answered
that she had been changed into a wolf, and had torn to pieces a sheep
and a cow close to a little village, which she named, and which was
situated a few miles off. They sent to this village, and, on inquiry,
found that the mischief she claimed to have perpetrated was a reality."

The following narrative of presumably natural projection is
characterized by Görres (_Mystik_, tom. iii. p. 267, French Trans.) as
"very noteworthy and perfectly authentic":

  "Mary, the wife of John Goffe, of Rochester, was attacked by a
  lingering illness, and was removed ten miles from her home to
  her father's house at West Malling, at which place she died June
  4, 1691. On the eve of her death, she was possessed with a great
  longing to see her children, whom she had left at home with their
  nurse. She besought her husband to hire a horse, that she might
  go to Rochester and die with her children. They pointed out to
  her that she was not in a condition to leave her bed and mount on
  horseback. She insisted that anyhow she would make the attempt. 'If
  I cannot sit upright,' said she, 'I will lie down on the horse; for
  I must see my dear little ones.' The clergyman visited her about
  ten o'clock at night. She seemed perfectly resigned to die, and
  full of confidence in the divine mercy. 'All that troubles me,'
  said she, 'is that I am not to see my children any more.' Between
  one and two in the morning, she had a kind of ecstasy. According to
  the statement of Widow Turner, who was watching beside her during
  the night, her eyes were open and fixed, and her mouth shut. The
  nurse put her hand to her mouth and nostrils, and felt no breath;
  she therefore supposed that the sick woman had fainted, and,
  indeed, was not clear whether she was alive or dead. When she came
  to herself, she told her mother that she had been to Rochester, and
  had seen her children. 'Impossible,' replied the mother; 'you have
  never for a moment left your bed.' 'For all that,' rejoined the
  other, 'I went to-night and saw my children during my sleep.' The
  Widow Alexander, the children's nurse, declared on her side that,
  a little before two o'clock in the morning, she saw Mary Goffe
  come out of the room next to hers, where one of the children was
  sleeping by itself, with the door open between them, and enter her
  room; and that she remained about a quarter of an hour close to the
  bed where she was lying with the youngest child. Her eyes moved and
  her lips looked as if they were speaking; but she said nothing. The
  nurse professed herself willing to affirm on oath in the presence
  of the authorities all that she had said, and to take the sacrament
  upon it. She added that she was perfectly awake, and that the dawn
  was beginning to break, as it was one of the shortest nights of the
  year. She sat up in bed, and watched the apparition attentively.
  She heard the clock on the bridge strike two. After a few moments
  had passed, she said, 'In the name of the Father, and the Son,
  and the Holy Ghost, who are you?' At these words, the apparition
  vanished."

Here is another example from Mr. Varley's evidence (_Report on
Spiritualism_):

  "My sister-in-law had heart disease. Mrs. Varley and I went into
  the country to see her, as we feared, for the last time. I had a
  nightmare, and could not move a muscle. While in this state, I
  saw the spirit of my sister-in-law in the room. I knew that she
  was confined to her bed-room. She said, 'If you do not move, you
  will die,' but I could not move; and she said, 'If you submit
  yourself to me, I will frighten you, and you will then be able
  to move.' At first I objected, wishing to ascertain more about
  her spirit-presence. When at last I consented, my heart had
  ceased beating. I think at first her efforts to terrify me did
  not succeed; but when she suddenly exclaimed, 'O Cromwell! I am
  dying,' that frightened me exceedingly, and threw me out of the
  torpid state, and I awoke in the ordinary way. My shouting had
  aroused Mrs. Varley; we examined the door, and it was still locked
  and bolted, and I told my wife what had happened, having noted the
  hour--3:45 A.M.--and cautioned her not to mention the matter to
  anybody, and to hear what was her sister's version, if she alluded
  to the subject. In the morning, she told us that she had passed a
  dreadful night, that she had been in our room, and greatly troubled
  on my account; and that I had been nearly dying. It was between
  half-past three and four when she saw I was in danger. She only
  succeeded in rousing me by exclaiming, 'O Cromwell! I am dying.' I
  appeared to her to be in a state which otherwise would have ended
  fatally."

In considering the psychic-force hypothesis, I have been anxious to do
justice to every slightest indication of such abnormal power in the
speculations and experiences of Catholic writers. For this reason, I
have spoken of projection, although I am not aware that any attempt
has been made by the advocates of psychic force so to explain it.
Whilst reiterating my belief that the mind has many mysterious powers
capable of being brought into active operation by various influences,
and that these are, in all probability, operative in several of the
phenomena of spiritualism; granting, moreover, that it is hardly
possible to define precisely the extent of the soul's co-operation in
the production of these phenomena, I contend, notwithstanding, that the
psychic-force hypothesis is the result of a non-natural and inadequate
analysis of the phenomena of spiritualism. For, 1st, in the form in
which it has been presented, it is indubitably obnoxious to the charge
of being an expedient to escape a recognition of spiritual influence,
which recognition, in a XIXth-century man of science, would be so very
unsportsmanlike, to say the least of it. 2d. It wholly ignores the
sense of personal dualism in spiritual experience, to which the history
of spiritualism in all ages bears consistent witness. As the idealist
would convince us that there is no external world distinct from the
phenomena of sensation, so the advocate of psychic force would persuade
spiritualists that they have been merely conversing with their own
shadows, as with real beings who could hear and answer their questions,
and have attributed to these, as independent agents, feats which they
were themselves performing. 3d. So far as we have any indication of a
thaumaturgic element in the mind, it manifests itself in the supreme
efforts of the imagination, kindled by emotion, and abstracted and
concentrated by expectation; whereas, in the mass of spiritualistic
experiences, imagination in those concerned seems distinctly to fall
short of its highest stages.

The third hypothesis remains for consideration; but, in order to do it
justice, I shall have to enter at some length into the church notion
of magic and direct diabolical interference; and this will form the
subject of my second chapter.

FOOTNOTES:

[49] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by Rev. I.
T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,
D. C.

[50] _Scientific Scraps._

[51] _Hist. of Rat._, chap. i.

[52] Pref. to _From Matter to Spirit_.

[53] Lib. iv. dist. 34, art. 2.

[54] Dr. Tuke, _Influence of the Mind upon the Body_, p. 355.

[55] _Biog. Brit., Baconthorp._

[56] Haureau, _La Philosophie Scholastique_, tome ii. cap. 29.

[57] _The Immortality of the Soul_, op. p. 212.

[58] _Biog. Brit._

[59] _Influence of the Mind upon the Body_, p. 260.

[60] _Ibid._, p. 428.

[61] _Influence of the Mind upon the Body_, p. 82.

[62] S. Max. Taur., _Hom._ xvi.

[63] _De Universo_, pars iii. cap. 18, 20.

[64] _Vie_, par Schmoeger, tome i., p. 484 _et seq._




THE SON OF GOD, ARCHETYPAL BEAUTY.


My heart's voice is to thee, my Lord and Eternal King, Christ Jesus.
The work of Thy hand dares to address Thee with loving boldness, for
it yearns after Thy beauty, and longs to hear Thy voice. O Thou, my
heart's desired One, how long must I bear Thy absence! How long must
I sigh after Thee, and my eyes drop tears? O Lord, all love, all
loveable, where dwellest Thou? Where is the place of Thy rest, where
Thou reposest all joyful among Thy favorite ones, and satisfiest them
with the revelations of Thy glory? How happy, how bright, how holy, how
ardently to be longed for, is that place of perennial joys! My eye has
never reached far enough, nor my heart soared high enough, to know the
multitude of the sweetnesses which Thou hast stored up in it for Thy
children. And yet I am supported by their fragrance, though I am far
away from them. The breath of Thy sweetness comes to me from afar--a
sweetness which to me exceeds the odour of balsam, and the breath of
frankincense and myrrh, and every kind of sweet smell.--_S. Anselm._




DANTE'S PURGATORIO.

CANTO ELEVENTH.

  In the Ninth Canto Virgil declares to Dante: _Tu sei omai al
  Purgatorio giunto_-"Thou hast arrived at Purgatory now!" and it
  is not until the next Canto that the gate of Purgatory proper is
  unfolded to the poet. The first nine Cantos being preliminary, are
  by Italian critics called the Ante-Purgatorio.

  In the first cornice of the true Purgatory, "_La, dove 'l
  Purgatorio ha dritto inizio_," Dante meets a procession of spirits
  crouching under great burdens of stone, in expiation of their sin
  of pride. As this Tenth Canto, however, is mostly occupied with an
  elaborate description of certain sculptures around the cornice,
  illustrative of the same deadly sin, and might be less interesting
  to the readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, we proceed to the Eleventh,
  where we are introduced to the spirits of Omberto Aldobrandeschi,
  Oderisi the illuminator, and Provenzan Salvani, lord of Sienna. In
  Omberto the pride of birth is especially reproved; and in Salvani
  the pride of place, the arrogance of power. The sin of Oderisi is
  of the æsthetic order common to a period of larger culture. Himself
  an artist, whose fault was pride of art, he inveighs against the
  vanity of painters and of poets, and the emptiness of a present
  reputation.


PRAYER OF THE PROUD SPIRITS--A PARAPHRASE OF THE LORD'S PRAYER.

    "O thou, our Father, dwelling there in heaven!
      Not circumscribed, save by the larger love
    Which to thy love's first offspring must be given,
      Who from the first have dwelt with thee above!
    By every creature hallowed be thy name
      And praised thy goodness, as for man was meant
    To render thanks to thy benignant flame:
      May to our souls thy kingdom's peace be lent,
    For of ourselves we could not come thereto
      With all our intellect, unless 'twere sent:
    And even as of their will thine Angels do
      (Chanting Hosanna) sacrifice to thee,
    So to Thy Will may men their own subdue:
      Our daily manna give to us this day,
    Without which help, through this rough wilderness,
      Who strives to go falls backward on his way.
    And even as we forbear us to redress
      The wrong from others which we have to brook
    Pardon thou us, benignant One! and less
      On our deserving than our weakness look:
    Try not our virtue, ever prone to yield,
      'Gainst the old enemy who spurs it so;
    Deliver us from him and be our shield:
      This last petition, dearest Lord! we know
    We have no need of;--but for them we plead
      Who after us amid temptation go."
    Thus praying for themselves and us God-speed,
      Those weary shadows, underneath a load
    Like that we sometimes dream that we endure,
      Toiled in unequal anguish[65] o'er the road
    Round the first cornice, all becoming pure
      From the world's tarnish. O if alway there
    For us they say such gracious words! for them
      What might be here performed in act or prayer
    By souls whose will is a sound-rooted stem:
      Well might we help them wash whatever stain
    They bore from _this_ world, that sublimed and fair
      They to the starry circles might attain.

VIRGIL.

    "Ah so may pity soon, and justice spare
      You souls this load, that you may move the wing
    That lifts you upward to celestial air!
      Show us which way most speedily may bring
    Us towards the ascent. If more than one there be,
      Point us that pass the least precipitous;
    Since he who comes and fain would climb with me
      Through flesh of Adam is encumbered thus."
    Who made their answer to these words which he
      Whom I was following unto them addrest
    Was not discernible, but this was said:

OMBERTO.

    "To the right hand, along the bank, 'tis best
      You come with us. This way to living tread
    The pass is possible that you request:
      And were I not impeded by the stone
    Which my proud neck so masters with its weight,
      That I perforce must hold my visage down,
    This man who liveth, and who doth not state
      What name he bears, I would look up to see
    If I do know, and make compassionate
      His heart for this huge load that bendeth me.
    William Aldobrandeschi was the name
      Of a great Tuscan; I was born his son,
    Of Latin race: whether his title came
      To your ears ever, knowledge have I none.
    Mine ancestors, their ancient blood, and what
      They wrought by prowess, rendered me so high
    In arrogance, that never taking thought
      About our common Mother, all men I
    So scorned, that as the Siennese all know,
      I to my death at last was brought thereby,
    And every child in Campagnatico
      Knows how I there did perish for my sin.
    I am Omberto, and not me alone
      Hath pride done damage to, but all my kin
    Hath it dragged hither with myself to groan,
      And I who living never bowed my head,
    Till God be satisfied, and mercy shown,
      Must bear this burden here among the dead."

    Listening I held my visage down intent,
      And one of them, but not the same that spoke,
    Writhing looked up, beneath his burden bent,
      And recognized, and called me; still his look
    With strained eyes fixing upon me who went
      All bowed beside them. "O!" exclaimed I then,
    "Art thou not Oderisi, Gubbio's pride,
      And honor also of that art which men
    In Paris name _illuming_?" He replied:

ODERISI.

    "Brother! those leaves with hues more smiling shine
      Touched by the pencil of the Bolognese
    Franco, whose whole fame was but partly mine.
      Haply in life such courteous words as these
    I had not spoken, so my heart was set
      All others to excel. For such poor pride
    Here I must pay the penalty; nor yet
      Should I be here, but that before I died
    I turned to God, still having power to sin.
      O thou vain-glory of man's boasted powers!
    How little while thy summit keeps its green,
      Unless gross ages come that yield no flowers!
    Once Cimabuè thought to keep the crown
      In painting's field; now all cry Giotto best,
    So that the former hath but dim renown:
      Thus could one Guido from the other wrest
    The glory of language, and perchance is born
      He that shall drive out either from his nest.
    Naught is the world's voice but a breath of morn
      Coming this way and that, and changing name
    Even as it shifteth side: what more shalt thou,
      If old thou cast thy flesh, enjoy of fame
    Than if death's hand had touched thy baby brow
      Whilst thou wert babbling, ere a thousand years
    Have past? which unto God's eternity
      A space more insignificant appears
    Than would the twinkle of an eyelid be
      To the least rapid of the heavenly spheres.
    Yon soul before me, moving on so slow,
      Once through all Tuscany was noised for great,
    Now scarce Sienna breathes his name, although
      He was her sovereign, when the infuriate
    Spirit of Florence met such overthrow;
      For she, now vile, swelled then in proud estate.
    Men's reputation is the fleeting hue
      Of grass, that comes and goes! even that whereby
    Fresh from the soil its tender verdure grew,
      The sun, discolors it and leaveth dry."

ANTE.

      And I: "Thy truthful words teach me to seek
    Goodness in humbleness, and quell my pride.
      But who is he of whom thou just didst speak?"

ODERISI.

    "That's Provenzan Salvani," he replied;
      "And he goes here because he so presumed
    In bringing all Sienna 'neath his sway:
      Thus ever since he died hath he been doomed,
    Without repose, to walk his weary way.
      _Who dares too much there in such coin pays back._"

DANTE.

    I then: "If every soul who doth delay
      Repentance till the limit of life's track,
    Must wait below, nor be up here received
      Unless good prayers assist him on his road,
    Before as much time pass as he hath lived,
      How comes this largess upon him bestowed?"

ODERISI.

    The spirit replied: "When he was living still
      In the full glory of his most high state,
    All shame subduing, of his own free will
      Amid Sienna's public square he sate,
    And there his friend to ransom from the pain,
      Which Charles had doomed him, of his dungeon's grate,
    Did that which made him tremble in each vein.[66]
      I say no more and know I darkly teach
    But in short while thy neighbors unto thee
      Will so conduct that thou mayst gloss my speech:
    Him from those confines did this act set free."


NOTE.

  In the translation of Canto VII., published in the April No. of
  THE CATHOLIC WORLD, I proposed a new rendering of the 74th verse,
  namely,

            _India's rich wood, heaven's lucid blue serene_,

  for

                    _Indico legno, lucido e sereno_,

  which line I would then have read,

                     _Indico legno, lucido sereno_,

  without the conjunction. I had not found this reading in any
  edition which fell to my hands, and it was merely a suggestion of
  my own to make intelligible what seemed to be unsatisfactory to the
  sense.

  In a late No. (June 14) of the London _Athenæum_, Dr. H. C. Barlow,
  a very learned Dantean, confirms my reading by one of the older
  texts in his library, and also adds that, "in the edition of the
  _Divina Commedia_ by Paola Costa, we find the reading recently
  adopted by Mr. Parsons ... which the editor says is an emendation
  of Biondi, who has defended it with much learned reasoning."

  Nevertheless, Dr. Barlow does not accept this amendment; but
  believes, with Monti, that Dante meant to compare the rich and
  varied hues of a flower-bed to something like charcoal; to wood,
  clear and dry; for instance, _ebony_; and he quotes from Monti this
  word: "What can be darker than the night? yet when free from clouds
  we call it _serene_." The answer whereto is that when the night is
  free from clouds, and starry, or serene, it is _not_ dark, and many
  objects in nature are blacker than such a night.

  I cannot feel quite so sure of my reading as Dr. Barlow appears to
  be of his own interpretation, but I have some confidence that Dante
  did not mean _ebony_, for the obvious reason that _ebony_ is not
  a brilliant color such as Dante was describing; and the statement
  which Dr. Barlow takes such pains to prove, namely, that painters
  often introduce black for the sake of contrast, does not apply at
  all to a verbal description--"_segnius per aurem_," etc.

  I am after all inclined to think that the true reading of this
  much-disputed verse may be

                    _Indico legno, e lucido sereno_,

  but my mind is not made up entirely, and one object of publishing
  these Cantos in a periodical is that my version, before it is
  completed, may have the advantage of critical suggestions, and
  perhaps elucidation, in doubtful passages, from the learning and
  ingenuity of such Italian scholars in England as Mr. Haselfoot, Dr.
  Barlow, and Sir Frederic Pollock.

                                                             TRANSLATOR.


FOOTNOTES:

[65] That is, under loads of divers weight proportioned to their degree
of sin.

[66] That is to say he begged: in which act of terrible humiliation to
so haughty a spirit Dante is recalling his own bitter experience.




THE FARM OF MUICERON.


                            BY MARIE RHEIL.

                  FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.


I.

What I am going to relate to you is a true story in every respect,
seeing that I had it from my late father--in his lifetime the
harness-maker of our hamlet of Val-Saint, and who was never known to
tell a falsehood: may God have mercy on his soul!

In the village of Ordonniers, which was the next one to us, and in our
commune, where flows _la Range_, lived a farmer named Louis Ragaud. The
maiden name of his wife was Pierrette Aubry; but after her marriage,
according to our custom, she was called by every one La Ragaude.

They were rich, and no one was jealous of them, as it was known that
they had commenced with nothing, having been simply servants in the
employ of M. le Marquis de Val-Saint. Little by little they had risen,
without having injured any one, always kind to the poor, never miserly
or boasting; so that, when at the end of twenty years they found they
had saved enough to buy the beautiful farm of Muiceron, which they had
previously rented, all the neighbors said: "Behold the true justice of
the good God!"

They had been married a long time, and had no children. Now, wealth
is a great deal, but not enough for perfect contentment of heart. The
good man Ragaud had fields and meadows that yielded rich crops, strong
oxen, and even vines that bore well--though it must be acknowledged
that the wines of our province were not very renowned. As for the farm
buildings, except those of the château, there were scarcely any in a
circle of six leagues which were as well kept; and nevertheless, Ragaud
sighed when looking around him--no child, alas! and no family, with the
exception of a cousin, who left for the army more than thirty years
before, and had never been heard of since; so that, very naturally, he
could not be counted upon.

La Ragaude sighed still more. She was good and very devout, but unable
to bear sorrow; and this was so severe, so constant, it had ended by
destroying all her happiness. Often, when looking at the neighbors'
children playing before the doors, she felt her heart throb with pain,
and would hasten to seek refuge in her own house, where she could give
free vent to her tears. As this happened more than once, and as she
always reappeared with red eyes, it had been much remarked, and sundry
comments made. Not that there is much time to be lost in the fields,
but a reflection here and there scarcely <DW44>s work. There are even
those who say that the tongue assists the arm, and that gossipping
helps push the plough. It is woman's tattle, I believe; but a good
number of men here and elsewhere have the habit of repeating it, and I
do likewise, without inquiring further.

The gossips of the neighborhood--above all, those who had larger
families than incomes--were determined to find out the true cause of
Pierrette Ragaud's tears; and, as often happens, preferred seeking for
wicked reasons rather than stop their babbling.

"It is a thing I cannot understand," said one, "why the mistress of
Muiceron is so unhappy that she weeps constantly--a woman who is so
well off. We must believe that things at the farm are not so well as
they appear. Perhaps it is her husband who makes all the trouble!"

"Her husband! Magdaleine Piédau?" replied another; "you must be well
put to that you imagine such a thing. Master Ragaud is the first
workman in the country; and, as for his using bad words, that he has
never done, any more to his wife than to others."

"Bah! what you say is true," replied Magdaleine Piédau; "but all the
same, neighbor, Ragaud can fly into a rage as well as any other man.
I saw and heard him, day before yesterday, beside himself with anger
against one of his yoke of oxen. You know Capitaine, the big black
one? Ah! my dear, I pitied the poor beast--he beat him well! without
counting that he swore so that you would not have known him. Bah! don't
talk to me!"

"Ah! that may be, but I speak of people. Now, an ox is not a person!"

"There you are right, thank God! Men are often rough to beasts, and
very polite to Christians; but, in my opinion, we must be gentle and
patient to both. A beast that works well deserves to be well treated,
and Ragaud had no right to beat his ox. I don't say he would treat his
wife so; but, at least, we must allow that Pierrette Ragaud does not
always look as if her life were a holiday. Ah! she has trouble, that is
very sure, poor creature!"

"And the reason?"

"The reason! Go and ask her, Magdaleine, if you are so curious."

"I wouldn't dare; for, after all, it don't concern me very much. What I
have said was only in the way of friendly gossip."

"In that case, we can speak of other things; for I don't know any more
about it than you. We will leave it for God to clear up. Go and catch
your boy, who will fall into the pond, Magdaleine Piédau, and lend me
your sickle, that I may cut some grass for my cows.... But to think
that Ragaud ill-treats his wife--no, no; that is out of the question.
After that, where may we hope to find a good man? One don't know...."

"No, neighbor, one never knows how it is with them. You speak like a
priest, my good woman. The deceased Piédau, my man, that every one
believed so good, ..."

"Good-evening, Magdaleine."

"Was a drunkard and big eater. I concealed it for ten years, and wept
alone like the mistress of Muiceron."

"Good-evening, neighbor."


II.

One summer day, when La Ragaude was washing her earthen pans in the
sun, she saw the _curé_ of Ordonniers advancing through the path in the
woods. He was a worthy priest, beloved by all, and well deserving of
it on account of his great charity. I have heard it said that, in the
years when bread was so dear, he gave away his last measure of wheat,
and then, having no more for himself, was obliged to go to the miller,
Pierre Cotentin, and ask for some flour on credit.

"It is not my custom," said he gaily, "and you are not bound to oblige
me; but the times are hard, and you must never refuse to give alms,
even to your _curé_."

The miller filled the bag willingly; and as for the money, although he
was very fond of it, he would never hear the word mentioned.

Said he, "M. le Curé has an empty purse. We must not ask him where the
last cent went, poor dear man! Pierre Cotentin can well feed him--it is
justice! Who will have the heart to be jealous?"

And in fact, the _curé_ was so respected that not a boy, no matter how
bad he was, ever failed to take off his cap when passing him.

When La Ragaude saw the black cassock coming towards Muiceron, she
quickly arranged her pans, and threw aside her working-apron; for she
was a careful woman and thorough housekeeper.

"Good-morning, M. le Curé; how are you?" she asked joyfully.

"Very warm, very warm," replied the _curé_; "otherwise, well."

"My dear monsieur, why did you not wait until the cool of the evening
to do us the honor of visiting us? It is roasting in the road. I
thought just now I would send a servant to replace my husband in the
fields. A storm is rising, the flies bite, Ragaud is not as strong as
he was at twenty, and I am afraid of the beasts--they are difficult to
control when they become impatient."

"Ah! your husband is absent?"

"Have you something to say to him, monsieur?"

"To him and to you also, my good woman."

"Come in and refresh yourself," said she.

M. le Curé entered, and took a seat near the table. He appeared
preoccupied, and answered like a man who did not hear what was said
to him. He even placed his cane against the bread-box, and his hat on
top--something which he had never done before, as the slightest motion
might have sent them to the floor. When he put his hand in his pocket
for his breviary, he found he had forgotten it, which embarrassed him
not a little; as, it must be said, no man was more exact and particular
than he in words as well as in actions.

La Ragaude, not being a fool by nature, quietly replaced the cane and
hat in a safe place, but was, in her turn, very much astonished to see
the _curé_ so absent, as it was the first time it had ever happened;
and from that concluded he must have something in his head of great
importance. What could it be?

While busying herself around the room, without showing it, Pierrette
Ragaud had distractions also. She drew new wine for cider, and washed
a glass which had not been used. But that I do not believe she would
have perceived then or afterwards; for she was so accustomed to scrub
everything you could have used the side walls of the stable for a
mirror.

M. le Curé tasted the wine through civility, but, as he said nothing,
she began to feel rather impatient. Women are curious. My deceased
father was accustomed to say, from that came all the evil from the
commencement of the world. It is true the dear man was rather in his
dotage towards the end; but it is also true that I have heard others
say the same thing.

Pierrette at last commenced to question the _curé_ very respectfully
and gently; for, in truth, she could no longer restrain herself.

"Although the master is out, M. le Curé," said she, "will you not
tell me what I can do to serve you?--without pressing to know, you
understand, monsieur."

M. le Curé raised his eyes, and replied as gravely as though he were
preaching a sermon:

"I have come to know, in the name of the good God, Mme. Ragaud, if you
are disposed to act charitably."

"Oh! if it is to aid those who are suffering and in need, my husband
and I will be most happy to assist you," frankly cried La Ragaude, who
spoke with her whole heart and soul. "Thank God! there is yet money in
the drawer. Tell me how much you want, monsieur."

The good _curé_ shook his head, laughing, and repeated two or three
times, "Good, good," which was a sign that he was pleased.

"You are always ready to give money to the poor, I know," said he; "but
to-day that is not the question. I have come to ask you for something
of greater importance."

"More so than money! Heaven of our Lord!" said Pierrette, slightly
amazed. "I do not know, M. le Curé, how, then, I can oblige you."

She said that, although she had a generous heart; but money with us is
always the great affair. In the fields, as in the city, the poor man
who eats his bread while working knows that the francs are not picked
up under the horses' feet.

"Money," replied M. le Curé, "when the soul is wanting in charity,
is given, and there it ends; but what I have come to ask of you is a
good work which will not end for a long while, and which will need
good-will, and great patience especially, on your part."

"I can guess what it is," said Pierrette.

"Indeed!" replied the _curé_. "Well, that spares me the difficulty of
explaining myself. Let us hear, Mme. Ragaud, what you have guessed."

"I have heard it said you were very much worried about your surplices
and altar-linens, since Catharine Luguet left the country so
shamefully, like a good-for-nothing girl, to seek her fortune in
Paris," said La Ragaude, blushing--for this Catharine was a distant
cousin--"and doubtless, M. le Curé, you wish me to replace her, and
take charge of the sacristy."

"And if it were so, would you refuse me?"

"Certainly not, monsieur. I would willingly do my best to please you.
Not that I have as light a hand as Catharine for plaiting and folding;
but for washing and ironing, I can say, without boasting, I am the
equal of any one."

"Thank you," said the _curé_. "I accept an offer made so willingly. But
to speak truly, I have not come for that."

"Then," replied Pierrette, in astonishment, "I cannot imagine what you
want me to do."

"This is it," said the _curé_, taking a serious tone: "This morning,
Pierrette, a bundle was left at my house...."

"I bet," cried La Ragaude, "it was the beautiful monstrance promised by
M. le Marquis for Corpus Christi!"

"No, it was a new-born infant, a beautiful boy, Mme. Ragaud; and,
since the good God has allowed you to remain childless, and that this
privation has greatly afflicted you, I immediately thought he destined
this child for you."

"Monsieur," replied Pierrette, with emotion, "it is true that it is
very hard for me to be alone in the house, and to think that I will
die and leave no one after me to inherit Muiceron; but I prefer it to
working all my life for a child sprung, perhaps, from a wicked race."

"I know where it comes from," said the _curé_; "but still I can
tell you nothing, as it is a secret of the confessional. But have
confidence in me; as for the race, it is not bad."

"It is the same thing. I don't believe in these foundlings."

"Say nothing further about it," replied the _curé_ rather sadly; "I
will send it to the hospital."

And then, without appearing to feel either pique or bitterness, M.
le Curé commenced to converse on other subjects, speaking of the
next harvest, the price of the new wine, and of the last fair, with
even voice and kind looks, that showed plainly he did not wish his
parishioner to think he was pained by her rather prompt refusal.

This kindness of a heart truly charitable had more effect on good
Pierrette than reproaches or scolding. She did her best to reply to the
_curé_, but her eyes were wet against her will, and soon she became
so absent-minded the _curé_ with difficulty repressed his mirth,
seeing that he had gained ground by the ell, without seeming to do it
intentionally.

"You see," said he, "by often hearing the bells ring, one becomes a
bell-ringer; and as I love all my parishioners, like a true pastor, I
go everywhere, inquiring and advising, so that I may be useful in case
of need. In that way, Mme. Ragaud, without ever having driven a plough
or taken care of cattle, God has given me the grace of being able to
advise on all rural subjects, as well as the first master-farmer in the
neighborhood. Thus, I will say to you: 'When there are more pears than
apples, keep your wine, good man.' This is a country proverb hundreds
of years old. Now, as this year there are more pears than they know
what to do with, believe me, keep your vintage, and you will have news
to tell me of it by next Easter."

"I do not know how Ragaud will decide," replied Pierrette; "he is
always afraid when the cellar is full...."

"The proverb never fails, my good woman; and that is easily understood
when one reflects how and why proverbs have obtained credit."

"But, M. le Curé," interrupted La Ragaude, "if you knew where this poor
abandoned child came from, it seems to me...."

"What child?" said the _curé_, taking a pinch of snuff, so as to appear
indifferent. "Oh! yes, the little one of this morning. What, do you
still think of it? Bah! let it pass; after all, the hospital is not a
place where one dies from want of care."

"I know it; but it is sad, monsieur, very sad, for one of those little
innocents to say afterwards, 'I was in a hospital'; that always gives a
bad idea."

"What can be done, Mme. Ragaud? One becomes accustomed to everything.
Come, come, don't make yourself uneasy. We were saying, then, ... what
were we saying? Ah! I remember now. I was telling you that proverbs
must be believed, and for the reason that these little village-sayings
are only repeated after they have been verified by the great and long
experience of our fathers. Thus, you will see that the last part of
the one I just quoted is equally curious: 'When there are more apples
than pears, then, good man, you can drink.' Well, wasn't it a fact last
year? There were so many apples that a jug of cider was only worth two
farthings; there was enough for everybody, and the wine was so abundant
that--you are not listening to me, Pierrette Ragaud?"

"Excuse me, M. le Curé, I am listening attentively; but I was thinking
perhaps my husband would not return; and, nevertheless, he should have
a little talk with you."

"About the vintage? We have time enough until then for that," replied
the _curé_ with a spice of malice.

"About the little innocent, dear monsieur. The truth is, I feel my
heart ache when I think he will go to the hospital through my fault."

"And as for me, my good woman, I am sorry that I spoke to you about
it; yes, sorry," he repeated earnestly, "for I have worried you, and I
had no such intention when I came to visit you. I see now that you are
inclined on the side of the good work; but I don't wish to force you
to take it in hand. Here, now, if the hospital frightens you, I have
thought of another arrangement, which might work well. My old Germaine,
notwithstanding her thirty years of service, is still active, and the
work in my house don't kill her. We will buy a good milking-goat at the
August fair; until then, you will lend us one, and, God willing, the
little one will remain where his good angel deposited him."

"May the Lord bless you!" cried La Ragaude, the tears streaming from
her eyes. "But what a shame for us to let you burden yourself with such
a heavy load, when you already give more than you can afford! No, no,
holy and good Virgin Mary! For my part, I would not sleep easy after
such an act."

The good _curé_ clasped his hands, and in his heart rendered thanks to
all the saints in paradise. He was very much touched, and as he was
about to thank Pierrette as she deserved, Ragaud returned from the
fields.

They cordially saluted each other; and, very naturally, as the good
man saw his wife wiping her eyes, and the _curé_ almost ready to
do likewise, he asked what had excited them. Thereupon M. le Curé
commenced a long discourse, so gentle and so touching--he spoke of
charity, of the rewards of heaven, the happiness of generous hearts,
with words so beautifully turned that never in the parish church, on
the greatest festivals, had he preached better. Pierrette, as she
afterwards said, thought she was listening to the holy patron saint of
Ordonniers, who in his lifetime, it is related, spoke so well that the
birds stopped singing to listen to him. Ragaud remained silent, but he
shook his head, and turned his cap around in his hands--signs of great
emotion with him.

Meanwhile, he said neither yes nor no, but asked time for reflection,
promising to give his answer the next day before twelve o'clock. He was
perfectly right, and M. le Curé, who felt in the bottom of his heart
that the cause was gained, wished even to wait until Sunday; but Ragaud
did not like to take back his word.

"I said to-morrow, M. le Curé, and it will be to-morrow," said he, when
conducting his pastor to the threshold of the door.

"Dear, holy soul of the good God!" cried Pierrette, looking after the
_curé_ as he leisurely walked down the road, repeating his rosary as he
went along. "Good dear priest, that he is! We need many more like him,
Ragaud!"

"Good, holy man, in truth," replied the farmer; "but what he proposes
to us is an affair of importance. You are young and healthy yet, wife,
but in ten years your arms will not be as strong as now. You must think
of that, even if God keeps you in good health. A child is a comfort in
a house, but all the burden falls on the mother. Suppose this little
one should become refractory and vagabond, like Cotentin's son."

"That is true," said La Ragaude.

"Suppose he should get bad ideas in his head, and send religion and
honesty to the devil."

"That would be a great misfortune," again said La Ragaude, but this
time sighing.

"I know you," continued the good man--"you become attached to every
one. Didn't you weep like a little girl because I beat Capitaine, who
is only an ox, and who deserved it? And haven't I seen you half crazy
because Brunette had the gripes?--and she was only a cow.... Can it be
hoped that you would be more reasonable about a child who would become
ours?--for we must do the thing well or not at all; isn't it so?"

"It is just as you say," replied Pierrette, sighing still louder; "but
what, then, shall we do?"

"My opinion is that we must consider it well," answered Ragaud.

"You only consider the bad side," said La Ragaude gently; "but suppose
the little one should preserve the blessing of his baptism, and let
himself be well governed--later, we would be very happy and well
rewarded."

"That is true," said the farmer.

"If," continued La Ragaude, "I am easily worried about animals, I know
well it would not be the same thing with a Christian. You see, husband,
the poor beasts suffer without being able to complain or explain
themselves; and, therefore, I am always afraid of their being treated
unjustly. But a boy has his tongue, and can defend himself. We can talk
sense to him, and if he won't listen, why, we will put him to school."

"Bah! you will spoil him so that he will be master of the house before
he is in breeches."

"Don't fear," cried Pierrette; "that will never be, or I should think
myself wanting in gratitude to the good God."

"If I could be sure of that, my wife, I would attempt it. But, come;
let the night pass before deciding."

They did not mention it again until the next day; but Pierrette took
care, before retiring, to light a taper at her bedside, beneath a
beautiful picture of Our Lady of Liesse.

Early the next morning, she went, as usual, to feed her turkeys and
drive her cows to the meadow. On her return, she saw Ragaud dressing
himself in his Sunday clothes.

"I think, wife," said he, "we had better, at least, see this little one
before deciding."

Pierrette hastened to throw aside her apron; and then it appeared she
had expected such a decision, as at dawn she had dressed herself in
her new gown of gray serge, with her bright-flowered neckerchief from
Rouen, which had only been worn at the last feast of the good S. Anne,
in July.

It was thus the worthy couple proceeded on their way to the priest's
house. As it was Thursday, and neither festival, nor fair, nor
market-day in the village, the neighbors stared as they saw them pass,
and, unable to imagine the cause, chattered nonsense, half from malice,
half from spite; and Simonne Durand, well known for her viper tongue,
said aloud: "We must believe the Ragauds are going to obtain the
priest's blessing on their fiftieth anniversary, as they are so finely
dressed on a week-day."

This wicked jealousy went a little too far, and profited nothing to the
spiteful thing, as every one knew the Ragauds had only been married
twenty years at the furthest; but, when the mind is full of malice,
there is little time for reflection.

When the good friends arrived at the pastoral residence, M. le Curé
had just entered after saying his Mass; and we need not ask if he had
prayed well. Germaine, his old servant, held the baby in her lap, and
was feeding him with boiled goat's milk. Pierrette could not restrain
her delight on seeing what a beautiful child it was, and that it was at
least six or seven months old. She snatched it from Germaine's arms,
and commenced kissing it, not caring that she had interrupted his
little repast. This showed that the child was good-natured; for instead
of crying, as a sickly, cross baby would have done similarly situated,
he crowed with joy, and put out his little hands, dazzled with the
fine, flowered neckerchief of his new mamma.

"How pretty and healthy he is!" cried La Ragaude. "My dear M. le Curé,
you told me it was a new-born child."

"Did I say so, Pierrette? It was because I did not know much about it."

"So it seems," replied the good woman, gaily. "The little darling is at
least seven or eight months old; don't you think so, Germaine?"

"I know one a year old not so large as he," answered the old servant.
"But that is not all, Mme. Ragaud; you see him in the day-time, but it
is at night that he is good and amusing. He sleeps without stirring,
like a little corpse. For my part, I would not be afraid to bring him
up."

Ragaud had not yet said a word, and still upon him all depended.

"Come and talk a little while with M. le Curé," said he, pulling his
wife by the skirt.

Pierrette quickly rose to obey him, according to her good habit, but
she did not give up the young one; so that Ragaud gently reproved her
for again showing herself as ready to become attached to men as to
beasts.

We need not be sorcerers to divine what happened. In less than
a quarter of an hour, the contract of adoption was passed
satisfactorily, without notary or scribbling. It was signed with a
friendly shake of the hands; and to say which one of these good hearts
was the best satisfied would not be very easy.


III.

Now, without further delay, I am going to show you, as they say,
the under-card in relation to the little one. True, it was a secret
of the confessional, at least for the time being; but later, it was
everybody's secret. The story is simple, and will not be long. You
remember that our _curé_, in conversation with Pierrette, led her
to mention a certain Catharine Luguet, against whom the good woman
appeared very much incensed. This Catharine was an orphan, whose
parents, dying, left her when quite young without any means of support.
Germaine watched over her like a daughter, and M. le Curé, to keep her
near him, paid her apprenticeship to a seamstress; after which, having
grown up, and being very skilful with her needle, he placed her in a
little room near the church, and gave her charge of the sacristy. But,
unfortunately, the poor child was as pretty as a picture, and loved
compliments, dress, and dancing, which is a great danger for a young
girl, especially in a village. Catharine commenced by degrees to make
people talk about her, and not without cause. The Ragauds, who were
distantly related to her on the mother's side, at first reprimanded
her, and finally would not see her. The girl was quick-tempered,
resented the treatment, and one fine day went off, saying that she
could easily find in Paris people who would be happy to receive her.

Two years passed without news of her. Her name was no longer mentioned
in the village, and from that M. le Curé surmised some misfortune had
happened. He prayed for the poor girl, and unceasingly begged the good
God to mercifully receive her through his grace, if not during her
life, at least at the hour of death. His prayer was heard at a moment
when he scarcely expected it. One morning, when Germaine had left the
village at day-dawn to make some purchases in the city, she took it
into her head to pay a visit to one of her good friends, who was a Gray
Sister in a large hospital. They talked about the patients; and the
sister, very much affected, spoke of a young woman she had received the
week before, and who appeared very near her end.

"I have put her by herself," said she, "and I will confide to you,
Germaine, that this poor afflicted creature has a child; and, between
ourselves, I very much believe she is dying as much of shame as of
want."

Germaine wished to see her; but, at the first look, the sick woman
uttered a loud cry, and hid her head under the counterpane.

"What is the matter?" said Germaine. "I frighten her."

"We have awakened her," replied the good sister, "and she is nervous. I
should have entered alone."

But the poor girl sobbed without showing her face. At last the sister
calmed her. Germaine, on her side, spoke kindly, and finally she drew
down the covering. You can imagine the rest.

It was Catharine Luguet, but how changed! She, formerly so pretty, so
bright, and so laughing--and now her mother herself would scarcely have
recognized her. The innocent little being that slept in a cradle by her
side told all her story. What she had found in Paris, what had brought
her back to the country, there to die, were dishonor, misery, and an
orphan without a name--but also sincere and true repentance; and the
good God, who has certainly received her in paradise, struck the blow,
that she might be saved.

Who was astonished, and at heart happy, in spite of his sorrow, which
can be well understood? It was our _curé_. Holy man that he was, he
was happier to have his lost sheep brought back to him, even although
half dead, than not to have found her at all. The next day, he hastened
to Issoudun, and remained the greater part of the afternoon with poor
Catharine.

Issoudun was the nearest large city to our village, and, if I have
forgotten to tell you so, I beg you will excuse me.

Although my father gave me some slight details of the unfortunate
girl's story, I will not relate them; for many long years she has
reposed in consecrated ground, and, as the dear, good man wisely said,
"The sins which have received the pardon of God should be hidden by
man;" and this is true charity.

It is only necessary to say that this first visit of our _curé_ was
followed by many others. Catharine declined visibly, and her little
one, from whom she would not be separated, was a great worry to her.
The sisters took care of him, and fed him to the best of their ability
during the day, but they could not attend to him at night. He was
beautiful and healthy, and grew like a weed--which was a miracle,
considering the state of the mother--but his first teeth commenced to
appear, and rendered him restless and troublesome. One morning, when
M. le Curé and Germaine went together to the hospital, they found poor
Catharine so ill they feared she would not pass the day.

"My daughter," said Germaine to her, "be reasonable; let me have your
child. I will take great care of him."

"As you please," replied Catharine.

He was instantly carried away; and, that no one should penetrate the
secret, a confidential woman, employed in the hospital, came in the
night-time, and left him at the priest's house in the village. That
same night, poor Catharine became speechless, but was conscious until
the moment of her death, which soon happened, and never was there seen
a more peaceful and touching agony. The sisters saw with admiration
that after death she regained her beauty, and her face its youthful
look of twenty years.

"She is smiling with the angels," said the pious souls, and it was not
to be doubted; for the angels receive with as great joy the repentant
as the innocent.

The little one was baptized and registered under the name of his poor
mother. Our _curé_ easily procured all the necessary acts; but for the
family name, the dear innocent had none to bear, at least for a long
time. He was called Jean-Louis; about the rest, there was silence. As
to the secret of his birth, although confided in confession, Catharine,
before dying, said to the _curé_:

"You will tell all, my father, if it is necessary, later, for the
future of my child."

And you will see in the end that it was a wise speech.

Between ourselves, this holy, good man of a _curé_, who was gentle and
merciful, as much from a sense of duty as by inclination of heart,
had always blamed the Ragauds for their rigorous severity against the
poor departed. Says the proverb, "In trying to do too much, one often
fails to do well." Perhaps it would have been better to have patiently
borne with the poor inexperienced girl than to have driven her from
the protection of her only relatives on account of malicious gossip.
But Ragaud did not understand jesting; he was, as the saying runs,
as stiff as a poker, and, as soon as the wicked tongues commenced to
wag about her, he said, "There is no smoke without fire," and closed
his mind to all explanations, and his door to the girl. Thus had they
acted towards Catharine, without thinking that then she was only giddy
and coquettish--faults which might have been cured as long as the soul
was not spoiled. The treatment was too harsh; it caused the flight to
Paris, which took place in a moment of anger and spite, and all the
misfortunes that followed. In strict justice, the Ragauds should in a
measure make reparation for an action done with good intentions, but
which had ended so badly. Our _curé_ foresaw that sooner or later they
would be sorry for it; therefore, in burdening them with the child,
he acted shrewdly, but also with great fairness. I certainly will not
blame him, nor you either, I think.


IV.

From the day that poor Catharine's child was installed in the house
of her relatives, there was a change in Muiceron. Pierrette no longer
wept, and, far from being grieved, as formerly, at the sight of other
children, she willingly drew them around her. On Saturdays, when
she baked her bread for the week, she never failed to make a large
crumpet of wheaten flour, beaten up with eggs, and a bowl of curds and
fresh cream, for the sole purpose of regaling the young ones of the
neighborhood. We need not inquire if, on these evenings, the house
was full. The children were well satisfied, and their mammas also; for
Saturday's supper remained whole for Sunday, and, in the meantime, the
little rascals went to bed gayer than usual, thanks to a glass of white
wine that watered the crumpet and filled the measure of joy in all
those little heads.

It was also remarked that Ragaud's jests were more frequent at the
meetings of the church wardens of the parish on the appointed days
after Vespers. Sometimes he even went off in the morning to his work
singing the airs of the country-dances, which was a sure proof that his
heart was at peace; for, by nature, he was a man more serious than gay,
and as for singing, that was something quite out of his usual habit.

These good people thus already received a holy reward for their
generous conduct. According to the old adage, "Contentment is better
than wealth"; and now they, who had so long possessed riches without
contentment, had the happiness of enjoying both. Quite contrary to many
Christians, who imagine that the good God owes them everything, the
Ragauds every evening thanked Heaven for this increase of wealth. Now,
if gratitude is pleasing to men, it is easy to believe that it draws
down blessings from on high; and from day to day this could be clearly
seen at Muiceron.

Little Jean-Louis grew wonderfully, and gave good Pierrette neither
trouble nor care. At his age, children only cry from hunger, and as he,
well fed and well cared for, had nothing to complain of, it followed
that he grew up scarcely ever shedding a tear.

When he was one year old, it seemed that the good boiled goat's milk
was no longer to his taste, as he put on a discontented look when he
saw the smoking bowl. Ragaud, one evening, for a joke, put his glass to
the boy's lips, and, far from turning his head, he came forward boldly,
and drank the cider like a man. This highly delighted Master Ragaud,
who wished to try if a piece of dry pork, in the shape of a rattle,
would please him as well; but to that Pierrette objected, maintaining
that a root of marsh-mallow was a hundred times better, particularly as
the little fellow was getting his double teeth.

"You wish to bring him up like a woman," said Ragaud, shrugging his
shoulders; but, nevertheless, he let the mistress have her own way.

There were no other disputes about him until he had attained his
third year, for then his excellent health, which had caused so much
happiness, was nothing in comparison with the good instincts which
commenced to develop. He was lively and gentle, chattered away
delightfully, and was always so obedient and tender, that to pay him
for his good behavior, the Ragauds nearly killed him with kindness. In
regard to his appearance, I will tell you that in height he surpassed
most children of his age, his hair was black and curly, his eyes dark
also and very bright. With all this, he was not very handsome, as,
growing so fast, he had kept very thin; but Pierrette said wisely, he
would have time to grow fat, and since he ate, drank, and slept when he
was tired, there was nothing to fear.

One thing will astonish you, that neither of the Ragauds perceived
for an instant that the child was the living image of poor Catharine
Luguet; and still the likeness was so striking, M. le Curé spoke of it
incessantly to Germaine, and expected on every visit to Muiceron to
be embarrassed by some remark on the subject. But whether the good
people had really forgotten their relative, or did not wish by even
pronouncing her name to recall a sorrowful remembrance, certain it is
that nothing in their words or actions, which were perfectly frank and
simple, betrayed in the slightest degree that they ever thought of it.

About that time, Pierrette commenced to be more uneasy, as Master
Jean-Louis often escaped on the side of the stables, and delighted in
racing up and down the bank, bordered with tall grass, of the stream
that ran behind the bleaching-ground of Muiceron. With such a bold boy,
who would not listen to any warning, an accident very often happens;
therefore, the good woman placed around his neck a medal of S. Sylvain,
in addition to that of the Blessed Virgin Mary, which he had worn ever
since his arrival at the farm.

S. Sylvain is a patron saint venerated in our province, who won
heaven in leading the life of a peasant like us. Pierrette had a
great devotion for him, and said that the saints above remember with
tenderness those of their own former condition on earth; consequently,
no one in the good God's heaven could better protect a child daily
exposed to the accidents of rural life. One day especially, when he
wished to be very active in helping his mother Pierrette by putting
little pieces of dry wood in the fire, while she was soaking the
clothes in lye, a plank of the big tub gave way all at once, and the
boiling water floated around the room, and only stopped within half a
foot of the child, who might have been drowned and scalded, in less
time than it takes to say it. Pierrette for two entire days was so
overcome she could speak of nothing else.

In the same manner, once, when Ragaud carried the little fellow with
him to the fields, he amused him by placing him on one of the oxen; but
the animal, tormented by the flies, shook his head so roughly that his
rider, about as high as your boot, was thrown on the ground; but before
any one could run to assist him he was already standing, red, not with
fear, but with anger, and quickly revenged himself on the beast by
striking him with a willow-wand that he used for a whip, and which he
had not let go in his fall. Ragaud was terribly frightened at the time,
but afterwards proudly related the adventure, and said to his neighbors
that his son, Jean Louis, would be as brave a man as General Hoche, the
hero of the war of La Vendée, and who, according to the old men of the
neighborhood, never in his lifetime feared either man or beast.

As for the resemblance to General Hoche, Pierrette cared precious
little, not being the least warlike by nature. Truth to say, I
scarcely believe she knew precisely who was this very great personage,
notwithstanding his immense renown in the province; therefore, she
simply contented herself with having a Mass of thanksgiving said in S.
Sylvain's Chapel, thinking that his protection was worth more than all
the vanities of this world.

The great love of this good household for the little orphan increased
day by day. Pierrette and her husband accustomed themselves to call him
"My son" so often and so sincerely that I do believe they really ended
by fancying it was so. The neighbors could do no less than they; so
that every where and by every one he was called the Ragauds' son--so
true it is that custom often takes away reflection.

From that grew the idea that this little mite would one day be the big
man of the neighborhood; and those who thought they were making a wise
discovery, in supposing it would be thus, fell into the intentions
of the Ragauds, as surely as the brook flows into the river; for at
this same time, one autumn evening, when the fire burnt brightly on
the hearth, Ragaud, seated at table opposite his good wife, commenced
all at once to compliment her talent for housekeeping, praising
everything around him, from the walls and window-panes, glistening with
cleanliness, to the chests and benches, newly waxed once a month. He
took pleasure in recalling his great happiness during the past twenty
years, attributing all his blessings, after God, to the account of
Pierrette's virtues; and as, like the thread in a needle, Jean Louis
was sitting between them, eating his soup, he seized him in his arms,
and tossed him up three times nearly to the rafters.

"You see, my son," said he, re-seating himself, and still keeping the
boy on his knees, "you drew a good number in the lottery; for although
you came to us like the down off the thistle, you have, nevertheless,
a mother such as cannot be found in a hundred leagues; and as for your
father, my brave fellow, he will leave you enough crowns to make you as
respected in life as though you were a prefect."

"Happily," replied the wise Pierrette, "the little one is not old
enough to understand what you are talking about; for this, my dear
husband, is a very improper speech for the child's ears. We would fill
him with vanity, and not only does pride offend the good God, but it
renders a man very disagreeable to those around him."

"You are always right," replied Ragaud, without taking offence; "but a
good fire, a good wife, money honestly earned, and new cider--nothing
like these for untying the tongue and making it a little too long.
Come, go to bed, my Jeannet, kiss your parents, and say your prayers
well; to-morrow we will go to gather the thatch in the fields near
Ordonniers, and if you only bring me as much as will fill your apron,
you shall have two cents on Sunday to buy a gingerbread."

"Very well," said Pierrette, laughing, "that will be a fortune which
will not make him too vain."

A little while afterwards, when they were alone, the conversation
was recommenced, but they proceeded regularly about the business,
and, finally, debated the question as to how the will should be
drawn, according to law, so as to leave Muiceron to the child. The
difficulty was that Ragaud knew very little about writing in any
shape, and Pierrette nothing at all. They talked away, without making
any progress, far into the night, and at last acknowledged they would
have to finish where they should have begun, namely, by going next day
to consult Master Perdreau, the notary of Val-Saint, on the subject.
Thereupon, they went off well pleased to sleep in their big bed,
with the canopy of yellow serge; and as the next morning the work of
the thatching pressed, on account of the rains which were about to
commence, Ragaud postponed his trip to another day.

Now, the good God, who has his own designs, permitted that it should
be entirely otherwise from what these good people had intended, and in
a manner so astonishing that no one, no matter how wise, could have
foreseen it; for La Ragaude, who had nearly completed her forty-second
year, became the following year the mother of a beautiful little girl,
who was most fondly welcomed by the delighted parents.

                            TO BE CONTINUED.




PHILOSOPHICAL TERMINOLOGY.[67]


II.

  TO THE EDITOR OF THE CATHOLIC WORLD:

In the letter which I ventured to address to you a short time ago
concerning the general conditions required in a good English work of
philosophy, I made some observations on the importance and difficulty
of wielding the popular language in a strictly philosophical manner.
As I apprehend that the title of "Philosophical Terminology," under
which that letter was made to appear, is scarcely justified by its
very limited contents, I beg leave to add a few other considerations
on the same subject, that your intelligent readers may find in these
additional remarks a confirmation and a further development of what I
said about our need of a more copious philosophical language.

There are two words which cannot easily be dispensed with in the
metaphysical analysis of created beings; these two words are, in Latin,
_actus_ and _potentia_. Metaphysicians, in fact, conclusively prove
that in every created substance there are two essential principles:
a principle of activity, which is known under the name of _actus_,
and a principle of passivity, which is styled _potentia_. These two
terms, which are so necessary in metaphysics, and so familiar to all
the scholastic philosophers, might be fairly represented in English
by "act" and "potency"; though as yet neither "act" nor "potency" is
popularly used in this philosophical sense.

The word "act" with us primarily signifies that which is produced
by action; for all action is the production, or the position, or
the making of an act. But all action implies an agent--that is, a
being which is already "in act," with its actual power prepared for
action. On the other hand, nothing is formally "in act," but through
an intrinsic "act," which is the formal principle of its actuality.
Accordingly, the word "act," though primarily known to us as expressing
the product of action, must, by metaphysical necessity, be applied also
to that from which every agent and every being has its actuality.

Hence, philosophers found it necessary to admit two kinds of
"acts"--the _essential_ and the _accidental_. The essential is that
which gives the first actuality, or existence, to a being--_dat esse
simpliciter_. The accidental is that which is received in a subject
already existing, and which only gives it an accidental actuality or a
mode of being--_dat esse secundum quid_.

But the essential act (which is also called _substantial_, though it
has a more extensive meaning, as we shall see hereafter) is, moreover,
to be distinguished from actual existence. Metaphysicians, indeed, very
often speak of existence as an act; and hence, to avoid confusion and
equivocation, they are obliged to distinguish the _actus essentiæ_ from
the _actus existentiæ_. Yet, to speak properly, existence is not simply
an act; it is the actuality of the being;[68] and, consequently, the
distinction which must be admitted between the essential act and the
existence of a being is not strictly a distinction between two acts,
but between the _act_ which actuates the essential term of the being,
and the _actual state_ which results from such an actuation. I will say
more on this point when I have explained the use of the word "potency."

The English word "potency" is the equivalent of the Latin _potentia_.
This Latin word, although used most frequently in the sense of "passive
principle," is not, however, necessarily connected with passivity
more than with activity; and accordingly it has been used as well
to designate "active power." Hence, it is obvious that this term,
_potentia_, when employed absolutely without the epithet _activa_ or
_passiva_, is liable to two interpretations, and becomes a source
of mischievous equivocations. I do not see what prevented our old
Latin philosophers from designating the two kinds of _potentia_ by
two different words. Had they constantly used _virtus_ or _vis_ for
the _potentia activa_, and reserved _potentia_ exclusively for the
_potentia passiva_, they would not have mistaken the one for the other,
as they sometimes did. Let me quote a few examples of this for our
common instruction.

Sanseverino, a very learned man, and one of the best modern
scholastics, while arguing against the Scotists, who deny all real
distinction between the soul and its faculties, says that if the soul
and its faculties are really the same thing, then, "as the soul is
always in act, the faculties also must be always in act and never in
potency." Whence he infers that "the soul would have no potentiality,
and would therefore be a _purus actus_ like God"; which is, of course,
a pantheistic absurdity.[69] But evidently this inference has no
other foundation than the confusion of the _potentia activa_ with the
_potentia passiva_. The author, in fact, knows perfectly well that
no being in which there is _potentia passiva_ can be styled _purus
actus_: when, therefore, he draws the conclusion that the soul, in the
Scotistic theory, would be _purus actus_, he must be understood to mean
or imply that all _potentia passiva_ would be excluded from the soul.
Yet his premises are concerned with the _potentia activa_ only; and it
is quite evident, that from such premises he could not have passed to
such a conclusion had he not confounded the two kinds of _potentia_
with one another.

I would remark, also, that in his argument the expression, "The
faculties must be always in act," cannot mean that the faculties must
be always _acting_, but only that they are always _actual_, as the
soul itself; and, therefore, the author cannot reasonably conclude
that the faculties "would never be in potency" respecting their
proper acts. The _potentia activa_ is already an "act," as it is
known, since it is called _actus primus agendi_; and is not called
_potentia_, except as contrasted with its accidental operations.
Moreover, a faculty does not cease to be _potentia activa_, even when
it actually performs its operations. When I actually make a syllogism,
my faculty of reasoning is "in act," and yet it retains its _potentia
activa_ with regard to any number of other syllogisms. It is not true,
therefore, that a faculty which is in actual operation ceases to be
_in potentia activa_. Lastly, the soul itself, which, as Sanseverino
remarks, is always in act, is nevertheless always in potency also; for
the actuality of all contingent being is always potential--that is,
liable to modifications of different kinds. Hence, we not only deny
the conclusion of the learned author as illegitimate, but affirm that
the premises themselves, on which he relies, are untenable. It is the
indiscriminate use of the word _potentia_ that vitiates the author's
argumentation.

Another great Thomist, Goudin, wishing to prove that in all creatures
the power of acting is an accident, argues that _potentia et actus sunt
idem, quamvis diversimode_, and that _actus est semper nobilior quam
potentia ad eum essentialiter ordinata_; whence he concludes that, if
a given act is an accident, the active power, whence it proceeds, must
needs be an accident too. Here, also, the equivocation is evident. The
act is _nobilior quam potentia_ when we compare it with the _potentia
passiva_ which is destined to receive it--that is, to be actuated by
it--but when an act is compared with the active power from which it
proceeds--that is, with the _potentia activa_--we cannot say that it
is _nobilior quam potentia ad eum essentialiter ordinata_: it is the
contrary that is true. Had the author used the word _virtus agendi_
instead of the equivocal word _potentia_, he would soon have discovered
the fallacy of his argument.

I am sorry to say that even S. Thomas sometimes forgets to observe the
distinction between _potentia activa_ and _potentia passiva_; as in the
first part of his _Summa_, where he compares the _potentia essendi_ and
the _potentia operandi_ with their respective acts, and establishes a
kind of proportion between the two potencies and the two acts.[70] No
such proportion can be admitted, unless the _potentia operandi_ and
the _potentia essendi_ are both similarly connected with their acts.
Yet whilst the _potentia operandi_ is active, the _potentia essendi_,
according to S. Thomas, is passive.[71] They cannot, therefore, be
related to their acts in a similar manner. Hence, the terms are not
homologous, and the proportion cannot subsist. In another place, the
holy doctor argues that, if an act is accidental, the _potentia_ from
which it proceeds must be accidental also; because _potentia et actus
dividunt ens, et quodlibet genus entis_, and, therefore, _oportet quod
ad idem genus referatur potentia et actus_.[72] But the _potentia_
which, with the _actus_, constitutes the being and every class of
beings is the _potentia passiva_; whilst the _potentia_ from which
any act proceeds is the _potentia activa_. The argument, therefore,
contains four terms, and proves one thing only, namely, that it is
extremely difficult, even for the greatest men, to avoid equivocations
when things that are different and opposite are designated by the same
term.

In English, the word _potentia_ is commonly represented by "power,"
to which the epithets of "active" and "passive" have been attached by
some writers, in the same manner as was done with the Latin _potentia_.
"Power," says Locke,[73] "may be considered twofold, namely, as able to
make or able to receive any change." But "in strictness," says Webster,
"passive power is an absurdity in terms. To say that gold has a power
to be melted is improper language; yet for want of a more appropriate
word, _power_ is often used in a passive sense."

It is not true, however, that "the want of a more appropriate word"
really compels us to use the word _power_ in a passive sense. Have
we not the word _potency_? This word exactly answers our purpose.
It is not only the exact equivalent of the Latin _potentia_, but is
also the immediate relation of the terms _potential_, _potentially_,
_potentiality_, which are already admitted in common philosophical
language as expressing capability, passiveness, and liability. These
latter words are only subordinate members of a family, of which
_potency_ is the head. Therefore, to convey the notion of _potentia
passiva_, we have a more appropriate word than "power," and nothing
compels us to employ the absurd expression of "passive power." On
the other hand, the remarks above made, on the consequences of the
promiscuous use of the word _potentia_ in the active and the passive
sense, would suffice to show that the word "power," even if it could be
used without absurdity in the passive sense, should, in philosophy, be
restricted to the active; as it is most desirable that things which are
so thoroughly opposite be expressed by different words. Thus, the word
"power" retaining its active meaning, the _potentia passiva_ may very
appropriately be styled "potency."

Some will ask, Why should we use the word "potency" in this new sense,
while we have already the term "potentiality," which seems to express
very exactly the same notion? I answer that the principle of passivity,
which we call "potency," is an essential constituent of created
beings; whilst "potentiality" is not an essential constituent, but an
attribute flowing from the essential constitution of being, on account
of the potency which the latter involves. Accordingly, "potentiality"
cannot stand for "potency," any more than rationality can stand for
reason, or materiality for matter.

From the foregoing considerations, it appears that the words "act"
and "potency" cannot be easily dispensed with in metaphysics, and,
therefore, should be freely admitted and acknowledged as philosophical
terms. As to their definitions, however, we shall have to rely on
philosophical treatises rather than on common English dictionaries.
The word "act" is indeed to be found in all dictionaries; but,
unfortunately, its meaning is restricted to the expression of mere
accidents, while substantial acts are ignored altogether. In Fleming's
_Vocabulary of Philosophy_ we find: "Act in metaphysics and in logic is
opposed to power. Power is simply a faculty or property of anything, as
gravity of bodies. _Act_ is the exercise or manifestation of a power
or property, the realization of a fact, as the falling of a heavy
body." On these words I would incidentally remark that "power" cannot
be defined a "faculty"; because, though all faculties are powers, yet
there are powers which are not faculties. Again, "power" cannot be
defined a "property" without adding some restriction; as there are
properties which are not powers. Moreover, the "gravity of bodies"
is not a power, as some unphilosophical scientists imagine, but is a
simple tendency to fall, owing to the fact that the active power of
the earth is actually applied to the passive potency of the body. Nor
is it true that in metaphysics or in logic the _act_ is the "exercise
or manifestation of a power." Such an exercise and manifestation is
_action_--that is, the position or the production of the act. As to
"the falling of a heavy body," it is true that we usually call it _an
act_, but we evidently mean _actuality_; for, if the falling were an
act strictly, then the tendency to fall would be an active power; which
it is not. Lastly, the most important metaphysical meaning of the word
"act," and of its correlative, "potency," is not given; which, however,
is not owing to any oversight of the author, as we have already
said that these two words were not used by English writers in this
philosophical sense.

In Worcester's and Webster's dictionaries, the word _act_ is said
to mean action, exertion of power, and real existence as opposed to
possibility. From the preceding remarks, it may be seen that, in
metaphysics, none of these three meanings can be considered rigorously
accurate.

_Act_, in the scholastic language, is that which gives existence
by formal actuation. _Potency_ is that which, by formal actuation,
receives existence. _Actuality_ is the result of the actuation--that
is, the very existence of the act in its potency. Actuality, as we have
already remarked, was also called _actus existentiæ_; hence, existence
itself was considered as an act received in the essence, and causing it
to be. But this view is now generally abandoned, because it has been
shown that it is not the existence that entails the reality of the act
and the potency, but the real position of the act in its potency that
entails the existence of the being. Accordingly, existence is not an
act received in the essence, but the result of the position of the
essence; and cannot be called _an act_, except in a logical sense,
inasmuch as it gives to the being _denominationem existentis_.

An act is called _essential_ when it gives the first existence to any
essence, be it simple or compound; _substantial_, when it gives the
first existence to a pure potency; _accidental_, when it gives a mode
of being. The distinction between essential and substantial acts will
be explained here below, where we examine the different kinds of forms.

Every being acts inasmuch as it is in act, and is acted on inasmuch
as it is in potency. Hence, the substantial act is a principle of
activity, and the potency a principle of passivity.

The active power of any being, if taken in the concrete, is nothing
but its substantial act _as ready for exertion_, and is called active
power, because its exertion is the position or the production of an
act. The active power thus considered is, therefore, in reality one of
the constituent principles of natural beings; whilst the abstract term
_activity_ does not stand for a principle, but for an attribute of the
being--that is, for its _readiness to act_.

The passive potency of any being, if taken in the concrete, is nothing
but the term of the substantial act _as liable to be acted on_, and is
called passive or receptive, because it is actuated by the reception
of an act. The passive potency, thus considered, is therefore in
reality one of the constituent principles of natural beings, whilst the
abstract term _passivity_ does not stand for a principle, but for an
attribute of the being--that is, for its _liability to be acted on_.

Every one who is acquainted with metaphysical matters will acknowledge
that it is of extreme importance that these terms and others of a
like nature, which are continually employed in metaphysical analysis,
be clearly understood by all students of philosophy. So long as our
language has no definite words by which to designate the essential
constituents of things, no hope can be entertained of advancing the
interests of metaphysics by means of vernacular books.

_Act_ and _potency_, in material things, are called _form_ and
_matter_ respectively; hence, material substance is said to consist
essentially of matter and form. The forms of natural things are usually
divided into _substantial_ and _accidental_. The substantial form
is commonly defined as that which gives the first existence to its
matter--_quæ dat materiæ primum esse_, or _simpliciter esse_. It is
sometimes defined, also, as that which gives the first existence to a
thing--_quæ dat primum esse rei_. But this second definition is open
to misconstruction; because, when the thing in question is a physical
compound having a number of material parts, the form that gives to
it--that is, to the compound essence--its first existence is its
physical composition, which is not a substantial, but an essential,
form, as we shall see presently.

The accidental form is defined as that which gives an accidental mode
of being--_quæ dat esse secundum quid_. This definition is universally
admitted; but it is a remarkable fact that the examples of accidental
forms given by most philosophers do not support it. Thus, the form of
a statue and the form of a column are not forms giving to the marble
any accidental mode of being, but are _the very modes of being_, which
have resulted in the marble from the reception of suitable accidental
acts. Therefore, what is called _the form_ of a statue is not a form
_giving a mode of being_, but the mode itself, on account of which _we
give_ to the marble _the name_ of a statue. Suarez and others have
indeed pointed out the necessity of distinguishing the forms _dantes
esse_ from the forms _dantes denominationem_; yet, even to this day, in
our philosophical treatises, the definition of the former is almost
exclusively illustrated by examples of the latter. True forms are
_acts_, whilst modes of being are _actualities_; and therefore modes
of being should not be called forms, but formalities. As, however, the
word _form_ is in general use in this last sense also, the best thing
we can do is to retain the term, and add to it a suitable epithet.
I would call them _resultant forms_, or _consequential forms_; and
in the same manner, when actuality is styled _act_, I would call
it _consequential act_, or _complementary act_, that it may not be
confounded with _act_ proper.

It is also necessary to make a well-marked distinction between
_substantial_ and _essential_ forms. The necessity of this distinction
is sufficiently shown by the very existence of the two scholastic
definitions of form. In fact, two definitions imply two concepts. The
first definition, _Forma est id quod dat primum esse materiæ_, strictly
belongs to the substantial form, as every one knows; but the second,
_Forma est id quod dat primum esse rei_, is more general, and extends
to all essential forms, be they substantial or not. Thus, we can say
that velocity is the essential form of movement, though, of course, it
is not a substantial form, as movement is not a substance.

The same distinction is to be admitted with regard to natural
compounds, at least in the opinion of those philosophers who oppose the
Aristotelic theory of substantial generations, or teach that bodies
are made up of primitive, unextended elements. Indeed, if chemical
combination does not destroy the essence of the combining substances,
it is obvious that the compound substance which arises out of the
combination will have no _special_ form, except the combination itself;
and such a form, however essential to the compound substance, cannot
be a substantial form in the sense of the Peripatetics; because it
gives existence to the compound nature only, and not to its matter.
Again, if the molecule of a primitive body, as hydrogen, is nothing
more than a system of material points or elements connected with one
another by dynamical ties, and subject to a law of vibratory movement,
which allows the molecule to contract and dilate, then it is evident
that the essential form of such a molecule will be its specific
composition; for the composition is the immediate constituent of all
material compound. Accordingly, since the scientific views which
lead to these conclusions are widely received, and very well founded
on chemical and other data, and can be philosophically established
by the very principles of ancient metaphysics, the said distinction
between substantial and essential forms is to be acknowledged as a
very important one in questions connected with modern science. Lastly,
essential forms are to be admitted, not only in natural, but also
in artificial and in moral, compounds. A clock has its essential
form, without which it would cease to be a clock; a family has its
essential form, without which it would cease to be a family; and yet
it would be ridiculous to talk of a clock or a family as having a
substantial form. It is, therefore, necessary to divide all true forms
into _substantial_, _essential_, and _accidental_, and to place in a
separate class all the so-called _resultant_ forms above mentioned.

Thus, the _substantial_ form is that which gives the first being to
matter. This definition comes from Aristotle himself, and has been
universally received by all metaphysicians.

The _essential_ form is that which gives to a thing its specific
nature. This definition coincides with that of the substantial
form whenever the specific nature of which we treat is physically
simple--that is, without composition of material parts--for, in fact,
such a simple nature receives its species from the same form that
gives the first being to its matter. Hence, the essential form and
the substantial form are one and the same thing so long as there is
question of simple or primitive beings. But the definition of the
essential form is no longer equivalent to that of the substantial form
when the specific nature constituted by it is physically compounded of
material parts; because such a compound nature receives its species
from its specific composition, which is not a substantial form, though
it is essential to the specific compound.

The _accidental_ form is that which gives to its subject an accidental
mode of being, or an _esse secundum quid_, according to the language of
the schools.

The so-called _resultant_ form is the actuality resulting from the
position of any true form. As, therefore, true forms are either
substantial, essential, or accidental, so, also, are all the resultant
forms. From the substantial form results the actuality of the primitive
being, which, as primitive, is always free from material composition;
from the essential form results the actuality of every specific nature,
which involves composition of material parts; and from the accidental
form results the actual modification of the subject in which it is
received.

I have dwelt purposely on these considerations, because the word
_form_, and its derivatives, _formal_, _formally_, _formality_, etc.,
are variously employed, and sometimes loosely, in philosophy, and
because, without a clear and distinct notion of the different kinds
of forms, many fundamental questions of metaphysics cannot be rightly
understood. I might say nearly as much respecting the word _matter_,
which is the metaphysical correlative of form; but it will suffice to
remark that _matter_, in philosophy, always means a receptive potency
which is actuated by a form; so that, if the form is accidental, the
word _matter_ stands for material substance itself as receptive,
because it is the substance that receives accidental forms; if the form
is essential in the sense above explained, then the word _matter_ means
the totality of the material parts required for the constitution of any
given specific compound, including their actual disposition to receive
the form in question; and if the form is substantial, then the word
_matter_ expresses only one of the constituent principles of primitive
material substance--that is, the potential term of substance; which is
first actuated by such a form.

The word _matter_ is used analogically in many other senses, which are
given by our lexicographers, who, however, omit to mention matter as
that potency which receives its first existence through the substantial
form. Webster says: "Matter is usually divided by philosophical writers
into three kinds or classes: solid, liquid, and aeriform." This
statement is not correct. Philosophical writers admit that _bodies_
are either solid, liquid, or aeriform; but they do not admit that
the matter of which bodies and their molecules are made up is either
solid, or liquid, or aeriform. Ice is solid, water is liquid, and
vapor is aeriform; and yet the matter in all of them is identically
the same. It is impossible, therefore, for philosophical writers to
divide _matter_ into liquid, solid, and aeriform. The philosophical
division of matter has always been into _materia informis_, or _prima_,
or _actuabilis_--that is, matter conceived as void of all substantial
form; and _materia formata_, or _secunda_, or _actuata_--that is,
matter actuated by, and existing under, a substantial form.

As I am not now writing a treatise on matter, I will dismiss this
subject with only two observations. The first is, that the words
_first matter_ and _second matter_ are indispensable in metaphysics,
and, therefore, must be adopted in our English philosophical language,
unless, indeed, we prefer to make use of the original Latin words. The
other is, that in reading the metaphysical works of the scholastics,
when we find the word _materia_ with the epithet _prima_, we should
carefully ascertain that the epithet is not misapplied. For, it has
been observed with reason that most of the abstruseness and uncertainty
inherent in the old explanation of physical questions arises from
the fact that the matter, which was supposed to be actually under
its form, and therefore in act, was very frequently called _materia
prima_, though it is known that "nothing that is in act can be called
by such a name."[74] This observation is of the greatest importance,
since it is evident that nothing but perpetual confusion can arise from
contradictory definitions.

To express the relation existing between act and potency, or between
form and matter, the philosophical Latin possesses many good phrases,
such as the following: _Forma dat esse materiæ, actuat materiam,
informat materiam, terminatur ad materiam_; and, reciprocally, _materia
accipit esse a forma, actuatur a forma, informatur a forma, terminat
formam_. In English, I presume, we are allowed to say that the form
_informs_ its matter, that the form _gives existence_ to the matter,
and that the form _actuates_ the matter. But can we say that the form
_is terminated to_ its matter, and that the matter _terminates_, that
is, completes its form? This manner of speaking may be considered
awkward, nevertheless its mode of expressing the relation of the
form to its matter is so remarkable for its philosophical precision,
clearness, and universality, that I would not hesitate to adopt it in
philosophy. To say that the form is terminated to its matter, is to
say that the matter is the potential _term_ actuated by the form. The
philosophical notion of _term_ (_terminus_), which is susceptible of
a general application to all conceivable beings, is a very important
one in philosophy as well as in theology; and since it can be made
quite intelligible even to the dullest of students, I think that in
metaphysical speculation the use of the words _term_, _termination_,
_to terminate_, _terminability_, _terminativity_, etc., cannot but
greatly help both teachers and students in their efforts to explain
correctly a number of ontological relations which it would be difficult
to express as simply and as correctly by other words.

The word _term_ in the popular use means the extremity of anything, or
that where anything ends. The spot of ground where a stone is allowed
to fall is the term of the falling; the drop of rain acted on by
gravity is the term of the action by which it is attracted; the tree at
which I am looking is the term of my vision; the concept which I form
of anything is the term of my thought. But all these terms correspond
to accidental acts, whereas the term which we ultimately reach in the
analysis of substance, is always substantial, as being intrinsic to the
substantial act of which it is the term. Hence, when we say that the
matter is the term of the form, or in general that the potency is the
term of its act, we mean not only that the act, or the form, reaches
the potency or the matter, but that the potency or the matter acquires
its first reality and actuality by the very position of the act or
form which it terminates; in the same manner as the centre of a sphere
acquires its first actuality through the simple position of a spherical
form. Accordingly, the words _act_ and _term_ are correlative; the act
_actuates_, the term _is actuated_, and the formal reason of their
correlation is _actuation_. This actuation is not efficient, but
formal; that is, the act, not by its action, but by itself, entails
the immediate existence of its intrinsic term, just as the spherical
form by itself, and not by any action, entails the immediate existence
of a centre. As a sphere without a centre, so an act without a term
is an utter impossibility. Hence the termination of the act to its
term is nothing less than the very constitution of any essence that
has a proper and complete existence. For this reason, I am of opinion
that the phrase "the form is terminated to the matter, and the act to
its potency," is the best we can adopt in speaking of created things,
however new it may be to English ears.

With regard to the peculiar construction of this verb with the
preposition _to_ instead of the prepositions _by_, _at_, or _in_, which
are in general use, I will only remark that these latter prepositions
are not suitable to express what we need. The _termination at_ connotes
a limit of time or space, as every one knows. The _termination in_
connotes a change or successive transformation of that which is
terminated into that in which it ends, as when a quarrel terminates
in murder. The _termination by_ connotes either an obstacle to further
advance, or at least a positive entity existing independently of
the termination itself: it cannot therefore express the fact that a
substantial term receives its very first actuality by the termination
of the act. On the other hand, this fact is perfectly expressed by
saying that the act is terminated _to_ its term; and since no other
English phrase has yet been found, so far as I know, which can express
the fact equally well, I think that we need have no scruple in
enriching our philosophical language with this old scholastic phrase.

"The resources of our noble language in philosophy," says a well-known
American writer, "are surpassed by no ancient or modern tongue, unless
the Greek be an exception. It is capable in philosophy of receiving
and assimilating all the riches of the Greek, Latin, Italian, and
French languages, while it has in its Teutonic roots the wealth of the
German."[75] This is a great encouragement to English philosophical
writers. Indeed, to say that among the resources of the English
language for philosophy we may reckon its capability of receiving and
assimilating all the riches of other learned languages, is to tell us
that our resources are still in a _potential_ state, and therefore that
no one can reasonably blame us for freely adopting from other languages
as many terms and phrases as we need to express our thoughts with
philosophical rigor. Yet the task, for obvious reasons, is extremely
difficult, as it requires a degree of judgment which unfortunately is
common only to the few. "The English language," adds the same writer,
"only needs Catholic restoration and culture to be the richest and
noblest language ever written or spoken. But it deteriorates, as does
everything else, in the hands of Protestants and unbelieving Englishmen
and Americans." At least two things are certain; first, that if the
English language ever becomes a perfect instrument of philosophical
education, it will be due to Catholic writers, for they alone will
be able to utilize for its healthy development all the treasures of
the scholastic terminology; second, that only in proportion as such a
development will be carried on, shall we acquire the means of training
our youthful generation in a vernacular course of philosophy. This
thought should rouse our dormant energies into action. It was with
this object that I undertook to say a few words on philosophical
terminology. Our language may be capable of receiving and assimilating
all the riches of other languages; but so long as such an assimilation
is in abeyance, the language remains poor and imperfect, nay, it
continues to "deteriorate, as does everything else, in the hands of
Protestants and unbelieving Englishmen and Americans." We still need
many philosophical words. I have given a few examples of such a need in
the preceding pages.

That we also need a number of new phrases is undeniable; but I will
not enter into the discussion of so difficult a subject. I prefer
simply to mention a few Latin phrases, which are much used by Catholic
philosophers or theologians, and will allow the reader himself to
attempt their translation without altering their philosophical meaning,
and without infringing upon English usages. Translate:

_Actus et potentia conspirant in unitatem essentiæ._

_Actio motiva terminatur materialiter ad mobile, et formaliter ad
motum._

_Sicut se habet actus substantialis ad esse simpliciter, ita se habet
actus accidentalis ad esse secundum quid._

_Facultas ordinatur ad operationem ut actus primus ad secundum._

_Quidquid sistit in suis essentialibus, nullo superaddito, est unum per
se._

_Intellectus attingit objectum sub ratione veri, voluntas autem sub
ratione boni._

_Actus et potentia principiant ens principiatione metaphysica._

_Relatio est id cuius totum esse est ad aliud se habere._

_Motus est actus existentis in potentia ut in potentia._

These and such like phrases will afford matter for a great exercise
of patience to him who will undertake to translate them faithfully.
_To conspire into unity, to be terminated to a movable object, to
be ordered to the operation_, _etc._, are scarcely good English
expressions: yet it is not easy to see what other phrases would be
calculated to express the same thoughts in an unobjectionable manner.

I will conclude by giving the opinion of a competent authority on this
very point. The Rev. F. Hill, in the preface to his substantial work
lately published under the title of _Elements of Philosophy_, says:
"The Latin of the schools, besides being brief, is also peculiarly
capable of expressing precisely, clearly, and comprehensively matters
which it is difficult to utter through the less accurate vernacular
in terms that are neither obscure nor ambiguous." And speaking of the
Latin philosophical axioms and sentences, which he inserted in his
treatise with their English translation, he remarks: "It was not,
however, an easy task, in some instances, to reproduce them with
fidelity in the English phraseology, as the classic scholar will
readily see from the result." Certainly, the task was not an easy
one. Yet the author has most creditably carried out his object. May
his example encourage others to cultivate the same field, and thus
contribute towards developing "the resources of our noble language,"
and making it a fit channel for sound philosophical education.

                                                 A FRIEND OF PHILOSOPHY.

FOOTNOTES:

[67] For the preceding article on the subject, see the July No. of _The
Catholic World_.

[68] _Esse est perfectissimum omnium; comparatur enim ad omnia ut
actus. Nihil enim habet actualitatem nisi in quantum est; unde ipsum
esse est actualitas omnium rerum, et etiam ipsarum formarum._--S.
Thomas, _Summa Th._, p. 1 q. 4 a. 1.

[69] Sanseverino, _Dynamilogia_, c. i. a. 1.

[70] _Summa Th._, p. 1 q. 54 a. 3.

[71] For he says that _esse non comparatur ad alia sicut recipiens ad
receptum, sed magis ut receptum ad recipiens_ (p. 1 q. 4 a. 1); whence
it is clear that the _potentia essendi_ is considered by him as the
_recipient_ of actual existence. The same he teaches _Contra Gent._
lib. ii. c. 53, and in other places.

[72] _Summa Th._, p. 1 q. 77 a. 1.

[73] _Essay on the Human Understanding_, b. 2. c. 21.

[74] _Materia ... per se nunquam potest esse; quia, quum in ratione sua
non habeat aliquam formam, non potest esse in actu (quum esse in actu
non sit nisi a forma), sed solum in potentia. Et ideo quidquid est in
actu non potest dici materia prima._--S. Thomas Opusc. _De Principiis
Naturæ_.

[75] _Brownson's Quarterly Review_, July, 1873, p. 416.




SELF-LOVE.


                           BY AUBREY DE VERE.

    Light-winged Loves! they come; they flee:
      If we were dead, they'd never miss us:
    Self-Love! with thee is constancy--
      Thine eyes could see but one, Narcissus.




MADAME AGNES.


                   FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.

                               CONCLUDED.


CHAPTER XXVI.

  "Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra!"

Louis was thunderstruck at seeing Madeleine. He had not spoken a word
to her for several days, and intended to maintain a reserve full of
circumspection towards her. His connection with the family had twice
given rise to the most malevolent interpretations, and he by no means
wished a similar vexation to be repeated. He received the young girl
with a coldness that was almost rude.

"What do you wish?" said he.

"To speak with you, monsieur. But I fear I have come at the wrong time.
I will return at a later hour."

"Not later, but elsewhere."

"Why?" asked Madeleine, with _naïveté_.

"But what have you so urgent to tell me?..."

"Nothing concerning you, monsieur; it only relates to myself. I am so
unhappy.... If I ventured to come here at this hour, it is because I
feared being seen talking with you. I have a secret to confide to you
which my parents alone are aware of. If they knew I told you, I do not
know what they would do to me."

"Where are your parents now?"

"At my cousin's, a league off. They will not be back for several hours."

Madeleine was so overwhelmed with grief and anxiety that Louis was
filled with compassion. He motioned for her to be seated on a lounge
before his desk, and then said:

"Well, my good Madeleine, what has happened? Tell me your troubles. If
in my power to remove them, it shall soon be done. What can I do for
you?"

"You know Durand, the overseer?"

"Yes, yes!..." said Louis, frowning with the air of a man who knows
more than he expresses.

"He and my father have become intimate, I know not how or why, within a
few weeks--since you stopped coming to our house. He often came before
the inundation, and paid me a thousand absurd compliments. I made no
reply to his silly speeches, but they seemed to please my parents. The
first moment I set eyes on that man, he inspired me with fear. He looks
so bold--so false! And besides...."

"Besides what? Madeleine, I insist on your telling me everything."

"Well, he tried every way to make us believe you are.... I dare not
tell you...."

"Go on, child. Nothing would astonish me from Durand. I know he hates
me."

"He says you are a hypocrite, a--Jesuit, a dangerous man. He told my
father you were going to leave the mill, and seemed to boast of being
the cause of it."

"I suspected it," said Louis to himself. "Adams was only Durand's tool.
Oh! what deceit!"

"Is it true, then, that you are going away?" asked Madeleine anxiously.

"Quite true, my child."

"Oh! what a hateful man! I was right in detesting him! Since we have
been here living in the same house with him, he has tormented me more
than ever. He says he wishes to marry me...."

"Has he dared go that far?"

"Yes; and, what is worse, my parents have given their consent. Durand
tells them he has money laid up; that he is earning a good deal here,
and is willing to live with them and provide for the support of the
whole family.... But I--I have a horror of that man! There is nothing
disagreeable I do not say to him. I have told him plainly I would never
consent to marry him. My parents were terribly angry at this; my father
beat me, and my mother loaded me with abuse. They ended by saying, if I
persisted in refusing Durand, they would find a way of making me change
my mind. This scene took place last evening. What shall I do? O God!
what shall I do?..." So saying, Madeleine burst into tears.

Louis remained silent. He was reflecting. Self whispered: "Leave this
girl to her unhappy fate. Do not embark in another undertaking that
will get you into fresh trouble and may endanger everything--both
Eugénie's love for you, and your reputation itself. This unfortunate
girl has already been the cause of more than one sad moment; take care
she does not at last ruin you, and likewise compromise herself...."

But such selfish promptings had no power over a heart so generous
and upright as that of Louis. Besides, he had learned such shocking
things about Durand that, if he did not reveal them in order to save
Madeleine, he would regard himself guilty of a crime, and not without
reason. After some moments of silent reflection, all incertitude
ceased. He had decided on the course to pursue.

"How old are you, my child?" said he.

"I am in my twenty-first year."

"Well, you have hitherto devoted yourself generously to the interests
of your parents. They have now made this impossible. There is no choice
in the matter. You must leave them."

"I have thought of it. But where could I go? I have no place of refuge,
now my aunt is dead."

"I will give you a note to a lady who lives in the city. I may as well
say at once it is my sister. She will take care of you, and get you a
place as a chamber-maid, if she does not keep you herself."

"Oh! how kind you are!... You revive my courage. When can I go?"

"When you please."

"To-morrow?"

"Yes, to-morrow morning."

"And who will inform my parents?"

"You yourself. Write a line, and leave it with some one you can
trust, to be delivered a few hours after you are gone. You can tell
your parents you are going to seek a situation in the city in order
to escape from Durand. Promise to be a credit to them, to love them
always, and even to render them assistance; and I will say more to them
when the proper time comes. Above all, I will tell them what Durand
really is.... Thank God, my child, that he enables you to escape that
man's snares...."

Everything was done as agreed upon by Louis and Madeleine. The latter
left for town the next morning. Her parents were not informed of her
departure till about noon. They immediately notified Durand.

"The engineer has had a hand in this," said he to Vinceneau and his
wife. "He shall pay for it."

"What makes you think he had anything to do with it?" asked Vinceneau.

"Your daughter went to see him last evening.... My police told me."

"How shall we be revenged?"

"By telling everybody what this Tartuffe is. I will see to it. Ah! he
induces young girls to run away without any one's knowing where they
are gone! That is rather too bold!"

Durand watched for an opportunity of speaking to Albert, with whom he
kept up daily communication. He told him what had occurred, adding
calumnious suppositions that may be imagined. Albert, delighted at
the news, went at once to tell his aunt. It was near dinnertime. Mme.
Smithson said to her nephew: "Wait till we are at table, then relate
this story without appearing to attach any importance to it. If I am
not very much mistaken, this will be a death-blow to that troublesome
creature. Only be prudent, and do not begin till I make a sign. There
are times when your uncle takes no interest in the conversation, no
matter what is said. Poor Eugénie will blush well to hear of such
infamous conduct, for she loves him. It is horrible to say, but so it
is. Since I caught them talking together the other day, I have had
no doubt about it. Besides, as you have remarked, she grows more and
more reserved toward us, while, on the contrary, she has redoubled her
amiability towards her father. I really believe, if the foolish fellow
had not compromised himself, she would in the end have got the better
of us. Her father is so indulgent to her!... But after what has taken
place, there can be no more illusion! She will perceive the worth
of her hero!... It must be acknowledged there is no alternative! Her
romance has ended in a way to make her ashamed of it for ever.... You
will see, Albert, she will end by thinking it too great an honor to be
your wife."

"Too great an honor! Hum! hum! It will be well if she consents.
Eugénie has more pride than any girl I ever saw. Humbled, she will
be unapproachable. Believe me, aunt, we must be cautious in availing
ourselves of this advantage."

They took seats at table at six o'clock as usual. Mr. Smithson appeared
thoughtful and out of humor, but that often happened. Eugénie was no
less serious. Very little was said till the dessert. Albert evidently
longed to let fly the shaft he held in reserve against Louis. Mme.
Smithson was quite as impatient as he, but could not find a propitious
opportunity. However, her bitterness against Louis prevailed. Towards
the end of dinner, she made Albert an imperceptible sign, as much as to
say: "Proceed, but be prudent!"

Albert assumed as indifferent an air as possible, and in an off-hand
way began his attack after this manner:

"There is trouble in the refugees' quarter to-day."

Mme. Smithson looked up with an air of surprise at the news. Mr.
Smithson and Eugénie remained impassible.

"The Vinceneaus are in great commotion," continued Albert. "Their
daughter has run away."

"A poor set--those Vinceneaus," muttered Mr. Smithson.

"Yes," replied Albert, "a poor set indeed! But this time I pity them.
Their daughter has gone off, and no one knows where she has gone."

"Why did she leave them?" asked Eugénie.

"She and her parents had a violent quarrel day before yesterday, but
not the first; they say this Madeleine is more amiable in appearance
than in reality. Anyhow, there is something inexplicable about her. It
seems she was to have been married; then she refused to be. Result:
anger of the parents, obstinacy of the daughter. All that is known
besides this is that she went all alone to consult the engineer last
evening. Durand and another workman saw her go to his room. This
morning she disappeared, leaving word she intended to get a situation,
no one knows where; she has not thought it proper to leave her
address...."

While listening to this account, Eugénie turned pale, then red, and
finally almost fainted. Mr. Smithson perceived the sad effect of the
story on her, and was filled with inexpressible sorrow. Heretofore
he had refused to believe in the possibility of her loving Louis;
but now he could no longer doubt it. For the first time in his life,
he acknowledged his wife had shown more penetration than he--more
prudence. The look that rested on Eugénie was not of anger, however,
but full of affection and anxiety. He loved her too much not to pity
her, even though he blamed her.

Eugénie, with characteristic energy, recovered her self-possession in a
few moments. Suspicions of a stronger and more painful character than
any she had yet had struggled with the love in this proud girl's heart.

Albert was overjoyed, but concealed his satisfaction under a
hypocritical air of compassion. Continuing the subject, he said the
workmen were all indignant at Madeleine's flight. "The engineer has
done well not to show himself since the girl's departure was known,"
he added. "He would have exposed himself to a public manifestation of
rather a disagreeable nature. And I do not see who could defend him...."

"He could defend himself, if he is innocent," thought Eugénie....
Then another idea occurred to her: "But if he has plans he cannot yet
acknowledge, ... if he loves this Madeleine, ... ah! how he will have
deceived me!... No! it is impossible!... And yet it is true he has
disappeared: I have not seen him to-day...."

By an unfortunate coincidence, Louis had been obliged to come to see me
that day. I had been taken with a terrible pain in all my limbs--the
first symptoms of my paralytic seizure. My mother, frightened beyond
all expression, sent a messenger to our poor friend, conjuring him to
come with all possible speed.

"Enough!" said Mr. Smithson. "The subject does not please me. I do not
like to be deceived, as I have so often been before. It seems to me
there is some mistake here. I shall ascertain the truth. But this shall
be my care. Let it be understood that no one but myself is to make any
inquiries about the affair. No tittle-tattle!"

They retired to the _salon_ a few moments after. Albert offered Eugénie
his arm. She refused it, as if to show him, if Louis were driven
from her heart, he, Albert, should never have a place there. She
seated herself at the piano, and played a succession of pieces with
great effect. Her ardent nature required the relief of some outward
manifestation. For the first time in her life, she blushed before her
parents--before the cousin she despised. But the torture she suffered
from her wounded pride was not the most painful. She had loved
Louis--she loved him still, as a woman of her intelligence and energy
alone could love--that is to say, to excess. And now she is forced to
ask herself: is an affection so pure met only with hypocrisy, or at
least an indifference but too easy to understand. Swayed between love
and contempt; by turns ashamed of herself, then drawing herself up with
pride, she would have given ten years of her life to be able at once to
solve the doubt that caused her so much suffering.

While the poor girl was thus abandoning herself to the most distressing
anxiety, without any consolation, Mme. Smithson and Albert were talking
in a low tone near the fireplace. They appeared dissatisfied.

"The affair has begun badly," said Albert. "One would think my uncle
resolved to thwart me in everything.... Why could he not intimate to
that fellow that there is no necessity of his remaining any longer?...
That is what I hoped and what I expected! He has certainly done enough
to deserve being treated in such a way.... Instead of that, my uncle is
going to undertake an investigation!... I wager this arrant piece of
craft will find some way of making himself out innocent."

"That would be rather too much!" said Mme. Smithson. "You are right: we
must despatch business, or all is lost. I will talk to your uncle this
very evening, and make every effort to prevent their meeting...."


CHAPTER XXVII.

A VILLAIN'S REVENGE.

The whole family were still in the _salon_, when, about half-past
eight, they heard an unusual noise out of doors, and people seemed to
be moving about in the darkness. In a few moments, a servant entered
and said a few words to Mr. Smithson in a low tone. He immediately rose
and started to go out; but, before leaving the room, he said: "I shall
not be gone long. I wish you all to remain here till my return."

Eugénie continued to drum furiously on the piano; then, weary of this
monotonous employment, she took a book, and pretended to read. Mme.
Smithson and Albert were far from being at ease. Triumphant as they
were, they stood in awe of Eugénie. To keep themselves in countenance,
they began a game of cards.

What was Mr. Smithson doing meanwhile? He forbade his servants
mentioning a word of what had happened, which they were aware of as
well as he. Sure of being obeyed, he went directly to Louis' apartment.
Entering the room, he found him lying all dressed on his bed, groaning
and unable to utter a word. A bloody handkerchief was tied across his
forehead, as if he had received a severe wound. At a sign from Mr.
Smithson, the servant dismissed all the men--hands at the mill--who
had brought the engineer to his room. When they were gone, the servant
removed the handkerchief that concealed the wound. It was a long gash,
which was still bleeding. Louis opened his eyes, and put his hand to
his neck, as if there was another wound there. The servant untied
his cravat. The unfortunate young man's neck, in fact, bore marks of
violence.

The servant seemed greatly affected at the sight. He placed the wounded
man in as comfortable a position as he could, bandaged his wounds,
and tried to revive him with _eau-de-Cologne_. Louis came to himself a
little, and, extending his hand, pressed that of the good fellow who
was tending him so kindly. Mr. Smithson stood a few steps from the
bed, looking on as calmly as if gazing at some unreal spectacle in a
theatre. No one would have divined his thoughts from the expression of
his countenance; but at the bottom of his heart there was a feeling
of animosity against Louis, which was scarcely lessened by the sight
of his sufferings. At that moment, he believed Louis guilty, and what
had happened only a chastisement he merited. Nevertheless, he sent in
haste for a physician, who arrived in a short time. Louis' clothes were
removed, and his wounds dressed with the greatest care. The relief he
experienced, the warmth of the bed, and the skill of the attentive
physician, produced a speedy and favorable reaction. He recovered the
perfect use of speech, and, addressing those around him with an attempt
at a smile, he said:

"They have brought me to a sad condition."

"You will get over it," replied the doctor.

"How did it happen?" asked Mr. Smithson coldly.

"It is a long story to tell," replied Louis. "I have not recovered
from the violent concussion, and am still in severe pain; but I will
endeavor to tell you how it happened. It is time for you to know the
truth about many things, Mr. Smithson. What is your opinion of Durand?"

"He is a capable hand, but somewhat unaccountable."

"Well, I have found him out.... He is a dangerous man. The condition
you see me in is owing to him."

"What induced him to ill-treat you in this way?"

"He has hated me for a long time, though secretly. Before I came here,
he did somewhat as he pleased, and was guilty of many base acts. He
robbed you in many ways--saying he had paid the workmen money that was
never given them, and having an understanding with one and another, in
order to cheat you. I found out his dishonest trafficking, and put a
stop to it. This was the origin of his dislike."

"Why did you not notify me at once?"

"My silence proceeded from motives of delicacy. You will recollect the
man came here with excellent recommendations; he was a Protestant; and
you liked him, and thought more of him than of many others."

"That is true. Go on."

"I afterwards discovered he lent money on security. My reproaches
offended him still more. Within a short time, he has become intimate
with that drunken Vinceneau and his indolent wife, and, since the
inundation drove them here for shelter, he has permanently installed
himself in their house. He only did this to annoy their poor
daughter, Madeleine, with his audacious attentions. The girl was
indignant. Young as she is, she felt there was something vile--I may
say criminal--in the depths of his deceitful soul. But her father
and mother countenanced him. They hoped a son-in-law so much richer
than they would enable them to give themselves up to their shameful
inclinations--the husband to drink, and the wife to idleness. Madeleine
was, therefore, ordered--and in such a way!--to accept Durand's offer.
She came to consult me on the subject, and said the man inspired her
with invincible horror. On the other hand, her parents threatened her
with the worst treatment possible if she resisted their orders--a
treatment already begun. Now, I had learned only a few days previous
the following particulars respecting Durand: His name is not Durand,
but Renaud. He is not a Protestant, but a Catholic, if such a man can
be said to have any religion. His fine recommendations did not come
from his employers; he wrote them himself. He is not a bachelor, but is
married, and the father of three children. Be good enough to open my
desk, Mr. Smithson.... You will find a letter from Durand's wife, in
which all these facts are stated with a minuteness of detail, and such
an accent of truth, that there can be no doubt after reading it. It was
addressed to the _curé_, begging him to threaten Durand--or rather,
Renaud--with the law if he did not send for his wife and children. They
are dying of want at Lille, whence he fled without saying anything to
them. They lost all trace of him for a year, and only heard of him
again about six months ago."

Mr. Smithson opened Louis' desk, and took out the letter. The details
it contained were, in truth, so numerous and so precise that there
could be no doubt they really referred to the so-called Durand.

"What an infamous impostor!" exclaimed he, as he finished the letter.
"Continue your account, monsieur. I am eager to know how this sad
affair terminated."

"My friend, Mme. Barnier," continued Louis, "has not been able to leave
St. Denis, where she took refuge at the time of the inundation. A
violent affection of the muscular system obliges her to keep her bed.
I learned this morning from a letter that she was worse, and wished to
see me immediately. I went to St. Denis. On my way back this evening on
foot, I met Durand not three hundred steps from the mill. I cannot say
he was waiting for me, but am inclined to think so. When he perceived
me by the light of the moon, a gleam of fury lighted up his features. I
had no weapon of defence. He, as usual, carried a strong, knotty cane
in his hand.

"'Where is Madeleine?' said he.

"'At my sister's,' I replied. In fact, I had sent her there with a
letter of recommendation.

"'Why did you send her away?'

"'Because I wished to withdraw her from your criminal pursuit.'

"'Criminal?... How was my pursuit criminal? I wished to marry her.'

"'You have not the right.'

"'What do you say? I haven't a right to marry?'

"'No, you have not. You are married already.'

"'It is false.'

"'I have the proof in my possession--a letter from your wife.' Then I
told him what I knew of his history, and ended thus: 'You have hitherto
gone from one crime to another. It is time for you to reform. Promise
to begin a new life, and I pledge my word to keep what I know to
myself.'

"'I promise--humble myself--and to you!... There is one man too many in
the world, you or I. By heaven! this must be ended.'

"I heard no more. Before I could ward off the blow, he hit me, causing
the wound you see on my head. Then he continued striking me with
diabolical fury. I could not defend myself, but called for help. Two
men heard me in the mill, and came running with all their might. As
soon as Durand saw them, he fled I know not where. I beg he may not be
pursued; the crime is too serious."

Louis had ended his account.

"Monsieur," said Mr. Smithson, "you have been strangely unfortunate
since you came here. It has all arisen from a misunderstanding. I
distrusted you. I was wrong. You have a noble heart. I see it now.
What you have said explains many things I did not understand. You
have been odiously calumniated, monsieur! Now that we have come to an
understanding, promise not to leave me. I will go further: forgive me."

Louis was affected to tears, and could not reply.

"And now, monsieur," said Mr. Smithson, "can I render you any service?"

"I wish my father and sister to be cautiously informed of what has
happened to me."

"I will go myself," said Mr. Smithson, "and give them an account of
your unfortunate adventure. You may rely on my making the communication
with all the discretion you could wish. Will to-morrow be soon enough?"

"Oh! yes. To go this evening would made them think me in great danger."

They continued to converse some minutes longer, then Mr. Smithson
returned to the house. When he entered the _salon_, he found the family
exceedingly anxious. They suspected something serious had occurred, but
the servants had not dared communicate the slightest particular. Mr.
Smithson had forbidden it, and in his house every one obeyed to the
letter.

"M. Louis, ..." began he. At this name, Eugénie turned pale. She still
loved the engineer, and waited with dread for her father to allay the
suspicions so hateful to her, or to confirm them.

"M. Louis came near being killed. He was only wounded, and will soon be
well again."

"What happened to him?" cried Eugénie eagerly.

Mme. Smithson and Albert exchanged a look of intelligence. Mr. Smithson
related the facts he had just learned from Louis. In proportion as he
unveiled the infamy of Durand's conduct, and revealed the nobility
of Louis' nature, an expression of joy, mingled with pride, dawned
on Eugénie's face. It was easy to read the look she gave her mother
and Albert--a look of mingled happiness and triumph which seemed
to say: "He is innocent; it is my turn to rejoice!" Mr. Smithson,
always sincere and ready to acknowledge an error, ended his account
by expressing his regret at having been hard, suspicious, and unjust
towards Louis. "I shall henceforth regard him with the highest respect;
and I hope, if any of you, like me, have been deceived about him, that
my words and example will suffice to correct your mistake."

Mme. Smithson and Albert pretended not to hear his last words; but they
struck Eugénie particularly. Had she dared, she would have thrown her
arms around her father's neck, and given vent to her joy and gratitude.
She was obliged to refrain, but her sentiments were so legible in her
face that no one could mistake them. You will not be surprised to hear
that Mme. Smithson and her nephew cut a sad figure.

A few moments after, they all retired to their rooms. As Eugénie
embraced her father, she could not refrain from timidly asking him one
question: "Is it really true that M. Louis' life is not in danger,
father? It would be very sad for so good a man to be killed by a
villain on our own premises."

"There is no danger, my child, I assure you," replied Mr. Smithson
kindly. He then tenderly kissed his daughter for the second time. This
mark of affection on the part of so cold a man had a special value--I
might even say, a special significance.

"This voluntary expression of love from my father," said Eugénie
to herself, "shows he is aware of all I have suffered, and that he
sympathizes with me." And she went away full of joy and hope. Once
more in her chamber, she reflected on all the events of the last few
days. Louis had been calumniated many times before, and she believed
him guilty; but he had always come out of these attacks justified, so
that the very circumstances which at first seemed against him turned to
his benefit. What had happened during the evening now at an end threw
a new light on the state of affairs. Louis was an upright man. He was
sincere, and the persecution he had undergone made him so much the
worthier of being loved. For the first time, Eugénie ventured to say to
herself boldly: "Yes, I love him!" Then she prayed for him. At length a
new doubt--a cruel doubt--rose in her heart: "But he, does he love me?"
immediately followed by another question: if Louis loved her, would
her father consent to receive him as a son-in-law?... He had won his
esteem--that was a good deal; but Mr. Smithson was not a man to be led
away by enthusiasm. These questions were very embarrassing. Nor were
they all. Eugénie foresaw many other difficulties also: Louis was poor;
he was a Catholic, not only in name, but in heart and deed. His poverty
and his piety were two obstacles to his gaining Mr. Smithson's entire
favor. These two reasons might prevent him from ever consenting to give
Louis his daughter's hand. Such were Eugénie's thoughts. Reflection,
instead of allaying her anxiety, only served to make it more keen.

"One hope remains," thought she, "but that is a powerful one: my father
loves me too well to render me unhappy. I will acknowledge that the
happiness of my life depends on his decision."

At that same hour, Louis, in the midst of his sufferings, was a prey
to similar anxiety. But he had one advantage over Eugénie. "It is not
without some design," he said, "that Providence has directed everything
with such wonderful goodness. I trust that, after giving me so clear
a glimpse of happiness, I shall at last be permitted to attain the
reality."

This was by no means certain, for the designs of God, though ever
merciful, are always unfathomable. No one can tell beforehand how
things will end. But we must pardon a little temerity in the heart of
a lover. It is sad to say, but even in the most upright souls love
overpowers reason.


CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE BETROTHAL.

The next morning, Eugénie had news that surprised her, but seemed a
happy augury: her cousin had suddenly decided to go home! His departure
was announced by Fanny. As long as things remained undecided, and
Albert had some hope, Fanny had appeared cross and dissatisfied. But
now she made her appearance as she used to be--smiling, chatty, and
agreeable, without any one's knowing why. The artful _soubrette_ felt
it was high time to change her tactics. In consequence of the blunders
Albert had committed, and Eugénie's marked antipathy to him, he would
henceforth be blotted out of the list of mademoiselle's admirers. If,
therefore, Fanny wished to reinstate herself in her mistress' good
graces, if she wished to make sure of that cherished asylum--the object
of all her aims for the last ten years--she must pave the way by her
subserviency to her future patrons--Eugénie and the husband of her
choice, whoever he might be. With a keener eye, or at least bolder,
than Eugénie's, Fanny had no doubt it would be Louis.

With the assurance of those people who make others forget their faults
by appearing to be ignorant of them themselves, Fanny went with a
single bound over to the side of the man she regarded as a personal
enemy the night before. Eugénie perceived the sudden tack. It greatly
amused her, though she pretended not to see it.

"Where is my father?" she asked Fanny.

"Monsieur is going to town with M. Albert, and also to notify Mr.
Louis' family of the misfortune that has happened to him--a painful
errand. M. Louis has a father who is greatly attached to him, and a
sister who is still fonder of him--a very amiable woman, with a strong
mind."

"Ah! indeed; where did you learn these particulars?"

"Here and there. Mademoiselle knows the good God has given me ears to
hear with."

"And especially a tongue that can ask questions, Fanny."

Eugénie went down to the breakfast-room, where she found the rest
assembled. Mr. Smithson wore a cheerful air. Albert was in an
ill-humor, which he badly concealed under pretended elation. Mme.
Smithson appeared anxious, but Eugénie saw with delight that she was
more affectionate towards her than she had been of late.

A policeman from St. M---- passed by the window.

"What is that policeman here for?" inquired Eugénie.

"We had to search Durand's room, my child," replied Mr. Smithson. "The
man cheated me in a shameful manner. I have obtained positive proofs
of it. We found letters from his wife and other people which prove him
utterly heartless and base--in short, one of the most dangerous men I
ever saw."

Mr. Smithson and Albert started a short time after. The parting between
the two cousins was not, as you may suppose, very affecting. As Mr.
Smithson entered the carriage, he said to his wife: "Go and tell M.
Louis I am on my way to his father's. I intend to bring him back with
me, and hope the sister will accompany him; for no one knows so well
how to take care of him, or to do it so acceptably. Do not delay giving
him this information; it will do him more good than a visit from the
doctor."

Mme. Smithson made a brief reply, in which a slight confusion and a
lingering antipathy were perceptible. The commission was evidently
disagreeable, but she obeyed her husband. As soon as he was out
of sight, she proceeded towards the wounded man's room. Eugénie
returned to the house. She expected her mother would be back in a few
minutes, and was greatly surprised when a quarter of an hour--half an
hour--nearly a whole hour passed without her returning. She became
extremely anxious. She feared her mother had found Louis in too
dangerous a state to be left till Mr. Smithson returned. "Perhaps,"
she also thought--"perhaps mother and M. Louis are having a painful
explanation. Mother is very kind, but at times she is dreadful!
Exasperated by my cousin's abrupt departure, I fear she may, under the
impulse of vexation or animosity, say something painful to the poor
sick fellow...." And at this, she gave her imagination full course.

At length Mme. Smithson reappeared. Eugénie refrained from questioning
her, but she looked as if she would read the bottom of her mother's
heart.

"We had rather a long talk," said Mme. Smithson, without appearing to
suspect how anxious her daughter had been. "He is a good young man,
that M. Louis; a little serious, a little too gloomy, but that seems
to please certain people!... He is delighted because his sister is
coming...."

"I am not surprised," said Eugénie.

The conversation was kept up for some time in this discreet tone,
neither of them wishing to let the other see what she really thought.
It seemed to Eugénie, however, that her mother, instead of manifesting
any irritation against Louis, was making an effort to reconcile herself
to him. Had she then an idea he might become her son-in-law, and did
she wish to accustom herself to a prospect but recently so contrary to
her views?...

The carriage arrived an hour after. Eugénie felt somewhat agitated at
the thought of meeting Louis' father and sister. "Shall I like them?
Will they like me?" she said to herself, as she proceeded resolutely
to the door to receive them. She first shook hands with Aline. The
poor girl was pale with anxiety, but her very anxiety increased her
beauty. She made a conquest of Eugénie at the first glance. Her
thoughtful air, the distinction of her manners, her intelligent and
animated countenance, were all pleasing to her. Eugénie felt, if Aline
did not become her friend, it would be because she did not wish to.
Their interview lasted only a few minutes; then Aline followed Mr.
Smithson, who had taken her father's arm, to Louis' room. Eugénie was
also pleased with M. Beauvais. He had a cold, stern air, but so had Mr.
Smithson himself.

Quite a series of incidents of no special importance occurred after
this, which it would take too much time to relate. I must hasten to end
my story, as you wish, I fear.

A week after, Mr. Smithson's house was _en fête_ to celebrate Louis'
convalescence. Both families assembled on this occasion. Aline,
Eugénie, and Mme. Smithson, who had again become the excellent woman
she was when we first knew her, formed a trio of friends such as is
seldom found. And one would have taken Mr. Smithson and Louis' father
for two old friends from boyhood, so familiarly did they converse. They
seemed to understand each other at half a word.

"What a delightful _réunion_!" said Mr. Smithson when they came to
the dessert. "It is hard to think we must all separate to-morrow. But
it is settled that you, M. Louis, are to come back as soon as you are
perfectly well."

"I give you my word," said Louis; "and promise also never to leave you
from the time you see me again."

"I hope you will carry out that intention. We will never separate
again. But you are young, and it is more difficult for a young man to
foresee what may occur."

"As far as it depends on me, I can." As Louis said these words, he
glanced at Eugénie, who sat opposite. His look seemed to say: "There is
the magnet that will keep me here for ever!" Eugénie blushed. Every one
noticed it.

"It is useless for you to say that," said Mr. Smithson. "I shall
always be in fear of your escape till you are positively bound here.
But how shall we bind you to St. M----? There is one way," and Mr.
Smithson smiled as he spoke; "which has occurred to the parents; will
the children consent?"

Eugénie and Louis looked at each other. In the eyes of both beamed the
same joy.

"The children make no reply, ..." resumed Mr. Smithson.

"Pardon me," exclaimed Louis. "I dare not be the first to answer."

"Silence implies consent," replied Mr. Smithson. "If Eugénie is not of
your mind, let her protest against it. Otherwise I shall give my own
interpretation to her silence."

"I do not protest," said Eugénie, unusually intimidated.

"Oh! what strange lovers!" continued Mr. Smithson. "I think we shall
have to tell them they love each other."

"Perhaps we are already aware of it," said Louis. "At least, I have
been for a long time."

"And have you not confessed it to each other?"

"I had forbidden myself to do so."

"Louis, you have a noble heart," said Mr. Smithson. "To keep silence
in such a case requires a courage amounting to heroism. But I have
remarked that the heroic qualities you have given so many proofs
of since you came here always turn to the advantage of those who
continue under their influence. This proves that God, even in this
world, rewards the deeds of the upright much oftener than is supposed.
Doubtless they are also recompensed in heaven, but they often have on
earth a foretaste of what awaits them hereafter."

Such was the betrothal of my two friends. The next day, Louis came
to town, in order to obtain the medical aid necessary to complete
his cure. I had returned myself a few days previous. I cannot tell
you with what pleasure I received him, and learned the welcome news
from the lips of the _fiancée_ herself, who greatly pleased me at
the very first interview, and never gave me any reason to change my
opinion. My intercourse with them and Aline--three choice spirits--was
so delightful that it sustained me in the midst of the terrible
trials through which I was then passing. My grief for the death of my
husband had grown more calm, but his memory followed me constantly and
everywhere.

In addition to my mental troubles, I underwent physical sufferings that
were sometimes excruciating. And I was filled with a dread that was
still worse. I trembled at the thought I might always be a burden to my
poor mother and sister. I had not fully learned that, when God sends
a trial, he likewise gives the strength to bear it, and some way of
mitigating it. How many times I have since realized this! God comes to
the aid of those whose will is in conformity with his.

The marriage of Louis and Eugénie took place a month afterwards. For
them, and I might almost say for myself, it was the beginning of a life
of serene happiness that lasted six years. The better these two souls
became acquainted, the more they loved each other. They were always
of the same mind on all subjects whatever, particularly when there
was a question of doing good. Eugénie, under her husband's influence,
became in a few months a woman of angelic piety. The good works Louis
had previously begun under such unfavorable circumstances were resumed
at once, and carried on with a zeal and prudence that had the happiest
influence on the whole country round. St. M---- was transformed into
a Christian republic. The wicked--to be found everywhere--were few in
number, and, instead of ruling over the good, considered themselves
fortunate in being tolerated. Ah! if it were thus everywhere!... Every
summer, I went to pass three months with my friends. I was happier
there than I can express. It was delightful to behold a family so
admirably united, so beloved and respected everywhere around! Mr.
Smithson himself was hardly to be recognized. The sight of the wonders
effected by his son-in-law and daughter destroyed one by one all his
prejudices against the true religion....

Alas! the happiness of this world is seldom of long duration. Eugénie
had been married six years, and was the mother of two children, when
she was seized with a severe illness that endangered her life. She
got over it, however, but remained feeble and languid. The physicians
insisted on her residing permanently in the South. A large manufactory
being for sale on the delightful shores of the Mediterranean, a few
leagues from Marseilles, on the picturesque and charming road leading
from the Phocæan City to Toulon, Louis purchased it, and they all went
away!

No words could describe the sadness they experienced at leaving so dear
a spot as St. M----, where they were greatly beloved. They likewise
regretted separating from me. When I saw them start, I felt almost as
distressed as I was at the death of my husband; but I did not tell them
so, for fear of increasing their regret. After they went to Provence,
they had one more year of happiness; but the amelioration that took
place in Eugénie's health did not last any longer. She died three
months later.

Some time after, Louis came to seek consolation from his sister and
me. His very aspect made us heartsick. His grief was beyond the reach
of any human consolation. It would have been wrong had he voluntarily
given himself up to it. But, no; he struggled against it. It prevailed,
however, in spite of himself, as phthisis resists every remedy and
wears the sufferer to the grave. We represented to him the good he
might still effect, and reminded him he had one child left to bring
up; the other being dead. He listened kindly to our representations,
and said he had had more happiness on earth than he merited; that he
submitted to the divine will, and resigned himself to live as long as
God wished. But all this was said with a dejection and involuntary
weariness of everything, that was no good sign. Louis was one of those
souls, all sensibility, who die as soon as their hearts receive a deep
wound. Had he been an unbeliever, he would have taken his own life, or
died of grief in a few months. Religion sustained him four years longer.

During that time, his friends always found him resigned. He became more
devout than ever, and more zealous in doing good. A sudden illness at
length carried him off. The physicians asserted that he might have
recovered if grief had not undermined his constitution, once so robust.
When he died, he left his son to be brought up by his sister. God gave
him the happiness, before his death, of seeing his father-in-law enter
the bosom of the church.

Madame Agnes had finished her story.

"Such, my friend, is the history of my life," said she. "It is not very
entertaining, I confess, but I think it instructive. All who had a part
in it suffered, but they never lost courage. Such a misfortune could
not happen to them, because they only expected from life what it has
to give--many days of trial, mingled with some that are joyful. But
whether their days were sad or joyful, my friends were never deprived
of the light of the divine presence. They received from the hand of God
happiness and sorrow with equal gratitude, aware that he disposes all
things for the good of those he loves, and that in him all they have
loved on earth will be found again.

"My friend, imitate the example of these dear ones now gone! Keep
intact the gift of faith, which was their dearest, most precious
treasure. Let it also be yours! If you rely on God, you will never lack
resignation and hope, even in the midst of the most bitter trials.
Faith, while waiting to open the gates of heaven to you--faith,
practical and ardent, wonderfully softens every trial here below."




DANIEL O'CONNELL.


The good old saying, that it never rains but it pours, has received
additional illustration in the appearance within a very short time of
two lives and one memoir of the great Irish agitator, the late Daniel
O'Connell. The latter, it is true, is a mere sketch, intended only as
an introduction to a collection of ten or twelve of the most noteworthy
speeches of that distinguished man, judiciously selected from hundreds
which, as a lawyer, politician, and parliamentary debater, he had
delivered in the course of a remarkably busy life, extending over
nearly half a century. In this regard, if in no other, it will be found
interesting and useful to those who have not leisure or inclination to
study the history of his career in detail.

Of Mr. Luby's work, published originally in parts, many of which we
have carefully perused, we have little to say. It is evidently written
in haste, loosely, and without due regard to the canons which are
generally supposed to govern composition and narration. There are
no facts or incidents in it bearing on the public or private life
of O'Connell that are not already well known to every person of
ordinary intelligence, and which have not been better and more lucidly
presented to the public years ago. It has the demerit, also, of being
altogether too discursive, not to say blatant, in style, and the
author is too constantly wandering away from his subject to matters
quite disconnected from the actions and peculiarities of his hero.
Judging from this production, Mr. Luby seems to be a very unfit person
to portray the genius, aims, and designs of the great Irish popular
leader, lacking as he does that earnest sympathy which should exist
between the biographer and his subject, as well as that judicial and
philosophical insight into the secret springs of human action which,
while recording patent facts, can comprehend and elucidate the true
motives, designs, and probable results of the deeds related. Such has
ever been considered the real end of biographical literature.

In this respect, the _Life of O'Connell_, by Sister Mary Francis
Clare, is much superior to Mr. Luby's, as it is in every other
essential quality, though in itself far inferior to what might have
been expected from so popular a writer, particularly when dealing with
so great and congenial a theme. In her book of eight hundred pages,
the good religious has shown a vast amount of industry, a genuine
appreciation of the character, labors, and conduct of the Liberator,
and considerable literary skill in presenting them to the public in the
most attractive and readable form. The correspondence between O'Connell
and the venerable Archbishop of Tuam, now for the first time published,
constitutes a most valuable, perhaps the most valuable, feature in
the work, and, as a glimpse at the inner life of the busy lawyer and
untiring agitator, will be read with particular gratification by
the admirers of his extraordinary abilities in this country. Here,
we regret to say, our praise of Miss Cusack's book must end. As a
biography of one of the most remarkable public men of this century or
of any country, it is not a decided success, and, as coming from the
pen of an experienced, facile, and patriotic writer, it will, we do
not doubt, disappoint the majority of her admirers at home and abroad.
With the exception of the letters to Abp. McHale, alluded to above,
and some original notes and appendices supplied by friends, the facts,
incidents, and anecdotes recounted of the Irish leader are mainly
taken from such books as those of O'Neill Daunt, Fegan, Sheil, and
his own son, John O'Connell, all of which may be found in an anonymous
compilation published five or six years ago.[76]

We do not find fault so much with the fact that it is so largely a
compilation, as with the crude manner in which the extracts from those
works are collated and presented to the public. We can even point
to several instances where they are inserted bodily in the text, as
original, without quotation-marks, foot-notes, or any other sign of
reference. This may or may not be the fault of the printer, but the
examples are so numerous as to incline us to the latter opinion. We
have often admired the industry of Miss Cusack in bringing out so many
good books in such rapid succession; as well as her zeal in endeavoring
to aid, by the products of her genius, a most meritorious charity;
but we hold it to be against the laws both of fair play and literary
courtesy to neglect to accord to the labors of others a proper share of
acknowledgment.

We do not want to be unreasonable. Had the gifted authoress allowed
herself more time, and related the dramatic story of O'Connell's
life entirely in her own words, we would have been satisfied. We do
not expect that a lady secluded from the world, necessarily devoting
the greater part of her time to the duties of her calling, and
consequently practically unacquainted with the outside political world,
its storms, passions, and intrigues, can treat us to anything like
a full or elaborate disquisition on the circumstances, dangers, and
difficulties which surrounded and impeded the career of such a man as
the emancipator of the Catholics of Great Britain and Ireland. Only a
person who has devoted much time to the examination of the history of
Ireland and England, for the past hundred years, at least; who himself
has been a participant in, or an interested spectator of, the unceasing
conflict which during that period was naturally waged between the Irish
nationalists and their opponents, can attempt to do so. This war was
carried on in every relation of life; at the bar, on the bench; in the
pulpit, press, and forum; in the workshop, the club, and the halls
of St. Stephen; and the central figure, the invincible leader of the
aggressive and at length victorious national party, was O'Connell--the
man who for near half a century dared all opposition and defied all
hostile power in the championship of the cause of his persecuted
countrymen and co-religionists.

However men may differ as to the wisdom, policy, or honesty of
O'Connell, none will deny that he was a man of stupendous intellect and
indomitable perseverance. In everything he was gigantic. In physique,
mental attainments, courage, virtues, and even in his errors, he was
decidedly great. There was nothing small or dwarfed about him; and
as, a popular leader while living, he seemed to hold in his hand the
control of the masses of his countrymen; so, when dead, the very
mention of his name is enough to awaken the gratitude and evoke the
admiration of millions of the present generation, whose advent into
the world succeeded his demise. Not only in Ireland was he trusted,
beloved, and revered, but on the continent of Europe and in this
country his name was associated with the cause of civil and religious
liberty, and his every movement watched with interest by all classes.
And when at length, worn down by his excessive labors in behalf of
faith and liberty, he yielded up his soul to his Creator, his piety
and patriotism became the subjects of unqualified encomiums from the
noblest and most distinguished orators in both hemispheres. Surely
so great an embodiment of zeal and genius, well directed, deserves a
fitting chronicler.

Born of a house never remarkable before nor since his time for
attachment to creed or country; educated far from the influences of
his native land, we find him returning to it just as he had completed
his majority, an accomplished scholar and a barrister, with nothing to
depend upon but his own labors for support, yet full of ambition and
eager for distinction. Had he followed the traditions of his family,
he would have settled down quietly to the practice of his profession,
and in course of time, doubtless, would have become wealthy and a
useful assistant to the hostile power that controlled the destinies
of his nation, as too many of his professional brothers had already
done. But the young lawyer, to the dismay of many of his relations,
soon showed that he was made of sterner stuff. He could not "bend the
pregnant hinges of the knee, that thrift might follow fawning." He had
arrived home in time to witness the horrors of '98; he had seen his
fellow-Catholics, even then four-fifths of the population of Ireland,
bowed down to the very dust, sneered at, reprobated, and, on their own
soil, denied every social, commercial, and political right to which as
freemen they were entitled; and, with a courage that never deserted
him, and a capacity for labor that was truly remarkable, he ranged
himself on the side of the proscribed, and took up the gauntlet cast
down to the oppressed by the powerful and unscrupulous faction which
then, as now, represented British supremacy in Ireland.

His first appearance in public, being then but twenty-three years old,
was in 1799, when the question of a legislative union between Ireland
and England convulsed the former and deeply moved the public mind of
the latter country. At a meeting in Dublin, he denounced the measure in
terms so bold, clear, and forcible that those who listened to him had
little difficulty in foreseeing his future eminence and usefulness to
the national cause. The scheme of Pitt and Castlereagh was, however,
carried out, the Irish parliament was destroyed, and the Catholics
saw themselves at the beginning of the century not only without a
domestic legislature, but shut out from all representation, not only
in the united Lords and Commons, but even in the most insignificant
corporation and local boards.

Where, then, could the ardent young patriot, gifted, enthusiastic,
and impatient of the restrictions placed upon himself and his
fellow-countrymen, find an audience and an outlet for the fiery
eloquence that heaved and burned in his soul? Clearly in popular
gatherings and in the courts of law. But the people at that time
were so timid, nay, so degraded, that they dared not assemble in any
force to protest against the tyranny that had for so many generations
enslaved them; or, if a few hundreds did assemble together, the sight
of a magistrate, or the presence of some truculent follower of the
castle, like the infamous Maj. Sirr, was sufficient to disperse them,
while the few Catholic noblemen and gentry yet left were as timid as so
many hares. The Irish Catholics of that epoch, so long trodden under
foot, and deprived absolutely of political power and landed interests,
were not like the Catholics of to-day, who, in all thankfulness be it
said, are triumphantly bearing aloft the banner of the church when so
much of Europe is trailing it in the mire of infidelity and communism.
Then Wolfe Tone, once their secretary, in his _Memoirs_, and Wyse, in
his _History of the Catholic Association_, likened them to the servile
Jews, and described them as deficient in manliness and self-respect.
They crawled at the feet of a hostile government, says the latter,
fawned on their Protestant neighbors, and felt honored by being even
noticed by persons of that creed, even though in every respect their
inferiors. Such people had very little business in the civil courts to
give, and what little they had they gave to those who loathed their
creed and despised themselves.

O'Connell soon saw that nothing could be effected in the way of
popular demonstrations with such unpromising materials. He therefore
adopted another and a wiser course. The courts became his fulcrum,
and his eloquence the lever, by which he sought to raise the spirit
of the nation. Term after term, year after year, his potent voice was
heard ringing through the halls of justice by an astonished bar and
delighted and electrified audiences, in the defence of the victims of
landlord tyranny or official persecution. His arguments to the bench,
and his harangues to the jury, were always full of fire, audacity, and
logic, and were seldom, even in the face of unmitigated prejudice,
unsuccessful. Pathos and humor, wit and vituperation, strong appeals
to the patriotism of his hearers, and stern denunciations of the
rashness and folly of some of his compatriots, were with him invariably
mingled with sound common sense and unerring legal acumen. So great,
indeed, was his success as a pleader in criminal cases, so unlimited
his resources in difficult motions, and so general his triumphs over
ignorance and bigotry, that, before most of his fellow-practitioners
had earned their first fees, he found himself in the enjoyment of a
lucrative practice, and, what to him was an object of much greater
importance, the spokesman of the degraded majority, and the oracle
of his people. His forensic efforts were not confined to judges and
juries exclusively. He lost no opportunity of throwing into his legal
arguments and speeches some remarks for the benefit of the masses who
always throng Irish courts--remarks which never failed to elicit the
wildest delight and the most hearty applause.

In this indirect way he was gradually infusing into his countrymen
that spirit of manhood which so powerfully moved himself. As an
evidence of this, we may quote an extract, though a long one, from
his speech in defence of Magee, editor of the _Evening Post_, then
the most influential advocate of Catholic rights in Ireland. In
1813, Magee was prosecuted for a libel on the Duke of Richmond, the
retiring lord-lieutenant; and as the crown officers in their speeches,
and, as it appeared, by previous arrangement, endeavored to give
to the trial--having first selected a jury to suit themselves--a
political significance, Magee's counsel willingly joined issue
with them on their own terms. The array of legal ability on both
sides was proportionate to the gravity of the question involved.
For the government appeared the Attorney-General, Saurin, the
Solicitor-General, Bushe, and Sergeants Moore, Ball, and McMahon;
for the defence, O'Connell, assisted by Messrs. Wallace, Hamilton,
Findley, and Philips. Saurin, in his opening, alluding to the Catholic
Board, of which the defendant's newspaper was the organ, made use of
these words: "If the libel only related to him [Richmond], it would
have gone by unprosecuted by me. But the imputation is made against
the administration of justice by the government of Ireland, and it
forms only a part of a system of calumny with which an association of
factious and revolutionary men are in the habit of vilifying every
constitutional authority in the land." The opportunity thus afforded
O'Connell was instantly and dexterously seized by him to reply with
more than his usual boldness and wealth of invective. In the course of
his long address to the jury, he said:

  "My lord, upon the Catholic subject I commence with one assertion
  of the Attorney-General, which I trust I misunderstood. He talked,
  as I collected him, of the Catholics having imbibed principles of
  a seditious, treasonable, and revolutionary nature! He seemed to
  me most distinctly to charge us with treason! There is no relying
  on his words for his meaning--I know there is not. On a former
  occasion, I took down a repetition of this charge full seventeen
  times on my brief; and yet afterwards it turned out that he never
  intended to make any such charge; that he forgot he had ever used
  those words, and he disclaimed the idea they naturally convey. It
  is clear, therefore, that upon this subject he knows not what he
  says; and that these phrases are the mere flowers of his rhetoric,
  but quite innocent of any meaning!

  "Upon this account I pass him by, I go beyond him, and I content
  myself with proclaiming those charges, whosoever may make them,
  to be false and base calumnies! It is impossible to refute such
  charges in the language of dignity or temper. But if any man
  dares to charge the Catholic body, or the Catholic Board, or any
  individuals of that Board, with sedition or treason, I do here, I
  shall always in this court, in the city, in the field, brand him as
  an infamous and profligate liar!

  "Pardon the phrase, but there is no other suitable to the occasion.
  But he is a profligate liar who so asserts, because he must know
  that the whole tenor of our conduct confutes the assertion. What is
  it we seek?"

  "_Chief-Justice._--What, Mr. O'Connell, can this have to do with
  the question which the jury are to try?"

  "_Mr. O'Connell._--You heard the Attorney-General traduce and
  calumniate us; you heard him with patience and with temper--listen
  now to our vindication!

  "I ask, What is it we seek? What is it we incessantly, and, if
  you please, clamorously, petition for? Why, to be allowed to
  partake of the advantages of the constitution. We are earnestly
  anxious to share the benefits of the constitution. We look to
  the participation in the constitution as our greatest political
  blessing. If we desired to destroy it, would we seek to share
  it? If we wished to overturn it, would we exert ourselves
  through calumny, and in peril, to obtain a portion of its
  blessings? Strange, inconsistent voice of calumny! You charge us
  with intemperance in our exertions for a participation in the
  constitution, and you charge us at the same time, almost in the
  same sentence, with a design to overturn the constitution. The
  dupes of your hypocrisy may believe you; but, base calumniators,
  you do not, you cannot believe yourselves!

  "The Attorney-General--'this wisest and best of men,' as his
  colleague, the Solicitor-General, called him in his presence,--the
  Attorney-General next boasted of his triumph over Pope and Popery;
  'I put down the Catholic Committee; I will put down, at my good
  time, the Catholic Board.' This boast is partly historical, partly
  prophecy. He was wrong in his history--he is quite mistaken in
  his prophecy. He did not put down the Catholic Committee; we gave
  up that name the moment that this sapient Attorney-General's
  polemico-legal controversy dwindled into a mere dispute about
  words. He told us that, in the English language, 'pretence' means
  'purpose.' Had it been French and not English, we might have
  been inclined to respect his judgment; but in point of English,
  we venture to differ with him. We told him, 'Purpose,' good Mr.
  Attorney-General, is just the reverse of 'pretence.' The quarrel
  grew warm and animated. We appealed to common sense, to the
  grammar, and to the dictionary; common sense, grammar, and the
  dictionary decided in our favor. He brought his appeal to this
  court, your lordship, and your brethren unanimously decided that in
  point of law--mark, mark, gentlemen of the jury, the sublime wisdom
  of the law--the court decided that, in point of law, 'pretence'
  does mean 'purpose'!

  "Fully contented with this very reasonable and most satisfactory
  decision, there still remained a matter of fact between us. The
  Attorney-General charged us with being representatives; we denied
  all representation. He had two witnesses to prove the fact for
  him; they swore to it one way at one trial, and directly the
  other way at the next. An honorable, intelligent, and enlightened
  jury disbelieved those witnesses at the first trial; matters were
  better managed at the second trial--the jury were better arranged.
  I speak delicately, gentlemen: the jury were better arranged, as
  the witnesses were better informed; and, accordingly, there was
  one verdict for us on the representative question, and one verdict
  against us....

  "Let me pledge myself to you that he imposes on you when he
  threatens to crush the Catholic Board. Illegal violence may do it,
  force may effectuate it; but your hopes and his will be defeated
  if he attempts it by any course of law. I am, if not a lawyer, at
  least a barrister. On this subject I ought to know something, and I
  do not hesitate to contradict the Attorney-General on this point,
  and to proclaim to you and to the country that the Catholic Board
  is a perfectly legal assembly; that it not only does not violate
  the law, but that it is entitled to the protection of the law;
  and in the very proudest tone of firmness, I hurl defiance at the
  Attorney-General!

  "I defy him to allege a law or a statute, or even a proclamation,
  that is violated by the Catholic Board. No, gentlemen, no; his
  religious prejudices--if the absence of every charity can be called
  anything religious,--his religious prejudices really obscure
  his reason, his bigoted intolerance has totally darkened his
  understanding, and he mistakes the plainest facts, and misquotes
  the clearest law, in the ardor and vehemence of his rancor. I
  disclaim his moderation, I scorn his forbearance. I tell him he
  knows not the law, if he thinks as he says; and if he thinks so, I
  tell him to his beard that he is not honest in not having sooner
  prosecuted us, and I challenge him to that prosecution."[77]

Those were brave words, such as the ears of the English officials were
unused to hear, but which found a responsive echo in the hearts of
millions of the oppressed Catholics, degraded and enthralled as they
were at that time. On the first day of its publication, ten thousand
copies of the entire address were sold, and in a short time it was
to be found in nearly every house and place of public resort in the
country. It was also translated into French and Spanish, and eagerly
read and commented upon on the continent. In fact, this trial may be
considered the true initial point of the great Catholic movement which
culminated in emancipation sixteen years afterwards.

To a man of less indomitable will and less transcendent legal
abilities, a course such as O'Connell had adopted would have been
utterly ruinous. Then, as now, but to a far greater extent, the Irish
judges were the mere creatures of the castle, and their least frown or
sneer was considered sufficient to blast the prospects of any young
aspirant for professional honors, even if he were only suspected of
patriotic leanings. But in the future Emancipator they met their
equal, not only in point of legal knowledge, but their superior in
moral courage and in that mental force which, like a torrent, swept
everything before it. The following anecdotes, told of O'Connell
while in active practice, illustrate his method of dealing with the
government jurists:

  "Happening to be one day present in the courts in Dublin, where a
  discussion arose on a motion for a new trial, a young attorney was
  called upon by the opposing counsel either to admit a statement
  as evidence, or hand in some document he could legally detain.
  O'Connell stood up, and told the attorney to make no admission.

  "'Have you a brief in this case, Mr. O'Connell?' asked Baron
  McCleland, with very peculiar emphasis.

  "'I have not, my lord; but I shall have one when the case goes down
  to the assizes.'

  "'When _I_ was at the bar, it was not _my_ habit to anticipate
  briefs.'

  "'When _you_ were at the bar, I never chose _you_ for a model;
  and now that you are on the bench, I shall not submit to your
  dictation.'

  "Leaving the judge to digest this retort, he walked out of the
  court, accompanied by the young attorney.

  "At a case tried at the Cork assizes, a point arose touching the
  legality of certain evidence, which O'Connell argued was clearly
  admissible. He sustained his own view very fully, reasoning with
  that force and clearness, and quoting precedent with that facility,
  for which he was distinguished. But it was to no purpose. The
  court ruled against him, and the witnesses were shut out. The
  trial was of extraordinary length, and at the close of the day the
  proceedings were not ended. On the following morning, when the case
  was about to be resumed, the judge addressed O'Connell:

  "'I have reconsidered my decision of yesterday,' said his lordship,
  'and my present opinion is that the evidence tendered by you should
  not have been rejected. You can, therefore, reproduce the evidence
  now.'

  "Instead of obsequiously thanking him for his condescension, as
  another would have done, O'Connell's impatience broke out:

  "'Had your lordship known as much law yesterday as you do to-day,'
  said he bitterly, 'you would have spared me a vast amount of time
  and trouble, and my client a considerable amount of injury. Crier,
  call up the witnesses.'"[78]

The career of the great criminal lawyer--for his civil business was
comparatively small--lasted for more than a generation, and his success
was uniform and uninterrupted, while his fees in the aggregate,
for that time, were enormous. "A single fact," says the author just
quoted, "will demonstrate the confidence which the Irish public placed
at this period in the professional abilities of O'Connell. In the
autumnal assizes of 1813, twenty-six cases were tried in the Limerick
Record Court. In every one of these O'Connell held a brief. He was
likewise retained in every criminal case tried in the same city. His
professional career was equally triumphant and extraordinary in the
autumn assizes of Ennis; while in Cork and his native province, Kerry,
it was that year, if possible, exceeded. At this golden period of
his life, his prosperity, flowing from his brilliant abilities, and
his popularity, springing from his country's gratitude, rendered his
position at the bar in the highest degree enviable."

But it was not as a jurist or an advocate that O'Connell was destined
to hand down his name to posterity covered with imperishable glory. He
only used his great professional success to further two ends. Like a
true patriot, and, _à fortiori_, unlike the politicians of to-day, he
desired first to establish his own independence before attempting to
obtain that of his countrymen, knowing well that poverty, associated
with ambition, is too often the means of leading men, otherwise honest,
into the commission of acts not always honorable or meritorious. Then,
also, as we have before intimated, he desired, under the protection
of the court, to instil into the hearts and souls of the dejected
Catholics a spirit of manliness and courage by his burning appeals to
courts and juries--words which, if uttered out of court, would have
entailed on him endless prosecutions and proscription.

Strictly speaking, O'Connell cannot be considered as the leader of
the Irish Catholics till 1820, when Henry Grattan died. That brilliant
orator and inflexible patriot, though a Protestant, always enjoyed
the confidence and esteem of the persecuted masses; and whether in or
out of Parliament, in College Green or St. Stephen's, his conduct was
ever such as to command their respect and affection. O'Connell, on the
contrary, up to that date, was unable to control for any length of
time the feeble movements which, during the previous decade, had been
made by the Catholic body to obtain some redress of their grievances.
His audacious denunciation of the government, and his contempt for the
advocates of half measures, frightened away such lukewarm Catholics as
Lords Fingal, Trimleston, and French; while his superior foresight,
skill, and perhaps arrogance, frequently led him into disputes with the
less clear-headed and more violent of his other associates. A portion
of the national press, also, looked coldly upon the burly lawyer,
fearing his ambition; while many of the clergy and bishops hesitated
to yield implicit confidence to a man who was once a freemason, and
a good deal of whose leisure time, it was said, was spent amid the
_convives_ of the capital. The "Catholic Committee," which was mainly
his creation, was established in 1808, and easily suppressed by the
government, after a useless existence of less than three years. Its
successor, the "Catholic Board," was equally powerless, and even
more given to internal dissensions; and after its demise, in 1814,
nine years elapsed, during which the Catholics, divided, dispirited,
and despairing, made no effort whatever for their rights, unless the
forwarding of an odd petition to the English Parliament might be called
so.

In fact, the generation that had witnessed the horrors of '98 and
the wholesale perfidy of the men who planned and passed the act of
union, were not fit to carry on a manly, determined agitation: fear had
been driven into their very marrow, and the badge of slavery was worn
with a calmness that closely resembled contentment. It required a new
generation to conduct such a movement with success, and a leader to
point the way to victory.

Time at last brought both. The first sign of returning life in the
people was evinced upon the occasion of a relief bill having been
introduced into the House of Commons in 1821, and passed by that body
by nineteen majority. Though of course defeated by the Lords, its
partial success, and the unexpected support it received from some of
the more distinguished members, had a salutary effect on the public
mind in Ireland, and aroused hopes that had long lain dormant in the
bosom of the Catholic party. Meetings began to be held in different
parts of the provinces, and at length a _Catholic Association_ was
formed in Dublin, April 28, 1823. Its founder was O'Connell, then
in his prime, physically and mentally; his reputation as an orator
and a statesman beyond question; his impetuosity mollified, if not
subdued; and his judgment matured by long experience of actual life.
At first the association numbered but a few individuals; so few,
indeed, that after it had been a year in existence, it was difficult
to get the necessary quorum of members to attend its stated meetings;
but a combination of circumstances almost providential, and certainly
unexpected, occurred, which gave the movement an irresistible impulse.
The hierarchy of Ireland unanimously endorsed the movement; the
clergy not only approved of it, but were active in extending the
organization; the poet Moore dropped the lyre, and took up the pen
controversial; the illustrious "J. K. L." thundered through the press;
while the halls of Parliament rang with the eloquence of Brougham,
Mackintosh, and Sir F. Burdett. The rent or revenue to conduct and
disseminate a knowledge of the principles of the association flowed in
with unparalleled generosity, sometimes as much as ten thousand dollars
being received weekly by the treasurer. O'Connell was the head and
front, the vivifying principle, organizer, and counsellor of this grand
uprising of an enslaved people; and his efforts were as untiring as his
advice was judicious and well timed.

At length the government, the supporters of Protestant ascendency,
became alarmed, and at the session of 1825 of the British Parliament a
bill was introduced to suppress the association. That body immediately
delegated O'Connell and R. L. Sheil to attend the bar of the House, and
offer their testimony as to the perfect legality of the organization.
They attended, but were not heard, though admitted to seats in the
body of the chamber. Still, they were ably represented by Brougham
and other influential members. Speaking of the two delegates, the
_Edinburgh Review_ of that day well said: "No men in circumstances so
difficult and delicate ever behaved with greater temper and moderation,
or more recommended themselves to all parties by their fairness and
the conciliatory manner of their proceedings. Of necessity ignorant
of the men with whom they were called upon to act, they could not
avoid falling into some errors.... The sanguine temper which made
them give ear to the hope [of emancipation] so unaccountably held out
by some persons, is to be reckoned the chief of these mistakes; for
it led to far too much carelessness about the blow to be levelled at
the association.... When the bill was prepared for putting down the
association, a debate ensued, not, perhaps, paralleled in parliamentary
history for its importance and the sustained excellence which marked
the whole compass of its duration. Four whole nights did this memorable
contest last, if contest it might be called, where all the strength
lay, except that of numbers, on one side. The effect produced by
this debate out of doors and within the Parliament itself was truly
important. The whole range of Irish policy was discussed, all the
grievances of Ireland were openly canvassed, the conduct of the
government freely arraigned, and such a death-blow given to the cry
of 'No Popery!' and the other delusions of the High-Church party that
intolerance lost more ground that night than it had ever hoped to
regain by the alarm which the association enabled it to excite. The
conduct of that body was most triumphantly defended, and it appeared
plainly that the peace of Ireland had been restored by its exertions
and maintained by its influence."

Nevertheless, the act passed and the association was dissolved, but
only to reappear in another form. The cause of emancipation had gained
many and powerful friends, not the least of whom was the editor of the
quarterly just quoted. A new _Catholic Association_ was formed the
same year, and the work of arousing the supine masses went bravely on.
Meetings were held simultaneously in the various centres of population,
at one or more of which O'Connell was generally present; for he
seemed ubiquitous. The patriotic newspapers teemed with speeches,
communications, and extracts, all directed to the same purpose. The
country was in a state of tremendous fermentation, to a degree that
it was thought impossible it could go further, till the Emancipator
himself, by a masterly stroke of policy, which could only have been the
inspiration of genius, resolved to get himself elected to Parliament,
and "carry the war into Africa." Ireland was now thoroughly aroused and
organized; so he resolved, if he could not convince or persuade England
to do her justice, at least to shock the latter into something like
equity, or expose her to the world as an oppressor and a hypocrite.
He had seen what beneficial effects had followed the debate on the
"Algerine Bill," and he was determined not to rest till all Europe, all
Christendom, should become familiar with the wrongs of the Catholics.
In 1828, a vacancy occurred in the representation of Clare. O'Connell
presented himself as a candidate, was against all odds elected, and
immediately proceeded to London.

Events, however, hurried on so fast that he had not time to present
himself to the Commons before the great measure for which he had so
long struggled, and for which millions had prayed for years, had
passed. On the 22d of January, 1828, the Duke of Wellington was
appointed First Lord of the Treasury. Towards the end of that year,
the Catholic Association was voluntarily dissolved, in conformity to a
preconcerted plan between the Irish Catholics and the British Ministry,
having first passed unanimously the following resolution:

  "That, as the last act of this body, we do declare that we are
  indebted to Daniel O'Connell, beyond all other men, for its
  original creation and sustainment, and that he is entitled, for
  the achievement of its freedom, to the everlasting gratitude of
  Ireland."

On the 13th of April, 1829, the Emancipation Act received the royal
signature, the bill having passed the House by an overwhelming vote,
and the Lords by one hundred and four majority.

Many persons fondly thought that this law had laid the fell spirit of
Protestant bigotry for ever; but it was not so. The snake was only
scotched, not killed. It required another blow to render it completely
innoxious. O'Connell, who had been elected before the bill passed,
claimed a right to a seat in the Commons, even though a Catholic, and
in support of that claim presented himself early in the session. The
scene that ensued is thus described by an eye-witness:

  "It is impossible to convey a perfect idea of the silent, the
  almost breathless attention with which O'Connell was watched and
  perused, when, in compliance with the request of the speaker, he
  advanced to the table. So large a number of peers had never been
  previously seen in that House. Two members of the aristocracy
  accompanied O'Connell, and, as a matter of form, introduced him
  to the House. Their names were Ebrington and Dungannon. As he
  passed the bar of the House, every eye was fixed on him. The
  first oath tendered to O'Connell was that of the supremacy, which
  he was seen, by the silent and watching multitude, to wave away
  and refuse. They heard him say: 'I apply to take my seat under
  the new act. I am ready to take the oath directed to be taken by
  Roman Catholic members. I do not feel that I am bound to take
  _these_ oaths.' As he uttered these last words, he passed his
  hand over the oaths which he objected to, and which were affixed
  to pasteboards. 'You will be good enough,' added O'Connell, 'to
  inform the speaker that I do not think I am bound to take these
  oaths.' The chief clerk gathered up the pieces of pasteboard, and
  hurried up with them to the speaker, where he was seen pointing
  out to that functionary the oaths which O'Connell refused to take.
  The speaker then rose and said that, unless the new member took
  the old oaths, he must withdraw. The speaker alluded to those
  blasphemous oaths whose injustice was so flagrant that they had
  been just repealed. O'Connell, it is said, requested that the oath
  of qualification, stating that he possessed six hundred a year,
  should be administered to him; but this was likewise refused.
  During all this time, the speaker's manner and expression of
  countenance towards O'Connell, on whom he fixed his regards, were
  extremely courteous, but the declaration that he must withdraw firm
  and authoritative. O'Connell looked round, as if expecting support;
  but this failing, he bowed, and stood facing the speaker in perfect
  silence. At this moment, Brougham was seen to rise; but before he
  could address the house, the speaker exclaimed 'Order!' and again
  intimated to O'Connell that he must withdraw. The latter bowed
  respectfully, and, without uttering a single syllable, withdrew.
  After his departure, Brougham, who was still on his legs, addressed
  the house in a subdued tone, and, after some discussion, the debate
  was postponed.

  "May 18, 1829, was a memorable day in the history of O'Connell's
  eventful life. Peel, rising in the House of Commons on that day,
  moved that O'Connell should be heard at the bar--a motion which
  was carried. Accordingly, he advanced to the bar, attended by
  Pierce Mahony--the whole house regarding him with the most intense
  interest. He addressed the house in a long and elaborate speech,
  in which he clearly demonstrated his right. His courteous manner
  and temperate address conciliated, in some degree, the good opinion
  of the members. He exhibited that flexibility of mind, that power
  of accommodating himself to his auditory, which formed his most
  remarkable attribute. When he concluded, the question was taken
  up by the lawyers, who endeavored to explain the meaning of the
  new act to the very men who had passed it. As the aristocracy had
  previously determined that O'Connell should not sit, the members of
  the lower house, who always do their bidding, rejected O'Connell's
  claim.

  "Retiring with Pierce Mahony by his side, O'Connell endeavored to
  recover the seat which he had occupied previously to his appearance
  at the table. But to his surprise, he found two gentlemen in
  possession of it. They were Frenchmen, but spoke English like
  natives. One of these men afterwards reigned in France as Louis
  Philippe. The other was his son, the Duke of Orleans.

  "The following day, O'Connell appeared for the third time at the
  bar of the House. He was told by the speaker that unless he took
  the oath of supremacy, the House would not permit him to take his
  seat.

  "'Are you willing to take the oath of supremacy?' asked the speaker.

  "'Allow me to look at it,' replied O'Connell.

  "The oath was handed to O'Connell, and he looked at it in silence
  for a few seconds; then raising his head, he said: 'In this oath
  I see one assertion as to a matter of fact, which I _know_ to be
  untrue. I see a second assertion as to a matter of opinion, which
  I _believe_ to be untrue. I therefore refuse to take this oath.' A
  writ was immediately issued for a new election."

He was again triumphantly elected for Clare, and from thenceforth till
his death occupied a seat in the House, representing at various times
different constituencies. Of his conduct as member of Parliament,
however his contemporaries might have differed in opinion, either
through partiality or prejudice, posterity will do him the justice of
according to him a wonderful versatility of talent, a conscientious
desire to forward the interests of his country, an unswerving courage
and dignity in meeting the taunts and sneers of Tory and Whig alike
against his compatriots--a process of reasoning then much in vogue
among English politicians. From Peel, Russell, Disraeli, and Sipthorpe
downwards, no man, among the seven hundred or so that are supposed
to represent the commons of Great Britain and Ireland, ever dared to
raise their crest against Catholics or Irishmen, but, swifter than the
flight of a falcon on a heron, the Liberator pounced upon him, and,
metaphorically, tore him to pieces. In the debates on the Reform Bill,
the Poor Law Act, and the tithe question, he was generally found on
the side of popular rights and free government; and if, as has been
charged, he sometimes leaned towards the Whigs, it was because he
accepted their measures as the lesser evils.

FOOTNOTES:

[76] _A Life and Times of Daniel O'Connell, with Sketches of his
Contemporaries, etc._ 2 vols. Dublin: John Mullany. 1867.

[77] _Life and Speeches of Daniel O'Connell, M.P._ New York: J. A.
McGee. 1872.

[78] _Life and Times of Daniel O'Connell._ (Anonymous.) Dublin. 1867.




THE PRIEST.

  "And the people were waiting for Zachary."--S. LUKE i. 21.


    As morning breaks, or evening shadows steal,
    Duties and thoughts throng round the marble stair,
    Waiting for Him who burneth incense there,
    Till He shall send to bless them as they kneel.
    Greater than Aaron is the mighty Priest
    Who in that radiant shrine for ever dwells;
    Brighter the stones that stud His glowing vest,
    And ravishing the music of His bells
    That tinkle as He moves. The golden air
    Is filled with notes of joy that dance and run
    Through every court, and make the temple one.
    --The lamps are lit; 'tis past the hour of prayer,
    And through the windows is their lustre thrown--
    Deep in the holy place the Priest doth watch alone.

                                                        --_Faber._




GRAPES AND THORNS.


BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF YORKE."


CHAPTER VI.

MARRIAGE BELLS.

That green and sequestered domain which Mr. Schöninger had looked at
across the water-lilies and peopled with his fancies, which, indeed,
he had visited, and was perfectly familiar with, was not so far out
of the world as it appeared. It was in a great triangle made by three
railroads, and there was a station-house a mile back from the pond by
which the tenants of the cottage held easy communication with the two
cities near. Still, the place was not very accessible from without;
for this mile of country road had been made by simply driving over
pasture and field, and through alder-woods, till a track was visible,
and then continuing to drive in the same track. After coming through
the alder-swamp, the road became two yellow-brown lines across the
greensward, and ended in a grove that completely hid the barn built
in it. Between these two yellow-brown lines, at regular distances,
were yellow-brown spots, showing where the horse had stepped. Dobbin
appeared to always step precisely in his own tracks.

It was seldom that any one drove over this road except old Mr. Grey,
whose horse and wagon were, after their kind, quite as old as himself.
Mrs. Macon, zealously collecting useful articles for the new convent,
had driven there in her light phaeton, and spent two hours rummaging
the attics with Mrs. Grey, and talking over the relics they found; that
is, Mrs. Grey explained, and her visitor listened. She had gone away
with bundles piled up to her chin.

One afternoon late in August, Mr. Grey harnessed Dobbin to the
wagon--"tackled" Dobbin, he would have said--and started for the
railroad station. He had almost reached the alders, which seemed to bar
the way, when he drew the reins and listened. If it had been Mrs. Grey,
instead of her husband, she would have driven straight on, for she was
perfectly deaf.

These alders leaned over, and, in summer, completely hid the road, and
whatever went through there had to breast a tide of leaves. It had
never occurred to Mr. Grey to cut the twigs away, nor, apparently,
had it occurred to Dobbin to fret against them. They jogged on
uncomplainingly, never in a hurry, and lived and let live. Mr. Grey's
philosophy was that every person in the world is appointed to do just
so much, and that, as soon as his work is accomplished, he dies. He
preferred to do his part in a leisurely manner, and live the longer.

The sound he listened to was a faint noise of wheels and hoofs, in,
or beyond, the alders. For two carriages to meet in that place would
be a predicament more perplexing than that of the two unwise men and
the two wise goats on the narrow bridge we have all read of; because
here neither could turn back, nor walk over the other, and if one
should be killed, still that would not clear the track. So the driver
waited, his mouth slightly open, to hear the better, and the lash of
his old-fashioned whip hanging motionless over his shoulder. The old
white horse dropped his nose, and went to sleep, and the creaking and
rattling wagon looked as if it had made its final stand, and meant to
go to pieces where it was.

There was just sound enough to show how still it was. Some wild
creature under a rude cage on the lawn snarled lowly to itself, there
was the swift rustle of a bird's wings through the air, and the roll
of a train of cars lessened to a bee's hum by distance. The pond was
glassy, the rails shone hot beyond it; farther still the sultry woods
heaved their billows of light and shade; and, farthest of all, over a
little scooped-out valley, a single mountain stood on the horizon.

There was, indeed, a carriage among the alders, but by no means such
an equipage as that which awaited it. It was like a fairy coach in
comparison, with a glitter of varnish and metal, and snowy-white lining
that shone like satin, and beautiful horses that pranced from side to
side as they felt the soft, brushing leaves and twigs against their
dainty coats, and pushing into their very eyes. The mice on the box
wore glossy hats, and appeared to be very much disgusted with this trap
into which they had fallen. To the birds overhead the whole must have
looked like something swimming in a sea of green leaves.

The fairies in the coach were not fully visible from any point, but
a clear voice rose presently from the submerged cushions. "There's a
sufficient road underneath, John," it said. "Drive where you see the
alder-tops lowest. There are no roots, if you keep the way. It is only
overleaning branches."

In a few minutes they emerged, and drew up beside the wagon. Its
occupant did not make the slightest reply to the bright salutation
of the two ladies. It was not his custom to salute any one. He merely
waited to see what would be said.

"O Mr. Grey!" says Annette, "if I had a pair of strong shears, I would
cut a peep-hole, at least, through that jungle. Did you get my letter?"

He nodded, with a short "Yes," looking with calm scrutiny at the two
young women.

"Well?" continued Miss Ferrier.

"Elizabeth is out on the pond," he said; "but the old woman will blow
the horn for her. She'll show you the flowers; and you can have 'em
all. I can put them aboard of any train you settle on."

There was a moment of silence; for Mr. Grey had condensed the whole
business into a few words, and there was really no more to say. Annette
had written him to save all his flowers for her wedding, and this was
his answer.

"Are you going away?" she asked, rather needlessly.

"I'm going to meet the next up-train," he answered, and began to tug at
his reins, and chirrup at Dobbin.

They left him making great efforts to get under way again, and drove
noiselessly on.

"What a peculiarly condensed sort of man he is in his speech!" remarked
Miss Pembroke.

"Condensed!" exclaimed the other. "His talk reminds me of some one
whose head and limbs have been cut off. It takes me by surprise, and
leaves me astonished. I always feel as if something ought to be done."

So one carriage creaked into the alders, and the other sparkled up to
the house door.

This door stood open, and within it sat an old woman, her hands folded
in her lap, her eyes looking out over the water. She had a placid face,
and looked refined. A sweet, faint smile greeted her visitors, and her
voice was sweet, and was very low, as the voices of some deaf persons
are.

"Elizabeth has gone out on the water," she said. "I will call her."

"Don't rise!" exclaimed Annette quickly, preventing her. "I'll get the
horn for you. I know where everything is here."

The old lady understood the action, though she had not heard the words,
and sank back into her seat again.

"She feels for everybody's pain," she said gratefully, speaking to
herself.

Annette tripped lightly across the sunny, silent room, and took down
from a nail beside the chimney a large ox-horn suspended there. With
simple politeness, the old lady obeyed her visitor's wish, and did
not rise even when the horn was placed in her hand. She merely leaned
forward, and, placing it to her lips, blew a loud and prolonged blast
that sounded far over water and forest.

"That will bring her," she said, and gave back the rustic instrument
for Annette to return to its place.

The two then strolled down to the water-side to wait for the lady of
the lake. They seated themselves on a mossy rock close to the water,
under the shade of the only tree left there. It was an old pine-tree,
of which the main part was decayed, but one strong branch made a shade
over them, and held firmly all its dark-green fasces in token of a
sovereignty it would not abdicate while life remained. Beside the rock,
in the warm sunshine, stood a group of Japan lilies.

"I don't like them," Annette said. "They are beautiful in their way,
but they look cruel and detestable. They seem to me like a large pink
and white woman who poisons people."

"My dear," said Miss Pembroke, as she bent her head over the flowers,
"it would be well if you could contrive to shut the battery of those
nerves of yours once in a while."

"It might be well if I could be changed into one like you," Annette
responded; but immediately corrected herself. "No! And I do not believe
that the most unfortunate and discontented person in the world would
be willing to change his individuality with another. It is only his
circumstances he would change, and be still himself, but at his best.
Perhaps that is what will keep us contented in heaven, though we may
see others far above us: each will be himself in perfection, with all
the good in possession that he is capable of holding, and will see that
he cannot be different without being some one else."

"Perhaps," said Honora dreamily.

It may be that she felt unconsciously a little of that superiority
which the calm assume over the troubled, though the calm may be of
the pool, and the trouble of the ocean, or both a mere question of
temperament. She leaned over the lily, and examined the red clots
on its petals; how they rose higher, and strained upward toward the
centre, till by their passionate stress they drew up the milky flower
substance into a stem to support them; as though they would reach the
slender filaments that towered aloft over their heads. Two or three
tiniest red spiders were picnicking on the fragrant white ground among
these stems, and did not seem to even suspect the presence of a large
black spider, with extravagantly long legs, which walked directly over
the flower and them in two or three sextuple strides.

"The petal they stand on must seem to them a soft and snowy-white
moss," drawled Miss Pembroke, half asleep with the heat and the
silence. "I should think the perfume of it would be too strong for
their little noses."

"Perhaps the particles of fragrance are too large for their little
noses. Or, perhaps, they have no noses," responded Miss Ferrier,
gravely.

A faint, responsive murmur of assent from the other.

Annette tossed twigs into the water, and watched the dimples they made,
and which way they floated. "That is a wild fox up under that cage,"
she said. "It is cruel to keep it there. I shall free it when we go
back."

"Perhaps Mr. Grey is going to stuff its skin, and may not like to lose
it," Honora answered, having finished her examination of the lily. "I
have heard that he is quite a naturalist, and has specimens of every
animal, and insect, and plant about."

Annette tossed a pebble this time with energy. "I hate naturalists,"
she remarked. "I always fancy that they have bugs in their pockets."

"Bugs in their pockets! That would be uncomfortable," was the placid
comment.

"For the bugs, yes!" said Annette; then, after a moment, added,
"Whenever it is a question of tormenting what Lord Erskine called the
'mute creation,' I am always for the plaintiff. Who is to be profited
by knowing about bugs and beetles? It is a contemptible science, and, I
repeat, a cruel one. I never can like a woman or a man whom I have once
seen sticking pins through beetles, and butterflies, and bats; and I
would as lief have a human skull for an ornament in a room as a stuffed
skin of anything. I shall set that fox free this instant. I observed it
as I came past, and it looked like a person going crazy. Its eyes were
like fire and there was froth round its teeth."

Miss Pembroke looked up in alarm, for Annette had risen. "Do be
careful!" she said. "His bite would kill you. Don't you remember that
Duke of Richmond who was bitten by a fox, in Canada, and died of
hydrophobia a day to two afterwards? He was playing with it, and it
snapped at his hand."

"I'm not going to play with it, but to free it," said Annette, and
walked rapidly across the green. "I've found one fault in Honora,"
she muttered. "She is sweet and good to a certain length, but her
sympathies are circumscribed."

The cage of strong withes was securely fastened to the ground with
wooden pins, and the door was tied with a slender chain. The fox was
furthermore secured by a rope which held one of his legs. He faced
about and glared at his liberator, while, from the outside, she cut the
rope with her pocket-knife. His eyes were like balls of fire, but he
did not snap at her. He did not trust her, but he had perhaps a doubt
that she meant him well.

The leg free, Annette slipped the knob of the chain, and opened the
door.

"In honor of the Creator of men and beasts, and S. Francis of Assisi,
go free now and for ever," she said.

The creature stood motionless one instant, then, with the rush and
speed of an arrow, it shot through the opening, flew across the green,
and leaped into the water, that hissed as though a red-hot coal had
been dropped into it. Annette ran, laughing and full of excitement,
back to the rock, and watched the swimmer. Only his nose and long tail
showing, he made fiercely for the shore, his whole being concentrated
in the one longing for freedom.

"If he should run into a cage on the other side, I believe his heart
would burst with the disappointment," Annette said, standing up to
watch him. "Bravo! There he is, my dear brother, the fox."

He leaped up the farther shore and over the track, and rushed headlong
into the broad, free woods.

"Won't he have a story to tell!" said Annette, seating herself; "that
is, if he ever stops running. You may depend on it, Honora, I shall be
a great heroine among the foxes; and as years go by, and the story is
passed down from generation to generation, I shall undergo a change in
the picture. My hair will grow to be golden, with stars in it, and my
eyes will be radiant, and they will put wings on me, and I shall be an
angel. That's the way the myths and marvels were made. But how they
will get over my sawing off the rope with a dull pen-knife is more than
I can tell."

"The spirit will be true, dear, if not the letter," Honora answered,
smiling. "What signifies a little inaccuracy in the material part? That
will be turned to dust before the story reaches the winged period."

Miss Ferrier had something on her mind which she shrank a little from
speaking of, but presently mentioned in that careless manner we assume
when we care more than we like to own:

"I've been wondering lately whether it would be silly in me to have my
genealogy looked up. It seems a little top-heavy to have one's family
tree all leaves and no roots, though mine is not so in reality. My
father and mother were both very poor and ignorant when I was born; but
my great-grandfather was a French gentleman. He became poor in some
way, and had no idea how to do anything for himself. I dare say he
was very weak, but he was immensely genteel. He and his sons lived in
a tumble-down old stone house somewhere near Quebec, and ate oatmeal
porridge out of painted china bowls, with heavy spoons that had a crest
on them. There they moaned away their existence in a state of resigned
surprise at their circumstances, and of expectation that the riches
that had taken to themselves wings would fly back again. There was one
desperate one in the family, and he was my grandfather. He grew tired
of shabby gentility, and set out to work. The others cast him off; and
I suppose he wasn't very energetic, or very lucky, for he went down. He
married a wife from the working class, and they had no end of children,
who all died sooner or later, except my father. My grandfather died,
too--was glad to get himself out of sight of the sun; and my poor
father--God be merciful to him!--stumbled on through life in the same
dazed way. All he inherited was the dull astonishment of that old
Frenchman who could never be made to realize that riches would not
some day come back as they had gone. Of course"--Annette shrugged her
shoulders, and laughed slightly--"it would be necessary to drop some
of the later details. That is the way people do. Build a bridge over
the chasm into the shining part. Miss Pembroke, what do you think of my
unearthing my great-grandfather, and setting him up in my parlors for
people to admire? Wouldn't it be more interesting than a stuffed fox?
I am of his ancestry"--her laughter died out in a flash of pride. "If
they had any fire worthy their blood, I have it. Some spark was held in
abeyance, and I have caught it. I would like to go back and search out
my kindred. Well! do you think me vulgar?"

Honora looked at her earnestly. "No, Annette; but you are condescending
too much. You are coming nearer to vulgarity than I ever knew you to
before. Lineage is something, is much, and those who can look back on a
noble and stainless ancestry are fortunate, if they are worthy of it.
I do not wonder that they are pleased to remember their forefathers.
But character is more, and does not need ancestry. It is sufficient to
itself. What, after all, is the real advantage of belonging to a high
family? It is that one is supposed to inherit from it high qualities.
If one has the qualities without the family, it is far higher. It
is the kind of character that founds great families--that natural,
newly-given loftiness. I should be sorry if you allowed yourself to
take a step in this matter, Annette."

"You can easily say all that," Annette replied, half pleased and half
bitter. "You have a past that you can look to with pride."

"With pride!" echoed the other. "I do not understand you. If you mean
Mrs. Carpenter, I certainly like to think of her; but her qualities
were entirely personal. I have nothing to be ashamed of in my family,
and I am thankful for that; but, also, I am not aware that there is
anything to be proud of. It is a merely negative feeling."

"But," Annette said, "your people have always been well off, and some
were very rich, and they were educated."

"And you think me capable of pluming myself on that--of being proud
of an ancestry of prosperous traders and merchants who were passably
educated!"

Honora flushed, and drew herself up involuntarily, with an awakening
of that invincible personal haughtiness which is more soaring than any
mere royalty of blood.

"I never give it a thought, except in a negative way. They merely did
what decent people with ordinary sense and capacity are obliged to do.
No, Annette, don't fancy that I can walk on such small stilts. If it
were an old historical name, now, one that painters had illustrated
and poets sung, that would be fine. If there had been great warriors
and mighty rulers, there would be a chance for pride to come in. Or,
better, if it were some hero or benefactor to the race, whom I could
look back to; or if it were a poet. I always fancy some grace surrounds
the children of a poet. They may not sing, they may be personally
commonplace; but, like the broken vase,

"'The scent of the roses will hang round them still.'"

"I think you must be descended from a poet," Annette said, smiling.

"And so, child," concluded Honora, laying her hand on her companion's
arm, "don't condescend to go into the past for some reason why you
should be respected; find it in yourself. I think it right to tell
you now what might otherwise sound like flattery. I, and many better
judges than I, think you uncommon and admirable. You have made little
mistakes--as who has not?--but they were never mean ones. Don't be led
into pettiness now."

Annette blushed.

"What set me talking of ancestry?" she exclaimed. "It's a dusty
subject, not fit for this fresh, clear place. It belongs to the town.
How quiet and lovely it is here! I would like to come often. In the
city, I can't hear myself think."

They sat a while without saying anything, and looked over the water. A
shower was travelling across the distant mountain, trailing in a dim
silver mist from sky to earth. It sailed nearer, so that drops from the
edge of it dimpled the pond not far away.

A boat came toward them, propelled by a pair of strong arms. Elizabeth
had heard her grandmother's summons, and was coming home. Her little
boat was piled full of boughs of the wild cherry. Strings of its fruit,
like strung garnets, glowed through the green leaves. With this was
a tangled mass of clematis. She had hung a long spray of the vine
over her head and neck, and its silvery-green blossoms glistened in
the loose rings of her short, black hair, which it pushed over her
forehead, and almost into the laughing eyes beneath. Through this vine,
and the blouse that covered but did not hide them, the working of
her supple shoulders could be seen. Her smooth, oval face was deeply
flushed with health, exercise, and warmth.

She was perfectly business-like in her manner, and attended strictly
to what she was doing. Even in passing before the young ladies, and
looking directly in their faces, though her lips parted in a smile,
she made no other sign of recognition. She brought her boat round in a
smooth circle, not without pride, apparently, in displaying her skill,
pushed it into a tiny cove, where the long, trailing grass brushed both
sides, sprang lightly ashore, and tied it to the mooring-ring.

Then she made her half-embarrassed salutation, and stood wiping away
the perspiration that lay in large drops on her forehead, and in little
beads around her mouth.

If these three young women had been changed into flowers, the rower
would have been a peony, Honora a lily, and Annette--but there is
no flower complex and generous enough to be her representative. Be
her symbol, rather, the familiar one of the orb just rounding into
shape out of chaos. She was less well balanced than Honora, merely
because there was so much more to balance. Her freak of searching out
an ancestry would never have been acted on, even if her friend had
approved it. It was one of those thoughts which need only to be put
into words in order to be dismissed. Annette had rid herself of a good
many foolish notions in this way, and had been growing wiser than her
critics by the very acts which they took as proofs of her weakness.

Miss Pembroke had discovered this, for she looked lovingly. Others
were astonished to find themselves awed to-day where they had mocked
but yesterday, and professed that they knew Annette Ferrier only to be
puzzled by her.

It sometimes happens to people that illusory thoughts and feelings,
which, pent in the mind, have an appearance of reality, and even of
force, perish in expressing themselves, as the cloud breaks in thunder.

There was another difference between these two: Annette had one of
those souls that are born nailed to their cross.

It is usual with hasty and superficial judges, people who, as Liszt
says, "desire to promulgate laws in spheres to which nature has denied
them entrance," to show what they fancy is a good-natured contempt for
these discontented beings who cannot accommodate themselves to life
as it is. They mention them with an indulgent smile, and seem to take
pleasure in wounding still further these sensitive souls, not aware
how clearly they display their own presumptuous selfishness. The ease
with which they content themselves with inferior aims and pleasures,
they dignify by the name of philosophy and good sense; and they presume
to censure those who, tormented by a vision of perfection, and feeling
within themselves the premature stirring of powers that can be employed
only in a higher state of existence, seem so imperfect only because to
be perfect they must be superhumanly great. There are two ways in which
this divine discontent may be silenced: the soul may degrade itself,
and treat its ideals as visionary; or it may find rest in God. But no
ordinary piety suffices; only a saintly holiness, flowing in and around
the troubled soul like a sunny and peaceful sea, can lift and bear it
smoothly on to that land where nothing sacred is mocked at, and the
smiles are awakened by no sight of another's pain.

Annette Ferrier had made this much progress, that she had learned to
rely on no one for a sympathy that would satisfy her, and had owned to
herself that her heart required other and nobler aims and motives than
those which had occupied her. She was half aware, or would have been,
if the thought had not been rejected as treasonable, that if she were
not already engaged to Lawrence Gerald, nothing would induce her to
accept him as her future husband. But she had accepted him, and there
was no longer room to doubt or to choose, or even to think of doubting
or choosing. It lacked but a week to their wedding-day, and she was
making her last preparations. What was worth doing at all was worth
doing well, she thought, and resolved to make the occasion a festival
one.

The three walked up the green together, Elizabeth between the two young
ladies. Miss Pembroke stepped quite independently, her hands folded
lightly together; Annette held by the end of the clematis wreath that
still hung over the young girl's shoulders, and looked at her with a
caressing smile.

"Did you buy the little writing-case we were speaking of when I was
here last?" she asked.

"Well, not exactly," was the hesitating answer.

"Not exactly! That means that you have engaged it, or got one that does
not suit, and must be exchanged."

Miss Ferrier had dropped the wreath, and was engaged in gathering up
the cloud of pale blue muslin that flowed around and behind her, and
did not observe the smile on the girl's face.

"No," said Elizabeth, gathering courage from her visitor's kindness.
"You see, when I sat down and looked at the half-eagle you gave
me, I thought it seemed a pity to go right off and spend it for a
writing-case. I could have that, if I wanted to, so I didn't feel quite
so anxious about it; and there were other things I wanted just as much.
It would be nice to have a little clock in my room, and five dollars
would buy one. So since I could have that, too, I felt easier about not
having it. Then, I would like a larger looking-glass. Well, I kind of
thought I had it, since I could buy it if I would. And I could get any
one of the half a dozen other things I wanted, making about ten in all.
But when I knew that I could have either whenever I chose, I didn't
feel in a hurry to get anything; and I was so sure of each one that it
seemed to me as if I had them all. So I just kept the five dollars;
and while I keep it, it is as good as fifty to me. When I spend it, it
will be only five dollars, and I shall want nine things dreadfully, and
be sorry I hadn't bought one of them instead of what I did get."

Annette dropped her gathered-up skirts from her hands to throw her arms
around the young rustic's neck, and kiss her astonished face.

"You dear little soul!" she cried, in an ecstasy, "how quickly you have
found it out!"

Elizabeth blushed immensely, for she was not used to being kissed.
"Found out what?" she asked.

"Why, that nothing in the world is very desirable except what you can't
get."

"Oh!" The girl tossed her head back, and laughed ringingly. "I found
that out as long ago as I used to cry for mince-pie to eat, and then
cry with stomach-ache after I had eaten it. Grandfather used to tell me
then that if there is anything in the world that we want so much we cry
to get it, it will be sure to make us cry still more after we have it.
I never forgot that. Grandfather knows a great deal about everything,"
she concluded, with an air of conviction.

"Did you ever see a creature learn so easily?" Annette said to Honora.
"She begins life with all the wisdom of experience."

Honora sighed as she answered, "She reminds me of something dear Mother
Chevreuse said the last time she came to see me: 'Nothing is worth
working for but bread and heaven.'"

They had reached Mr. Grey's floral treasure-house by this time, and the
flowers absorbed their attention.

"Bushels of asters!" exclaimed Annette, pausing outside the door, and
glancing along the garden-beds. "And they are almost as handsome as
roses. Those will do for the balconies and out-of-the-way places. And,
Elizabeth, I want you to cherish every <DW29> as if it were a jewel. I
don't care about the piebald ones, but the pure purple or pure gold are
quite the thing. And now, Honora, step in here, and own that you never
before saw fuchsias. You remember Edgar Poe's hill of tulips sloping
to the water, like a cataract of gems flowing down from the sky? That
Poetical creature! Well, here's a Niagara of lady's ear-drops."

When at length they had started, and were driving down to their
alder-bath again, Honora leaned out of the carriage, and looked back.

"What a lovely place this would be to spend a honeymoon in!" she said
softly, as if to herself.

"Which, yours or mine?" asked Annette.

Honora blushed. "I was thinking of honeymoons in the abstract," she
replied.

Elizabeth stood on the lawn, and looked after the carriage as long as
it was in sight; and when it was no longer in sight, she still gazed at
the green wall that had closed up behind it. Perhaps she was thinking
what a fine thing it must be to drive in a pretty carriage, and have
gauzy dresses trailing away behind one like clouds; or may be she was
recollecting what they had said to her, and how that delicate, airy
lady had kissed her on the cheek, and laughed with tears in her eyes.

While she gazed, deeply occupied with whatever dream or thought she was
entertaining, the alders parted again, and a man appeared, hesitating
whether to come forward, yet looking at her as if he wished to speak.
Elizabeth did not much like his looks, but she advanced a step to see
what he wanted. No harm had ever come to her there, and she had no
thought of fear. Besides, she would have considered herself perfectly
well able to put this person to flight; for his slim, little figure and
mean face were by no means calculated to inspire either fear or respect.

Encouraged by her advance, the man came forward to meet her.

"My grandfather will soon be home, if you want him," she said directly,
holding aloof.

The stranger did not want to see him; he merely wished to ask some
questions about the place which she could answer.

They were very trivial questions, but she answered them, keeping her
eyes fixed intently on him. He wanted to know what they raised there;
if it was very cold in winter; if it was very hot in summer; if they
had many visitors there; if she was much acquainted in Crichton; if she
had a piano; if she could play; if she knew any good music-teacher. And
perhaps she had seen Mr. Schöninger?

No, she had not seen him.

"Oh! perhaps you have met him without knowing," the man said with
animation, in spite of an assumed carelessness. "Seems to me I saw him
come here this summer. Don't you remember a man whose buggy broke down
beyond there, and he came here for a rope?"

The girl's eyes brightened. "Oh! is that a music-teacher?" she asked.
"His voice sounds like it, or like what a music-teacher's ought to
be. Yes, I remember him. He got on to the wrong road driving up to
Crichton, turned off here instead of going straight on, and something
broke. I gave him a rope, and he went away."

"Let me see; there was somebody else here at the same time, wasn't
there?" he asked, with an air of trying to recollect. "Wasn't there a
woman here getting things for the new convent?"

The disagreeable eagerness in her questioner's eyes chilled the girl;
but there seemed no reason why she should not answer so insignificant a
question. She did so reluctantly. "Yes, Mrs. Macon was here."

"And her carriage was standing at the door?" he added, nodding.

"Seems to me you're very much interested in our visitors," said
Elizabeth abruptly, drawing herself up a little.

The man laughed. "Why, yes, in these two. But I won't ask you much
more. Only tell me one thing. Did you see this Mr. Schöninger come up
to the door, and go away from it?"

"I saw him come up, I didn't see him go away," she said.

The truth was that Miss Elizabeth had admired this stranger
exceedingly, but had not wished him to suspect it. So instead of
frankly looking after him as he went out, she had turned away, with an
air of immense indifference, then rushed to the window to look when she
thought him at a safe distance.

"Then you didn't see him when he passed by the phaeton that stood at
the step?" pursued the questioner.

She shook her head, and pursed her lip out impatiently.

"He had a shawl over his arm when he came. Did you notice whether he
had it when you saw him going away?" was the next question.

"I don't know anything about it," she said shortly; but recollected
even in speaking that she had said to herself as she watched the
strange gentleman going, "How does he hold his shawl so that I can't
see it?"

"Now, one more question, and I have done," the stranger said. His
weak, shuffling manner had quite disappeared, and he was keen and
business-like. "Was there anybody else about the house who saw this
man?"

"Yes; grandfather was in the garden; but he didn't come near him."

"What part of the garden? In sight of the door?"

"I won't tell you another word!" she exclaimed, turning away. "And I
think you'd better go."

When she glanced back again, the man had disappeared. She felt uneasy
and regretful. Something was going on which she did not understand, and
it seemed to her that she had done harm in answering those questions.

"I wish I had gone into the house when I saw the prying creature," she
said to herself; "or I wish I had held my tongue. He's got what he came
for, I can see that."

He had got what he came for, or very nearly.

"Shall I waylay the old man, and question him?" he thought; and
concluded not to. "If he knows anything, he will tell it at the proper
time."

The green boughs brushed him with their tender leaves, as if they would
have brushed away some cobwebs from his sight, and opened his eyes to
the peace and charity of the woods; but he was too much absorbed in one
ignoble pursuit to be accessible to gentler influences. What he sought
was not to uphold the law; what he felt was not that charity to the
many which sometimes makes severity to the few a necessity. His object
was money, and charity lay dead in his heart with a coin over each eye.

That evening Miss Ferrier and Lawrence Gerald talked over their
matrimonial affairs quite freely, and in the most business-like manner
in the world. They discussed the ceremony, the guests, the breakfast,
and the toilette, and Annette displayed her lace dress.

"It is frightfully costly," she owned; "but I had a purpose in making
it so. I shall never wear it but once, and some day or other it will
go to trim a priest's surplice. You see, I ordered the pattern to that
end, as nearly as I could get it, and not have it made for me. There
was no time for that. The ferns are neutral; but the wheat is perfect,
you see, and that vine is quite like a grape-vine. I shall wear a
_tulle_ veil."

She threw the cloud of misty lace over her head.

"Why, Annette, it makes you look lovely!" Lawrence exclaimed.

"I am glad you think so," she responded dryly, and took it off again.

Lawrence was seated on a tabouret in Annette's own sitting-room, which
no one else was allowed to enter during these last days of her maiden
life. It had been newly furnished after her own improved taste, and
the luxury and elegance of everything pleased him. He was still more
pleased to see her so well in harmony with it. He was beginning to find
her interesting, especially as he found her indifferent and a little
commanding toward him.

"And now, Lawrence," she said, folding carefully the beautiful Alençon
flounce, "you have some little preparation to make. You know you must
be reconciled to the church."

"I have nothing against the church," he said coolly.

"The church has something against you, and it is a serious matter," she
urged, refusing to smile. "You haven't been to confession for--how many
years? Not a few, certainly. No priest will marry us till you go."

"I suppose a minister wouldn't do?" remarked the young man, with the
greatest hardihood, seeming mildly doubtful about the question.

"Now, Lawrence, don't talk nonsense," Annette begged. "When one is
going to be married, one feels a little sober."

"That's a fact!" he assented, with rather ungallant emphasis.

She  faintly. Her gentle earnestness might have touched one less
careless. "It is beginning a new life," she said; "and if it were not
well begun, I'm afraid we should not be happy."

The young man straightened himself up, and gave his moustache an
energetic twist with both hands--a way he had when impatient.

"Well, anything but a lecture, Ninon," he exclaimed. "I'll think the
matter over, and see if I can rake up any transgressions. I dare say
there are plenty."

"You will speak to F. Chevreuse about it?" she asked eagerly.

He nodded.

"And now sing me something," he said. "I haven't heard you sing for an
age. Is there anything new?"

She seated herself at the exquisite little piano, well pleased to be
asked. Here was one way in which she could delight him, for he grew
more and more fond of her singing. Annette's was a graceful figure
at the piano, and she had the gift of looking pretty while singing.
Her delicate and expressive face reflected every light and shade in
the songs she sang, and the music flowed from her lips with as little
effort as a song from a bird.

"Here is 'The Sea's Answer,'" she said.

Lawrence settled himself into a high-backed chair. "Well, let us hear
what the sea answered. Only it might be more intelligible if one first
knew what the question was, and who the questioner, and why he didn't
ask somebody else. There! go on."

Annette sang:

    "O Sea!" she said, "I trust you;
      The land has slipped away;
    Myself and all my fortunes
      I give to you to-day.
    Break off the foamy cable
      That holds me to the shore;
    For my path is to the eastward,
      I can return no more.
    But ever while it stretches--
      That pale and shining thread--
    It pulls upon my heart-strings
      Till I wish that I were dead."

    Then the sea it sent its ripples
      As fast as they could run.
    And they caught the bubbles of the wake,
      And broke them one by one;
    And they tossed the froth in bunches
      Away to left and right,
    Till of all that foamy cable
      But a fragment lay in sight.
    And on the circling waters
      No clue was left to trace
    Where the land beyond invisibly
      Held its abiding-place.

    "But, oh! "she cried, "it follows--
      That ghostly, wavering line--
    Like the floating of a garment
      Drenched in the chilly brine.
    It clings unto the rudder
      Like a drowning, snowy hand;
    And while it clings, my exiled heart
      Strains backward to the land."
    Then the sea rolled in its billows.
      It rolled them to and fro;
    And the floating robe sank out of sight,
      And the drowning hand let go.

    "O Sea!" she said, "I trust you!
      Now tell me, true and bold,
    If the new life I am seeking
      Will be brighter than the old.
    I am stifling for an orbit
      Of a wider-sweeping ring;
    And there's laughter in me somewhere,
      And I have songs to sing.
    But life has held me like a vise
      That never, never slips;
    And when my songs pressed upward,
      It smote me on the lips.

    "And, Sea," she sighed, "I'm weary
      Of failure and of strife;
    And I fain would rest for ever,
      If this is all of life.
    Thy billows rock like mothers' arms
      Where babes are hushed to rest;
    And the sleepers thou dost take in charge
      Are safe within thy breast.
    Then, if the way be weary,
      I have not strength to go;
    And thy rocking bosom, Ocean,
      Is the tenderest I know."

    Then the sea rose high, and shook her,
      As she called upon its name,
    Till the life within her wavered,
      And went out like a flame.
    And stranger voices read the Word,
      And sang the parting hymn,
    As they dropped her o'er the ship's side
      Into the waters dim.
    And the rocking ocean drew her down
      Its silent ones among,
    With all her laughters prisoned,
      And all her songs unsung.

There was silence for a little while when the song ended; then Lawrence
exclaimed, with irritation, "What sets people out to write such things?
The whole world wants to be cheered and amused, and yet some writers
seem to take delight in making everything as gloomy as they are. Why
can't people keep their blues to themselves?"

The singer shrugged her shoulders. "You mistake, I think. I always
fancy that melancholy writing proves a gay writer. Don't you know that
school compositions are nearly always didactic and doleful? When I was
fifteen years old, and as gay as a lark, I used to write jeremiads at
school, and make myself and all the girls cry. I enjoyed it. When a
subject is too sore, you don't touch it, and silence proves more than
speech."

Lawrence kept the promise he had made, though he put its fulfilment
off as long as possible. The morning before his wedding-day he was
at early Mass, and, when Mass was over, went into F. Chevreuse's
confessional. It would seem that he had not succeeded in "raking up"
many transgressions, for ten minutes sufficed for the first confession
he had made in fifteen years. But when he came out, his face was very
pale, and he lingered in the church long after every one else had left.
Glancing in from the sacristy, after his thanksgiving, F. Chevreuse saw
him prostrate before the altar, with his lips pressed to the dusty step
where many an humble communicant had knelt, and heard him repeat lowly,
"_Enter not into judgment with thy servant; for no one living shall be
justified in thy sight_."

The priest looked at him a moment with fatherly love and satisfaction,
then softly withdrew.

The spiritual affairs of her future husband attended to, toilet,
decoration, ceremony, reception, all planned and arranged by one brain
and one pair of hands, Annette had still to school and persuade her
mother to a proper behavior. She, the daughter, had conquered Crichton.
They no longer laughed at nor criticised her, and were in a fair way
to go to the opposite extreme, and regard her as an authority on all
subjects. For the Crichtonians had the merit of believing that good
can come out of Nazareth, and could become enthusiastic over what
they conceived to be an original genius victoriously asserting its
independence of a low origin and of discouraging circumstances.

But the mother was, and ever would be to them, a subject of quenchless
mirth. Her sayings and doings, and the mortification she inflicted on
her daughter, were an endless source of amusement to them.

"Now, do keep quiet this once, mamma," Annette begged pathetically.
"You know I shall not be able to hover about and set people to rights
when they quiz you. You will have to take care of yourself. Don't trust
anybody, and don't quarrel with anybody."

For once the mother was disposed to yield entire obedience. She had
begun to assume that mournful face which, according to Thackeray, all
women seem to think appropriate at a wedding; and there was far more
danger of her being inarticulate and sobbing than of her showing either
pugilism or loquacity.

"I'm sure I sha'n't feel much like saying anything to anybody when
I see my only daughter getting married before my eyes," she said
reproachfully.

"Suppose you saw your only daughter growing into an old maid before
your eyes, mamma," said Annette, laughing, and patting her mother on
the shoulder. "Would you like that any better?"

"Well," Mrs. Ferrier sighed, "I suppose you may as well be married,
now you've had the fuss of getting ready. All I care about is your
happiness, though you may not believe it. I'm no scholar, and I know
people laugh at me; but that doesn't prevent my having feelings. You
deserve to be happy, Annette, for you have been a good child to me,
and you were never ashamed of me, though you have tried hard to make
me like other folks. I couldn't be anything but what I am; and when I
have tried, I've only made a greater fool of myself than I was before.
But for all that, I'm sorry I've been such a burden to you, and I'm
grateful to you for standing by me."

This was Mrs. Ferrier's first confession of any sense of her own
shortcomings, or of her daughter's trials on her account, and it
touched Annette to the heart.

The outside world, that she had striven to please and win, faded away
and grew distant. Here was one whom she could depend on, the only one
on earth whom she could always be sure of. Whatever she might be, her
mother could not be estranged from her, and could not have an interest
entirely detached from hers.

"Don't talk of being grateful to me, mamma," she said tremulously. "I
believe, after all, you were nearer right than I was; and I have far
more reason to be ashamed of myself than of you. I have been straining
every nerve to please people who care nothing for me, and to reach
ends that were nothing when reached. It isn't worth the trouble. Still,
it is easier to go on than to turn back, and we may as well take a
little pains to keep what we have taken much pains to get. I'm sorry I
undertook this miserable business of a show-wedding. It disgusts me. A
quiet marriage would have been far better. But since it is undertaken,
I want it to be a success of its kind."

"Oh! as to that," Mrs. Ferrier said, "I like the wedding. I don't like
to see people get married behind the door, as if they were ashamed of
themselves. You don't marry every day, and it may as well be something
uncommon."

They were conversing more gently and confidentially than they had for
a long time; and the mother appeared to greater advantage than ever
before, more dignified, more quiet. Annette pushed a footstool to the
sofa, and, sitting on it, leaned on her mother's lap.

"Still, I do not like a showy marriage," she said. "It may do for two
young things who have parents and friends on both sides to take all the
care, while they dream away the time, and have nothing to do or think
of but imagine a beautiful future. For serious, thoughtful people, I
think the less parade and staring and hurly-burly there is, the better.
But then, that quiet way throws the two very much alone together, and
obliges them to talk the matter over; and Lawrence and I would find it
a bore. We are neither of us very sentimental."

She spoke gently enough, but there was a faint touch of bitterness in
her voice that the mother's ear detected.

"I don't know why he shouldn't like to talk the matter over with you,"
she began, kindling to anger; but Annette stopped her.

"Now, mamma, there must be an end put to all this," she said firmly.
"And since there is no other way, let me tell you the true story of my
engagement. You seem to think that Lawrence was very anxious to get me,
and that he has made a good bargain, and ought to be grateful. Well,
perhaps a part of the last is true; but the first is not. I've got to
humiliate myself to tell you; but you will never cease to reproach him
unless I do." A burning blush suffused her face, and she shrank as if
with a physical pain. "Lawrence knew perfectly well that I liked him
before he ever paid the slightest attention to me; and when he began
to follow me ever so little, I encouraged him in a manner that must
have been almost coaxing. He knew that I was to be had for the asking.
Of course, I wasn't aware of this, mamma. Girls do such things, like
simpletons, and think nobody understands them; and perhaps they do not
understand themselves. I am sure that Lawrence was certain of me before
I had the least idea what my own feelings were. I knew I liked him,
but I never thought how. I was too romantic to come down to realities.
Of course, he had a contempt for me--he couldn't help it--though I
didn't deserve it; for while he thought, I suppose, that I was trying
to win him for my husband, I was only worshipping him as superior and
beyond all other men. If girls could only know how plainly they show
their feelings, or rather, if they would only restrain and deny their
feelings a little, they would save themselves much contempt that they
deserve, and much that they do not deserve. So you see, mamma, Lawrence
might at any time, if you reproach him, turn and say that I was the one
who sought him, and say what is half true, too. I didn't mean to, but
I did it for all that. Now, of course, it is different, and he really
wants to marry me. He is more anxious than I am, indeed. But the less
said about the whole matter the better. When I think of it, I could
throw myself into the fire."

"Well, well, dear, don't think about it, then," the mother urged
soothingly, startled by the passion in Annette's face. "It doesn't
make much difference who begins, so long as both are willing. And now,
don't torment yourself any more, child. You're always breaking your
heart because you have done something that isn't quite up to your own
notions. And I tell you, Annette, I wouldn't exchange you for twenty
Honora Pembrokes."

Annette leaned on her mother's bosom, and resigned herself with a
feeling of sweet rest and comfort to be petted and caressed, without
criticising either grammar or logic. How mean and harsh all such
criticisms seemed to her when brought to check and chill a loving heart!

"Mamma," she whispered, after a while, "I almost wish that we were back
in the little cabin again. I can just faintly remember your rocking me
to sleep there, and it seems to me that I was happier then than ever
since."

"Yes," Mrs. Ferrier sighed, "we were happier then than we are now; but
we shouldn't be happy to go back to it. I should feel as if I were
crawling head-foremost into a hole in the ground. We didn't know how
happy we were then, and we don't know how happy we are now, I suppose.
So let's make the best of it all."

The wedding proved to be, as the bride had desired, a success of its
kind. The day was perfect, no mishap occurred, and everybody whom the
family had not invited themselves as spectators. Policemen were needed
to keep the way clear to the church door when the bridal party arrived,
and the heavens seemed to rain flowers on them wherever they went.

Seeing Mr. Gerald bend his handsome head, and whisper smilingly to the
bride, as they entered the church, sentimental folks fancied that he
was making some very lover-like speech suitable to the occasion. But
this is what he said: "Annette, we draw better than the giraffe. Why
hadn't we thought to charge ten cents a head?"

Her eyes had been fixed on the lighted altar, just visible, and she
did not look at him as she replied, "Lawrence, we are in the presence
of God, and this is a sacrament. Make an act of contrition, or you will
commit a sacrilege."

And then the music of the organ caught them up, and the rest was like a
dream.

"How touching it is to see a young girl give herself away with such
perfect confidence," remarked Mr. Sales, who was much impressed by the
splendor of the bride.

"Give herself away!" growled Dr. Porson in return. "She is throwing
herself away."

                            TO BE CONTINUED.




THE CATHEDRAL OF CHARTRES.


The story of the erection of the Cathedral of Chartres is an epic
from beginning to end. Before it arose in the amplitude and majesty
which the great epoch of Christian art knew how to bestow upon its
works, nothing less was required than the greatest courage, the
most indomitable perseverance, and a determination of will which no
difficulties or reverses could turn from its purpose. The building
of this cathedral was a struggle against fire and sword, against
barbarians and the elements--a long conflict, which in the end left
piety and devotion victorious.

No sooner was the era of persecution closed by the conversion of
Constantine, A.D. 312, than a church was raised over the Druidic
grotto, and thronged incessantly by the multitudes of pilgrims who came
to venerate the sacred image. The wood covering the hill, no longer
possessing, as formerly, any sacred character, was cut down, in order
that the town might extend itself in that direction; and houses began
forthwith to cluster round the foot of the temple, as if seeking the
immediate protection of Mary.

Of this earliest structure it is impossible to give any description,
as no account of it remains. It was in all probability a basilica
resembling others of the period, built with much less splendor than
solidity, and existed through several centuries until the year 850.
Charles the Bald was then on the throne, and Frothold was Bishop of
Chartres, being the forty-second prelate of that see. The times were
very troubled. Charlemagne had years before gone to his glorious
repose, leaving to his degenerate successors a sceptre too heavy for
their feeble arms to wield--a vast empire without cohesion, and which,
lacking the firm hand of a sagacious ruler, was already torn with
dissensions. The incursions of the Northmen, invariably accompanied
by fire and carnage, were continual upon the hapless kingdom of the
Franks. Hasting, the Danish chieftain, laid siege to Chartres, which
was at this epoch surrounded with strong and solid walls, and held out
courageously, well knowing its fate should it fall into the hands of
the barbarians. After spending some time in ineffectual endeavors to
effect a breach, the wily Northman had recourse to craft, causing the
bishop to be informed that he was ready, with all his followers, to
accept the Christian faith, and humbly requesting admittance into the
city. Scarcely had he entered, when he threw aside the mask; the bishop
and most of the inhabitants were massacred, the church destroyed, and
the city given up to the flames. This exploit was no sooner performed
than rewarded as it deserved. Before the savage invaders had time to
hasten back, laden with plunder, to their vessels, the Franks of the
surrounding country fell upon them and slew them without quarter.

Soon the church and the city arose again from their ashes. The new
sanctuary was but an humble erection. The people gave to God the
best they could, but they were impoverished, and in that age of iron
the arts had sunk to the lowest condition; moreover, another century
had not elapsed before a similar disaster seemed about to befall the
building.

In those barbarous ages, the sacking and burning of towns and the
slaughter of their inhabitants were events always possible, often
impending. In the year 911, Chartres was besieged by the fierce Norman
chieftain, Rollo, at the head of a formidable army provided with
powerful engines of war. The Dukes of France and Burgundy, with the
Count of Poitiers, hastening to the succor of the city, gave battle
outside its walls; but they were hard pressed, and to the anxious
watchers on the ramparts seemed likely to be overborne by the foe. The
bishop, Ganthelm or Gancelin, was not only a warrior in time of need,
but was also full of devotion to Mary. In the heat of the combat,
he put himself at the head of the Chartrians, taking with him the
reliquary containing the greatest treasure of his church--the sacred
tunic of Our Lady--and fell upon the invaders. This vigorous sortie was
so successful that the Northmen were utterly defeated and with so great
a slaughter that, according to the account of the monk Paul, the river
was choked with their corpses.

The holy tunic just mentioned had been given to Charlemagne by the
Emperor Nicephorus and the Empress Irene, who previously kept it at
Constantinople, whither it had been brought from Ephesus in the year
460, in the reign of the Emperor Leo. Charlemagne, who meditated an
Empire of the West, of which the capital should be Aix-la-Chapelle,
had at first placed the relic in that city. His successors, being
unable to carry out his designs, nevertheless recognized the importance
of preserving so great a treasure to France, and Charles the Bald,
removing it from Aix, presented it to the church of Chartres. The
history of this double translation may be seen portrayed in the great
window of the chapel of S. John Baptist; the archives of the cathedral
and the _Poem of the Miracles_ agreeing with these representations
in their account of the facts, with regard to which the poet Maître
Nicolas Gilles, writes:

    "Lors prinrent la sainte chemise
    A la Mère Dex qui fut prise
    Jadis dans Constantinople.
    Precieux don en fit et noble
    A Chartres un grand Roi de France;
    Charles le Chauve ot nom d'enfance.
    Cil roy à Chartres le donna."[79]

But the effects of protection from on high are not such as to permit a
people and its rulers to do evil with impunity. Some time afterwards,
Thibault _le Tricheur_--_i.e._ the "sharper" or "cheat"--_ce chevalier
fel et enginous_--"this dangerous and deep-skilled knight," as he
is called in the chronicles of the time, who by some unknown means
obtained possession of the county of Chartres, made an expedition
against the town of Evreux, which he took by stratagem, and, going on
from thence as far as Rouen, so utterly devastated the country that,
in all the land through which he had passed, "there was not heard so
much as the bark of a dog." During his absence, the Normans and Danes
together laid siege to Chartres, which they took by assault, and again
burnt the town, together with the church. Thibault, returning to find
his son slain and his town in ruins, went mad with anger and grief.

Towards the close of the IXth century was a period of great calamities
and sinister predictions. There was a general spirit of discouragement
and gloom. Men said that the end of the world was approaching, for the
year one thousand was close at hand. They built no more churches; for
to what purpose would it be? Still, Our Lady must not surely be left
without her sanctuary at Chartres, nor could the people themselves
dispense with it; they set to work, therefore, and the destroyed
building was speedily replaced by a new one; yet, as they had no hope
of its long continuance, wood had a larger place in its construction
than stone. A few years later, however, when the unchecked course of
time had belied the prophecies of popular credulity, it seemed as if
Heaven itself willed to teach the Chartrians that God and their blessed
Patroness must be more worthily honored; for in the year 1020, under
the episcopate of Fulbert, on the Feast of the Assumption according to
some, on Christmas Day according to others, the church was struck by
lightning, and wholly consumed.

Bp. Fulbert was a holy man, and also a man of intelligence and courage.
He felt that God had given him a mission. Amid the smoking ruins of
his episcopal church, he laid the foundations of a noble structure
which should be fitted to brave the injuries of time, and not be
liable, like the former ones, to the danger of conflagration. In order
to carry out his design, Fulbert needed treasure. He at once devoted
all his own fortune to the work, and then appealed to his clergy, who
imposed on themselves great sacrifices to satisfy their generosity; the
people of his diocese also aiding eagerly with their contributions.
Not satisfied with all this, he addressed himself to the princes and
nobles of France, and especially to King Robert, who has been called
the father of religious architecture, and who could not fail to take a
lively interest in the erection of a sanctuary to Our Lady of France.
The princes of the whole Christian world were in like manner invited
to assist in the undertaking, and the King of Denmark in particular
signalized himself by his munificence.

Gifts arriving from all parts, Fulbert was enabled to commence the
works, as he had desired, on very large proportions, and to push them
forward with so much activity that in less than two years the crypt
was finished--this crypt which is probably the largest and finest in
the world, and which is still admired as a marvel of the architecture
of the XIth century. This sanctuary of _Notre Dame de Dessoubs-terre_,
or "Our Lady of Underground," more worthy than any which had preceded
it of the Druidic Virgin, was then opened to receive, through long
centuries, successive generations of the faithful. Nevertheless, this
was but the root of the majestic tree which was to rise and expand
above this favored spot. Fulbert devoted the remaining years of his
life to the work, so that when he died, in 1029, it had made great
progress; and, being continued with equal energy by Thierry, his
successor, was considered sufficiently advanced to be consecrated in
1037, although still requiring much for its completion.

After the death of Thierry came a period of marked relaxation in
activity. Several bishops in succession made no progress in the
erection. S. Yves, one of the most illustrious prelates who ever filled
the episcopal throne of Chartres, confined himself principally to the
interior adornment of the cathedral. Munificent gifts from Maude, Queen
of England, enabled him to replace the ancient and already dilapidated
roof by one of lead. A new impetus being given to the undertaking,
in 1115 were laid the foundation of the two spires, so remarkable
and so well known to the world. In 1145, the works were in full
activity, and it was wonderful, observes Haymond, Abbot of S. Pierre
sur Dive, to see with what ardor, perseverance, and piety the people
set to work to bring about the completion of their church. "What a
marvellous spectacle!" he writes. "There one sees powerful men, proud
of their birth and of their wealth, accustomed to a life of ease and
pleasure, harnessing themselves to the shafts of a cart, and dragging
along stones, lime, wood, and all the materials necessary for the
construction of the sacred edifice. Sometimes it befalls that as many
as a thousand persons, men and women, are harnessed to the same wagon,
so heavy is the load; and yet so great a silence prevails that there is
not heard the faintest murmur."

It was chiefly during the summer season that these labors were carried
on. At night, tapers were lighted and set on the wagons, while the
workers watched around the church, singing hymns and canticles. Thus it
was at Chartres that the custom, afterwards so prevalent, began of the
laborers assembling together to pass the night as well as the day near
the building in course of erection.

The old spire being at last completed, and the new one reaching to
the height of the roofs, in 1194 another fire broke out, the cause
of which was unknown. It had seemed as if a strange fatality pursued
the pious undertaking, were not every event providentially permitted
or arranged. The faithful of those days so understood this fresh
catastrophe, acknowledging that it was the chastisement of Heaven for
those sins from which, in spite of their zeal, the toilers in this work
had not always kept themselves free. It is easy to comprehend that,
notwithstanding all precautions, these large and prolonged assemblages
could not have been without great dangers. Some considered the disaster
as a manifestation of the divine will that the work was not carried on
to a sufficient degree of perfection; while others again regarded it
as an effect of the jealous hatred of the arch-enemy, and, according
to the historian Mezeray, declared that demons, under the form of
ravens, had been seen flying over the cathedral, with red-hot embers
in their beaks, which they let fall upon the sacred edifice. This time
the destruction was immense. Nothing was saved but the crypt and the
two spires, with the connecting masonry forming the western portal.
The latter, not having as yet been joined to the main building, were
unharmed by the flames.

Historians of the XVIth century and later do not mention this fire, and
suppose the edifice which at present exists to be almost entirely the
work commenced by Bp. Fulbert--an error only to be accounted for by the
most complete ignorance of the laws of ecclesiastical architecture.
Contemporary writers, as, for instance, William le Breton and Rigord,
monk of S. Denis, as well as Robert of Auxerre, who adds that a portion
of the town was also consumed, are unanimous as to the date and
principal particulars of the disaster.

Melchior, the legate of Pope Celestine III., was at Chartres at the
time of its occurrence, and it was he who revived and sustained the
spirit of the people, overwhelmed as they were at first by their
calamity. Assembling them around the ruins of their church, he did
his utmost to console and cheer them, winning from them the promise
to raise a cathedral which should not have its equal in the world,
and which should be built entirely of stone, so as to render its
destruction by fire impossible.

The impulse was easily given. At the conclusion of the legate's
stirring address, the bishop, Regnault de Mouçon, and all the canons
of the cathedral, gave up their revenues for the space of three years
towards the expenses of the building, as may be seen in the _Poème des
Miracles_ of Jehan le Marchant; Philip Augustus adding his offerings
to those of the clergy with a royal liberality. The towns-people,
also, considering that their misfortune was not so great by far as it
might have been, seeing that the reliquary containing the sacred tunic
of Our Lady was saved, thanks to the devotion of certain courageous
men, who bore it from the burning church into a place of safety, felt
bound to show their gratitude by depriving themselves of part of their
possessions in favor of the work.

A powerful and irresistible current of devotion seemed in those days
to carry along with it the hearts of men; and the enthusiasm of the
Crusades having been chilled by reverses, the religious sentiment of
the people found its outlet in another channel--raising sanctuaries of
which the magnificence should be a marvel to succeeding ages.

Moreover, it must not be forgotten that, in those ages of faith and
fervor, the fabulous sums which would be required in our days for
similar erections were not necessary, even taking into account all
proportions with regard to the respective value of money. The time
had not then arrived for none but master-masons, working for ready
money only, and of that a free supply; they who had nothing but their
strength and good-will cheerfully gave the alms of their toil, thus
sharing equally with the rich and great in forwarding the enterprise.
Everywhere architects arose, ready to translate into stone the
religious thoughts and aspirations of the time, which was not a period
of popular enthusiasm only, but that in which Christian art was
rapidly expanding into its most remarkable development, and replacing
the heavy and massive edifices of the Romano-Byzantine style by those
possessing a boldness, freedom, and splendid gracefulness hitherto
unknown.

Where was found the marvellous genius capable of conceiving and
executing the plan of the Cathedral of Chartres?--this man who,
careless of human fame, and careful only to work for God, has left
no record of his name, and is called by Jehan le Marchant simply _li
mestre de l'œuvre_.

The "master of the work" for three years wrought with incredible ardor.
The idea had sprung from his mind complete, and he longed to see it
realized in its colossal harmony. It is only in the crypt, in the old
spire, and in the western portal, spared by the fire of 1194, that
the ancient style is to be recognized; everywhere else the art of the
XIIIth century triumphs, and we behold the poem of stone as it was hewn
out in the first purity of its beauty.

At the end of three years resources failed, and the work could not go
on. "Then," says the poet Jehan, with all the simplicity of a mediæval
chronicler--"then the Holy Virgin prayed her divine Son to work fresh
miracles in her Cathedral of Chartres, in order that the increase of
alms and offerings might be such as to secure its completion:"

    "La haute Dame glorieuse
    Qui voloit avoir merveilleuse
    Iglise, et haute, et longue, et lée,
    Si que sa per ne fust trovée,
    Son douz Fils pria doucement
    Que miracles apertement
    En son Eglise à Chartres feist,
    Que tout le peuple le veist,
    Si que de toutes parts venissent
    Gens qui offerendes tous feissent,
    Que achevée fust siglise,
    Qui estoit à faire emprise."[80]

Miracles, which in this place had at all times been numerous and
remarkable, and which we might cite by thousands, are said to have now
greatly multiplied. Those which at that period excited the enthusiasm
and gratitude of the people to the highest degree were the cures of a
terrible malady very common in the middle ages, and known by the name
of the "burning sickness." The unfortunate persons who were attacked
by it, besides being consumed by fever, suffered internally as if
from torture by fire, while outwardly their bodies were covered with
frightful ulcers, of which the pain was intolerable. The victims of
this malady came from all parts for relief and healing to Our Lady
of Chartres. According to Jehan le Marchant and other contemporary
writers, the disease never failed to disappear, either during or
immediately after the _novena_ which it was customary for each sufferer
to make in the church.

This increase of favors revived the ardor of the faithful. Gifts and
thank-offerings were made in great abundance, and the building of the
church went on, with what vigor may be gathered from the fact that,
in little more than twenty years afterwards, the cathedral was built
and covered with what William le Breton calls its _merveilleuse et
miraculeuse_ roof of stone. It is in the year 1220 that he writes:
"Entirely rebuilt anew in hewn stone, and completed by a vaulted roof
like the shell of a tortoise, the cathedral has no more to fear from
fire before the day of judgment."

The new tower received a spire like that of the old, excepting that it
was constructed of wood and lead, and destined to perish in the very
partial fire of 1506, to be replaced by the beautiful and delicately
sculptured steeple of the XVIth century, still so greatly admired. The
porches were finished,[81] as well as the sculptures, in their finest
details, and the windows put in. On the 17th of October, in the year
1260, the edifice was complete, and on this occasion the Bishop of
Chartres, Pierre de Maincy, seventy-fifth successor of S. Aventine,
solemnly consecrated his cathedral, in presence of the king, S. Louis.

Description, however picturesque, is utterly inadequate to convey
a worthy image or idea of a Gothic cathedral in all the mysterious
fulness, richness, and variety of its details. Chartres must be seen,
must have received many quiet hours of contemplation, before its
magnificences will have shown to what heights Christian art was raised
by Christian devotion in those early centuries of enthusiasm and of
faith.

And yet we cannot leave the reader at the threshold without inviting
him to glance with us rapidly, and therefore most imperfectly, within.

How grand is the perspective which opens upon the view, when, looking
from the "Royal Gate" towards the sanctuary, the eye takes in this
triple nave, with its forest of pillars, amongst which fall, in
rich and softened splendor, warm rays of light and color from the
higher windows! All the dimensions are on a scale of grandeur. In its
elevation, the cathedral is divided into three parts, the idea of the
Blessed Trinity ruling this arrangement. The arcades, springing from
the ground, form the first line, under the triforium, which forms
the second, while above this rises the third height, containing the
clerestory windows, which are lofty, double lancets, each surmounted
by a rose. The lower walls are pierced by simple lancets of very
large size. To the right and left of the nave are aisles without side
chapels; but in the double aisle which is carried round the choir
are seven apsidal chapels, of which the centre one, dedicated to Our
Lady, is the most important. The pillars of the nave are massive in
their proportions, to bear the weight of the lofty superstructure.
There are sixteen circular or octagon pillars round the choir, with
well-sculptured capitals; and in the centre of the transept rise four
colossal pillars, around which cluster a number of smaller ones, which
are carried up to the spring of the roof. The latter was the most
beautiful in the world, and was called _the Forest_, being constructed
of fine chestnut-wood, which time colors with a sort of golden hue,
and which attracts neither dust nor spiders. The roof of St. Stephen's
Hall at Westminster gives a good idea of what this must have been,
with its exquisite fan tracery and graceful pendants, until, on the
fourth of June, 1836, the whole was destroyed by fire. The iron roof by
which it has been replaced, though excellent in its kind, is far from
approaching the worth and beauty of the ancient _Forêt_.

The church is paved throughout with large slabs of stone, not one
of which is a _grave_-stone, as would be the case in almost every
other cathedral, under the pavement of which are buried numbers of
ecclesiastics and other persons; but this is virgin earth, wherein no
sepulture has ever taken place. We give the reason in the words of
Sebastian Rouillard: "The said church has this pre-eminence as being
the couch or resting-place of the Blessed Virgin, and in token thereof
has been even until this day preserved pure, clean, and entire, without
having ever been dug or opened for any burial."

The choir is the largest in France, and one of the most splendid in
existence, notwithstanding the unfortunate zeal of the chapter in
the year 1703 to alter and disfigure its mediæval beauties according
to their own ideas, which appear to have been warped to the lowest
degeneracy of "Renaissance." Happily, however, the prodigious expense
to which they put themselves resulted in but a partial realization
of their plan, in which ancient carving and mural frescos were swept
away to give place to gilding and stucco, marble and new paint, to say
nothing of kicking cherubs and arabesques gone mad. It was at this
time that the groups representing the annunciation of Our Lady and Our
Saviour's baptism were placed at the entrance of the choir, which, even
if they were the work of a more skilful hand, instead of being that of
a very mediocre artist, would yet be out of harmony with the church;
and the same may be said of the group, in Carrara marble, of the
Assumption, which rises behind the high altar, and which is the work of
the celebrated Bridan, who finished it in 1773.

When, two centuries before, the choir was still without enclosure,
the XVIth century provided for it one of the rarest specimens of late
Gothic art ever seen. Jehan de Beauce, who had been charged with
the building of the new spire, was chosen to make the designs and
direct the work; and though he died whilst it was still unfinished,
his plan was carefully carried to its completion. In this marvel of
conscientious labor there are forty groups, each containing numerous
figures, nearly the size of nature, representing the Legend of Mary
and the principal events in the life of Our Lord. Around these groups
cluster pillars and arches, turrets, crocketed spires, everything that
can help to give them, as it were, a framing and background as full and
elaborate as possible, while all sorts of odd and Lilliputian creatures
are playing in and out of the pediments, or clinging to the columns
in the most capricious and fantastic manner. Besides these forty
principal subjects, the enclosure is further enriched with thirty-five
medallions, the first of which represents the siege of Chartres by
Rollo, followed by subjects from the Holy Scriptures, and then, strange
to say, by others taken from heathen mythology! The pagan spirit of
the Renaissance was already daring to invade the sanctuaries of the
Catholic faith.

Before proceeding to mention other architectural details, two of the
especial treasures of the cathedral require some further notice.
Besides the Druidic Virgin, of which we have already given the history,
and whose chapel has, since the Revolution, been carefully restored, as
well as the twelve other subterranean chapels of this marvellous crypt,
there is in the upper church another statue, almost equally venerated,
which dates from the first years of the XVIth century, and is called
"Our Lady of the Pillar," from the columnar pedestal on which it
rests. This figure is enthroned, and adorned with gold and painting of
good execution, as far as may be seen under the abundant vestments of
lace, silk, and gold with which the loving piety of pilgrims, greater
in devotion than good taste, delights to load this statue, of which
the dark but beautiful face has an expression of great sweetness and
benignity, as well as that of the divine Child, whose right hand is
raised in benediction, while his left rests upon the globe of the world.

It was to this venerable image of _Notre Dame du Pilier_ that the
Sovereign Pontiff, Pius IX., granted the signal favor of a solemn
coronation, which took place on the last day of the month of May, 1855,
in the presence of seven prelates and a concourse of clergy and people
so immense that the church could not contain the multitudes. The dogma
of the Immaculate Conception had just been promulgated, and a special
jubilee in honor of Our Lady of Chartres had been granted by the Holy
Father, and the whole city was in a state of indescribable joy.

With regard to the vestment of Our Blessed Lady, to which allusion
has so frequently been made, and which appears to be of indisputable
authenticity, we will give the remainder of its history up to the
present time. When this was presented to the cathedral by Charles the
Bald, it was enclosed in a chest of cedar-wood covered with gold. The
veneration with which the precious relic was regarded did not allow of
the chest being opened without necessity, and its form was naturally
supposed to be that of a tunic or undergarment. Numbers were made
after the imaginary pattern, and, after being laid upon the reliquary,
were greatly valued as pledges of Our Lady's protection, especially by
those about to become mothers. As to one detail, however, everybody was
mistaken, the vestment not being by any means of the form supposed.
This was for the first time discovered in 1712, when, by order of the
bishop, Mgr. de Merinville, the coffer, which was falling to pieces
from extreme age, was opened with the most extraordinary care and
precautions. A kind of gauze, embroidered with silk and gold, enveloped
the sacred relic, which proved to be a veil of great length, woven
of linen and silk. It was then, in presence of Mgr. de Merinville and
other witnesses, enclosed in a chest of silver, and placed again in
the ancient reliquary, which had been strengthened and repaired. This,
being most richly ornamented with precious stones, was, in December,
1793, carried off by the men of the Revolution, who took the relic to
Paris, and submitted it to be examined by the members of the Institute,
without giving them any information respecting it, and anticipating
from their verdict a triumphant proof of its being nothing more than a
cheat and deception of "the priests." It was with less satisfaction,
therefore, than surprise that they were informed by the learned members
that, "although they found it impossible to give the exact age of the
fabric, it was evidently of very great antiquity, and the material was
identical with that of the long, folding veils anciently _worn by women
in the East_." Owing merely to this character of remote antiquity, it
was allowed a place among the curiosities of a museum. When the Reign
of Terror was over, certain pious persons obtained possession of it,
but had the want of judgment to divide it, giving larger or smaller
portions to different churches and individuals. In 1820, Mgr. de
Lubersac succeeded in collecting several of these portions, and, after
having had them carefully authenticated, he placed them in a reliquary
of coral, which has since, by Mgr. Clausel de Montals, been replaced by
one of greater richness, so arranged as to allow the precious relic to
be visible.

We must, before taking leave of the cathedral, bestow at least a
passing glance upon its glorious windows. Here and there one has been
broken by revolutionary or other anti-religionists, one or two others
have had a deep-toned color clumsily replaced by one of brighter hue
by certain of the aforesaid XVIIIth century canons, who required more
light to read their office; but, on the whole, they are in admirable
preservation. We can linger but to read some few of the characters of
this vast book of light, which is justly called by the Council of Arras
"The Bible of the laity"; for months would be insufficient to decipher
its glowing pages.

There are one hundred and thirty-five large windows, three immense
roses, thirty-five roses of a middle size, and twelve small ones. These
are almost all of the date of the XIIIth century, and are the gifts of
kings, nobles, ecclesiastics, burgesses, and workmen of every trade, as
may be seen in each window, which usually contains a kneeling figure of
the donor. The great roses are marvellous in their splendor. That of
the north transept, which, from being the gift of S. Louis, is called
the Rose of France, represents the glorification of the Blessed Virgin,
who occupies the centre, bearing in her arms her divine Son. The five
great windows beneath the rose make the complement of the subject. In
the centre is S. Anne, with Our Lady as an infant. On the right and
left stand Melchisedech and Aaron, types of our Lord's priesthood;
David and Solomon, the types of his royalty.

The southern rose was given by the Count of Dreux, and has for its
subject the glorification of our Lord, which is also that of the
sculpture over the western entrance. In the centre window of the
five below is the infant Saviour in the arms of his Mother, while to
the right and left are the four greater prophets, bearing on their
shoulders the four Evangelists, to symbolize the support which the
New Law receives from the Old. The western rose represents the Last
Judgment. The three splendid windows beneath it are more ancient than
the rest, and are said by those who are learned in stained glass
to date from the XIIth century at the latest. One of these is the
far-famed "Jesse Window," in which the tree of Jesse bears among the
verdure of its branches the royal ancestors of Our Lord; the second
represents scenes from his life, and the third those of his passion and
death; while above appears the resplendent figure of Mary, known by
the name of _Notre Dame de la Belle Verriere_, and justly celebrated
for its admirable beauty. In the seven great windows of the apse, Mary
is still the centre. In those of the choir occur amongst others the
figures of S. Louis, S. Ferdinand of Castile, Amaury IV., Count of
Montfort, and Simon de Montfort, his brother. The lower windows are
filled with scenes from the Holy Bible and the _Golden Legend_, and
contain a great number of figures of small size, while the higher ones
are principally occupied by grand and separate figures of prophets,
apostles, and saints.

Standing in the middle of the transept, one sees the extremities
darkened by the great masses of the porches, but above them shine the
great roses, whose rainbow hues play upon the entrance of the choir;
the aisles and chapels are softened by that sort of half-luminous
obscurity in which we find ourselves on entering the church; but the
shadows flee more and more before the light, which, ever increasing,
streams down in torrents as we approach the centre of the cross,
making the sanctuary resplendent with emerald and ruby rays. And this
marvellous picture has ever-changing aspects, beauties ever new,
according to the hour of the day, the brightness of the sun, and the
season of the year. Reader, when _in propriâ personâ_ you make your
pilgrimage to Notre Dame de Chartres, you will feel how poor and how
inadequate has our description been, and, with the Presence that is
ever there, will own that it is heaven in all but the locality.

We will conclude our sketch with a few historical notices of interest,
without which it would be incomplete.

Although we have lived to see occasionally something approaching to a
renewal of the ancient throngs of pilgrims, and notably so on the last
27th-30th of May, when a multitude of more than sixty thousand persons,
including twelve prelates, besides six hundred other ecclesiastics, two
generals, one hundred and fifty officers, and one hundred and forty
members of the National Assembly, went from Paris and various parts
of France on a pilgrimage to Chartres, still this does not recall the
continuous concourse of former days, when it often happened that the
town was not large enough to contain the crowds of strangers, so that
on the eve of certain festivals it was necessary to allow great numbers
of them to remain all night for shelter in the church itself. The
parvis of the cathedral, which <DW72>s downwards from the choir to the
western door, rendered easy the cleansing process which followed in the
early morning, when floods of water were thrown upon the pavement.

This eager devotion of the common people has in it something more
touching even than the innumerable visits of the rich and great to this
chosen shrine. In the course of the XIIth century, Chartres numbered
among its pilgrims no less than three popes and five kings of France;
Philip Augustus being accompanied by his queen, Isabella of Hainault,
who came to ask Our Lady's intercession that she might have a son.
Whereupon, says William le Breton, even whilst the queen was making her
prayer, the candles upon the high altar suddenly lighted of themselves,
as if in token that her request was granted, and which accordingly came
to pass.

Before the completion of the church, it had been visited by two
princesses greater for their sanctity than for their rank--namely,
Blanche of Castile, the mother of S. Louis, and the gentle and pious
Isabelle, her sister. They were followed not long afterwards by the
holy monarch himself, who, on his first visit, was accompanied by
Henry III., of England, and on his second, in 1260, was present at the
consecration. Philip the Fair, who attributed his success at the battle
of Mons en Puelle entirely to the protection of Mary, came thither to
do her homage by offering the armor he had worn in the combat; and in
like manner Philip of Valois, after the victory of Cassel, gave to
the church of Chartres his charger and his arms. And when the times
darkened over France, and her king, John the Good, was the prisoner
of Edward III., the latter refused to listen to the entreaties of the
Dauphin and the Papal legate that he would grant peace on reasonable
terms, although "the Father of Christendom had again and again with
his own hand written letters to the English king, calling on him to
'forbear from the slaughter of souls redeemed by the Blood of Christ'";
success had made him relentless, and, leading on his victorious army,
he laid siege to Chartres. We learn from Froissart, among other
chroniclers, how Our Lady signalized her power, not only in saving the
city, but in leading, humble and submissive, the lion of England to
her feet: "For there befell to the King of England and all his men a
great miracle: a storm and thunder so great and horrible came down from
heaven on the English host that it seemed as if the end of the world
were come; for there fell down stones so great that they killed men
and horses, and so that even the boldest trembled."[82] ... "Thereupon
the King of England, leaping down from his saddle, and stretching out
his arms towards the church of Our Lady at Chartres, devoutly vowed
and promised to her that he would no longer refuse to grant peace upon
any terms consistent with his honor." When, therefore, he entered the
city, it was not as a warrior, but as a pilgrim; for he repaired at
once to the cathedral, in company with the Prince of Wales, the Duke
of Lancaster, and many other English knights, and shortly afterwards
signed the Peace of Bretigny.

Charles V., having revived the glory of the French arms, was not
unmindful of his gratitude to Our Lady of Chartres, to whom on two
occasions he made a pilgrimage barefoot, prostrating himself before the
sacred image; "considering," as he declares in his letters-patent, "the
splendid, great, and notable miracles which our Lord God works day by
day in the said church," and praying for the peace and prosperity of
his kingdom.

One other fact connected with the kings of France ought not to be
omitted--namely, the sacring of Henri IV., which, instead of taking
place at Rheims, according to, we believe, invariable precedent, was,
by his own special desire, solemnized in the church of Our Lady of
France at Chartres, when he made, as it were, a second abjuration by
thus publicly declaring himself to be henceforth a devoted client of
the Blessed Virgin. "Thus," observes the Abbé Hamon, _Curé_ of S.
Sulpice, "Protestantism, which had flattered itself with the hope of
mounting on the throne of France, was broken at the feet of Our Lady of
Chartres, where also paganism had expired before it in the defeat and
subsequent conversion of Rollo."

Were we to attempt to name the saints who have gone as pilgrims to
Chartres, from S. Anselm and S. Thomas à Becket to S. Francis de
Sales, S. Vincent de Paul, M. Olier, and the Blessed B. Labré, the
enumeration would be endless; and though it would require, not pages,
but volumes, to recount the favors obtained by the intercession of
the Blessed Virgin for her city, we cannot refrain from selecting a
few well-authenticated historical facts in addition to those already
mentioned.

In the year 1137, Louis le Gros, having great cause of displeasure
against Thibault, Count of Chartres, resolved to chastise him in a
signal manner, and advanced against his city, with the resolution to
raze it to the ground. The inhabitants were in the utmost terror and
distress, knowing their helplessness before the power of the irritated
monarch. The bishop, Geoffrey de Lieues, causing the reliquary
containing Our Lady's tunic to be taken from the church, carried it in
procession with his clergy and people outside the gates, and advanced
to the royal tent. At this sight, the anger of the king subsided. He
fell on his knees before the sacred relic, which he then devoutly
followed, entering alone into the city, not to destroy it, but to grant
it special privileges.

More than four centuries later, in 1568, Chartres was besieged by the
Huguenots under Condé. They opened a heavy fire against the Porte
Drouaire, above which gate the Chartrians placed an image of the
Blessed Virgin. This greatly excited their fury, and their utmost
endeavors were used to shoot it down. But the sacred image remained
untouched, though every stone near it was shattered. The rampart was
nevertheless so far weakened as to be unable longer to stand against
the powerful artillery. A large breach was opened, towards which the
besiegers crowded, that they might carry fire and desolation into the
city. But while the defenders believed that all was lost, the whole of
the population not in arms was praying in the cathedral. In the very
moment of their success, the enemy lost courage; the trumpets sounded a
retreat, and the Huguenot army left the city, never to return. It was
in memory of this signal deliverance that a chapel was raised between
the Porte Drouaire and the river Eure, dedicated to "Our Lady of the
Breach," and which, after being destroyed in 1789, was in 1844 rebuilt.

Whenever Chartres has been threatened with pestilence or famine it has
been customary for the bishop and dean of the chapter to bear the holy
tunic in procession from the cathedral to the Abbey of Josaphat, in the
midst of an immense concourse of the faithful, kneeling in the dust,
with heads uncovered. Even in our own time there has been a recurrence
of these expiatory solemnities. The cholera, which in 1832 made so many
victims in Paris, appeared also in Chartres, and deaths multiplied in
the city. But no sooner had the inhabitants, with all the religious
pomp and devotion of ancient days, borne the venerated relic through
the streets, imploring her succor who had for ages proved her right to
the title of _Tutela Carnutum_, than the plague was stayed. All the
sick were cured, and two more deaths only occurred--the deaths of two
persons who had publicly insulted the procession on its way. A gold
medal was struck on this occasion, having the following inscription;
"Voted to Our Lady of Chartres, by the inhabitants of the city, in
gratitude for the cessation of the cholera immediately after the solemn
procession celebrated to obtain her powerful intercession, on Sunday,
the 26th of August, 1832."

FOOTNOTES:

[79] "Then they took the holy garment, which had belonged to the Mother
of God, formerly in Constantinople; and a great king of France made of
it a precious and noble gift to Chartres--Charles the Bald, so called
from his name of infancy. This king presented it to Chartres."

[80] "The high and glorious Lady, who willed to have the church all
marvellous, and high, and long, and large, so that its equal nowhere
might be found, prayed sweetly to her gracious Son that manifest
miracles might be wrought in her church at Chartres for all the people
to behold, so that from all parts there might come persons who should
make offerings wherewith the church might be finished as it was
undertaken to be done."

[81] Except certain parts of the side portals, some of the statues of
which are of the XIVth century, the three gables, the chapel of S.
Piat, that of Vendôme, and the enclosure of the choir.

[82] _Les Grandes Chroniques_, tom. iv. ch. 46.




IN THY LIGHT SHALL WE SEE LIGHT.[83]


    The moon, behind her pilot star,
      Came up in orbèd gold:
    And slowly near'd a fleecy bar
      O'er-floating lone and cold.

    I look'd again, and saw an isle
      Of amber on the blue:
    So changed the cloudlet by the smile
      That softly lit it through.

    Another look: the isle was gone--
      As though dissolv'd away.
    And could it be, so warmly shone
      That chaste and tender ray?

    I said: "O star, the faith art thou
      That brought my life its Queen--
    In her sweet light no longer now
      The vapor it has been.

    "Shine on, my Queen: and so possess
      My being to its core,
    That self may show from less to less--
      Thy love from more to more."

    A touch of the oars, and on we slid--
      My cedar boat and I.
    The dreaming water faintly chid
      Our rudeness with a sigh.

LAKE GEORGE, September, 1873.

FOOTNOTES:

[83] PS. XXXV.




THE SEE OF S. FRANCIS OF SALES.


The "arrowy Rhone" and Lake Leman have become in modern literature
the counterparts of the classic Anio and Nemi of antiquity. Peculiar
memories cluster about their shores; they have been the intellectual
battle-field of systems, even while poets and dreamers were seeking
to make a Lethe of their enchanted waters; and perhaps on no other
northern spot in Europe has God lavished such beauties of color, of
atmosphere, of outline, and of luxuriant vegetation. Geneva rivals
the south in its growth of orange, oleander, and ilex, in its lake
of sapphire hue, its sunsets of intense variety of color, and its
profusion of white villas, homes of summer luxuriance, and temples of
delightful idleness. The clearness of the mountain air, the irregular
outlines of the smaller hills, the view of the Alps beyond--above
all, that of Mont Blanc--the quantity of hardy Alpine flowers, the
dusky, mediæval beauty of the town, and the unmistakable energy of its
sturdy-looking inhabitants, denote the northern character of Geneva.
The old Cathedral of S. Peter, where Calvin's chair is now the greatest
curiosity and almost the greatest ornament (so bare is the church),
and the new Cathedral of Notre Dame, a building hardly large enough
for the now numerous Catholic congregation of Geneva, speak of the
change that has come over the town in the last four hundred years. The
religious phases that have come and gone in this small and seemingly
insignificant spot form an epitome of the religious history of Europe.
The age of faith, the age of fanaticism, the age of indifferentism,
have reigned successively in Geneva. In the XIIIth century, as in
many an earlier one, High Mass was sung at S. Peter's, and monks or
canons sat in the stalls which yet remain in the choir; in the XVIth,
Calvin and Beza sat in plain black gown, teaching justification by
faith alone, and burning Michael Servetus for tenets that disturbed
the new "personal infallibility" of the Reformers; in the XIXth,
Socinianism is the creed of the "national" church, and Catholics,
Evangelicals, and Anglicans have each handsome and roomy buildings,
crowded on Sundays, and adorned with every outward sign of freedom of
worship. Catholics form half the population of the canton, and nearly
half that of the city itself. There are few conversions, however, so
that this proportion does not sensibly increase. Many of the suburbs
are entirely Catholic. The diocese extends to many Savoyard parishes,
which are, of course, altogether Catholic. Until the recent outbreak
against perfect liberty of conscience, when that liberty was to be
applied to the old church, the position of Catholics, clergy and laity,
was comparatively satisfactory; the bishop (of whom we shall speak
later) was universally beloved by his people, respected by his liberal
opponents, feared by his illiberal enemies; the moderate party in
politics, consisting of the class corresponding to an aristocracy, and
all of them men of polite bearing and strong religious (Evangelical)
convictions, were always on the side of Catholics in upholding their
privileges as citizens of the state, voters, and freeholders; the two
churches, S. Germain on "the hill," and Notre Dame on the plain (among
the new hotels and villas), besides other chapels on the Savoy side of
the lake, and the new suburb of Plainpalais, were always crowded, and
there were many schools for rich and poor under religious teachers. The
Sisters of Charity had a house, to which tradition pointed as the house
of Calvin; and many English visitors knocked at their door, to beg to
be allowed a peep into the courtyard, where they would pluck a blade
of grass as a memento or _relic_. These have now been suppressed; the
clergy, who were originally salaried by the state, have been thrown
on their own resources; the bishop has been sent beyond the frontier.
He is said to have remarked to the Holy Father, _à propos_ of this
measure: "Your Holiness sent me to Calvin; Calvin sent me to Voltaire
(the bishop's retreat is Ferney); but I have great hopes of outliving
them both."

Still, we would fain insist upon the great difference between this
mark of intolerance and the old rules of the Calvinistic theocracy.
The _Conseil d'Etat_ does _not_ represent Calvin and his personal
fanaticism; it speaks a language of its own, and one which Calvin
himself would be horrified to listen to--the language of state
supremacy defying God. If Calvin were alive, he would no doubt feel a
hearty satisfaction in burning Mgr. Mermillod; but he would have as
great a relish for the burning of Prince Bismarck. Calvinism was at
least sincere in its fanaticism; the Bismarckian animus is not even
that of a fanatic, but of a _cynic_. So it is not the spirit of the
pale, nervous reformer of the XVIth century that is responsible for
the recent outrage against freedom of conscience at Geneva; but a
spirit more potent, more ambitious, more grasping, and, above all, more
farseeing--the spirit of open infidelity boasting of its material power
of repression.

Of the political attitude of Geneva we need not speak, further than
to say that its acknowledged neutrality, and the intellectual culture
of its inhabitants, have given it a new life, and made of the focus
of the only "Reformation" that had any sincerity or inherent strength
in it a new focus of peaceful and dignified repose. From the _champ
clos_ of Calvinism, it has become the arena of the world, especially of
diplomacy, and the city of refuge of all exiles, royalist, Mazzinist,
and social. Among the latter came one who has contributed to Geneva's
glory--Byron, the gifted prodigal, who is among poets as the "morning
star" once was among angels. We meant, however, to speak rather of one
of Geneva's citizens than of the historic city itself; though such are
the manifold charms of the place that only to name it is a temptation
to plunge at once into a thousand speculations as to its past and a
thousand theories as to its future.

Mgr. Mermillod, the successor of S. Francis of Sales, is a native of
Caronge, a suburb of Geneva, and was born of a Catholic family, poor
in the world's goods, and obscure in its estimation. He has a vivacity
rather French than Genevese, but with a solid foundation of that more
serious character which distinguishes his countrymen. As an orator,
he is hardly second to the Bishop of Orléans, Mgr. Dupanloup; as a
lecturer to pious women on the duties of womanhood, he is superior
to most ecclesiastics. In the guidance of souls, the enlightened
discrimination between what is in itself wrong, and what harmless if
done in a proper spirit, he seems to have inherited the special gift of
S. Francis of Sales in directing women of good family, living at court
or otherwise, in the world. His singular prudence and the graciousness
of his manner are essential helps to him in the prominent position he
holds towards modern governments, and the daily contact which confronts
him with modern sentiment. He is the weapon expressly fashioned for
the last new phase into which the eternal struggle against the world,
the flesh, and the devil has entered. Like S. Francis, he wraps his
strength in gentleness, and carries out the _suaviter in modo, fortiter
in re_. In conversation, of which he is fond--for his is not the
monastic ideal of holiness--he is sprightly, witty, and accurate. His
power of crystallizing ideas into a _mot_ is quite French, and the
childlike joyousness of his demeanor is no less so. The word ascetic
seems to imply the very antipodes of his nature; and yet his private
apartment, which we were once privileged to see, is almost like a
cell. Here is a description of it, gathered from the impressions
of two worthy visitors: "I felt," says one, "in this little _buco_
(hole) as if I were in the cell of a saint, and examined everything
with veneration. That little _prie-Dieu_, so simple in its build,
which daily witnesses the prayers and sighs of the pastor, anxious
for his flock and the souls entrusted to him by God; of the Christian
humbling himself and praying for his own needs.... Perhaps some day
this little room will be visited as S. Charles Borromeo's is now at
Milan. I am favored in that I know it already. Two purple stocks and
the tasselled hat alone recalled the _bishop_, while the framed table
of a 'Seminarist's Duties,' taken in connection with the simplicity,
nay, poverty, of the room, might make one think it the habitation of a
young cleric."

And another account adds: "What a memory to have seen this room, so
narrow, so humble, so evidently the home of a saint! We shall always
be able to fix the picture of the bishop in our memory, night or day,
praying or working, at all times; ... and that beautiful print of
Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque, and that tiny _prie-Dieu_!"

The bishop's library, his ordinary working-room, was also a very simple
retreat, and often fireless in the coldest days of winter. The house
stood next door to the cathedral, and the rest of the clergy, four or
five in all, lived there in community. Among them was the old vicar,
the second priest to whose charge the reconstituted parish of Geneva
had been entrusted before being raised to the dignity of a bishopric.
It was very touching to watch this old man lovingly deferring to the
young bishop, who was formerly but a curate under him, and rejoicing
as a father in the elevation of one of whose fitness for the episcopal
office he, above all, had reason to be certain.

"No man securely commands but he who has learned well to obey."[84]
Another of the clergy was a very remarkable man, the type of a
character found nowhere in these days save under the cowl of the monk,
and even among religious probably nowhere save in the Benedictine
Order. He was the bishop's private secretary, and his right hand in
the business of the diocese. He belonged to the Reformed Benedictines
of Solesmes, and was a friend and spiritual subject of Dom Guéranger,
author of the invaluable _Liturgical Year_, the beautiful _History of
S. Cecilia_, and other works. It was only by a special dispensation
that he was allowed to hold his present position and live outside his
cloister; but having, in early life, been the schoolmate of the bishop,
and being eminently fitted to wield ecclesiastical sway, this privilege
(which was none to him, however) had been obtained by Mgr. Mermillod.
He was called rather by the title of his religious profession, _le
père_, than by his name in the world--a name since become known as
that of the author of a learned and voluminous _Life of S. Dunstan_.
He was, as it were, a stranded pilgrim in this age of compromise--a
stern, heroic soul cast in the giant mould of the XIIIth century;
rather a Bernard of Clairvaux than a Francis of Sales; in learning a
descendant of Duns Scotus, and a disciple of Aristotle; an ascetic, a
scholastic, a rigid disciplinarian, an unerring director. In person
tall, dignified, spare of form, with keen, eagle glance, clear-cut,
largely-moulded features; in dress simple to rusticity, and a fit model
for an old monkish carving at the foot of a pulpit or on the boss of an
arch.

They completed each other, these two saintly characters, the bishop
and the monk, bound together in a mystic marriage for the production
of spiritual children for God and the church; and the contrast between
them seemed, as it were, typical of that other union of distant ages,
one with another, for the furtherance of a principle ever the same,
whether its accidental exponent be Peter the fisherman, Hildebrand the
Reformer, Bernard the monk, Francis of Sales, the gentle bishop, or
Pius IX., the yet more gentle and more persecuted Pope.

Our stay at Geneva covered three-fourths of a year, so that we grew
familiar with the beauties of the neighborhood in its different
aspects of summer, autumn, and winter. It would be difficult to
chronicle every detail of these beauties of earth, sky, and water,
which, as the seasons brought them severally into prominence, seemed to
form a series of cabinet pictures for memory to dwell upon ever after.
There is nothing like a long stay in one place to make one feel its
loveliness; the transient wayfarer among the most enchanting scenes
sees not a quarter as much natural beauty as the constant dweller in
a less favored spot. In the wild rush, named with unconscious satire
a _tour_, the traveller sees a kaleidoscopic mixture of incongruous,
discordant beauties, and of each in detail he sees but one phase,
sometimes an abnormal one, sometimes an obscured one, and not seldom
he sees but the vacant place where this beauty should be. His opinions
are hastily formed, and, strange phenomenon! the more hastily the more
ineradicably, and they are often erroneous, or at least one-sided. A
man looking for the moon during the week when the moon is new, and
concluding, therefore, that no moon exists or is visible at any time,
would not be a rasher tale-teller than he who asserted that because
he passed twenty-four hours in Venice during a fog, therefore the sun
never shone in the Adriatic city; or that since in a week's scamper
through the environs of Naples he never came across a beautiful woman,
therefore the type of the Grecian goddess was extinct among the women
of Parthenope. Sweeping statements are as invariably wrong as they
are temptingly easy to make; it is needless to say how intellectually
absurd they are. Give your experience _as_ your experience, and you
will have contributed something to the sum total of acquisition
on any given subject; but do not give it as the only, absolute,
indisputable, and final result of research. All knowledge is but
partial; it is subject to all kinds of qualifications. Few men can
speak with authority of more than a grain of it at a time, and it is
equally unwise and undignified to put yourself in the position of the
Pharisee whom the lord of the feast directed to give place to a guest
of worthier and seemlier station. But this is a digression. We began by
saying that long residence in one place is the true way to see, learn,
and probe its beauties; as well as its resources. Until your heart
_grows to_ a place, you do not _know_ it, and no place unassociated
with family or patriotic connections can teach your heart to _grow to_
it without long residence. Perhaps there are exceptions, corresponding
to "love at first sight," but even this in human relations is only an
exception. We remember one place, seen for one day only, for which
this sadder feeling of kinship and yearning grew up in our heart--it
was Heidelberg; but intimate knowledge in ordinary cases is the only
channel to a great and appreciative love.

Geneva won its way to our love thus, and, more than any one spot we
visited--not excepting even Rome--came to represent to the memory the
happiest, most peaceful, and most fruitful period of our lives. We
shall be forgiven if we draw a sketch of the surroundings which are
associated with our knowledge of the Bishop of Geneva. In all our
reminiscences his figure is the central one, and the group of persons
who formed our circle of friendship seems naturally to revolve around
his person. Our summer life was spent in a shy little villa, invisible
from the high-road, and embowered in groves of pine, chestnut, and
oak; our winter days were passed, perforce, at the uncongenial but
perfectly appointed Hôtel de la Paix. The party consisted of our
own family only, with one or two accidental additions from England
for a week at a time. The house was slightly built and cottage-like,
with a flight of steps on each side, the front stoop being festooned
with a jessamine-vine, and the wide, grand drive, flanked by a bed of
flaming balsam-flowers, sweeping up to the door under the shade of two
or three massive horse-chestnuts. No room in the house was carpeted,
and only the drawing-room had a _parquet_ floor. The bed-rooms were
miracles of simplicity and cleanliness--milk-white boards, white-washed
walls, no curtains to bed or window, and an absence of any furniture,
save a narrow bed, a washstand, a dimity-covered table, and one cane
chair, making them seem so many dormitory sections partitioned off.
We made the "best" room a little more picturesque, as that of a loved
invalid never fails to be, by the help of crimson velvet coverlets,
blue silk and knitted wool in cushions, a portable easy-chair, muslin
bed-curtains, and a display of cut-glass bottles with gold stoppers--in
short, the contents of an English dressing-case on the pretty,
white-robed table. Books, also, and any pretty thing that struck our
fancy in the treasure-houses of the town, accumulated here, and made
of it the choicest room in the house. We had a severer trysting-place
on the ground-floor, where reading was carried on systematically,
illuminating and ecclesiastical embroidery filled up many an hour,
and our journals (from which we have already quoted) were compiled.
But there was a rarer treasure yet--a chapel. A tiny room, darkened
_all' Italiana_, with red curtains, and containing a portable altar
suitably draped, recalled the oratories of Roman _palazzi_; and here
was often seen the tall figure of _le père_ and a little chorister
from Notre Dame, as we had Mass said there generally twice a week. It
was a sanctification to the house, and we felt it an incitement in our
"labor of love" of reading and manual work. Another gathering-spot was
the wall on the garden side, forming the parapet between the terrace
and the lower level of meadow-land. There was a whole colony of spiders
nestled in the miniature grove of jessamine that hid the wall; and,
as we sat with our books on the steps leading from the terrace, we
assisted, as it were, at a perpetual natural history lecture _in
actu_. The webs were generally very perfect, and, as the autumn came
on, the early dews transformed them into a jewelled network, shining
rainbow-wise, with the loveliest prismatic hues. Sometimes, when they
were broken, they seemed like a cordage of diamonds--the tangled ruins
of some fairy wreck clinging to the mast, represented by a green twig.
But there was in the grounds another more sylvan and lonely retreat
still--our own especial haunt. It was a damp valley, below the level
of the high-road, carpeted with periwinkles and decaying leaves, and
shut out from human observation by a grove of oaks and chestnuts. A
peculiar darkness always brooded over it, and one might have forgotten
the existence of noontide had he spent twenty-four hours in its gloom.
A little brook ran along the bottom, its waters carrying miniature
freight-barks in the shape of half-opened horse-chestnuts or curled
and browned oak-leaves. If anything so small could bear so lofty a
likeness, we should say that this sombre valley was akin to a Druidical
grove.

Our outdoor pleasures were few, as the world understands them; they
mostly consisted of long drives into the interior, where we would
often pass dignified, melancholy-looking iron portals, let into a wall
festooned profusely with the Virginia creeper, and giving a glimpse
of some deserted, parklike expanse of meadow. Other less pretentious
entrances showed a wilderness of roses, flowering shrubs, and vines,
but always in contrast with the luxuriant Virginia creeper, which
nowhere else in Europe grows in such perfection. A variety of shades
absolutely Western greets the eye and delights the imagination; the
hues of the Indian summer seem concentrated in this one plant, and,
from its rich glow, an artist can easily guess what a forest of
indefinitely multiplied trees, painted in the colors of this creeper,
would look like. Two of our visitors were welcome additions to our
party and sympathetic sharers in our pleasures--one, a lady well known
for her energetic and active charity, whose presence in any place
pointed invariably to some hidden work of mercy to be performed there,
and whose mission just then was to comfort a lonely and despairing
widow under peculiarly trying aggravations of her sorrow; the other
an artist whose name in his public capacity has already appeared more
than once in the pages of THE CATHOLIC WORLD, and whose character of
childlike simplicity and reverent earnestness has endeared him to us in
private life as a friend and a model.

People staying at Geneva--at least, English people--always make a point
of going through the arduous expedition to Chamouni and the Mer de
Glace. We do not mean to disparage the spirit which inevitably urges
on our countrymen and countrywomen to put their necks in jeopardy on
the slightest provocation; but, turning the adventurous instinct of our
Anglo-Saxon blood to a better purpose, we chose rather to make two
or three expeditions to sites hallowed by the presence of the Apostle
of Geneva--S. Francis of Sales. Mont Blanc could not, from any point
of view, appear more majestically beautiful than it does from the
shores of Lake Leman; and we preferred to gaze upon the monarch with
the eye of an artist rather than that of a gymnast. We here lean upon
the authority of Ruskin, whom we are glad to appeal to in an instance
where his naturally reverential mind makes him a safe and unbiassed
guide. Our first pilgrimage was to the Castle _des Allinges_, on the
Savoy side of the lake, a ruin now, but where, in former days, the
saint often said Mass in a chapel, which is the only part of the castle
still untouched. There is no lack of visitors to this shrine during
the summer, and each party is generally accompanied by a priest. We
were happy in persuading _le père_ to be our companion, and started
overnight for the village of Thonon. The lake was unruffled, and the
sun shining tropically, as the little steam boat carried us over the
waters. Thonon is a Catholic village, with an ugly church, adorned by
carved and gilded cherubs and other unsightly excrescences ambitiously
striving to be Michael Angelos and Donatellos. Frogs never can let
oxen alone, especially in art. We slept at the inn, a picturesque and
proportionately dirty hostelry, very little changed, we should say,
from what it was in the days of S. Francis. It stands on a high terrace
above the lake, the top of which terrace forms a drilling-ground;
for Thonon has fortifications and the ghost of a garrison. The road
from the boat-landing winds up through stunted vines to a dilapidated
gateway, and is often dotted by the curious one-horse vehicle of the
country, called _char-à-banc_--_i.e._ a sort of diminutive brougham
turned sideways, and hardly capable of holding two persons--a kind
of side-saddle locomotion rather curious to any one accustomed to sit
with his face to the horses. The view over the lake by sunrise the
next morning was dreamlike in its beauty--each rounded peak veiled
in mist, and the motionless waters lying at their base as a floor of
azure crystal. As we went further up into the mountains, the sun's rays
flashed on hill after hill, throwing a softened radiance over each,
and shooting darts of gold across the clear blue of the lake. We met
carts laden with wheat-sheaves, and men and boys going to their day's
work; passed farms and dairies before coming to the heathery waste that
separates the lonely hill-top of _les Allinges_ from the cultivated
lands below; jolted over the stony path, called, in mockery, a _road_;
and, having seen in a short two hours' drive as many beauties as we
could conveniently remember, arrived at the Chapel of S. Francis. It
has been changed since his time, but the altar is said to be the one
at which he celebrated Mass. The chapel is a white-washed room like a
rough school-room, fitted up with painted benches and cheap prints; but
the feeling that draws so many Christian hearts to this refuge of the
missionary Bishop of Geneva hallows the bare walls and open poverty of
the chapel, and a spirit seems to rise from the altar recess to rebuke
any worldly sense of disparagement or even disappointment. The manner
in which _le père_ said Mass was enough to make one feel the solemnity
of the occasion and the gratitude that ought to possess one after
having had the privilege, doubtless not to be repeated in a lifetime,
of praying on this consecrated spot. We all received holy communion
during Mass. An old man is stationed at _les Allinges_ as _custos_,
sacristan, and Mass-server; and his little garden, in full view of the
lake, makes a pretty domestic picture grafted on to the mediæval one of
the "ruined castle ivy-draped."

S. Francis, so says tradition, often wandered day and night over
this mountain on his apostolic missions, and, being once overtaken
by darkness, found no better resting-place than the fork of a
chestnut-tree. Wrapped in his cloak, he there went to sleep, lulled by
the howling of the wolves, which abounded in that neighborhood. Many
similar stories are told in Savoy of his missionary adventures; one of
them recording that one day he presented himself, with two or three
companions, at one of the gates of Geneva. The guard, not knowing him,
asked who he was, before he would allow him to pass; the saint calmly
and smilingly replied, "I am _l'évêque du lieu_" (the bishop of the
place). The guard, concluding he was some foreign visitor, and that
_Dulieu_ was the name of his diocese or manor, nonchalantly opened the
gate, and let him in. When the magistracy discovered _who_ had thus
got entrance into the city of Calvin, there was a terrible outcry;
the too innocent guard was summoned and threatened with death for
his gross neglect of his duty, and a hasty search was begun for the
hated <DW7> bishop. S. Francis had by that time quietly finished his
business and left the hostile walls of Geneva. This is not unlike the
incident related by Cardinal Wiseman in _Fabiola_, where a Christian
substitutes for the watchword _Numen Imperatorum_, without repeating
which he could not pass out to his secret worship in the catacombs,
the words similar in sound, though widely different in meaning, _Nomen
Imperatorum_, and succeeds in cheating the guard, who was a Pannonian,
and whose knowledge of Latin was but elementary. It was probably during
one of these stolen visits that S. Francis administered the sacraments
to a poor Catholic servant-girl in the cellar of the _Hôtel de l'Ecu
d'or_--an old inn still standing at Geneva, and where the identical
apartment is now shown.

From Thonon we took the boat to Lausanne, on the opposite side of
the lake, visited the Castle of Chillon, and returned to Geneva,
after another night spent at the Vevay end of Lake Leman; where the
mountains, purple and rounded; the vegetation, southern in its quality
and luxuriance; the winding road by the shore--all contribute to remind
you of the Bay of Naples and the Sorrento road along the Mediterranean.

Lausanne itself, its cathedral, monuments, fortifications, and general
quaintness of architecture and beauty of position, was the goal of
another expedition, in which our English friend, Mr. B----, accompanied
us, and became our commentator and artistic guide.

There were many other places we also visited; one of us was
indefatigable, and followed the bishop to Thonex, where he solemnly
deposited a _corpo santo_; to Collonge, where he blessed a new cemetery
with all the pomp of ritual, made easy by this village being situated
on Savoyard ground; and to Caronge, where he distributed the prizes at
a girl's school, and gave an excellent and appropriate lecture on the
education of women in this century.

But the most beautiful ceremony of all was the consecration of the new
parish church of Bellegarde, the French frontier post and custom-house.
This village is a mere handful of white-washed cottages dropped among
the spurs of the Jura range. The mountains, though not high, have all
the beauty of the Alps; their varied outline, their abrupt gorges,
and their swift torrents being yet more beautiful because embowered
in a vegetation of softer aspect than the monumental pineries which
close-clothe the Alps. Within half a mile of Bellegarde is a curious
natural phenomenon--_la perte du Rhône_. The river, here scarcely more
than a mountain brook, after struggling through a barren, sandy bed,
strewn with boulders of a porous white stone worn by the action of
the water into strange shapes of vases, cauldrons, and urns, suddenly
plunges under an arched entrance in a wall of rocks, and disappears.
Its subterranean course is some miles long, and it re-emerges, on a
lower level, a placid, shallow stream. Around the mouth of this unknown
cavern the scenery is very striking; deep clefts of rock, with fringes
of Alpine flowers, alternate with thick growths of oak and chestnut;
and from every peaklet of the mountains some charming pastoral scene
comes into view. The new church was a plain white building, of no
architectural pretensions, but strong and impervious to the weather.
The internal decorations were simple in the extreme; no frog emulation
here, as in ambitious Thonon. For once we saw French peasants _au
naturel_; they really seemed the fervent, hospitable, unsophisticated
people one longs to see. The Jura protects Bellegarde from Geneva;
there is no large town near on the French side, and there is neither
hotel, nor mineral springs, nor iron mines, nor natural resources of
any kind to attract the acquisitive mind of the XIXth century. So God
still reigns undisturbedly in this narrow kingdom--narrow, indeed, if
measured by the numerical strength of its inhabitants, but noble and
precious if measured by the worth of each immortal soul which it holds.
The people were collected outside the church, as the full ceremonies of
consecration were going to be performed, and many of these take place
before the people can canonically be admitted into the interior. A
priest stood on the natural pulpit of a low stone wall, describing to
the faithful the symbolic meaning of each ceremony, as the bishop and
his assistants passed round and round the walls, chanting psalms and
anointing the building, or, entering the portals, inscribed the Greek
and Latin alphabets in the form of a cross on the floor of the church,
made seven crosses on the different internal walls, and recited psalms
and litanies before each. The men stood in the burning sun, bare-headed
and motionless, often kneeling in the dust, and singing hymns in French
corresponding to the meaning of the Latin prayers; a line of _Gardes
Nationales_, in uniforms rather the worse for wear, and many wearing
the Crimean medal, stood opposite the entrance, while an excruciating
brass band played with a will a mixture of national and religious airs.
When at last the congregation all poured into the church, High Mass was
sung, the brass band doing duty in a scarcely less subdued tone than
before, but being as much of an improvement upon the theatrical and
sensuous exhibitions nicknamed _sacred_ music in many grander churches,
as a rough but pious print is--religiously speaking--an improvement
on a lascivious Rubens. The sermon (we forget whether preached by the
bishop or not) was a touching exhortation to the people to remain knit
in heart and soul to this church, the emblem at once of their hopes
in the future and their spiritual struggles in the present. In the
afternoon, the bishop sang solemn Vespers, and towards dusk we all
returned to Geneva, happy in having witnessed a ceremony so seldom seen
in its beautiful entirety. Mgr. Mermillod was throughout the summer
our frequent guest at the villa, and as we purposed staying through
the winter as well, he promised to accompany us to Annecy, in Savoy,
to visit S. Francis of Sales' tomb and other places hallowed by his
memory, on his own feast (29th of January). We started on the eve in
two or three close carriages, with postilions. The road lay over a low
pass of the Savoy Alps; the cold was intense--such as we have never
felt in any other temperate climate in Europe, and which nothing but
the unexpectedly rigorous winters of the Northern States have surpassed
in our American experience. The road was lined with trees, and valleys
here and there opened a vista which in summer must have been gorgeous.
It was scarcely less lovely now. Each slender twig was sharply defined,
and covered with a clinging garment of frost; the white mist wreathed
itself round the mountain-tops, falling down the river-sides like
shadowy waterfalls, and, mingling with the white sky overhead, formed,
as it were, a vast dome of snow. No noise disturbed the silence save
the creaking wheels of our vehicles, and as far as eye could reach
there was no sign of life but our own presence. We might have been in
cloud-land, or below the surface of the ocean, among hedges of gigantic
white coral! After two hours of this elf-like journey, we came to a
ravine over which was thrown an iron suspension bridge, and here the
intensely earthly resumed its dominion and made itself clearly felt
in the prosaic necessity of paying toll and listening to profane
language, rendered yet more uncouth by the Savoyard _patois_.

Annecy is a little, old-fashioned town, with a cathedral in not much
better taste than the church of Thonon. The place wears a deserted
look, and, the cold being terrible, yet fewer of the inhabitants cared
to be seen loitering in the public squares. We adjourned first to the
inn (we fear modern pilgrims are less fervent than of old), but could
get no fire. Grates are unknown, and a miserable stove, badly managed
and half filled, is the starveling and inefficient substitute. The
old inn was a characteristic place. We went through the kitchen, the
general meeting and _table-d'hôte_ room, to our upper chambers. The
staircase was wide enough for a palace, of beautiful carved oak, as
was all the wood-work in the house. The next morning the bishop said
Mass for us at the shrine of S. Francis. The building of greatest
interest after this is the Convent of the Visitation, a rambling house
with a large kitchen-garden, which we crossed to reach it. We were
shown, through a double grating (the Visitation nuns are enclosed),
the various relics which form the spiritual wealth of the convent.
They have the original manuscript of S. Francis' _Treatise on the
Love of God_ written by his own hand, the pen with which he wrote it,
and a shirt embroidered for him by S. Jeanne Françoise de Chantal.
In the lower part of the house, corresponding to the position of a
cellar, is a little chapel partly hewn in the rock, which serves as
the foundation, where S. Francis gave the veil to S. Jane and one
companion, or rather, blessed the first semi-religious costume which
the founders of the order wore. This consisted of a black gown and
cape, and a large, close, white cap in one piece covering the neck and
shoulders as well as the head. This house then belonged to S. Jane in
her own right. In the chapel to the right of the altar is a picture of
her in this dress, and on the other side a description of the simple
ceremony. Later on, when the order was constituted, the dress became
thoroughly monastic, as it has remained ever since. The cell of S. Jane
is exactly as she left it; not made into a regular chapel, but, on days
connected with her memory or that of S. Francis, Mass is said there at
a temporary altar. Her cloak is kept in a press in the room, and one
of us was privileged in having it thrown over her shoulders for a few
minutes by the superioress. The order is not at all austere, but there
is an immense deal of moral sacrifice imposed by the spirit of the
rule. S. Francis designed it rather as a discipline of the mind than of
the body; and since saints have differed about this point, we are not
at a sufficient elevation to pronounce upon it. Individually, however,
we prefer the spirit of the older and more ascetic orders, as involving
a more complete oblation of the whole being to God; but--to every age
its own institutions, and, we might add, its own saints.

Mgr. Mermillod is surely one of those saints of our day. Indefatigable
in preaching (once the distinctive duty of a bishop), his own flock
sometimes complain, not without reason, that he is always away,
preaching a retreat here, a mission there--Lent in Paris, Advent at
Lyons, etc.; but in the winter of 1866, he fortunately preached five
_conférences_ at S. Germain, at Geneva itself. The church was in the
old, hilly part of the town, but neither that nor the difficulty of
approach--the frost made steep roads impassable that winter, and even
the cabs went on runners--seemed to diminish the ardor of the people.
All denominations were represented at these evening lectures, and
the subject was invariably one accessible to the understanding and
commanding the interest of all. One, on the regeneration of fallen
man, was peculiarly fine; but the arguments were perhaps inferior to
the language in which they were clothed. It wound up with a forcible
peroration on that "brutal and atheistical democracy which, in its
most hideous exponent (the French Revolution of 1793), prostrated
itself before a courtesan, and knelt before a scaffold. When the
worship of God perished, the worship of shame was the substitute; and
when the blood of God ceased to flow upon the altar, the blood of man
began to flow on the guillotine." The orator's enthusiasm in speaking
sometimes carried him beyond his argument, and he even lost the thread
of his similes in the ardor of his utterance. His watch invariably
stopped before he had been twenty minutes in the pulpit, and this
_entraînement_ was all the more vivid from being quite spontaneous, as
he never wrote his sermons, but preached extempore from a few scattered
notes. How much study he must have gone through at a previous time to
make him so polished, as well as so forcible, an orator, we can only
conjecture.

In ordinary social intercourse, his charm was chiefly sweetness and
sprightliness, with a certain happy diction which is a special gift,
seldom found except among Frenchmen or those to whom French has
become a second mother-tongue. Our long winter evenings at the Hôtel
de la Paix (the cold having driven us from the villa) were often
enlivened by his genial presence; other friends, too, came sometimes,
and one, a Russian and an acute thinker, M. S----, was one of the
most welcome. He was blind, but his infirmity only seemed to enhance
his powers of conversation, and made his company more agreeable than
it might otherwise have been. One night, the bishop was speaking of
Lamennais and his more hidden life. There were soul-struggles and
temptations assaulting him even in his chosen retreat of La Chênaie,
in the midst of his triumph, when the Christian youth of France
clustered round him, and sat at his feet as his humble disciples. He
sometimes fancied himself irretrievably destined to eternal loss,
and experienced paroxysms of terrible agony. The Abbé Gerbet, his
confessor, once surprised him in one of these fits of despair, and did
his best to strengthen and comfort him; but the demon was not to be
laid so easily. The bishop, telling us this, added: "The three greatest
geniuses of France in this age have fallen, the one through pride, the
others through vanity--Lamennais, Victor Hugo, and Lamartine." The
conversation having rested upon these two failings, some one quoted the
saying that "The greater part of mankind is incapable of rising to the
level of pride." A Russian lady who was present then said: "Indeed,
one ought to have a great deal of pride to save one's self from petty
vanity."

Thereupon M. S---- quickly remarked: "Oh! therefore, we should burn
down a city to prevent fires." Our Russian friend was very sharp at
repartee. Another evening, when he brought with him a young German,
the conversation fell upon Duke Ernest of Saxe-Coburg, Prince Albert's
brother. He had lately had an immense forest awarded to him as damages
for some losses sustained during the Austro-Prussian war of the
previous summer; so S----said:

"There are people who make arrows out of any wood, but he has contrived
to make wood out of any arrow." This is a French rendering of "'Tis
an ill wind that blows no one good"; but the connection in this case
between an arrow, a weapon typical of the war, and the wood, or forest
gained in compensation, is better expressed by the French form.[85]
Later on, some one remarked that in that war the telegraph had been
_Prussianized_ throughout Germany; and when the young German, S----
's friend, was trying to give us an idea of Duke Ernest's ticklish
position, S---- interrupted:

"Yes, yes; I know what you mean; in short, he played the part ... of
the telegraph!"

Mgr. Mermillod had a winning way of turning everything into a moral,
and at the same time giving balm to a rebuke and strength to a counsel.
For instance, one day, as he visited a sick penitent of his, whose
mental energy was for ever soaring beyond her physical capabilities, he
said:

"You will do more good on your sick-bed than you could in the best
of health in the London _salons_. Remember that Our Blessed Lord lay
but three hours stretched upon the cross, and thereby converted the
world; while, during his three years' ministry, he scarcely converted a
handful of Jews."

On New Year's Eve, 1866-7, gave us a few little books of devotion as
a souvenir, and then, making the sign of the cross on each of our
foreheads, said:

"Here are crosses to disperse the crosses of 1866 and frighten away
those of 1867."

Another time, on one of his penitents going to him with a load of
doubt, uneasiness, almost despair, he gave her the wisest and gentlest
counsels, after which he said sympathizingly, comprehending the whole
in a dozen words:

"I understand, my child; you go from one extreme to another--from
sadness to laughter, from melancholy to irony."

Once when some one in his presence expressed a wish that all priests
were like him, he answered humbly: "My dear child, every priest is in
some sort an incarnation of the Spirit of God."[86]

It is sad to think of Geneva without the presence of its pastor, so
admirably fitted as he is to carry on the work of S. Francis and
execute the designs of God in this important see. The faith is most
vigorous just where the attack is hottest, and it is on the missionary
bishoprics, flung thus into the warring bosoms of non-Catholic nations,
that, humanly speaking, the future--and let us say the triumph--of the
church very much depends.

With such internal bulwarks as the Benedictine secretary of Mgr.
Mermillod represents, and such external champions as the eloquent,
energetic, and enlightened bishop himself, it is not too much to say
that not even the faintest heart has reason to dread the fall of the
rock-built citadel of Peter.

FOOTNOTES:

[84] _Following of Christ_, b. 1. c. xx. v. 2.

[85] The original proverb sounds less ponderously: "Il en est qui font
flèche de tout bois, mai lui, il a fait bois de toute flèche."

[86] The Catholic reader will not misunderstand the still more forcible
original: "Tous les prêtres c'est une petite incarnation du bon Dieu."




CATHOLIC LITERATURE IN ENGLAND SINCE THE REFORMATION.


It is not surprising that Catholic literature was at a low ebb for
many years after Henry VIII., of evil memory. Deprived of the means of
knowledge in their own country under Edward VI., Elizabeth, and James
I., Catholics were compelled to seek education abroad in colleges
where they forgot their mother-tongue and the writers of their native
land. As to their brethren who remained at home, it was dangerous for
them even to possess books, and they seldom had time or opportunity to
make themselves acquainted with their contents. A prayer-book, black
with use and carefully secreted, was all the library of those who were
liable at any moment to be ferreted out of vaults and wainscots, and
hanged, drawn, and quartered for believing in the Papal supremacy. The
Puritan movement in the time of Charles I. and the Commonwealth was
highly unfavorable to literature in general; and the Catholics who
joined the royal standard were more anxious to wield the sword than
the pen. But the fewer the authors who broke the long literary silence
of the Catholic body in England, the more their names deserve to be
cherished. We will endeavor, therefore, to make a _catena auctorum_,
and to offer a few comments on each link in the chain. Though all of
them were Catholics at some period or other of their lives, they were
not all persistent in their faith nor exemplary in their practice. It
will be understood that they are cited in their literary capacity, and
not as saints, martyrs, and confessors in a calendar.

Robert Southwell, however, must head the list, as he was both author
and martyr. He published many volumes in prose and verse, though his
life was closed prematurely in his thirty-fifth year. Educated at
Douay, he labored in England eight years during Elizabeth's reign.
He was a member of the Society of Jesus, and he touched the hearts
of his suffering brethren by his tender and plaintive verse. _S.
Peter's Complaint, with Other Poems_, appeared in 1593, and _Mœoniæ,
or Certaine Excellent Poems and Spirituall Hymnes_, in 1595, the year
in which he was hanged, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn, under a false
charge of being engaged in a political movement. His real offence
was that of the Bishop of Ermeland and the Jesuits of Germany in the
present day--his allegiance in spiritual matters to the authority
of the Holy See. Robert Southwell's memory is still cherished in
England, and it is not long since selections from his poems were read
to a crowded audience in Hanover Square Rooms, London, by the Rev. F.
Christie, S.J. They do not rise high in poetic merit, but they are full
of noble, just, and devout sentiments. "Time Goes by Turns" is found in
most collections of British poetry. The following are the last stanzas
of his "Conscience":

    "No change of fortune's calms
      Can cast my comforts down;
    When fortune smiles, I smile to think
      How quickly she will frown.

    "And when in froward mood
      She moves an angry foe,
    Small gain I find to let her come,
      Less loss to let her go."

Religious writings--sermons, meditations, and even works of
controversy--had more importance, in a literary point of view, in
Queen Elizabeth's reign than they have now. At that time, people read
little; books were few and dear. Books of piety cultivated the mind,
though used chiefly to edify the heart. They exercised many persons in
the art of reading, who, but for that branch of literature, would have
read nothing at all. They kept up a habit which was good on secular
grounds, apart from the higher spiritual consideration. Looked upon
in this light, the tracts and letters of such holy men as Campion,
Persons, and Allen (afterwards cardinal) had a twofold value. Edmund
Campion was an accomplished scholar. He received his education at S.
John's, Oxford, and being courteous and refined, as well as clever, he
was universally beloved. After leaving college, he went to Ireland,
and wrote a history of that country, which was highly esteemed. Having
been reconciled to the church, he repaired to the new college at Douay,
that he might there study theology; and after following the usual
course, he was admitted into the Society of Jesus, and sent to England
to comfort and strengthen his brethren who were contending for the
faith. His friendship for Persons, his publication of a work written
by that father, entitled _Reasons for not Going to Church_ (that is,
to the parish Protestant church), and the seizure of a private press,
which a Catholic gentleman had given to the friends, that they might
work off edifying books and tracts, led to his apprehension. He was
dragged through the streets of London, with a paper fixed on his hat,
stigmatizing him as "Campion, the seditious Jesuit" (July, 1581),
and being tried for treason, of which he was quite guiltless, he was
barbarously executed, after suffering the most horrible tortures. The
life of Cardinal Allen, if carefully written, would be an important
addition to English Catholic literature, and involve numerous
particulars of thrilling interest respecting the political and domestic
history of the times. His writings lie in the border-land between
theology and politics. His _Apology or Defence of the Jesuits and
Seminarists_ was a reply, written in 1582, to the proclamations of the
government which denounced the Catholic priests as traitors. Persons
engaged in the same controversy, dwelling chiefly on the dogmatic and
practical side of the question. All honor to these heroes of the cross,
whom literature as well as religion claims as her own!

In placing "Rare Ben Jonson" among Catholic authors, it is not meant
to claim him altogether as one of the church's children. In early
youth, he bore arms and served a campaign in the Low Countries. His
troop being disbanded, he took to the stage; but a hot temper often
led him into brawls, and in one of these he had the misfortune to
kill a brother actor. Being in prison, he contracted an intimacy with
a fellow-prisoner, a Catholic priest, which ended in his conversion.
During twelve years he remained a Catholic, and then returned to the
Established Church. It was the only pathway to worldly success, and he
became a favorite with James I., as Shakespeare had been with Queen
Elizabeth. We name them together, for, indeed, they were rivals; yet
what a difference between the texture and the productions of their
brains! Ben Jonson was made poet-laureate, and wrote comedies and
masques without number. Here and there we find in his works noble
sentiments worthily expressed, as in that classical drama, _Catiline's
Conspiracy_. We find also rhythmical sweetness, as in the song, "To
Celia,"

"Drink to me only with thine eyes,"

and in the "Hymn to the Moon,"

"Queen and huntress, chaste and fair."

Now and then he touches a more sacred chord, and such as might suit a
Catholic lyre, as in the following hymn:

    "Hear me, O God!
      A broken heart
      Is my best part.
    Use still thy rod,
      That I may prove
      Therein thy love.

    "If thou hadst not
      Been stern to me,
      But left me free,
    I had forgot
      Myself and thee;

    "For sin's so sweet,
      As minds ill bent
      Rarely repent,
    Until they meet
      Their punishment."

The way had been prepared for Ben Jonson's success as a dramatist--not
to speak now of Shakespeare, Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, and
Marlowe--by the miracle plays or mysteries of the middle ages, similar
to those which are acted at the present time among the Indians in
Mexico, and the famous Ammergau, or Passion Play, in Bavaria. In
these plays, _The Fall of Man_, _The Death of Abel_, _The Flood_,
_Lazarus_, _Pilate's Wife's Dream_, _St. Catharine's Wheel_, and the
like, were brought on the stage with the approbation of the clergy,
in order that they might bring home the mysteries of the faith to
people's heart and imagination, and supply in some measure the place
of books. The miracle plays had been succeeded in time by moral plays,
which, from the early part of Henry VI.'s long reign, had represented
apologues, not histories, by means of allegorical characters. Vices and
Virtues, however, did not stand their ground long at the theatre. They
gradually changed into beings less vague and shadowy, who, while they
represented vices or virtues in the concrete, had, in addition, the
charm of resembling real life.

Richard Crashaw's fame as a poet rests mainly on one line, and that in
Latin; nor was the rest of his poetry of sufficient force and merit to
enable him always to retain the credit of that single line. It has over
and over again been attributed to Dryden and other hands. Yet it is
positively his, and a poem in itself. It is to be found in a volume of
Latin poems published by Crashaw in the year in which he graduated at
Cambridge (1635). The line is a pentameter--on the miracle at Cana of
Galilee--and consists of two dactyls, a spondee, and two anapests. It
is often quoted inaccurately, but we give it exactly:

      _Nympha pudica Deum vidit, et erubuit._
    "The modest water saw its God, and blushed."

The author's mind was devotional from his earliest years. He had always
been hearing about religion; for his father preached at the Temple,
and took part largely in the controversies of the day. There was one
favorable feature in the religious polemics of that period--both
sides professed belief in God and in the Christian religion; now our
warfare is with atheists, deists, pantheists, positivists, with whom
we have scarcely any common ground. After his election as a Fellow of
Peterhouse in 1637--about the time that Hampden, Pym, and Cromwell
himself were embarking for New England, and were forcibly detained from
sailing--he became noted in the university as a preacher, and passed
so much of his time in devotion that the author of the preface to his
poems says: "He lodged under Tertullian's roof of angels. There he made
his nest more gladly than David's swallow near the house of God. There,
like a primitive saint, he offered more prayers in the night than
others usually offer in the day. There he penned these poems: _Steps
for Happy Souls to climb to Heaven by_."

In 1644, sorrow came to his calm nest; and as he would not sign
the covenant, he was driven from the university he loved and from
surroundings increasingly dear. Accomplished in Hebrew, Greek, Latin,
Italian, and Spanish, skilled in drawing, music, and engraving, he
was still more noted for his talent in the higher art of poetry. He
belonged to what is called the fantastic school of Cowley, which is
full of conceits. But "conceits" are often original and beautiful ideas
quaintly expressed. The poetry of conceits was a reflex of the times,
and is, with all its faults, far preferable to classic platitudes in
flowing verse.

The overthrow of the Church of England by the Commonwealth was to
Crashaw a cause of poignant regret. He could no longer bear to look on
the towers and spires of venerable churches given over into the hands
of bawling, nasal Puritans. He quitted England, and, crossing the
Channel, found that, in France, he was a member of no church at all.
His own communion was extinct, and he was a stranger to the Catholic
Church, before whose altars he now stood as an alien. But he had taken
up his residence in France, and it was not long before he decided
on embracing the faith which that land prized as its most precious
heritage. After the decisive battle of the Civil War had been fought at
Naseby, the poet Cowley, who was an ardent royalist, visited Paris, and
found Crashaw in great distress. He represented his case to Henrietta
Maria, the exiled queen of England, and presented him to her. He
received kindness from her majesty, and letters of recommendation to
her friends in Italy. Having made his way to Rome, he became secretary
to one of the cardinals, and was subsequently appointed canon of the
church of Our Lady at Loretto. Here he resided during the remainder of
his days, and died "a poet and a saint" (as Cowley calls him) in 1650,
the year after the execution of Charles I.

Two years after his death, a volume of his posthumous poems was
published; and his memory was honored by Cowley in what Thomas Arnold
calls "one of the most loving and beautiful elegies ever written."
His _Steps to the Temple: Sacred Poems, and other Delights of the
Muses_, which appeared in 1646, had reached a second edition before his
decease, and a third was published in 1670. In 1785, his entire poems
were published in London, and included a translation of part of the
_Sospetto di Herode_ of Marini. His style resembled that of Herbert,
and a few lines breathing a Catholic spirit shall be quoted from his
works. It is called _A Hymn to the Nativity_:

    "Gloomy night embraced the place
      Where the noble Infant lay:
    The babe looked up, and showed his face--
      In spite of darkness, it was day.

    "We saw thee in thy balmy nest,
      Bright dawn of our eternal day.
    We saw thine eyes break from the east,
      And chase the trembling shades away.
    We saw thee, and we blessed the sight:
    _We saw thee by thine own sweet light_.

    "She sings thy tears asleep, _and dips
      Her kisses in thy weeping eye;
    She spreads the red leaves of thy lips_
      That in their buds yet blushing lie.
    Yet when young April's husband-showers
      Shall bless the faithful Maia's bed,
    We'll bring the first-born of her flowers
      To kiss thy feet and crown thy head:
    To thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep
    The shepherds while they feed their sheep."

Sir William Davenant was another poet-convert to the Catholic Church,
and his conversion took place nearly at the same time as Crashaw's.
Like that poet, also, he was in the favor of Queen Henrietta Maria
during her exile in France. His life was full of adventure. As a
child, he was acquainted with Shakespeare, who frequented the Crown
Inn in the Corn Market, Oxford, kept by his father. That father rose
to be mayor, and William entered at Lincoln College. Leaving Oxford
without a degree, he became page to the Duchess of Richmond, and
subsequently was attached to the household of the poet, Lord Brooke.
Exhibiting a decided talent for dramatic composition, he was employed
to write masques for the court of Charles I. These light plays, of
which Milton's _Comus_ is the best specimen ever produced, were highly
popular, and served for private theatricals in the mansions and castles
of lords and princes. William Davenant had fame enough to be celebrated
in his time, and to be made poet-laureate when Ben Jonson died; but his
writings had not body of thought, original conception, or sweetness of
expression enough to preserve them long from oblivion. His ballad, "My
Lodging is on the Cold Ground," seems to have had more of the principle
of life in it than anything else he wrote. During the Civil War, like
many other authors, he flung aside his books, and girded on the sword.
He was then known as General Davenant, and he negotiated in the king's
name with his majesty's friends in Paris. Twice captured, and having
twice escaped to France, he nevertheless returned, took part in the
siege of Gloucester, and was knighted by the king for his services on
that critical occasion. In 1646, we find him in France, in the service
of the exiled Queen of England, attending Mass, and conforming to the
discipline of the Catholic Church. Living in the Louvre with Lord
Jermyn, he had once more leisure to cultivate his taste for poetry.
There he began writing his longest poem, and a very tedious production
it is.

But his versatile mind was now occupied by a new scheme. He promoted an
emigration of colonists from France to Virginia, and, having embarked
for the distant settlement, the ship in which he was sailing fell into
the hands of one of Cromwell's cruisers. He was captured and taken to
Cowes Castle, and is said to have escaped trial for his life through
the kind intercession of his brother poet, Milton. It was not till
after two years of imprisonment that he regained his liberty; and
when at last he did so, all his efforts were directed to a revival
of dramatic performances, which the austere Puritans had entirely
suppressed. He succeeded at last in establishing a theatre, and,
gaining support by degrees, he ultimately restored the regular drama.
With the return of Charles II. his difficulties ended. King and people
alike heaped their favors on him. He died at his house, in Lincoln's
Inn Fields, in 1668, and was buried with distinction in Westminster
Abbey. He was very handsome, of ready wit and a singularly fertile
mind; but it is to be supposed that his attachment to the Catholic
religion was not by any means a prominent feature in his character and
career.

Like several of those already mentioned, John Dryden is but an
imperfect link in the chain of English Catholic authors since the
Reformation. It was not till a late period of his life that he entered
the true church, but he lived long enough to impress on his works a
decidedly Catholic stamp. Indeed, _The Hind and the Panther_, published
in 1687, some months after his conversion, was looked upon as a defence
of Catholicism. The hind represented the Roman Church, and the panther
the Church of England. It was a singular circumstance, to which, so
far as we have observed, attention has never been drawn, that three
poets-laureate in succession, Ben Jonson, Sir William Davenant, and
Dryden, were converts to Catholicity. The life of the last of these
poets was too long and too eventful to allow of our recalling even the
chief occurrences by which it was marked. Suffice it to say that before
he was twenty-eight years old he had passed from Westminster School to
Trinity College, Cambridge, and had acted as secretary to his kinsman,
Sir Gilbert Pickering, who stood high in the Protector's favor,
and went by the name of "Noll's Lord Chamberlain." On the death of
Cromwell, Dryden wrote an elegy upon him, which was also a eulogy; and
soon after the Restoration, he commenced writing for the stage coarse
comedies and stilted tragedies. Married to a daughter of the Earl of
Berkshire, he was appointed poet-laureate, with £200 a year. This was
in 1670, the tenth year of the reign of his licentious majesty, Charles
II.

When that sovereign expired (having been reconciled on his death-bed
to the Catholic Church), Dryden eulogized him as he had eulogized
Cromwell, and in the same poem turned with alacrity to the praises
of James II. Nor was it long before he embraced the religion of the
Duke of York. The motives which induced him to take this step have
often been made the subject of debate. The authority of Lord Macaulay
is constantly adduced in support of Dryden's venality and insincere
conversion. But in opposition to this, it must be remembered that
Dr. Johnson and Sir Walter Scott arrived at a different conclusion.
The latter biographer of Dryden contends that the poet's writings
contain internal evidence of his convictions having been in complete
accordance with the step he took, and that many external circumstances
contributed to make it easy for him to act in the way he thought right.
Duty and interest are not always at variance; and if Dryden gained by
the change in the first instance, when James II. was on the throne, he
lost eventually many temporal advantages. Having refused to take the
oaths of allegiance or forsake his religion, he was dismissed, under
William III., from his offices of poet-laureate and historiographer; he
had the mortification of seeing Shadwell, the dramatist, whom he had
often ridiculed, promoted to wear his laurel; and for the rest of his
life, he was more or less harassed by the ills of poverty. He educated
his children in the faith which he had embraced, and they showed the
strongest signs of heartfelt attachment to the person of the Sovereign
Pontiff and the church of which he is the head. One of them entered a
religious order, another was usher of the palace to Pope Clement XI.
In writing to them both in September, 1697, Dryden said: "I flatter
not myself with any manner of hopes, but do my duty and suffer for
God's sake, being assured beforehand never to be rewarded, even though
the times should alter.... Remember me to poor Harry, whose prayers I
earnestly desire.... I never can repent of my constancy, since I am
thoroughly persuaded of the justice of the cause for which I suffer."
This is not the language of one who had sold himself for a pension of
£100 a year. Dryden did not, like Chillingworth, return after a time to
the Established Church. He died in the religion of his choice, and many
of his poems, particularly the paraphrase of the _Veni Creator_, and
the two odes on St. Cecilia's Day, breathe alike the devotion and the
well-ordered ideas of a Catholic. There is much force in the closing
line of this stanza:

    "Refine and clear our earthly parts,
    But, oh! inflame and fire our hearts!
    Our frailties help, our vice control;
    Submit the senses to the soul;
    And when rebellious they are grown,
    Then lay thy hand, _and hold them down_."

When Dryden, in _The Hind and the Panther_, describes the different
Protestant sects, he very naturally gives the preference to the Church
of England, and speaks of her with a becoming tenderness, she having
been the church in which he was nurtured:

    "The panther, sure the noblest next the hind,
    And fairest creature of the spotted kind,
    Oh! could her inborn stains be washed away,
    She were too good to be a beast of prey!
    How can I praise or blame, and not offend,
    Or how divide the frailty from the friend?
    Her faults and virtues lie so mixed that she
    Not wholly stands condemned, nor wholly free.
    Then like her injured lion (James II.) let me speak,
    He cannot bend her, and he would not break.
    If, as our dreaming Platonists report,
    There could be spirits of a middle sort.
    Too black for heaven, and yet too white for hell,
    Who just dropped half-way down, nor lower fell;
    So poised, so gently she descends from high,
    It seems a soft demission from the sky."

Dryden's successor on the throne of letters in England was Alexander
Pope, who was also a Catholic, though not a convert. His father, a
linen merchant of Lombard Street, London, was a Catholic before him,
and had been led to embrace the faith by a residence in Lisbon. His
were the days of penal laws and various disabilities, among which
was exclusion from the public schools and universities. Alexander's
education, therefore, was private, and not of a first-rate kind. He
may almost be called a self-taught man. He had seen Dryden when a boy,
and he knew Wycherley, the dramatist, who is here mentioned because
he was in the number of those who adopted the Catholic profession
under the auspices of James II. Wycherley was, as Arnold calls him,
"a somewhat battered and worn-out relic of the gay reign of Charles
II." Macaulay has little respect for him, for the very reason that he
could interest us--because he became a Catholic. He styles him "the
most licentious and hard-hearted writer of a singularly licentious and
hard-hearted school." But the gentle Charles Lamb was more indulgent
to his memory and his works. "I do not know," he says, in the _Essays
of Elia_, "how it is with others, but I feel the better always for
the perusal of one of Congreve's--nay, why should I not add even of
Wycherley's?--comedies. I am the gayer, at least, for it; and I could
never connect those sports of a witty fancy in any shape with any
result to be drawn from them to imitation in real life. They are a
world of themselves almost as much as fairyland."

We will not pause to discuss the soundness of this criticism; we have
to do with Pope, and chiefly with his religious character. No one can
read his "Dying Christian's Hymn," beginning,

"Vital spark of heavenly flame,"

without being convinced that the author was capable of the deepest
religious feeling. The times were not favorable to a Catholic poet,
nor is it in Pope's writings that we must look for the strongest
evidence of his faith. The "Letter of Eloisa to Abelard," indeed,
could hardly have been written by a Protestant; but it says nothing
of his personal religion. We find, however, by his correspondence
with Racine and others, that though infidelity and gallantry were the
fashion of his day, he was known among his friends as a _Papist_,
and that he speaks of himself as such unreservedly. The words of Dr.
Johnson on this subject are as follows: "The religion in which he
lived and died was that of the Church of Rome.... He professes himself
a sincere adherent.... It does not appear that his principles were ever
corrupted, or that he ever lost his belief of revelation.... After the
priest had given him the last sacraments, he died in the evening of the
30th day of May, 1744."

It is pleasing to reflect that this illustrious poet, so distinguished
by his deep thought, his affluent imagery, his pathos, his scathing
satire and matchless versification, recoiled in his solitude and
sickness from the false philosophy of his friends, and closed his weary
and painful existence at the foot of the cross; that he departed hence,
not only with laurels on his brow, but with the Viaticum on his lips
and the church's blessing on his drooping head. But it was not at the
awful hour of death merely that he began to prize the religion which
England proscribed. There is a little anecdote related of him which
shows that he had a distinct and warm feeling on the subject long
before he came face to face with the last enemy. He and Mrs. Blount had
been invited on one occasion to stay with Mr. Allen, at Prior Park,
near Bath, on a visit. Pope left the house for a short time to go to
Bristol; and while he was absent, it happened that Mrs. Blount, who was
a Catholic as well as himself, wished to attend Mass in the chapel in
Bath, and requested the use of Mr. Allen's chariot for that purpose.
But her host, at that time being mayor of the city, had a decided
objection to his carriage being seen at the doors of such a place, and
begged to be excused lending it. Mrs. Blount felt deeply offended at
this time-serving, and, when Pope returned, told him her feelings on
the subject. The poet was so incensed at this offence offered to his
religion and his friend that he, and Mrs. Martha Blount too, abruptly
quitted the house.

There is, happily, no need of our contending for the places which
Dryden and Pope should occupy among literary celebrities. Their
attachment to Catholicism at a time when it was especially distasteful
to the English people--during the reigns, we mean, of William the
Third and Queen Anne--did not detract from the popularity of their
writings even while they lived. The striking genius of Dryden as
a translator, his racy language and manly style, have been fully
appreciated by posterity; and if we put Pope above him in the rank of
poets, it is because we discover in the latter more profound philosophy
and rhythmical sweetness. He enjoyed, too, an advantage over his
distinguished predecessor in that he was not a convert, but had from
childhood been imbued with the doctrines of the ancient faith. The
Catholic system, even more than he knew, lent force and color to his
imagination, restrained his philosophic speculations within orthodox
bounds, and imparted a certain majesty and consistency to his verse,
even when it was concerned with purely secular topics. It had done the
like for Dante, Chaucer, Calderon, and Corneille before him, and it has
done the like since for Thomas Moore, as we shall endeavor to show in a
future number.

                            TO BE CONTINUED.




CATHOLIC YOUNG MEN'S ASSOCIATIONS.


The saying is becoming almost trite that the Catholic Church has done
wonders in this country. Its rapid rise, growth, and spread are little
short of miraculous. Half a century ago, the church was scarcely known
here, save in a misty way, as something very remote and powerless.
To-day it stands up as a factor to be counted in American polity.
It points to its five or six millions of believers. It points to
its cathedrals, its magnificent churches, its splendid educational
establishments, its parochial schools, its illustrious hierarchy, its
active and zealous priesthood, its religious orders and societies
of men and women, its lay associations for various pious purposes,
its newspapers, and its multiplying writers. It has seized upon the
very genius of this new people. It lags not behind, but keeps apace
with their enterprise; and scarcely are the piles driven in for the
building of a new city or town than the cross is seen above the growing
settlement.

Protestants have recognized this fact. They are daily bearing witness
to its truth. It is but recently that the press, secular and religious,
was alive with a discussion on "The Decline of Protestantism," here, in
this very land. And the two foes that Protestantism had most to dread
were, as all agreed, the one from without--Catholicity; the other from
within--infidelity. It was expected the Evangelical Council would take
into consideration the same subject: the best means to be adopted in
order to beat off those two terrible foes--Catholicity and infidelity.

All this is well. It is well that the foes of the church should
themselves testify to the irrepressible spread of the truth; that
they should cut the dividing lines so clearly between Catholicity and
infidelity--their Scylla and Charybdis, either of which is destruction
to them. It is well that the men who within living memory despised
the church should now come forward and testify that that church has
conquered them. That they themselves should thus bear witness to the
spread of Catholicity and the corresponding decline of Protestantism is
flattering enough, if mere human feeling were allowed to enter into a
question which involves man's eternal salvation; but it is well, also,
that Catholics lay not too flattering unction to their souls.

They may occasionally point with pardonable pride to their swelling
numbers and all that has been indicated above; but at the same time,
it would be a fatal mistake to imagine that everything has now been
done for the church of God; that it has nothing to do but run on
smoothly in the eternal grooves fixed for it, sweeping triumphantly
through the country, and bearing away all in its track. A young and a
new Catholic generation is coming into possession. It does not know,
and can scarcely appreciate, at what terrible cost, after what long
and painful struggles, cathedral after cathedral, church after church,
college after college, school-house after school-house, were built. It
finds them there and is content, as an heir finds the woods and the
fields won inch by inch by the toil and the sweat of his father. If the
young generation would not squander its inheritance, would not see it
dissipated before its eyes, and slip away out of its nerveless grasp,
it must be up and doing while the morning of life is on it; tilling,
trenching, delving, casting out the weeds, watching for the enemy that
would sow tares among the wheat, that it may leave a larger, a richer,
and a brighter inheritance to its own children when it is gathered to
the soil of its fathers--the good soil consecrated by their bones.

Yes, a goodly inheritance has fallen upon the young Catholic generation
of America to-day; and a goodlier yet is in store, to be won by their
own endeavor. Never in this world's history was there a fairer field to
fight the battle of God in than in this great country; and never yet,
take them all in all, were there fairer foes and less favor to contend
against. But let it be borne well in mind, the battle is a severe one;
all the severer, perhaps, because the field is so open and Catholics
are so free. Here in America there is nothing of the glory of martyrdom
to sustain us--a glory that turns defeat into victory, and by one death
wins a thousand lives. Ours is not the clash of arms and of battle, but
of intellect. We have to reason our way along. The cry of "the decline
of Protestantism" is a cry well grounded. The churches are losing
their children. A reaction against Puritanism has set in as decided
and as disastrous in its results as that which set in in England on
the accession of Charles II. The children throw off even the gloomy
cloak of religion to which their fathers clung long after the many
deformities and defects it concealed had shone through the threadbare
garment. The thought of young America to-day is, "Let the doctors
wrangle about their creeds. All we know or care to know is that we have
life, and let us enjoy it while we may."

And thus the battle of the age is coming to be fought out among and
by the young--young America Catholic and young America non-Catholic.
True, our ranks are swelling daily, and nowadays principally by native
growth. The birth-rate, if classified as Catholic or non-Catholic,
is so strikingly in favor of the former as to attract the universal
attention of the medical faculty. Converts, too, crowd in upon us;
but, numerous as they are, they are only driblets compared to the vast
ocean that roars outside. Five or six millions is a mighty number; but
there are thirty millions or more left. Were it not remembered that
God, although the God of battles, is not always on the side of the big
battalions, our hearts might sicken at the mustering of the forces--our
six millions surrounded, absorbed, as it were, by that mighty army five
times greater, stretching away dim in its immensity, yet meeting us at
every turn, and, directly or indirectly, contesting stubbornly every
inch of ground.

It is true that they are broken whilst we are one. They fight under a
thousand different banners; and even while presenting a united front
against us, they are rending each other in the rear. The deserters from
our side are few--practically none--and such as do go become objects
of infamy even to those who make a show of welcoming them. But besides
the two directly opposing forces, Catholics, and Protestants of some
professed creed, there is a neutral ground, vaster than either, and
equally opposed to both--infidelity; and thither is young America
drifting.

And truly it looks a fair region for a young man to enter. There is
no constraint upon him beyond the pleasant burden, light to bear, of
fashionable etiquette. A dress-coat and a banker's account will pass
him anywhere. The man under the dress-coat does not matter much; and
the inquiry as to how the banking account came into his hands is not
scrupulously close. He will meet there the lights of modern science
and literature--men who can trace the motions of the world, and find
no Mover; who have sifted the ashes of nature, to find only matter;
who have analyzed the body of man, to find no soul in him; to whom
life is simply life, and death, death. There is the abode of wit, and
scoffing, and irreligion, and bold speculation, and the unshackled play
of the undisciplined intellect, and under it all the power to do as you
please, because you may believe as you please, provided you sin not
against the laws of etiquette.

Now, the work of the church is to break up that neutral ground, which,
indeed, is the most formidable of the day. It must keep its own young
men from being drawn thither, and win those that are there into its
bosom. But although in very truth the yoke of Christ is sweet and his
burden light, it takes a long time to impress that fact upon youth
in the heyday of life. And with all the power of the prayer of the
faithful, with the voice of the preacher, and the attractions of the
ceremonies of the church, there is no merely human agency to win
youth like youth itself; no sermon so powerful as the unspoken sermon
preached by a Christian young man, set in the midst of a world that
practically knows not Christianity. And this is one great point of the
present article.

Our young men and young women who mix daily in the army occupying
that neutral territory of infidelity are, or may be made, our best
missionaries. There the voice of the preacher never or rarely
penetrates. His voice is as "the voice of one crying in the
wilderness." But though the preacher's words may not reach there, the
effect of his words may be visible in the conduct of those whom his
words do reach--the Catholic youth who live and move in the daily world.

Hitherto this point has been, perhaps necessarily, much neglected.
Catholics have not half utilized their forces. They have not made
use enough of the young. Indeed, the work of reclaiming them at all
has been a severe one, and is still far from even the full means of
accomplishment; for it may here be noted how Protestants cling to the
godless school system, though many of their best thinkers and leading
organs acknowledge that a system of education founded on no faith at
all must naturally produce scholars of no faith at all. But it is time
for Catholics to see that if they would not only keep their own--hold
fast to the inheritance that their fathers bequeathed them--but also
win more, something more definite must be done to hold together the
young, and unite them in one common cause. If you want missionaries,
you must educate them. If you wish the young to be Catholic, not on the
Sunday only, but always, you must take the proper means to that end.

Our meaning is this: Catholicity must not be confined to the churches
only. Half an hour's Mass weekly is undoubtedly a great deal when
rightly heard; but it is, after all, only a portion of the spiritual
food necessary to carry a man safely through the week. The poison of
the atmosphere of utter worldliness that our young people breathe can
only be counteracted by an antagonistic Catholic atmosphere; and this
can only be created by having Catholic centres of attraction under
church auspices, where Catholics may meet occasionally to converse, to
read, to hear a lecture, or to amuse themselves in a healthful manner.

It is not long since, at the "commencement season," we were listening
to the young orators of the graduating classes of our various
educational establishments. Kind eyes looked on as they poured forth
their eloquent ten minutes of benison on the heads of the comrades
they were leaving behind them. It was pleasant to hear the words of
wisdom, of eloquence, and the soundest morality fall from their lips.
But the listeners, the admiring parents or friends, felt, nevertheless,
that their boys were speaking comparatively from "the safe side of the
hedge," and that it remained to be seen how far the good thoughts to
which they gave utterance on leaving the college would guide them and
rule them in the real battle of life that was only then about to begin.

What has become of the thousands of young men who have gone out and
continue to go out, year after year, from our colleges? For the most
part, they are lost to the eyes of those who trained their boyhood.
They may continue to hold fast by the principles they imbibed at
school, or they may not. In our large cities and towns, there are
always more or less of our Catholic college graduates, most of whom are
unknown to each other, or rarely meet. How different would it be had
they places in which to assemble! Something has been done to meet this
very striking want. Very many churches have attached to them this or
that young men's association, devoted generally to literary pursuits;
but for the most part, these excellent associations have not effected
much; not because they have not the right spirit and energy, but purely
from lack of organization, from not knowing exactly what to do or
what not to do, from not being united with fellow-associations, and
generally from lack of funds.

In New York, for instance, where Catholics boast of half a million of
their creed; where they have so many magnificent churches, some of
them with very wealthy congregations; with so many wealthy Catholic
residents, professional men, and large business firms; with half a
dozen weekly newspapers or more--where are the young men? Where is our
Catholic hall, club, reading-room, library? Nowhere. Nevertheless,
there are, in one shape or form, numbers of associations of Catholic
youth scattered through the city, and greater numbers of Catholic youth
still who do not and will not join them, because they do not find in
them attraction enough.

Now, this is a thing worthy of being investigated closely, and remedied
speedily. We Catholics ought to be ashamed of ourselves to see what
the Protestants have done in the organization known as the Young Men's
Christian Association, with its splendid reading and meeting-rooms,
gymnasium, and lecture-hall, where the ablest lecturers of the world
hold forth and draw the crowds of the city to hear them. Nor does this
association stop here. It has multiplied itself, not only throughout
the city, but throughout the country. Branch houses are covering the
whole land; and, whatever may be its present or its future, it is
certainly admirable in conception and organization. Its honor and
reputation rest in its own hands.

There is only one association to which the Catholics of New York,
speaking generally, can point as having achieved something; as not
purely local, but general, in its character; as, in fact, a success,
though it is still struggling almost in its infancy. This is the
Xavier Alumni Sodality and its correlative, the Xavier Union. That
admirable association, the Catholic Union, is designedly omitted from
the present article, which deals only with the young men.

The Xavier Alumni Sodality was established in New York on December 8,
1863. It was intended originally, as its name implies, for graduates
and ex-students of the College of S. Francis Xavier. It began with
about half a dozen members. It gradually and very wisely widened
its scope so as to take in the alumni of any Catholic college who
might choose to join, as also merchants in business and professional
men. Its objects may best be set forth by quoting from the printed
"Constitution":

  "I. The encouragement of virtue, Christian piety, and devotion
  to the Blessed Virgin among educated Catholic gentlemen, the
  perpetuation of friendships formed by them during their college
  life, and the promotion of Catholic interests.

  "II. The means to obtain this end shall be principally the daily
  practice of certain devotions, the frequent and worthy reception
  of the sacraments, and religious and social meetings at stated
  intervals."

In the following sections of the "By-laws" we find:

  "SEC. 14. On the Sunday following December 8, and on a Sunday
  during Easter-time, there shall be a general communion, at which
  all members shall be expected to assist. The first general
  communion shall be preceded by a Triduum, or three days' spiritual
  retreat.

  "SEC. 17. In case any member of the Sodality falls sick, the Rev.
  Father Director and the President (who is elected of and by the
  members) shall appoint one or more members to visit him.

  "SEC. 20. There shall be a Requiem Mass for the repose of the soul
  of a deceased member as soon after his death as convenient. The
  members of the Sodality are expected to assist at this Mass.

  "SEC. 22. There shall be a standing committee called the
  'Committee on Employment,' and consisting of the President and six
  members of the Sodality, appointed by him at the January meeting.
  [The members meet on the first Sunday of every month.] Its duties
  shall be to assist young men to procure mercantile or professional
  employment."

There are quite a number of special indulgences attached to the
Sodality, whose genuine worth and practical tendencies may be faintly
imagined from this short statement. Its effects, and the success
attained by it, may best be judged from the fact that the half a dozen
members of ten years ago have swollen to the number of over four
hundred, notwithstanding losses by death and by members leaving the
city. This number is being increased at every meeting; whilst out of
the Sodality has sprung the Xavier Union, which, though established
only two years ago, already numbers two hundred members.

To quote the "Preamble" of its printed "Constitution and By-laws"--

  "The Xavier Union was organized in March, 1871, by a number of
  gentlemen, members of the Xavier Alumni Sodality--a Society
  established in 1863, and having for its object the encouragement of
  virtue and Christian piety among the educated Catholic young men of
  this city [New York], and the promotion of Catholic interests by
  their united efforts.

  "From this body, in order to unite its members more intimately,
  better to carry out its objects, and to effect other desirable
  ends not strictly within the scope of a purely religious body, the
  Xavier Union has been formed.

  "This Union has in view both the mental and moral improvement of
  its members.

  "By a regular and proper representation of Catholic questions,
  by association with men of mature years and study, and by their
  frequent meetings with each other, it hopes to keep alive among its
  members a spirit of true Catholicity, and to encourage by example
  all Catholic young men in fidelity to the teachings and practices
  of their religion.

  "It further proposes to promote the study of good books, and to
  foster a taste for the sciences and arts; but it intends more
  especially to exert itself in awakening and keeping alive an
  interest in Catholic history and literature.

  "While pursuing these ends, it has in view the furnishing its
  members with every desirable means for their proper recreation,
  both of mind and body. Thus it hopes, by guarding youth against the
  temptations of youth itself, and withdrawing it from the no less
  insidious than dangerous associations of a city, to encourage our
  educated young men to a proper use of both mind and body, and to
  make them ambitious to be and do good, that they may exert that
  influence on society which is to them indeed a duty.

  "In furtherance of these objects, the Union shall, through its
  management, provide--

  "I. A library.

  "II. A reading-room having all desirable reviews and journals.

  "III. Literary and musical entertainments."

The best comment on these objects and the desirability of them is to
point to the success which has already attended this movement.

The Union, which is recruited exclusively from the Xavier Alumni
Sodality, rents for its use a building containing a reading-room,
reception-rooms, billiard-room, and a handsome library of six thousand
volumes. It is found already that the accommodations are far too small,
and a proposal is on foot to erect a building adequate to the growing
wants of the society, and containing a large hall for the giving of
lectures and for other purposes. The want of this was found last year,
when, for a series of lectures given under the auspices of the Xavier
Union, it was found necessary to hire one of the public halls. Of
course, the question is mainly one of funds.

However, here is something practical, tangible, which can point
to results, and which challenges the attention of all Catholics,
particularly of our Catholic young men. The Xavier Alumni Sodality and
the Xavier Union have so far done everything for themselves under the
guidance of their able director. Their work, as may be imagined, has
been very up-hill, for the entrance fees are not large; nevertheless,
with the profit of lectures, they have constituted their only source of
revenue. In the face of all difficulties, however, there they stand,
an active and ever-increasing organization of educated young Catholic
laymen, with their rooms for reading and amusement, and their library.
They form already the nucleus of a great Catholic centre, which, with
a little tact, a little generosity on the part of those who can afford
to be generous, and who could not be generous for a better purpose, a
steady perseverance in the way they have entered upon, may rival any
club in the city, may be a rallying-point for the Catholic laity, and
may furnish a constant supply of amusement, information, and recreation
of mind and body for Catholics of all ages, but particularly the young.

Special attention has been devoted to these two organizations, because
they are, beyond doubt, the most prominent associations of Catholic
young men in New York. Indeed, at the present writing, we know of none
equal to them in the United States. This is not at all said by way
of flattery to the societies mentioned; rather by way of reproach to
those who have neglected to form similar societies. Educated young
Catholics are plentiful in most of our large cities; and wherever a
number of educated young Catholics exist, there such societies as the
Xavier Alumni Sodality and the Xavier Union ought to exist, with their
rooms for association, meeting, reading, and amusement. Much the same
programme, and much the same organization, and much the same aims and
tendencies, would answer for all. A new and wonderful impetus would
thus be imparted to Catholic thought, Catholic work, and, above all,
to Catholic literature and education. An _esprit du corps_ would be
engendered among our Catholic youth that is sadly wanting at present,
and that would inevitably tell upon society. Any large Catholic project
might be almost instantaneously taken up and discussed throughout
the country; and, above all, Catholic young men would find places
where healthy amusement was blended with instruction and blessed by a
religious spirit.[87]

Neither need such organizations be restricted, as it were, to any
special class. The Sodality of the Blessed Virgin, of which the Xavier
Alumni Sodality is a branch, may be made to embrace all classes. It
was founded in the Roman College of the Society of Jesus, on December
8, 1563, exactly three hundred years prior to the foundation of this
promising offshoot in New York. The society has an eventful history.
It began in the Jesuit Colleges, and was restricted to the students.
It speedily spread thence throughout the world, embracing all ranks
from the crowned head to the peasant. One branch took up one good
work, another devoted itself to some other. It entered the world,
society, the army, everywhere. Popes belonged to it, kings, astute
statesmen, great generals, as well as the rank and file, and the
humblest craftsmen. Many a saint's name glitters on its scroll. S.
Aloysius Gonzaga, S. Stanislaus Kotska, S. Charles Borromeo, S. Francis
of Sales, Blessed Berchmans, and many another consecrated in Catholic
history, were all members of the Sodality of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
So great was the good it wrought that popes have bestowed upon it many
rights and privileges. It has had the glory of persecution. Infidel
governments suppressed it from time to time, in France particularly,
fearing lest it should lead men back to God; for if there is one thing
more than another that the devil fears, it is seeing the young go from
him wholesale.

Now, this matter is worthy the attention of all Catholics. Enough
graduates go out yearly from our colleges, and enough intelligent and
zealous Catholic young men are scattered through our great cities
and towns, to take this matter up earnestly, and establish Catholic
societies of this kind for practical, pious, and sanitary purposes.
They might embrace in a short time all the Catholic youth of America.
As has been seen, the Sodality of the Blessed Virgin Mary is very
elastic in its constitution, though one in its organization and aims;
and it may be made to embrace all classes and states of life. It has
history, stability, saintly members, and good works innumerable to
recommend it. It has been specially blessed and favored by many popes,
and it has for its head the Blessed Mother of God, whilst those who
enroll themselves in it do so as children of Mary.

Coming back to the opposing forces here at home--Catholicity,
Protestantism, and infidelity--we see nothing more powerful to
withstand the assault of the latter particularly than Catholic
societies of this nature. The social atmosphere to-day is full of
insidious poison. The young unconsciously breathe it from their infancy
up. The edifice of faith in God was never more persistently assaulted
by the united forces of the powers of this world. No persecution of
the Roman emperors, unless, perhaps, that of Julian the Apostate, ever
threatened the religion of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, with a tithe
of the bitterness and hatred that frown upon it now. Men nowadays do
not so much seek out the chiefs of the church, the pontiffs, and the
bishops as the little children and the young of all ages. In some
cases, as in Germany, Switzerland, Italy, and Brazil, they add open
and violent persecution to its secret and more fatal forms. The great
cry of the age--a good and earnest cry--is for education. Educate the
masses! Educate all at any cost! That cry is good in itself, and is as
old as the church of Christ, and no older. But to it is joined another
cry: The church is out of date. It cannot educate. It has failed. It
will keep the people ignorant and superstitious. That is just the
right state for the priests. We know that of old. The priests in pagan
times were just the same. They kept the people blind for their own
sakes. But the newspapers have broken all that up. Men who read their
daily _Herald_ or their daily _Times_ know a little too much for that
nowadays. So out with the priests and their church altogether. We
want the children to know how to read, and write, and cipher, and be
intelligent. If they want religion, they may find it where they can.
But religion is quite a secondary consideration nowadays. It used to be
the first thing. That was the great mistake. We must now make it the
last.

That is pretty much how the lights of the age--the scientific
apostles--talk. Their opinions are re-echoed in the pages of journals
which, compared to Christian or Catholic, are as a thousand, nay, ten
thousand, to one; so that they are ever before the public eye in one
form or other. Consequently, religion is not only thrown out of the
school, but, to a great extent, out of the world altogether; nay, if
the accounts our Protestant friends give of themselves be true, out of
the pulpit also, when preachers preach "a theology without the _Theos_,
and a Christianity without Christ." It is perhaps only natural, then,
to find public morality at a sad discount; private morality, on a large
scale, a thing ugly to inquire into, and commercial morality broken
down before commercial gambling. It is not strange to find the loosest
ideas on the marriage tie prevail, and a corresponding disregard of
the sanctity of the household and the mutual obligations of husband
and wife, of father and child, spreading wider and further every day.
It is no wonder to find public amusements, as a rule, unfit to be
witnessed by the eye of a decent man or woman. It is not surprising
to see well-dressed crowds listening eagerly to brilliant lecturers,
who in mellifluous accents and the chastest English, and in evening
costume, pleasantly and quietly, and in the best possible taste, laugh
away the idea of God and Christianity; and it is no surprise to find
the children of those well-dressed crowds growing up and moving about
the world, with no sense of Christian morality at all, and at best, to
use an ordinary expression, a human sense of what is "square."

Right in the face of this scornful infidelity or shaky faith, it
is noble to see the Catholic world, especially the young Catholic
world, rising up everywhere to proclaim openly, boldly, and with no
hesitation in the tone, its whole-souled faith in the Roman Catholic
Church, its tenets, its doctrines, and its practices. Allusion, as
will be understood, is made chiefly to the pilgrimages in Europe, and
more particularly to the contingent furnished by Protestant England.
A pilgrimage, composed of Catholic young men, visited, the other day,
the shrine of S. Thomas of Canterbury; another soon after crossed over
to France, to visit the shrine of the Sacred Heart at Paray-le-Monial;
and doubtless others will follow. We see it advocated in the Catholic
press that our young men here do likewise. They would do well; but
whether their desire take living form or not, certain it is that in
this country they are just as eager to give evidence of their Catholic
faith as in any other. And just here, in this proposal to make an
American pilgrimage to some of the Catholic shrines in Europe, step in
the want and necessity of such Catholic organizations, distinct enough
individually, but linked together more or less, and springing from a
common centre, to aid effectually in making such a proposal feasible.

Coming back to ourselves, the rising Catholic generation may
congratulate itself that it has fallen upon good times. It would
be well for it to remember that these good times are the result of
the labors of their fathers; and that as they were won by incessant
conflict, so they must be retained. The present generation has not so
many odds to contend against. That fact is perhaps as much a danger as
a benefit. The Catholic generation that is passing away had to suffer
more or less a social ostracism. The barriers between class and class
are dwindling down; and to-day, on the whole, a Catholic does not find
his religion mark him off from his fellow-citizens as a man to be left
out in the cold.

That is no doubt very satisfactory. At the same time, however painful
may be this kind of social ostracism, certain it is that the class who
come under its ban are more apt to be circumspect in their conduct than
classes removed from it. To-day the spirit of liberality is abroad; but
liberality often means liberalism, which is a very different thing. The
order of the day is that it does not matter what you are, Protestant,
Catholic, Jew, or pagan, provided you only act as everybody else acts.
This sudden effusion of brotherly love among all castes and creeds is
no doubt very gratifying, and a vast improvement on old-fogy barriers;
but, at the same time, it involves often a sacrifice of principle. It
is a rank and unhealthy growth, springing from the neutral ground of
infidelity, or that unpronounced infidelity known as indifferentism.

Catholics cannot enter the world as non-Catholics. Their religion must
be more than a Sunday religion. It cannot be left outside on entering
their office, nor in the hall on entering society. It must accompany
them everywhere, not aggressively, indeed, so as to be outwardly
offensive to the neighbor who does not believe in it, because he does
not know it, or because he may not see its effects visible in those
who profess to believe in it; its principles must guide them in the
transaction of their business, in the amusements or recreation they
take, as well as in the confessional or at the altar. Without this,
it is no religion. Without this unaggressive, but none the less real,
atmosphere of piety, surrounding and emanating from Catholics in the
world as well as in the church, the heaviness of the present social
atmosphere can never be lifted. It requires a constant current to
and fro, and this can only be obtained by the creating of a Catholic
influence right in the heart of the world.

This is for our young men to do by their societies and associations;
by knowing each other, meeting together, consulting, and creating a
tone that will tell sooner or later upon society. Many a fine young
fellow is lost for pure lack of a good companion. Many a one spends his
evenings in places and amid society that, if not actually sinful, are
undoubtedly demoralizing in tendency, because he has no other society
or place of amusement to enter. It is too hard upon the young to tell
them that they must not follow the way of the world, if no better mode
of recreation is provided for them. The blood of youth is coursing
through its veins, and the heat will find vent, if not in good, then
in evil. It is the place of all true Christians to help and provide
that good, by aiding in the work of building up societies, halls,
reading-rooms, and libraries for our young people. The blessing will
come back upon their own heads in their children, in their children's
children, and in the building up of a sound, moral, Christian tone
among the young in these days, when it is considered more manly to
deny than to inquire; to sneer at all religion than to kneel down and
adore the God that made us to his own image. With our young men linked
together thus, working together throughout the whole country, showing
by deeds, and words, and open profession that they are Catholics, those
who to-day, in 1873, wonder at the marvellous growth of the church
within the last half-century, if God spares them another half-century,
may find their country, if not Catholic, covered, at least, and blest
from end to end, with Catholic homes of learning, piety, and charity;
whilst the church may respond to the foolish taunt that is flung at
her, that her religion is a foreign religion, and her children nursed
in foreign ideas, by pointing silently to what her children are--by
contrasting her Christian sons with the product and growth of an
education with God left out.

FOOTNOTES:

[87] Besides the two Associations particularly mentioned in this
article, there are numbers of others scattered throughout the country.
In Brooklyn there is attached to almost every parish church a Young
Men's Catholic Association. The writer restricts his mention of names
necessarily to the two societies which stand forth most prominently in
New York, and which give greatest promise of a bright future. If they
can be improved upon by others already existing or to come, they would
probably be the first to adapt themselves to the improvement. But as
matters stand at present, their constitution and organization might be
very safely recommended, at least, to embryo associations.




ENGLISH SKETCHES.

AN HOUR IN A JAIL.


There is nothing in the exterior of the building to indicate its real
character, nor is it in any way calculated to strike terror into the
mind of the beholder whose imagination, fed by early prejudices,
connects the idea of a jail with gloomy precincts, drawbridges, and
armed sentinels pacing before frowning gates. The jail of Reading, the
chief town of the royal county of Berks, presents the very antithesis
of all this. This is a gay edifice of variegated red brick and white
stone, in the style called carpenter's Gothic--a rather appropriate
name for the jocular mongrel performance it designates, and which is
one of the most surprising hallucinations of the modern architect's
mind. The building stands close by the Forbury gardens and at the
back of the Catholic church. The delusion as to the character of the
place is not dispelled on entering; the uninitiated stranger might,
on passing the great door, still fancy himself in some free dwelling,
where no abnormal impediments prevented his exit; but crossing the
court, he ascends by a flight of steps to a second gate of ominous
appearance, and before whose glittering steel bars the spell of
liberty dissolves. Within this second gate there is another, equally
formidable, which opens into a broad gallery lighted from the roof and
crossed by light bridges at intervals, to which you ascend by a steep,
ladder-like iron staircase. The second story is occupied by the women
prisoners, the lower one by the men.

As few of our readers may have had the opportunity or the curiosity
to go through an English jail, perhaps they would like to do so
vicariously, as the Shah enjoyed dancing--sitting quietly in his
chair, while foolish people fatigued themselves for his entertainment.
We were accompanied by a young priest, whose ministry had frequently
led him within the steel gates on another errand than curiosity; and,
thanks to his friend's (Canon R----) introduction to the governor,
we had permission to see every detail of the place. The aspect of
the long galleries, with the bright-tiled flooring and white walls
glancing in the flood of sunshine flowing from the roof, kept up
the first impression of cheerfulness. There was nothing so far to
suggest unnecessary rigor or broken spirits, still less cruelty
and demoralization. All was airy and exquisitely clean. Warders
in official uniforms paced leisurely up and down the corridors and
galleries; and though the silence was broken only by their foot-falls
and our own voices as we conversed with the warder who acted as our
guide, there was no oppressive gloom in the atmosphere. The cells
opened on either side of the gallery. They were each lighted by a
good-sized window looking on the prison garden and protected by strong
iron bars; in one corner was a complete washing apparatus, with a
water-pipe over the basin; in another there was a gas-pipe. The
furniture consisted of a small table, a stool, and a stretcher-bed,
which is rolled up during the day. On a shelf were the prisoner's plate
and mug. The Protestants are allowed the use of their Bible and the
_Common Prayer-Book_; the Catholics have the Douay edition of the Bible
and _The Garden of the Soul_; special good conduct is rewarded by the
loan of story-books. Some of the cells were ornamented with prints from
the _Graphic_ and the _Illustrated London News_. A man with a good
conscience and sound health might live comfortably in one of these
cells.

The Reading jail is worked entirely on the isolated system,
each prisoner being virtually as much alone amidst two hundred
fellow-captives as if he were the only inmate. It is urged against
this system that it frequently leads to madness, total solitude being
the most cruel form of punishment, and the one against which the human
mind is, by its very essence, least calculated to bear up. But the
theory applies in its chief force to solitary confinement, where the
sound of the human voice and the sight of his fellow-creature's face
never intrude upon the tomblike silence of the dungeon; where complete
inaction of the body feeds the despondency of the imagination dwelling
on the one fixed idea of an interminable perspective of silence and
solitude. In the case of short periods of incarceration, the separate
system must be regarded as an immense improvement on the old gregarious
one. It prevents the spread of vice, and protects the comparatively
innocent subject from being utterly corrupted by the hardened sinner.
In France, where the gregarious system is in full force, its effect
is too plainly visible in the most deplorable results. A youth or a
girl goes in a mere novice in iniquity, and, after a short sojourn in
the midst of the offscourings of society, comes out utterly depraved.
Nowhere is this truth more lamentably apparent than in those cases
that come under the head of _prison préventive_, where any suspected
person, on the smallest amount of evidence, is thrown into these social
sloughs for weeks, nay, months sometimes, and held in hourly contact
with thieves, forgers, burglars, and every species of offender. Strong
indeed must be the principles, and pure the heart, that come out
unshaken and unsullied from such an ordeal.

The men were at work on the day when we arrived at the jail, so we saw
the penal system in full operation. The mildest form of hard labor is
the oakum-picking. It is performed partly in the open air, partly in
the cells, and consists of untwisting old cables, and then tearing them
into loose hemp, which is used for caulking the seams of ships.

The next category was the stone-breaking. One side of a yard is walled
off into separate compartments, with a railing at each end, and from
these the ring of the pick-axe resounds dismally for many hours in the
day. One of these cages was occupied by a lunatic, who had attempted
the life of his brother. The poor fellow was only there for the day,
awaiting an order for removal to some government asylum for the insane.
He stood bolt upright, without leaning against the wall, with his
hands hanging by his side, and his head bent downwards, the picture
of melancholy and sullen despair. We noticed with satisfaction that
the warder compassionately avoided passing before the poor creature's
railing, and did not even speak within earshot of him.

On re-entering the house, we came into a corridor where the air was
filled with a grinding noise of ominous import. On either side of us
were cells, where the forced labor in its most severe aspect comes into
view. Warders were walking slowly up and down, peeping at intervals
into the cells through a narrow little aperture in the doors, where
the prisoners were undergoing the sentence of the law. Some were
grinding corn, others were turning the crankpump. The former is done
by a machine which it takes all the strength of the workman's two arms
to keep going. In one of these cells, the door of which was unlocked
for us to examine closely, there was a lad of a little over twenty, of
middle height, and with a countenance which, but for the sinister leer
of the mouth, might have been called mild and almost prepossessing. We
were startled to learn that this juvenile criminal had been taken up
for highway robbery, with attempt to murder.

The cell opposite his was occupied by a middle-aged, broad-shouldered
man, who was turning the crankpump. This is the most severe of all
the forms of labor in the jail. To a superficial observer it would
seem almost easy labor, so smooth is the movement of the crank as it
gyrates under the clenched hands of the prisoner, his body rising
and falling in rhythmic movement with the rotation of the crank he
is propelling; but the strain upon the spine becomes after a while
intolerable. This man was a very hardened criminal, and had just
undergone seven days on bread and water in the dark cell, twenty-four
lashes of the cat-o'-nine tails having proved unavailing; and he was
still unsubdued. His misdemeanor in the prison was swearing at one of
the warders, and threatening to break his skull against the wall; even
after the fearful infliction of the dark cell, he repeated his threat
to "do for him."

Coarse-matting weaving is another prison employment; it is far less
laborious than either of the two preceding, yet working the heavy
looms must be a great discipline to unpractised arms. One man's face
in this category struck us as different from the others; it bore the
unmistakable stamp of education; we found that the weaver was properly
a man of a better class, and who, with half the ingenuity he had shown
in getting into his present condition, might have been a well-to-do
member of society.

In the lower basement there are admirably constructed baths, immersion
in which is compulsory on the prisoners once a month. The dark cell
above referred to is also in these lower regions. Refractory subjects
are consigned to it for three, five, or seven days, as the case may
be, for insubordination or idleness. It must be a very obdurate spirit
indeed, one would imagine, which this awful punishment could leave
unbroken. The darkness is like that of the grave, so dense that it is
suffocating; and when the warder, to show how utterly every ray of
light was excluded from the cell, suddenly went out, and locked the
double doors upon us as we stood in the gloom, we all felt a chill
of indescribable horror creep over us. The ventilation is, however,
perfect, though we could not see how it was contrived.

The kitchen department is as bright and as complete in its appointments
as the rest of the building. Great and desirable reforms have of
late been effected in the prison fare, which a few years ago was so
luxurious as to call loudly for remonstrance from all wise rulers and
thoughtful men. The thief and the burglar a little time ago fared far
better than the poor working-man struggling to put honest bread into
his children's mouths, and infinitely better than the inmate of the
workhouse. All this is happily changed, and the hospitality of the jail
is now proportioned to the quality of the guests. The bread is coarse
and brown, but sweet and wholesome. Each prisoner gets six ounces of
it at breakfast, with a pint of gruel; eight at dinner, with a pound
of potatoes; and on three days in the week three ounces of bacon;
the other four he gets cheese instead; at supper, bread and gruel
again. The quantity is less for a short-period man, namely, those who
are condemned for a week or a fortnight; the reason being that the
constitution could not resist for a lengthened period the low diet,
which acts with salutary effect on the spirit for a short time. In
answer to our inquiries how far the present system or any system acted
as reformatory on criminals, the warder said he believed it very seldom
attained that end. A man who once came to jail was pretty sure to come
twice. "When a man gets the name of a jail-bird," he said, "it is all
over with him; he can never hold up his head again amongst honest folk,
and so he goes back to his old ways and haunts." He added that the one
chance he had was to go out of the country to a place where he had no
past to live down; and for this reason he observed that the Prisoners'
Aid Society ought to be upheld by all humane people. It offered the
only plank to the shipwrecked that was possible.

Amongst the two hundred prisoners which the jail accommodates, there
happens at the present moment not to be a single Catholic. We were
surprised to hear this, for we noticed more than once that the men into
whose cells we entered cast a wistful look at the young priest who
was with us; and when he smiled and nodded to them on turning away,
their faces relaxed into a smile too. Mr. S---- told us that this was
no uncommon thing; that, as a rule, the prisoners, whatever be their
religion, welcome the Catholic priest with a smile, and seem thankful
for the chance of speaking to him. The parson, on the contrary, they
look on with suspicion, and even with aversion, frequently listening
in sullen silence to his questions, and refusing to answer them. This
does not betoken any dislike to the Protestant minister personally; it
arises from the fact of his having a sort of official character, and
being thus associated in their minds with the cruel strength of the
law; whereas the priest only comes in the capacity of a helper--one
who pities them, and would serve them in body and soul if he could;
his errand is purely one of mercy and kindness. Our companion told
us that this jail has for him many beautiful memories of grace and
repentance. He has gone there frequently in the course of the winter to
hear the confessions of penitents who have approached the sacraments
in their little cells with sentiments of the most touching humility
and sorrow. These prodigals are almost invariably Irish. "Wherever you
find a Paddy, you find the faith," observed Canon R----; "and where is
the spot on earth where you don't find one?" To illustrate the truth
of this remark, he told us a curious anecdote, which was related to
him many years ago by the priest to whom it occurred. This priest went
on the mission to America, and for some years his labors lay in the
wild regions of the far West. The missionary led pretty much the life
of the children of the virgin forests that he traversed, and where
the footprint of the white man was never seen. He rode for miles and
miles through the wilderness, feeding, like the anchorites, on what
he could gather by the way, and sleeping in the branches of some
thick-foliaged tree, to the stem of which he tied his horse; and at
daybreak he was off on his rambles again. One morning, as he was riding
through a wood in search of food, he descried a little wreath of smoke
curling above the trees. He made for the spot, thinking he had come on
a field of labor in the shape of a little colony to be baptized; but,
on approaching, he found only a solitary wigwam, at the door of which
a wild woman was squatting with a brood of small children about her.
The good father was exhausted with hunger, and managed, by signs and
a few words of the Indian dialect, to convey this fact to the woman.
She rose at once, and placed before him her frugal store. While he
was doing justice to it, the lord of the wigwam returned, and great
was his amazement to behold the guest whom his lady was hospitably
ministering to. The priest was trying to air his small store of words,
when his host, who was attired in the scanty costume of his tribe,
with a plentiful crop of feathers sprouting from his head-gear, after
surveying him silently for a moment, exclaimed, "Your reverence is a
Catholic priest, I'll be bound, and an Irishman into the bargain!"
His listener nearly capsized with astonishment. But it was neither a
vision nor a delusion. The wild Indian was himself an Irishman, who,
with two older companions, had come to those remote forests many years
before in search of fortune in some form or other; the trio had been
captured by the Indians, who put two of them to death, and only spared
the youngest on account of his expertness with the bow and arrow and
other kindred accomplishments which made him useful to the tribe.
He learned in time to speak their language and adopt their mode of
life, even to the extent of marrying a wild woman of their race. But
the faith of his childhood survived amongst the vicissitudes of this
strange career. He welcomed the priest with joy and the reverence of
a genuine Irish heart; and before the missionary left his wigwam,
he received the wife into the church, married the pair, baptized
and instructed the children, and administered the sacraments to the
father. Then he sallied forth once more on his life of danger and
self-sacrifice, which, though it afforded many consoling and romantic
episodes, never furnished such another as this. "Now," exclaimed Canon
R---- triumphantly, "just tell me if such an adventure as that could
happen to any two men under the sun but a pair of Irishmen!" And no one
contradicted him.

But to return to the jail. We visited the church last. It was the
saddest spectacle of all, though the building itself was bright and
just then full of sunshine. The seats rise in the form of a steep
amphitheatre, almost touching the ceiling at the last tier; and they
are so contrived that each prisoner is as isolated in his own seat
as if he were the only one looking up at the bare pulpit, where no
crucifix, nor pitying Madonna, nor kindly angel face looks down upon
him, but only the wooden box, where the preacher once a week tells
him of the message of mercy, and points to the home where the Father
awaits each prodigal son. There, locked up between four narrow boards
that rise high above his head, the prisoner assists at the service on
Sunday. So rigorously is the separate system maintained that the two
men who were employed in washing the stairs and floor of the church
were masked, so as not to recognize each other even in passing, while
a warden stood by to prevent their exchanging a word together. The men
are exercised in batches every morning from six to a quarter past seven
in the prison garden--a dreary place to call by that flower-suggestive
name. They wear masks, and walk at a distance of four yards from one
another, holding a rope with the left hand. Such a system naturally
disarms the dangers of agglomeration, and makes mutiny or concerted
rebellion impossible. The strength of union is not theirs, and they
are as feeble as if, instead of being two hundred against nine, the
proportions were reversed. Attempts to escape are almost unknown.
The reason of this may be that the inmates are never condemned to a
longer term than two years, which would be trebled, both in duration
and in severity, if the attempt failed; so, in face of such a risk,
it would hardly be worth while to make it. We did not visit the
female department, which is conducted on precisely the same principle,
the only difference being the greater lenity of the enforced labor.
It was painful enough to see strong men brought to just humiliation
for their misdeeds; but our hearts failed us to look at women in the
same position. On the whole, we left the Reading jail with our minds
disabused of many illusions concerning the strong hand of the law.
Its application is as humane and merciful as is compatible with the
interests of justice and the professed object of legal punishment.
There is nothing to demoralize or to harden a culprit whose misfortune
it is to undergo a term of durance within its walls. Before, however,
such punishment can be really reformatory, the whole community must
be reformed on the highest Christian ideal. We must learn not to
despise or unduly mistrust the weak brother who has fallen once, but
to practically recognize the vital truth implied in the prayer taught
us by our Master: "Lead us not into temptation;" remembering that
if we have not fallen it is from no merit or strength of our own,
but of the gratuitous mercy of God, whose providence has prevented
us in temptation, and saved us from our own weakness; and that the
measure of our preservation from evil should be the measure of our
charity to the fallen. When we have all learned this, we may see our
prisons reformatory as well as penitential; we doubt if we ever shall
otherwise.




THE LUTE WITH THE BROKEN STRING.


    I took the lute I had prized so much
      In my day of pride, in my day of power,
    And wiped the dust with a tender touch,
      And wreathed it gaily with ribbon and flower.
    And the tears from my heart were falling fast
      For the bloom that had faded, the fragrance fled,
    As I thought of the hand that had wreathed it last--
      The hand of my darling now cold and dead:
    And I put it aside with a passionate fling,
    And something was broken--a heart or a string.

    And again I essayed, when the tears had dried
      And the tumult of sobs in my bosom was still,
    To touch it once more with the olden pride,
      That the hearts that yet love me might hear it and thrill:
    But a soft low note, with its melting power,
      A tone of deep pathos, had trembled and gone;
    And my hopes died out in that silent hour,
      And left me in darkness and sorrow alone.
    What wonder, beloved, that I cannot sing
    A song of the heart with a broken string?

    What worth is the lute when its music hath fled?
      What worth is the strain when its alto is lost?
    What worth is the heart with its tenderness shed,
      And all its warm feelings laid waste by the frost?
    But love cannot die. There is comfort in this,
      That Love is eternal, though passion controls.
    And what, then, is heaven, with its glory and bliss,
      But the union of hearts and communion of souls--
    When saints shall be minstrels, and angels shall sing,
    And lutes shall have never a broken string?




NEW PUBLICATIONS.


  THE DIVINE SEQUENCE. By F. M. London: Longmans, Green & Co. 1873.

This is a small volume, but one replete with thought. It treats of
the relation existing between some of the principal doctrines of
the faith, with special reference to the office of our Blessed Lady
as mediatrix of grace. The topics treated, though they are the most
sublime and mysterious dogmas of faith, are handled with a theological
precision and with a depth of contemplative piety which show that the
author has drawn her doctrine from the purest sources, and meditated
on it profoundly within her own soul; for the author of this admirable
treatise is a lady, though we refrain from giving her name out of
respect to the modesty which has induced her to hide herself behind the
veil of initials. There are some copies of the English edition--which
we regret very much not to see reprinted here--for sale at The Catholic
Publication House; and we feel sure that if the lovers of the choicest
gems of spiritual thought and sentiment knew the value of this one,
they would lose no time in securing it.

  THE LIFE OF LUISA DE CARVAJAL. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton. London:
    Burns & Oates. 1873. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication
    Society.)

This book is an addition to the sum total of sound Catholic literature.
We almost lose sight of the merit of the translator's style in
admiration of the motive that led her to undertake the task. The life
of this holy Spanish woman is strange and pathetic. Her lifelong
sacrifice of worldly, and, what is more, of national, associations
for the sake of an apostleship in England during the dark days of
the faith in that country, is indeed a triumph of grace and a heroic
model to all after-ages. Luisa de Carvajal was a woman of rare
strength of mind, energy, perseverance, and endurance. Her holiness
was that of the champion rather than of the novice. Her mind was
richly cultivated. Latin was familiar to her; English she acquired
after she was thirty years of age--a feat requiring much patience in
a Spaniard. Her theological knowledge, patristic lore, and minute
acquaintance with the Scriptures were distinguishing traits of her
subsequent self-education. Involved in a tedious lawsuit, her accurate
memory, excellent understanding, and unflagging presence of mind
were no less remarkable than her sweet temper and great patience.
Although never setting her will in opposition to that of her spiritual
advisers, she invariably conquered their objections, and by her very
humility proved her superiority. Her vocation to a life of poverty,
without at the same time being called to a conventual life, was a
peculiar dispensation; and when we think of the greater ridicule that
attended such an unconventional manner of "leaving the world," we see
how much greater the sacrifice was than we at the present day can
imagine. Her life in England seems a romance of self-devotion, and her
English biographer has lovingly dwelt upon its interesting details.
One pregnant suggestion is made by the translator, which is, that it
would be a specially holy work for a woman to undertake to train in
a species of semi-religious community life those young girls whose
future destiny is the instruction of youth in the higher classes. This,
although applicable chiefly to England, and of less significance on
this side of the ocean, is a suggestion that deserves more notice than
it is perhaps likely to get, embedded as it is in the crowded narrative
of Doña Luisa's life. One thing shines forth out of this exceptional
record of a holy and strong woman's days, and it is this--that God
somehow or other always removes all obstacles to his _real_ will in his
own good time. In her youth, Luisa was foiled, by her natural guardians
and really best-intentioned friends, in her desire to adopt the strange
life to which God called her--that of a recluse without a cloister--and
in a few years these friends were taken away, leaving her her own
mistress. Later on, when the seemingly Quixotic wish came over her to
leave Spain to minister to the English martyrs under James I., and
preach the Catholic faith in London, her long lawsuit, which was urged
as a reason for giving up this design, suddenly came to a favorable and




THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XVIII., No. 105.--DECEMBER, 1873.[88]




A TALK ON METAPHYSICS.


One of the greatest obstacles to the spread of philosophical education
is the false opinion which, through the efforts of a school of low
scientists, has gained much ground--viz., that metaphysics, the central
and most important part of philosophy, is only a mass of useless
abstractions and unintelligible subtleties; a science _à priori_,
telling us nothing about facts; a dismal relic of mediæval ignorance
and conceit; a thing, therefore, which has no longer a claim to hold a
place in the world of science. This is a shameless misrepresentation,
and as such it might be treated with the contempt it deserves; but
it is so carefully insinuated, and with such an assurance, that it
succeeds in making its way onward, and in gaining more and more
credit among unreflecting people. We intend, therefore, to give it a
challenge. A short exposition of the nature and object of metaphysics
will suffice, we hope, to show our young readers the worthlessness of
such mischievous allegations.

What is metaphysics? _It is_, answers one of the most eminent
metaphysicians, Francis Suarez, _that part of philosophy which treats
of real beings as such_. This definition is universally accepted.
It is needless to remark that a being is said to be _real_ when it
exists in nature; whereas that which has no existence except in our
conceptions is called _a being of reason_. But it is well to observe
that the expression, _real being_, is used in two different senses.
In the first it means a _complete_ natural entity, which has its own
separate existence in nature, independently of the existence of any
other created thing; as when we say that _Peter_, _John_, and _James_
are real beings. In the second it means some _incomplete_ entity, which
has no separate existence of its own, but is the mere appurtenance
of some other thing to the existence of which it owes its being; as
Peter's _life_, John's _eloquence_, James' _stature_. Of course, every
substance, whether material or spiritual, simple or compound, is a
complete entity; but every constituent, attribute, property, or quality
of complete beings is an incomplete entity, inasmuch as it has no
separate existence, but only partakes of the existence of the being to
which it belongs.

A real, complete entity is said to be a _physical_ being, because it
possesses all that is required to exist separately in the physical
order of things. On the contrary, a real, incomplete entity is said
to be a _metaphysical being_. Thus, _movement_, _velocity_, _time_,
_force_, _attraction_, _repulsion_, _heat_, _cold_, _weight_,
_work_, _resistance_, _figure_, _hardness_, _softness_, _solidity_,
_liquidity_, etc., are metaphysical beings. Those modern men of
science who shudder at the very name of metaphysics would do well to
consider for a while this short catalogue of metaphysical entities.
They would find that it contains the very things with which they are
most familiar. If metaphysical entities are only abstractions--empty
and useless abstractions, as they declare--what shall we say of all
their scientific books? Are they not all concerned with those dreadful
metaphysical entities which we have enumerated? Yet we would scarcely
say that they treat of _useless abstractions_. Certainly, when a drop
of rain is falling, the _action_ by which it is determined to fall is
not an abstraction, the _velocity_ acquired is not an abstraction,
and the _fall_ itself is not an abstraction. In like manner, the
_rotation_ of the earth, the _hardness_ of a stone, the _sound_ of a
trumpet, are not abstractions; and yet all these are entities of the
metaphysical order. Therefore, to contend that metaphysics is a science
of pure abstractions is nothing but an evident absurdity. The object of
metaphysics is no less real than the object of physics itself.

It may, perhaps, be objected that, though the material object of
metaphysics is real and concrete in nature, we despoil it of its
reality as soon as we, in our metaphysical reasonings, rise from
the individual to the universal; for universals, as such, have no
existence but in our conception.

The answer is obvious. The _metaphysical_ universals must not be
confounded with the _logical_ universals. The logical universal--as
genus, difference, etc.--expresses a mere concept of the mind, and is
a mere being of reason, or a _second intention_, as it is called; but
the metaphysical universal--as figure, force, weight, etc., is not a
mere being of reason; for its object is a reality which can be found
existing in the physical order. It is true that all such realities
exist under individual conditions, and therefore are not _formally_
but only _fundamentally_, universal; for their formal universality
consists only in their mode of existing in our mind when we drop all
actual thought of their individual determinations. But, surely, they
do not cease to be realities because the mind, in thinking of them,
pays no attention to their individuation; and, therefore, metaphysical
universals, even as universal, retain their objective reality.

We might say more on this subject, were it not that this is hardly the
place for discussing the merits of formalism, realism, or nominalism.
We can, however, give a second answer, which will dispose of the
objection in a very simple manner. The answer is this: Granted that
abstractions, _as such_, have no existence but in our intellect.
Nevertheless, what we conceive abstractedly exists concretely in the
objects of which it is predicated and from which it is abstracted.
Humanity in our conception is an abstraction, and yet is to be found
in every living man; velocity, likewise, is an abstraction, and yet
is to be found in all real movement through space; quantity also,
is an abstraction, and yet is to be found in every existing body.
Therefore, abstract things do not cease to be real in nature, though
they are abstract in our conception. This is an evident truth. If the
adversaries of metaphysics are bold enough to deny it, then they at
the same time and in the same breath deny all real science, and thus
forfeit all claim to the honorable title of _scientific_ men. Statics
and dynamics, geometry and calculus, algebra and arithmetic, are
abstract sciences. No one will deny that they are most useful; yet they
would be of no use whatever if what they consider in the abstract had
no concrete correspondent in the real world. Chemistry itself, and all
the experimental sciences, inasmuch as they are sciences, are abstract.
Atomic weights, inasmuch as they fall under scientific reasoning, are
abstractions; genera, species, and varieties in zoölogy and botany are
abstract conceptions; crystalline forms in mineralogy are as abstract
as any purely geometric relation. Indeed, without abstractions,
science is not even conceivable; for all science, as such, proceeds
from abstract principles to abstract conclusions. But though the
process of scientific reasoning be abstract, _real_ science deals with
_real_ objects and real relations. And such is exactly the case with
metaphysics, which is the universal science of all reality, and the
queen of all the real sciences.

These general remarks suffice, without any further development, to
vindicate the reality of the material object of metaphysics. But here
the question arises, Are _all_ real beings without exception the object
of this science?

Some authors, in past centuries, thought that the only object of
metaphysics was to treat of beings _above nature_; and accordingly
taught that God and the angels alone were _metaphysical_ beings--that
is, beings ranging above nature. On the contrary, man and this visible
world--that is, all creatures liable to local motion--they called
_natural_ beings, and considered them to be the proper and exclusive
object of _physical_ science. This view was grounded, apparently, on
the latent assumption that metaphysics meant _above physics_; which,
however, is not correct, as μετὰ does not mean _above_, but _after_;
and therefore metaphysical is not synonymous with supernatural.[89] On
the other hand, God and the angels are undoubtedly _physical_ beings;
for they are complete beings, having their complete physical nature and
their separate existence. We cannot call them _metaphysical_ beings;
for we know of no beings which deserve the name of metaphysical but
those incomplete entities which are attained through the intellectual
analysis of physical and complete beings.

As to man and all the other natural things, every one will see that
though they are, in one respect, the proper object of physics, yet
they are also, in another respect, the proper object of metaphysics;
and this too, without in the least confounding the two branches of
knowledge. The attributions of physics and of metaphysics are, in
fact, so distinct that there can be no danger of the one invading the
province of the other, even though they deal with the same subject.
The office of the physicist is to investigate natural facts, to
discuss them, to make a just estimate of them, and to discover the
laws presiding over their production. This, and no other, is the
object of physics, to accomplish which it is not necessary to know the
essence of natural things. Hence, the physicist, after ascertaining the
phenomena of nature and their laws, cannot go further in his capacity
of physicist. But where he ends his work, just there the metaphysician
begins; for his office is to take those facts and laws as a ground
for his speculations in order to discover the essential principles
involved in the constitution of natural causes, and to account by such
principles for all the attributes and properties of things. This is
the duty of the metaphysician. Thus natural things, although an object
of physics when considered as following certain laws of action or of
movement, are nevertheless an object of metaphysics when considered in
their being and intimate constitution.

On this point even physicists agree. "Instead of regarding the proper
object of physical science as a search after essential causes,"
says one of the best modern champions of scientific progress, "it
ought to be, and must be, a search after facts and relations."[90]
Hence, physical science deals with natural facts and their relations
exclusively; the search after causes and essential principles
constitutes the object of a higher science; and such a science is real
philosophy, or metaphysics proper.

I was surprised at finding in Webster's _English Dictionary_ (v.
Metaphysics) the following words:

"The natural division of things that exist is into body and mind,
things material and immaterial. The former belong to physics, and the
latter to the science of metaphysics." From what we have just said,
it is clear that this division is not accurate. We must add that it
is not consistent with the definition of metaphysics given by the
same author only a few lines before. Metaphysics, says he, is "the
science of the principles and causes of _all_ things existing." Now,
if material things existing do not belong to metaphysics, it evidently
follows that either material things existing have no principles and no
causes, or that such principles and causes are no object of science.
But it is obvious that neither conclusion can be admitted. Furthermore,
it is well known that all metaphysicians treat of the constitution of
bodies--a fact which conclusively proves that material things are not
excluded from the object of metaphysics.

Here, however, we must observe that some modern writers, while
conceding this last point, contend that material things _must be
mentally freed from their materiality_ before they can be considered
as an object of metaphysics. Their reason is, that this science is
concerned with real things only inasmuch as they consist of principles
known to the intellect alone. Matter, they say, is not an object
of the intellect. Therefore, the object of metaphysics must be
immaterial--that is, either a thing which has no matter of its own, or
at least a thing which is conceived, through mental abstraction, as
free from matter.

But we should remember that, according to the common doctrine, the true
and adequate object of metaphysics is _all_ real being as such, whether
it be material or immaterial; and that it is, therefore, the duty of
the metaphysician to divide substance into material and immaterial, and
to give the definition of both; for it belongs to each science to point
out and define the parts of its own object. Hence, the metaphysician
is bound to explain how things material differ from things immaterial,
and has to ascertain what metaphysical predicates are attributable to
material substance on account of its very materiality.[91] Now, it is
evident that nothing of the kind can ever be done by a philosopher who,
through mental abstraction, considers material substance as freed from
its matter. For when, by such an abstraction, he has taken away the
matter, what else can he look upon as a ground of distinction between
material and immaterial beings? We must admit, then, that material
things, inasmuch as they are _real_ things, and only in that manner
in which they are real (that is, with their own matter), are a proper
object of metaphysics.

To the patrons of the opposite view we confidently answer that their
argument has no sound foundation; for though it is true that no
material thing, owing to the complexity of its simultaneous actions on
our senses, distinctly reveals to us its material constitution, yet it
is not true that material things cannot be understood by our intellect
unless they are mentally stripped of their matter. To understand them
thus would be simply to misunderstand them. Matter and form are the
essential constituents of material substance, as all metaphysicians
admit; it is, therefore, impossible to understand the essence of
material substance, unless the intellect reaches the matter as well as
the form.[92] Let us add that those very authors who in theory affect
to exclude matter from the object of metaphysics find it impossible
to do away with it in practice, and, in spite of the theory, devote
to matter, as such, a great number of pages in their own metaphysical
treatises.

Thus far we have defined the object of metaphysics. We now come to
its method, on account of which it is so frequently assailed by the
votaries of experimental science. Metaphysics, they say, is a science
_à priori_; it is, therefore, altogether incompetent to decide any
matters of fact; and, if so, what is the use of metaphysics? To this
reasoning, which claims no credit for perspicacity, many answers can be
given.

And first let us suppose for a moment that metaphysics is a science
altogether _à priori_. Does it follow that it has no claim to our most
careful attention? Geometry, algebra, and all pure mathematics are _à
priori_ sciences. Are they despised on this account? We see, on the
contrary, that for this very reason they are held in greater honor and
lauded as the most thorough, the most exact, and the most irrefragable
of all sciences. Some will say that the object of mathematics is not to
establish natural facts, but only relations; but this is equally true
of metaphysics. The metaphysician, when treating of physical subjects,
assumes the facts and laws of nature as they are presented to him by
the physicist; he has not to establish them anew, but only to account
for them by showing the reason of their being. Metaphysics would,
therefore, be as good, as excellent, and as interesting as geometry,
even if it were an _à priori_ science.

But, secondly, what is the real case? To proceed _à priori_ is to argue
from the cause to the effect, and from antecedents to consequents;
whereas, to proceed _à posteriori_ is to argue from the effect to the
cause, and from consequents to antecedents. Now, it is a fact that
in metaphysics we frequently argue from the cause to the effect, as
is done in other sciences too; but it is no less a fact that we even
more frequently argue from the effect to the cause. The very name
of _metaphysics_, which is the bugbear of our opponents, clearly
shows that such is the case. Real philosophy, in fact, is called
_metaphysics_ for two reasons, the first of which is extrinsic and
historical, the second intrinsic and logical. The historical consists
in the fact that Aristotle's speculations on those incomplete entities
which enter into the constitution of things were handed down to us
under the name of metaphysics. The logical is, because the knowledge
of such incomplete entities must be gathered from the consideration of
natural beings by means of an intellectual analysis, which cannot be
made properly without a previous extensive knowledge of the concrete
order of things. This latter knowledge, which must be gathered by
observation and experiment, constitutes physical science. Hence, the
rational knowledge which comes after it, and is based on it, is very
properly called _metaphysical_, and that part of philosophy which
develops such a knowledge _metaphysics_--that is, after-physics.

Now, all analysis belongs to the _à posteriori_ process; for it
proceeds from the compound to its components, and therefore from
the effect to the cause. Therefore, metaphysics, inasmuch as it
analyzes natural beings and finds out their constituents, is an _à
posteriori_ science; and since such an analysis is the very ground
of all metaphysical speculations, we must conclude that the whole
of metaphysics is based on the _à posteriori_ process, no less than
physics itself.

Thirdly, that metaphysics cannot decide any matter-of-fact question is
a silly objection; as it is evident that to establish the existence of
God, the spirituality of the human soul, the creation of the world,
etc., is nothing less than to decide matters of fact. It may be that,
in the opinion of the utilitarian, such facts are not very interesting;
they are facts, however, as much and as truly as the rotation of the
earth, atmospheric pressure, and universal attraction are facts; and
they are much more important, too.

We might also maintain that metaphysics is mainly a science of facts;
for there are facts of the intellectual as well as of the experimental
order. That every effect must have a cause is a fact. That every circle
must have a centre is another fact. That a part is less than the whole
is a third fact. Intellectual facts are as numerous and as certain as
the facts of nature; and it is through them that our experimental
knowledge of natural things is raised to the dignity of _scientific_
cognition. For there is no science, whether inductive or deductive,
without reasoning, and no reasoning without principles; and every
principle is a fact of the intellectual order. Those critics who are
wont to slight metaphysics as an _à priori_ science would, therefore,
do well to consider that no true demonstration can be made but by
_à priori_ principles, and that true demonstration constitutes the
perfection of science.

We may here remark that metaphysics is usually divided into _general_
and _special_, and that the _à priori_ character, for which it is
assailed, belongs to general metaphysics only. General metaphysics
treats of the constituents, attributes, and properties of being in
general, and is called ontology. Ontology is considered as a necessary
preparation for the study of special metaphysics, which, from the
knowledge of being in general, descends to the examination of the
different classes and genera of beings in particular. Our men of
science, accustomed as they are to the inductive method, do not approve
of this form of proceeding. On what ground, they ask, do you impose
upon the student notions, definitions, and principles _à priori_, as
you do in ontology, affirming in general that which has not yet been
examined in particular, and taking for granted what has yet to be
established and verified?

The answer is obvious enough. General metaphysics assumes nothing
but what is already admitted as evident by all mankind. It is mainly
concerned with the notions conveyed by such words as _being_, _cause_,
_effect_, _principle_, _essence_, _existence_, _substance_, _accident_,
etc. These notions are common, and their methodical explanation is
based on common-sense principles--that is, on evident, intellectual
facts. Thus far, therefore, no one can say that we invert the natural
order of science; for we start from what is known.

Next comes the analysis of the notions just referred to. The object
of this analysis is to point out distinctly the different classes of
being, the different genera of causes, the variety of principles,
reasons, etc., implied in those general notions, to show their
ontological relations, and to account for their distinction. This
important investigation, as well as the preceding one, is based on
common-sense reasonings, but sometimes not without reference to
other truths, which are established and vindicated only in special
metaphysics, to which they properly belong. Thus, it is the custom
to treat in ontology of the intrinsic possibility of things, and its
eternity, necessity, and immutability; but it is only in natural
theology that such matters find their full and radical explanation. Of
course, whenever an assertion is made, of which the proof is totally
or partially deferred to a later time, the assent of the student to it
is more or less provisional. It is not, however, in metaphysics only
that a student must accept certain things on trust; he thus accepts the
equivalents in chemistry, the distances of the planets from the sun in
astronomy, and the logarithms in trigonometry.

Yet we confess that philosophical writers and teachers sometimes
expose themselves to just criticism by treating in general metaphysics
certain matters which it would be better to reserve intact for special
treatises. It is doubtless necessary, immediately after logic, to
treat of the nature of being, and its principles and its properties
in general; but it is extremely difficult, and even dangerous, to
undertake the settlement of some questions of ontology connected with
the physical department of science before these same questions are
sufficiently explored by the light, and disentangled by the analysis,
of special metaphysics, to which their full investigation really
appertains. What is the use of giving, for instance, an unestablished,
and perhaps preposterous, notion of corporeal quantity to him who
has as yet to learn what is the essential composition of bodies?
Is a student prepared to realize the true nature of the quantity
of mass, or of the quantity of volume, who has never yet explored
either the mysterious attributes of formal continuity or the intimate
constitution of material substance? Certainly not. He may, indeed,
make an act of faith on the authority of his professor; but philosophy
is not faith, and no professor who understands his duty would ever
unnecessarily oblige his pupils to admit anything as true on his own
sole authority. Questions connected with the physical laws of causation
and movement, or with the nature of sensible qualities and properties,
should similarly be deferred to a later time; for no one will be
able to deal successfully with them, unless he has already acquired
a distinct knowledge of many other things, on which both the right
understanding and the right solution of these questions essentially
depend. Accordingly, such matters, instead of being treated lightly and
perfunctorily at the beginning of the course of metaphysics, should be
treated with those others to which they are naturally allied, in order
that they may be fully examined and competently decided.

From this it will be seen that we do not want a metaphysical science
based on _à priori_ grounds. In all times, metaphysics has been a
science of facts; and it could not be otherwise, since its object
is real, and all that is real is a matter of fact. Experiment and
observation have always supplied the materials of its speculations. All
its conclusions about the nature of the soul are drawn from the facts
of consciousness; all its affirmations concerning the constitution of
bodies are founded on the facts and laws of the physical world; and
all its theses on God, his existence and his attributes, are likewise
deduced from a positive knowledge of contingent things. To suppose that
metaphysical knowledge can be obtained otherwise is such an absurdity
that nothing but the most stupid ignorance can be made to believe it.
And yet this absurdity is what many of our modern scientists fall into
when they contend that metaphysics is an _à priori_ science.

It is not difficult, however, to account for such a dislike of
metaphysical reasonings. The greatest number of our scientific men have
been brought up under the influence either of Protestantism or of its
legitimate offspring, indifferentism; and absolute truth, such as is
attained by rigorous metaphysical reasoning, is not congenial to their
habit of thought. Protestantism is a system made up of half-truths,
half-premises, and half-consequences. A Protestant must at the same
time believe the authenticity of the Bible, and reject the authority by
which alone the Bible can be proved to be authentic; he must conciliate
the liberty of his private judgment with the obedience due to the
teaching of his church; he must have the courage to believe that true
Christian religion is not that which, from the apostolic times down to
our own, has formed so many generations of saints, changed the face of
the world, confirmed its own divine origin by a perpetual succession
of prodigious works, but that which, starting from Luther or some other
mischievous innovator, has never and nowhere produced any fruit of high
sanctity or witnessed a single miracle. Hence, to a Protestant mind,
truth in its entirety must be embarrassing; since the very essence
of Protestantism is to cut truth into pieces, to believe and relish
a portion of it, and to reserve some other portion unbelieved and
unrelished, lest nothing should be left to protest against.

It is clear that minds so disposed in religious matters cannot be much
better disposed in other branches of speculative knowledge; and it
is but natural that they should despise metaphysics altogether. "To
the healthy scientific mind," says a modern writer, "the fine-spun
arguments and the wonderful logical achievements of metaphysicians
are at once so bewildering and so distasteful that men of science can
scarcely be got to listen even to those who undertake to show that
the arguments are but cobwebs, the logic but jingle, and the seeming
profundity little more than a jumble of incongruous ideas shrouded in
a mist of words."[93] Indeed, when men of science are thus satisfied
with their ignorance of philosophy, and shut their eyes and their ears,
lest the light, or perhaps the jingle, of logic compel them to learn
what mere experimentalism cannot teach, we cease to wonder that they
countenance such theories as the _Descent of Man_, the eternity of
matter, or the meteoric origin of the principle of life.

We do not wish to deny the progress of modern science; we fully
acknowledge that experimentalism has led to the discovery of important
facts. But this is no reason why our men of science should disregard
philosophy.

An increase of positive knowledge regarding facts, far from bringing
about the exclusion of philosophical reasoning, extends its range,
enlarges its foundation, and makes its employment both easier and
surer. Accordingly, while we profess gratitude to the modern scientists
for their unceasing labors and untiring efforts towards the development
of experimental knowledge, we beg leave to remind them that this
knowledge is not the _ne plus ultra_ of natural science. Subordinate
sciences account in a certain measure for such things as form their
special object; but philosophy, the highest, the deepest, and the most
universal of sciences, not only embraces in its general scope all the
objects of human knowledge, but accounts for them by their highest
principles and causes, and makes them not only known, but understood.
To know facts is an excellent thing; yet the human mind craves
something higher. We are all born to be philosophers. Indeed, our
rational nature teaches us very early the first elements of philosophy,
and compels us to philosophize. As soon as we acquire the use of
reason, we detect ourselves tracing effects to causes, and conclusions
to principles; and from that time we experience a strong tendency to
generalize such a process, till it extends to all known objects and to
the ultimate reasons of their being.

Yet we should reflect that our rational nature, while thus prompting
us to such high investigations, does not lead us freely to the goal,
but leaves it to our industry to acquaint ourselves with the proper
methods of discovering philosophical truth. Negligence in the study of
such methods hinders intellectual advancement, and leaves men exposed
to the snares of sophistry. Such a negligence on the part of men who
are looked upon as the lights of modern science is one of the great
evils of the day. Distaste for philosophical instruction, when confined
to the lower classes of society, is of little consequence: even in
the middle classes it might be comparatively harmless if men were
ready to own their ignorance, and forbore judging of what transcends
their intellectual acquirements. But in an age like ours, when every
one who has a smattering of light literature or of empirical science
thinks himself called upon to decide the most abstruse and formidable
questions; when countless books and periodicals of a perfidious
character are everywhere spread by the unholy efforts of secret
societies; and, when a confiding public allow themselves to be led like
sheep by such incompetent authorities, then ignorance, supported by
presumption or malice on the one side, and by credulity on the other,
cannot but be the source of incalculable evils.

Hence it is that all prudent and experienced men have come to the
conclusion that one of the greatest necessities of our times is to
popularize the study of sound philosophy. Young America needs to be
taught that there is a whole world of important truths ranging above
the grasp of the vulgar, uncultivated mind, unknown to the pretentious
teachers of a material and spurious civilization, and unattainable by
those who are not trained to the best use of their intellectual powers.
It needs to realize the fact that modern literature and thought in
general is full of deceits. It needs to be instructed how to meet a
host of high-sounding assertions, plausible fallacies, and elaborate
theories, advanced in support of social, religious, or political error.
It needs to be enabled, by a sound, uniform, and strong teaching,
gradually to form into a compact body, held together by the noble
ties of truth, powerful enough to stem the torrent of infidelity, and
always ready to defend right and justice against learned hypocrisy, as
well as against ignorant sophistry. Grown-up men cannot be reclaimed;
they are too much engrossed with material interests to find leisure
for the cultivation of their higher faculties; but we are glad to see
that our brilliant and unbiassed youth can be given, and are ready to
receive, a more intellectual education. Let us only convince them of
the importance of philosophy; let us provide them with good, kind, and
learned teachers, and the future will be ours.

FOOTNOTES:

[88] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by Rev. I.
T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,
D. C.

[89] Fleming, in his _Dictionary of Philosophy_ (v. Metaphysics), says:
"In Latin, _metaphysica_ is synonymous with _supernaturalia_; and
Shakespeare has used _metaphysical_ as synonymous with _supernatural_:

    '... Fate and metaphysical aid doth seem
    To have thee crowned.'

                    --_Macbeth_, act i., scene 3.

Clemens Alexandrinus (_Strom._ i.) considered _metaphysical_ as
equivalent to _supernatural_; and is supported by an anonymous Greek
commentator, etc."

That Shakespeare's _metaphysical aid_ means the aid of some mysterious
power above nature may be conceded. But that in Latin _metaphysica_
is synonymous with _supernaturalia_ is an assertion which can be
easily refuted by a simple reference to any of the great Latin
works of metaphysics. Nor is it true that Clemens Alexandrinus
considered _metaphysical_ as equivalent to _supernatural_. He only
remarks that Aristotle's _Metaphysics_ is that part of philosophy
which Plato at one time styled "a contemplation of truly great
mysteries," and at other times "dialectics"--that is, "a science
which investigates the reasons of the things that are" (τῆς τῶν
ὄντων δηλώσεως εὐρητικὴ τίς ἐστιν ἐπιστήμη). Now, the science which
investigates the reasons of the things that are extends to _all_
real beings. It is not true, therefore, that Clemens Alexandrinus
considered _metaphysical_ as equivalent to _supernatural_. The truth
is that he does not even use the word _metaphysics_ as his own, but
only says that Aristotle's _Metaphysics_ contains the investigation
and contemplation of "mysteries"--that is, of abstruse things. And
since Aristotle's _metaphysics_ is not a science of the supernatural,
Clemens Alexandrinus, in quoting the word _metaphysics_ in connection
with Aristotle, cannot have considered it as equivalent to the science
of the supernatural. Lastly, Clemens Alexandrinus explains that the
science which Aristotle called _metaphysics_, and Plato _dialectics_,
has for its object the consideration of things, and the determination
of their powers and attributes, from which it raises itself to their
very essence, whence again it ventures to go further, even to God
himself, the master of the universe. Επισκοποῦσα τὰ πράγματα, καὶ τὰς
δυνάμεις, καὶ τὰς ἐξουσίας δοκιμάζουσα, ὐπεξαναβαίνει περὶ τὴν πάντων
κρατίστην οὐσίαν, τολμᾶ τε ἐπέκεινα ἐπὶ τῶν ὄλων Θεὸν (_Strom._, lib.
i. c. 28). This shows that metaphysical science, according to Clemens
Alexandrinus, extends to the investigation of all natural things.
It cannot, therefore, be said that he considered _metaphysical_ as
equivalent to _supernatural_, whatever may have been the opinion of the
anonymous Greek commentator.

[90] Grove, _Correlation of Physical Forces_.

[91] Suarez, _Metaph. Disput._, i. sect. 2, n. 25.

[92] S. Thomas says: _Intellectus potest intelligere aliquam formam
absque individuantibus principiis, non tamen absque materia, a qua
dependet ratio illius formæ_ (in 3 _De Anima_, lect. 8).

[93] _Nature_, a Journal of Science, March 13, 1873.




EPIGRAM.


    Inconstant thou! There ne'er was any
    Till now so constant--to so many.

                                    AUBREY DE VERE.




DANTE'S PURGATORIO.

CANTO FOURTH.

  This Canto, being somewhat abstruse, was passed over at its due
  place in the series of these translations. As its omission has been
  regretted by some students of Dante, it has been thought best to
  publish it now, although the first portion of it may seem a little
  difficult to any but a mathematical reader. Perhaps its dryness
  may be somewhat relieved at the close by the humorous picture of
  the lazy sinner Belacqua, which is the first slight touch of the
  comic in this most grave comedy, and here for the first time Dante
  confesses to a smile.


      Whene'er the mind, from any joy or pain
    In any faculty, to that alone
      Bends its whole force, its other powers remain
    Unexercised, it seems (whereby is shown
      Plain contradiction of th' erroneous view
    Which holds within us kindled several souls).
      Hence, when we hear or see a thing whereto
    The mind is strongly drawn, unheeded rolls
      The passing hour; the man observes it not:
    That power is one whereby we hear or see,
      And that another which absorbs our thought;
    This being chained, as 'twere--the former free.

      A real experience of this truth had I,
    Listening that soul with wonder at such force,
      For now the sun full fifty degrees high
    Had risen without my noticing his course,
      When came we where the spirits, with one voice all,
    Cried out to us, "Behold the place ye seek!"
      A wider opening oft, in hedge or wall,
    Some farmer, when the grape first browns its cheek,
      Stops with one forkful of his brambles thrown,
    Than was the narrow pass whereby my Guide
      Began to climb, I following on alone,
    While from our way I saw those wanderers glide.

      A man may climb St. Leo, or descend
    The steeps of Noli, or Bismantua's height
      Scale to the top, and on his feet depend;
    _Here_ one should fly! I mean he needs the light
      Pinions and plumage of a strong desire,
    Under such leadership as gave me hope
      And lighted me my way. Advancing higher
    In through the broken rock, it left no scope
      On either side, but cramped us close; the ledge
    O'er which we crept required both feet and hands.
      When we had toiled up to the utmost edge
    Of the high bank, where the clear coast expands,
      "Which way," said I, "my Master, shall we take?"
    And he to me, "Let not thy foot fall back;
      Still follow me, and for the mountain make,
    Until some guide appear who knows the track."
      Its top sight reached not, and the hillside rose
    With far more salient angle than the line
      That from half-quadrant to the centre goes.
    Most weary was I: "Gentle Father mine,"
      I thus broke silence, "turn and see that if
    Thou stay not for me, I remain alone."
      "Struggle, my son, as far as yonder cliff,"
    He said, and pointed upwards to a zone
      Terracing all the mountain on that side.
    His word so spurred me that I forced myself
      And clambered on still close behind my Guide
    Until my feet were on that girdling shelf.

      Here we sat down and turned our faces towards
    The East, from which point we had made ascent
      (For looking back on toil some rest affords);
    And on the low shore first mine eyes I bent,
      Then raised them sunward, wondering as I gazed
    How his light smote us from the left. While thus
      I stared, he marked how I beheld amazed
    Day's chariot entering 'twixt the North and us.
      "Were yonder mirror now," the Poet said,
    "That with his light leads up and down the spheres,
      In Castor and Pollux, thou wouldst see the red
    Zodiac revolving closer to the Bears,
      If it swerved nothing from its ancient course;
    Which fact to fathom wouldst thou power command,
      Imagine, with thy mind's collected force,
    This mount and Zion so on earth to stand
      That though in adverse hemispheres, the twain
    One sole horizon have: thence 'tis not hard
      To see (if clear thine intellect remain)
    How the Sun's road--which Phaeton, ill-starred,
      Knew not to keep--must pass that mountain o'er
    On one, and _this_ hill on the other side."
      "Certes, my Master,--ne'er saw I before
    So clear as at this moment," I replied
      (Where seemed but now my understanding maimed),
    "How the mid-circle of the heavenly spheres
      And of their movements--the Equator named
    In special term of art--which never veers
      From its old course, 'twixt winter and the Sun,
    Yet for the reason thou dost now assign,
      Towards the Septentrion from this point doth run,
    While to the Jews it bore a South decline.
      But if it please thee, gladly would I learn
    How far we have to journey; for so high
      This hill soars that mine eyes cannot discern
    The top thereof." He made me this reply:
      "Such is this mountain that for one below
    The first ascent is evermore severe,
      It grows less painful higher as we go.
    So when to thee it pleasant shall appear
      That no more toil thy climbing shall attend
    Than to sail down the way the current flows,
      Then art thou near unto thy pathway's end;
    There from thy labor look to find repose.
      I know that this is true, but say no more."
    And this word uttered, not far off addressed
      Me thus a voice: "It may be that before
    That pass, thou wilt have need to sit and rest."
      At sound thereof we both looked round, and there
    Beheld a huge rock, close to our left hand,
      Whereof till now we had not been aware.
    Thither we toiled, and in its shade a band
      Behind it stood with a neglectful air,
    As men in idleness are wont to stand.


BELACQUA THE SLUGGARD.

      And one was seated, hanging down his face
    Between his knees, which he with languid limb,
      Looking exhausted, held in his embrace.
    "O my sweet Seignior!" I exclaimed, "note him!
      Lazier-looking than had laziness been
    His sister-born." Turning towards us, at length
      He gazed, slow lifting o'er his thigh his chin,
    And drawled, "Go up, then, thou who hast such strength."
      I knew who _that_ was then; and though the ascent
    Had made me pant somewhat, I kept my pace,
      Spite of short breath: close up to him I went,
    And he droned forth, scarce lifting up his face,
      "Hast thou found out yet how the Sun this way
    O'er thy left shoulder doth his chariot guide?"
      His sloth, and what few words he had to say,
    Made me smile slightly, and I thus replied:
      "No more, Belacqua, do I mourn thy fate;
    But tell me wherefore in this place I see
      Thee sitting thus? Dost thou for escort wait,
    Or has thy old slow habit seized on thee?"

      And he--"O brother! what boots it to climb?
    God's Angel sitting at the gate denies
      Me way to penance until so much time
    Be past as living I beheld the skies.
      Outside I must remain here for the crime
    Of dallying to the last my contrite sighs,
      Unless I happily some help derive
    From the pure prayer ascending from a heart
      That lives in grace: a prayer not thus alive
    Heaven doth not hear: what aid can such impart?"

      Now before me the Poet up the height
    Began to climb, saying, "Come on, for o'er
      This hill's meridian hangs the Sun, and Night
    Sets foot already on Morocco's shore."


NOTE.

  The Rev. Edward Everett Hale, in a most interesting paper intended
  for presentation to the American Antiquarian Society, in Boston,
  makes this record:

  "When Columbus sailed on his fourth voyage, he wrote to Ferdinand
  and Isabella a letter which contains the following statement with
  regard to the South Sea, then undiscovered, known to us as the
  Pacific Ocean:

  "'I believe that if I should pass under the equator, in arriving at
  this higher region of which I speak, I should find there a milder
  temperature and a diversity in the stars and in the waters. Not
  that I believe that the highest point is navigable whence these
  currents flow, nor that we can mount there, because I am convinced
  that there is the terrestrial paradise, whence no one can enter but
  by the will of God.'

  "This curious passage, of which the language seems so mystical,
  represents none the less the impression which Columbus had of
  the physical cosmogony of the undiscovered half of the world. It
  is curious to observe that the most elaborate account of this
  cosmogony, and that by which alone it has been handed down to
  the memory of modern times, is that presented in Dante's _Divina
  Commedia_, where he represents the mountain of Purgatory, at the
  antipodes of Jerusalem, crowned by the terrestrial paradise. It is
  this paradise of which Columbus says, 'No one can enter it but by
  the will of God.'

  "Of Dante's cosmogony a very accurate account is given by Miss
  Rossetti, in her essay on Dante, recently published, to which she
  gives the name of 'The Shadow of Dante.' Her statement is in these
  words:

  "'Dante divides our globe into two elemental hemispheres--the
  Eastern, chiefly of land; the Western, almost wholly of water.'"

  It is much easier to praise Mr. Hale's valuable comments than to
  agree with Miss Rossetti. To us it seems that her confused account
  lets no light in upon Dante's cosmogony, which was simply that of
  the age he lived in, poetized after his own fashion. According
  to the interpretation of THE CATHOLIC WORLD's translation, Dante
  divides our globe into two hemispheres--_Northern_ and _Southern_.
  In the story of Ulysses (_Inferno_, Canto xxvi.) he alludes to a
  Western hemisphere, and, as far as we remember, nowhere else. Mr.
  Hale says in conclusion of his able paper, "I am not aware that any
  of the distinguished critics of Dante have called attention to the
  fact that so late as the year 1503, a navigator so illustrious as
  Columbus was still conducting his voyages on the supposition that
  Dante's cosmogony was true in fact."

  This, indeed, is quite curious, but ought not to surprise one who
  reflects that the cosmography of Columbus was not much advanced
  from the time of Dante. In this very canto the poet shows that he
  knew about the variation of the ecliptic and the retrogression of
  the equinoxes. From his age to that of the great navigator, science
  had hardly taken a forward step. In fact, before 1300, Dante was
  acquainted not only with the sphericity of the earth, but with the
  first law of gravitation--the tendency of things to their centre.
  Few consider how very slow was the growth of science from that
  which Dante had learned in Florence, and Columbus had studied in
  Pavia and Sienna, up to the time of Copernicus, at whom, so late as
  1625, Lord Bacon had the hardihood to give this fling: "Who would
  not smile at the astronomers--I mean, not those _carmen_ which
  drive the earth about, but the few ancient astronomers, which feign
  the moon to be the swiftest of the planets in motion, etc.?"

  The pages of this magazine will not permit us to prolong an inquiry
  that may hereafter, and which ought to, be made as to the Ptolemean
  astronomy of the schools in the age of Dante. The one scholar in
  this country most capable of such investigation is too busy--we
  mean Professor Peirce, of the U. S. Coast Survey.--TRANSLATOR.




GRAPES AND THORNS.


BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF YORKE."


CHAPTER VII.

MOTHER CHEVREUSE AGAIN.

If one would take the trouble to search into the subject, it would,
perhaps, be acknowledged that the apparently unreasonable emotion that
women display on occasions when men find themselves unmoved is not,
after all, entirely ridiculous. It may be annoying, it may partake of
the hysterical; but, if genuine, it is the sign of a more subtile,
though often vague, perception.

A woman whom the Creator has endowed so nobly with intellect as to make
it a source of painful regret that the infinitely higher supernatural
gifts are lacking in her has written words which may be quoted in
this connection: "That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact
of frequency has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotions of
mankind; and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it. If we had
a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like
hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die
of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the
quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity."

Had George Eliot been gifted with faith as with reason, she could not
have written that paragraph without recollecting that the saint on
earth is an exception to her rule; that the soul illumined by the Holy
Spirit has so keen a perception, not of natural things as such, but
of natural things in their relations to God; that but for the divine
strength and peace which accompany the holy presence, it could not
endure that vision of eternal results hanging on apparently trivial
causes. To such a soul there are but two paths, and every smallest step
is in the road to heaven or the road to hell.

Look at those saints, and listen to them. They were worn and pallid;
they were consumed by a fiery zeal because of this awful tragedy they
saw in the perpetually recurring common events of life. They heard for
ever that roar of eternity from the other side of the silence of death.

But regarding the natural, of which our author speaks, she is right.
The greater number of us are "well-wadded with stupidity," though women
are by nature far less so than men. Their view is often distorted and
vague; they tremble at shadows, and do not know where to look for the
substance which casts them; but the substance is there, nevertheless.
They feel the tragedy hidden in common things, whether they can explain
it or not. It must be remembered that while man was made of the slime
of the earth, woman was formed of flesh; and that the material part
which is the veil between her spirit and the outer world has felt twice
the refining touch of the Creator's hand.

Is all this too large an _à propos_ to the tears which women are
accused of shedding whenever they see a marriage? Think a moment
before deciding. Not the happiness or misery of these two alone is in
question, but that of an endless line of possible descendants. There
is, indeed, no kind of tragedy which may not follow on a marriage.

After this long preamble, we may venture to say that both Mme. Ferrier
and Mrs. Gerald were moved to tears at the marriage of their children;
the former crying openly and naturally, the latter showing her emotion
with that restraint which conventional life imposes. Each understood
the other, and was cordially drawn to the other for, perhaps, the first
time in all their acquaintance. They stood side by side on the wharf as
the steamer which bore the young couple left it, and gazed after their
children, who waved handkerchiefs and kisses to them from the deck. A
few hours in the steamer would carry them to the city, where they were
to take the cars for Niagara. Annette wished to see the falls when the
autumn foliage should form a setting for them, and Lawrence had his own
reason for liking the place.

"I have the greatest sympathy and affection for waterfalls," he said;
"and I would like to live near Niagara. One gets so tired of hearing
of rising and aspiring that it is a real relief to see some object
in creation that lets things slide, and lays all its cares on the
shoulders of gravity. I like to see those green waters just go to sleep
and tumble along without troubling themselves. As I remember that
river, it looked like melted chrysoprase."

"It is true, my son," the mother had answered, tremulously tender
and smiling. "But to let things slide, as you express it, is to go
downward."

"And just as inevitably," he rejoined, kissing her, "does my pretty
mother find something to moralize about in every random word her
worthless son utters."

They were going, then, to Niagara. The steamer threw the waters of the
Saranac backward from her prow, and left a snowy wake, like a bridal
veil, trailing after her. The sun was going down, and the new moon
hung, a crescent of fire, in the cloudless west.

"The new moon is over our right shoulders. Let's wish," said Lawrence.
"That is one of my pet superstitions."

The bride shook her head playfully. "Then I must forbid your wishing.
We are going to be very good, you know, and not commit the least sin
to-day." Seeing a faint shade came over his face at her chiding, she
made haste to add: "We will convert this superstition into something
good. Fancy Our Lady standing on that crescent, and say an _Ave_. And
since we are making the stars our rosary, we will look for the three
magi. Spanish sailors call by that name the stars in Orion's belt. He
should be in the east before long. These sailors say that he who sees
the three magi is not far from the Saviour. Whenever I see them, and
think of it, I make acts of faith, hope, and charity. Will you say them
with me to-night?"

Lawrence Gerald looked intently and curiously at his young wife. If
she had been a stranger to him, he would have been captivated by her.
"Annette," he said, "I don't feel so well acquainted with you as I
thought I was."

"It will take us a good many years to become well acquainted with each
other," she answered quietly. "Now let's take a seat at the other side
of the deck, and look for the three magi. Good-night, Crichton!"

She leaned over the rail, and looked back for one moment at the city.
Whatever thoughts may have surged up, whatever fears, hopes, or
regrets, they found no utterance. No one saw the look in her eyes.
Then she took her husband's arm, and crossed the deck.

"There come the Pleiades, like a little cluster of golden grapes, and
there is Aldebaran; and now, Orion, buckle on your belt, and come
forth."

"By the way," said Lawrence, struck by a sudden thought, "you are Mrs.
Gerald; did you know it?"

"Are you sorry for it?" she asked, and tried to make the question sound
playful, but with ill success.

"I am rather astonished," he replied; and seemed really to find the
thought a new one.

Annette could not restrain a momentary outburst, though she blushed
with mortification for it as soon as the words were spoken. "O
Lawrence! cannot you speak one word of kindness to me?" As though that
could be kindness which waits till asked for.

He took the appeal jestingly. "You shall dictate. Only tell me what you
would be pleased to have me say, and I will repeat it, like an obedient
husband."

Then, seeing her blush, and that she shrank from him with a look that
was almost aversion, he spoke seriously.

"I do not mean to be unkind to you, Annette. Have patience with me.
You have made a bad bargain, but I am, perhaps, more grateful than I
appear; and I like you better every day."

She made no reply, but leaned back and looked at the stars coming out,
one by one. There was no delight in her heart, but a greater peace and
sweetness than she had even hoped for. "I like you better every day."
How softly the words echoed in her ears!

When the steamer had disappeared around a curve of the river, Mrs.
Ferrier turned her tear-drenched face to Mrs. Gerald, and sobbed out,
"They are gone! They are not our children any more."

Mrs. Gerald did not trust herself to speak; but she laid a kind hand on
the mother's arm, and tried to smile.

"Do come home with me!" Mrs. Ferrier begged. "It is so lonesome there I
can't bear to go into the house. Come and stay to tea, you and Honora."

But Mrs. Gerald had promised to drive out with Mrs. Macon to see the
Sisters, and the bright little lady was waiting impatiently for her; so
to Honora was left the task of comforting Annette's mother.

On their way home, Mrs. Ferrier started up suddenly, and ordered the
coachman to stop. "I don't care if he is a Jew," she said, having
caught sight of Mr. Schöninger. "He's good enough to be a Christian;
and I'm going to ask him to supper." And before Honora could prevent
it, even if she had desired to, the gentleman had been beckoned to the
carriage, and the invitation given and accepted.

"I'm not what people call a lady," Mrs. Ferrier said, as they drove on
again, "but I believe I know a gentleman when I see him; and if there
ever was a true gentleman, he is one. How he does it I don't know; but
he some way makes me respect myself. He doesn't flatter me; I am sure
he doesn't care for my money, and that he knows I am no scholar; but it
seems to me as if he thinks there is something respectable in being an
honest woman, no matter how ignorant you are; and I'm just as sure that
that man never laughs at me, and is mad when other people do it, as I
am that I sit here. In my house, when some of those little upstarts
have been talking to me, and trying to make me say things--I knew all
the time what they were up to!--I've seen him come marching across the
room to me like a king, and scatter them as if they were mice, with
just one glance of his eyes. I'm not a fool, and I know my friends."

Honora's visit was a short one; and after an hour of pleasant talk, she
started for home, accompanied by Mr. Schöninger. They had been speaking
of the _Moonlight Sonata_; and, since the hour was early, the gentleman
asked permission to go in and play it on Miss Pembroke's piano.

"I was about to ask you to," she said cordially. "It has been on my
mind that I never heard you play that; and I fancy that my piano is
just the instrument for it, the tone is so soft and rich."

Mrs. Gerald had not yet returned. The night was very warm, and the
doors and windows all stood open, the parlor being lighted only from
the next room. Honora seated herself by an open window, and listened
with a perfect enjoyment to which nothing was wanting. She was in
the mood to hear music, the composition and the rendering were both
excellent, and the half-light in-doors and out not only veiled all
defects in their surroundings, but invested them with a soft and dreamy
grace.

Her mood was so happy that, when the sonata was ended, she did not
feel obliged to praise it, nor to speak at all; and they were silent a
little while, Mr. Schöninger touching octaves with his right hand so
exquisitely that they faltered out as the stars come--faint at first,
yet ending brightly.

"I like to look on the whole of creation as a symphony," he said
presently. "The morning stars sang together. What a song it must
be to the ears that can hear it! Fancy them setting out on that
race, their hearts on fire, their orbits ringing as they rolled,
their sides blooming, light just kindled! The stars, then, being
tuneful, everything on their surfaces and beneath them must have been
harmonious. How complex and wonderful--large and small, from the song
of the sun to the song of the pine-needles! The ocean had its tune,
and the rivers, and there was music in the clouds that rose from them.
How ethereal it must have been! Yes, nature was born singing, and
everything was musically ordered. The days were grouped in octaves.
They climbed from Sabbath to Sabbath."

He had spoken slowly, as if to himself, or to some sweeter self, and
let a note drop here and there into pauses. He paused a moment now,
then added: "What is music? It is harmonious action; and in action the
mystical number is seven."

He lifted his head, but not his eyes, and seemed to await a reply.

"And in being, the perfect number is three," Honora said quietly.

He did not answer for a moment, and, if he understood her meaning,
did not reply to it when he spoke. "I had not thought of that; but I
catch a glimpse of truth in your remark which I should like to follow
out. In nature, there are the three colors for one item. In art--say,
architecture--there are the three types: the rectangular Greek,
rounding up into Roman, as if lifted over a head passing under, and the
Gothic, shaped like a flame. Those may be the signs of the material,
the intellectual, and the spiritual. Yes, I must follow that out."

The light was too dim to show how Miss Pembroke's cheeks reddened as
she said, "The feasts in the church carry out this musical idea, and
have their octaves; and for the Supreme Being, there is trinity."

Was it fair or wise to catch him so? She doubted, and awaited his next
remark in some agitation.

"Miss Pembroke, I respect your opinions and your beliefs," he said,
with a dignified emphasis which might be meant to reassure or to
reprove her. In either case, it was impossible for her to pursue the
subject.

Feeling slightly embarrassed, she caught at the first subject that
presented itself. "You have done a great deal for music in Crichton,
Mr. Schöninger," she said. "You have taught our musicians, and improved
the public taste immensely. Our people are musically inclined; and I
hope the time may come when we shall have great artists among us who
will do something besides present the works of others. I do not profess
to be a critic, or learned in the art; but it seems to me that it is
not yet exhausted, and that in the way of musical declamation there is
much to be done. I have often thought that words do not belong with the
highest kinds of music that we have at present, with the one exception
of that wonderful _Miserere_, which one hears in perfection only in
Rome. I would like to have a chant or recitative style for sublime and
beautiful thoughts, so that the words should be more prominent than the
tune, yet be delivered as one might fancy they would be delivered in
heaven. That is the kind of music I wish to have grow up here. It would
suit us better than the other. It is more rapid and impetuous."

Mr. Schöninger half uttered a doubtful "yes!"

"But art needs a warm atmosphere and an ardent people," he added; "and
the kind of music you describe, which is in form like improvisation,
is a failure if without enthusiasm in the singer and the listener.
Ornate music may be sung by an almost soulless performer so as to
produce an impression of meaning something, because the notes tell all;
but declamatory music is a dead body, into which a singer must breathe
a soul."

"So much the better," she replied. "Give the notes that tell all to
the instrument. But when the text has great meaning, let a human voice
interpret it, without help of florid ornamentation. But you, an artist,
are content to breathe this cold atmosphere!"

"I am at once contented and discontented." His voice softened. "For I
behold at last what I want, yet do not possess it."

He stopped, as if for some sign or question; but Honora did not utter a
word. His voice, far more than what he said, startled and silenced her.

He turned gently toward her. "Would it be possible, Miss Pembroke, that
I should find favor in your eyes?"

"You are, then, a Catholic?" she said quietly.

It was not necessary for her to say any more; yet he would not yield
without a struggle, vain as it was.

"You exaggerate the difference between us," he said earnestly, coming
nearer. "It is one of form rather than meaning. If I choose to walk by
the pure, white light, and you prefer the prismatic colors, still both
are but different conditions of the same light, and what I adore is the
source of all that you adore. Your Christ quoted as the greatest of
all the Commandments the very one which is greatest to me. You would
have perfect freedom with me. Honora, and a greater love than words can
tell."

"Mr. Schöninger," she exclaimed, "can you for one instant believe that
I would be the wife of a man who scorns as an impostor him whom I adore
as a God?"

"I could not scorn where you adore," he replied. "The mistake is not
yours, and the imposture is not his. I find him good, and noble, and
sweet, and lovely almost beyond human loveliness. Do you forget that
he also was a Jew? All that you see in the Son, and the saint, and the
apostle I see in God. These beings you honor are but scattered rays of
the great Luminary. We are not so different as we appear."

"You believe in the God who created, and loved, and preserved," she
said; "but you do not believe in the God who loved even unto death.
My God has suffered for me. The difference is infinite. It cannot be
set aside. The memories that pierce my heart leave you unmoved. The
Shepherd who went in search of his lost sheep you know nothing of.
The despised and rejected One weeping over Jerusalem you care nothing
for. That humility, so astounding and so touching, of a God making
himself small enough for me to possess; what is it to you? Nothing but
a stumbling-block. Is your God a Father in heaven?"

Mr. Schöninger was standing now, and his earnestness was fully equal
to Honora's. "My God is a father, and more than a father," he said;
"and he is pitiful to his children, even while he afflicts them. I
see in him the beneficent Provider, who every day for his children
works miracles greater far than those recorded in the New Testament.
He renews the seasons, the light. Every day is a creation. He gives us
the fruits of the earth. He lavishes beauty everywhere to please us. He
sees men unmindful of the laws which he wrote on the tables of their
hearts, and yet he pities and spares them. Oh! I am talking to the
wind!"

"It is indeed useless for us to talk on this subject, Mr. Schöninger,"
Honora said firmly.

He stood a moment leaning against the side of the window where she sat,
and looking down at her face, that showed pale even in that dim light.
"You reject me only because I am a Jew?" he asked. "Pardon me!" for she
had made a slight movement of displeasure. "Do not forget that I love
you. Is that no claim on your kindness?"

"I do not feel any unkindness for you; but since you are not a
Christian, I cannot tell how I would feel if you were one."

The reply sounded cold.

Mr. Schöninger bowed, with an immediate resumption of ceremony. "I
have, then, only to ask your pardon for having intruded a disagreeable
subject on you," he said. "Good-evening!"

She watched him going out, and saw that at the gate he was joined by F.
Chevreuse, who was just returning home from a sick-call.

"Oh! what will F. Chevreuse say to me?" she murmured. "What would
dear Mother Chevreuse have said to me? It is all my fault! I had too
much confidence in my own wisdom! They were right: there should be no
intimacy with unbelievers."

"And so you hate creeds?" F. Chevreuse was saying, in reply to an
exclamation of Mr. Schöninger's. "And what of your own, pray?"

The Jew drew away, with a slightly impatient gesture, when the priest
made a motion to take his arm. He had no desire to advance a step
toward that barrier against which he had just bruised himself. The
warning, "Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther," was too fresh in his
memory.

"My creed," he answered, "is not one of those inexorable ones that
life dashes men against, as the sea dashes them on the rocks. It does
not preach charity and practise hate. It does not set up barriers
between man and man, and treat nine-tenths of the world as heathen. It
does not profess the most sublime reliance on God, and then practise
the most subtle worldly wisdom. It is not even the old Jewish belief
in its formality. That was as the roots of a plant of which true
Judaism is the blossom. We cling to the old name, and some cling to
the old belief, merely because it has been hated and persecuted. If
my forefathers rejected and crucified him whom you call the Christ,
your church has excluded and crucified my people till they have bled
at every pore. They have been mocked, and beaten, and spit upon;
and yet you say that the dying prayer of your Model was, '_Father,
forgive them, for they know not what they do_.' However it may be
with individuals in your church--and I have found them noble and
charitable--as a sect,

"Their life laughs through, and spits at their creed."

If they had practised the charity they professed, there would not now
be an old-creed Jew in the world."

F. Chevreuse saw how vain it would be to combat the man in his present
mood, and he strongly suspected what trouble lay at the bottom of it.
Had he been less truly charitable, he might have persuaded himself that
it was his duty to make a counter attack or a convincing argument--a
mistake sometimes made by people who like to think that they are
zealously indignant because God's truth is assailed, when, in reality,
there may be a good deal of personal feeling because some one has
spoken lightly of _their_ belief. F. Chevreuse made neither this
mistake nor that other of throwing away argument on an excited man.
The end he sought was the glory of God in the conversion of souls; and
if, to accomplish that, it had been necessary for him to stand, like
his divine Master, "opening not his lips," while truth was reviled, he
would have done it.

"I am a better Jew than you are, then," he said gently, and put his
arm in Mr. Schöninger's, who, in the surprise at this unexpected tone,
did not shrink from him. "I am proud of that ancient people of God. In
the morning of humanity, it was the pillar of cloud which was to give
place to the pillar of fire at the gloaming of the race. To me, all
the glorious points in their history are literally true. Moses wears
his two beams of light; the bush burns without being consumed; at
the stroke of a rod, water gushes from the rock, or is piled up in a
wall--it is literally true, not a figure. But the sacrifice was above
all. Those poor exiles from Eden were deprived of present happiness;
but they were full of knowledge, and comforted by hope. They were
but just from the hand of the Creator, and were more perfect in mind
and body than any since. They had spoken face to face with God. He
condemned them for their sin, but promised them a Redeemer, and gave
them the sacrifice as a sign. I have always thought that there was
something very touching in the sacrifice which Cain and Abel offered
up. They were commemorating the sin of their own parents. Then, see
how wonderfully that idea of an offended God demanding a propitiatory
sacrifice clung to the human mind! The universality of the belief
would prove its truth, if there were no other proof. How it must have
been branded on the souls of Adam and Eve to last so! The race grew,
and broke into fragments that scattered far and wide. For centuries
they never met, and they lost all memory of each other. Their habits
and their languages changed; the faces of some grew dark; there was
scarcely a sign of brotherhood between them. If they met, they were as
strange to each other as the inhabitants of different planets. Some
adored one God, some believed in many. In spiritual matters, there
was only one point which they held in common. You have, perhaps, seen
the little _Agnus Dei_ that Catholics wear--a bit of wax with a lamb
stamped on it. Well, sir, every soul that God sent into the world had
the sacrificial idea stamped on it, like that lamb on the wax. The
devil blurred this image, of course, till men fell into all sorts of
errors, and even sacrificed each other; but he could never efface it.
The hand of God graves deeply, and the inscription wears out the hand
that rubs it.

"But the Jews, my sublime spiritual ancestors, kept the truth.
They adored the one God, Jehovah; and by their sacrifice they were
perpetually reminding him of the Redeemer he had promised them. It is
true, they became corrupted, and rejected him when he came; but I do
not forget that he was a Jew, that his first followers were Jews, and
that his Immaculate Mother was a Jewess. I tell you, I glory in the
history of that people. It is you who throw contempt on them, not I.
Catholicism proves and honors Judaism. If all were false, we might
then be deluded; but the Jews would be the deluders. We only complain
of them because they call themselves liars. Judaism, past and present,
would fall with Catholicism, and fall underneath. All the truth held
by the reformed Jews is a weak reflection of the light cast by the
Catholic Church back on old Judaism. To deny the authority of the
church is as though the moon should proclaim herself the source of day,
and try to extinguish the sun. If it were possible for the attempt to
succeed, the result would be an utter spiritual darkness, followed by
barbarism. Christ is the light of the world; and all the light there
was in the world before his coming was like the morning light before
the sun touches the horizon. The patriarchs and the prophets were the
planets and the moon of the spiritual system; they saw him afar off,
and told of him. Strange inconsistency! Men usually laugh at prophecies
till they are fulfilled, then pay them a retrospective homage; but in
this, they bow to the prophecy till the instant of its fulfilment, then
reject and scorn both together. If you believed in Christ, all your
altars would blaze up again, making a spiral circle of fire from the
creation to the redemption. He rounds the circle. '_I am the beginning
and the end_,' he says."

Whether he perceived or acknowledged any truth in what he heard, or
not, it certainly had the effect of making Mr. Schöninger ashamed of
his ill-temper.

"I have to apologize, sir," he said, "for having made a personal
attack instead of using argument, and for having acted like a whipped
school-boy. My only excuse is that I was smarting under punishment.
I am usually just enough to judge a principle by itself, not by its
upholders."

They had now reached the step of the priest's house, and paused there,
Mr. Schöninger declining mutely a mute invitation to enter.

"That is a point--that relating to persons--which we will discuss some
other time, when we both feel more like it," F. Chevreuse said. "But,
my friend," he added, with impassioned earnestness, "let the faults
of individuals, and communities, and nations go. They are irrelevant.
Let God be true, though all men may be false. _Ecce Agnus Dei!_ If a
haughty conqueror should demand your submission, I could understand why
you would feel like rebelling. But here there is nothing but love to
resist. Here there is only infinite sweetness and humility. Did he ever
persecute you? Did he ever revile you? He wept over you. 'O Jerusalem,
Jerusalem!'"

Standing on his own threshold, the priest suddenly put his arm around
the Jew's shoulder. "Love him, then hate whom you can. Love him, and do
what you will," he said. "I don't ask you to listen to the church, to
listen to me, to listen to any one, but only to behold the Lamb of God.
Look at him, study him, listen to him. O my God! that I had the tongue
of an angel! I love you! I am longing for your conversion, but I cannot
say a word. Good-night! May God bless you and speak to you!"

The Jew was alone, overpowered by the sudden and tender passion of that
appeal, feeling still the pressure of that more than brotherly embrace.
If his mind had recognized any truth, he did not at the moment perceive
or think of it, so moved was his heart at the vision of love that had
been opened to him. If divine love was added to the human, he did not
inquire; he only knew that the priest was sincere, and was at that
moment on his knees praying for him. He would have liked to go in and
beg his blessing, not, perhaps, as that of a priest, but as that of an
incomparably good and loving man.

He checked the impulse, though it led him so far as to extend his hand
to open the door.

Ah! if we did but yield to generous and affectionate impulses as we
yield to bad ones, how much happier the world would be! How often they
are checked by distrust of others or of ourselves, or by the petty fear
of being unconventional, when, if followed, they might warm a little
this cold human atmosphere, in which we stand so frozen that one might
almost expect our fingers to rattle like icicles when we shake hands.

But though Mr. Schöninger did not go in, neither did he turn
carelessly away. We wonder if any of our readers will understand how
much affection was expressed in what he did. It was a trifling act,
apparently. He laid his right hand, palm forward, against the door,
and let it press the panel a moment. From some it might not mean much,
but this man never gave his hand lightly, nor used it lightly; and it
was one of those hands which seem to contain in themselves the whole
person. It was a hand with a heart in it; and while it rested there,
his face wore an expression more tender than a smile, as if he gave
both a benediction and a caress to all within those walls for the sake
of one who dwelt there. Then he turned away, and walked slowly down the
street.

Mr. Schöninger was essentially and sufficiently manly. If the long
pursuit of money had been dry and distasteful to him, he had made no
complaint of the necessity, even to himself. That which must be done
he attempted and carried out as best he might, feeling, it may be,
a certain pleasure in exercising his will; perceiving, also, a goal
ahead where such sordid strife would end. It may be that even in the
fascinating and delightful exercise of his art, there had still been
a sense of something lacking; for the artist is, above all things,
human, and this man was alone; but he made no sentimental moan. The
want, if it had a voice, was never listened to. It was only now, in
the moment of a sharp and bitter pain that had cleft his heart, and a
soothing sweetness that had fallen on the wound like an unguent, that
he realized how utterly without sympathy his life had been, and how
all that had made it tolerable had been a looking forward to something
better. He was like one who, wandering long in a frozen desert, sees
unexpectedly the warm, red hearth-light shining toward his feet. It was
not his home-light, but another's; yet it touched him so that his heart
woke up with a cry, and demanded something in the present, and could no
longer be satisfied with a vague expectation.

He was angry with himself that he had not refrained from speaking to
Miss Pembroke, or that, having spoken, he had not been more persistent.
He would not believe that he could give so much and receive no return;
and it seemed to him certain that by waiting he could at least have
succeeded so far as to render it impossible for her to refuse him
without a regret too great for concealment. That was all he now
thought attainable, and, in comparison to what he had, it appeared
to him happiness. That is a cruelty without which no love can exist;
it demands the power to make its object unhappy in parting, if it is
denied the privilege of making it happy in union.

"I was a fool!" he muttered, tossing the hair back from his burning
face and head. "I took my refusal as promptly as though I had asked
for a flower. A woman who is ready with her confession of love at
the first word of asking must have expected and prepared herself for
the proposal. Even a profound affection may be a little hidden from
her till after it is asked for, though visible to others. Besides,
she sometimes draws back from timidity, or to see if a man is really
in earnest. That proposal which he foresees and intends takes her by
surprise, and, even when willing to advance, her instinct is to retreat
at first. How inconsistent we are to expect and require that shrinking
modesty in a woman, and then complain of her for it!"

He wandered on through street after street, glancing at the lighted
windows of many a city home. In some houses, the curtains had been
pleasantly left up, and he could see the charming tableau of a family
gathered about the evening lamp. They read or sewed, raising their
faces now and then to smile at each other; they conversed, or they
rested, leaning back in their chairs.

Coming to a secluded little cottage in a quiet street, he leaned on the
garden fence, and looked into the sitting-room. He was acquainted with
the people there; they met him pleasantly in public, but it had never
occurred to them, apparently, to invite him to their home. All his
friends, indeed, were of that public kind.

The room was lighted by a shaded lamp that made a bright circle on the
table under it. A man sat at one side sketching what a nearer view
would have shown to be a Holy Family. Now and then he lifted his head
and gazed at the group opposite him, the models of his Mother and
Child; and the expression of his fine, spiritual face showed how his
soul strove to fan that visible spark of human affection into a flaming
vision of divine love.

The woman sat weaving bright wools into some fleecy shape, her slight
fingers flying as the work progressed under them. Her eyes were
downcast, and a faint smile shone on her happy face. One foot kept in
gentle motion a cradle, wherein a babe slept, its rosy little hands
curled up under its chin, like closed flowers. Now and then the mother
bent above the sleeper, seemed to hover over it, like a bird over its
nest, when the drapery her artist-husband had arranged on her hair
would drop forward and hide her profile from him. Once, when he wanted
an outline, he stretched his arm, drew her face round by the chin, and
seemed playfully to chide her excessive baby-worship. But it seemed
that the soft, blue fold had hidden something more than a mere loving
gaze; for a tear slipped from the brown lashes as they appeared. She
clasped the chiding hand in hers, and uttered a few words.

How well the looker-on outside could guess what sad thought had called
up that tear! She had feared that her happiness was too great to last.

The husband's answer was, evidently, cheerful and reassuring; and soon
the work and the drawing went on, and the smiles were restored.

Recollecting himself, Mr. Schöninger continued his walk. What had he to
do with such scenes? He was as shut out from all intimate friendships
as though he had been invisible to those about him. If he should be
ill, the doctor and the hired nurse would take care of him; if he
should die, strangers would bury him, without pity and without grief;
and his possessions in Crichton, such little belongings as friends
cherish when those they love are gone, would be tossed about and prized
only at their money value.

Never had he felt more despondent. The momentary pleasure derived from
the friendship of F. Chevreuse faded away like sunlight from rocks,
leaving only hard and sombre facts behind. There never could be a real
friendship between him and the priest. An insurmountable obstacle
separated them.

This solitary walk brought to his mind one night, months past, when he
had walked the streets of Crichton, as solitary and wretched as now,
from evening till daybreak. "I will not think of it!" he muttered, and
cast the recollection aside. "O my God! who shall pray for me, who
cannot pray for myself?"

A sound of singing caught his ear. He was passing a Protestant church,
where they were holding an evening meeting, and they were singing a
plain chant, with only a thread of accompaniment. It sounded tuneful
and earnest, and he stepped into the vestibule to listen.

They sang:

        "Hear, Father, hear our prayer!
    Wandering unknown in the land of the stranger,
    Be with all trav'lers in sickness or danger,
    Guard thou their path, guide their feet from the snare.
        Hear, Father, hear our prayer!"

Some one was praying for him without being aware of it! There was
in the world a charity which stretched out beyond the familiar, and
touched the unknown sufferer.

As he was leaving the vestibule, he noticed two men, one standing at
either side, on the steps without the door. Rather annoyed at being
found in such a place, he passed them hastily, and went on. When he
thought himself free from them, his memory went back to that prayerful
strain:

"Guard thou their steps, guide their feet from the snare."

Yes, they were praying for him, these strangers, who had seemed so
alien.

Presently he became aware that he was not free from the persons who
had been observing him at the church door. The steps of two men were
following him. He quickened his pace, and they also quickened theirs.
He went into a side street, and perceived that they were still on his
track. There was no escape. His feet had not been guided from the
snare. A chilly sensation passed over him, which might be either anger
or fear. He paused one instant, then turned and faced his pursuers.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning, after Mass, Honora Pembroke went in to see F.
Chevreuse, waiting in the church till she thought he had taken his
breakfast.

"I did not see you at communion this morning," he said, after greeting
her pleasantly. "Why was that, young woman?"

They were in the sitting-room that had belonged to Mother Chevreuse.
Her son now occupied these rooms, and all the little tokens of a
woman's presence had disappeared. No work-basket, with shining needles
and thimble, glittered in the sunlight; no shawl nor scarf lay over any
chair-back; no flower nor leaf adorned the place. All the grace had
gone.

Honora perceived, by the momentary clouding of the priest's face,
that he understood the glance she had cast about the room and the
involuntary sigh that had followed it, and she hastily recalled her
thoughts.

"I am an unfortunate sister of Proserpine," she said. "Some one sent
me a pomegranate yesterday as a rarity; and this morning, while I was
dressing, and thinking of my communion too, I ate two or three of the
seeds."

"You are a careless girl!" F. Chevreuse exclaimed, with that pretence
of playful scolding which shows so much real kindness. "But,
fortunately, your banishment is not so long as that of your Greek
sister was."

"I was not thinking without distraction," Honora continued. "There
was something else on my mind, or I should have remembered my fast.
On the whole, I am rather glad that I could not go to communion this
morning, for I was not so quiet as I ought to be. I have come to tell
you about it." A faint blush flitted over her face. She looked up for
the encouraging nod and "Yes!" which were not wanting, and then told
half her story in a sentence: "Mr. Schöninger told me last night that
he thinks a great deal of me."

F. Chevreuse nodded again, and did not look quite so much astonished as
she had expected him to be.

The other and most troublesome part of the story followed immediately,
breathed out with a kind of terror: "And after I had refused him, and
he had left the room, and walked away with you, I felt pained, not for
him, but for myself. I almost wanted to call him back; though, if he
had come, I should have been sorry. I do not understand it."

She looked like one who expects a severe sentence, and scarcely drew
breath till the answer came.

The priest spoke quite carelessly: "Oh! it is natural that we should
feel a kind of regret in refusing an offering meant to be good, though
it may not be good to us. You need not accuse yourself of that. Of
course, you are not going to marry a Jew, nor to wish to marry one.
That is out of the question. And there is no need of searching too
scrupulously into those vague and complicated emotions which are for
ever troubling the human heart. It will only confuse the mind and sully
the conscience. They are like mists that float over the sky. Keep your
eyes steadily fixed on the Day-star, and do not fear an occasional waft
of scud. As long as the star shines, all is well. When you no longer
see it, then is the time to fear."

Honora looked relieved, but not altogether satisfied. "But must there
not have been some fault in me, when 1 could feel even the slightest
regret in rejecting one who has rejected God?" she asked.

"I have but to repeat what I have said," was the answer. "You need not
disturb yourself about the matter. Dismiss it from your mind, except so
far as it is necessary for you to think in order to conduct yourself
properly toward him in future. I take for granted that your intercourse
must be a little more reserved than it has been."

"Oh! yes," she exclaimed. "I would rather not see him any more. And
there was my fault, father. I have been very presumptuous. Both Mrs.
Gerald and dear Mother Chevreuse were dissatisfied to have me associate
with him. I could see that, though they said nothing. But I fancied
that I was more liberal than they, and that I could decide perfectly
well for myself. I had almost a mind to be displeased with them for
wishing to keep him at a distance, as if they were uncharitable. Now I
am punished, and I know that I deserve it."

"Oh! well," the priest said gently, his face growing thoughtful and sad
at the allusion to his mother. "We all make mistakes; and to persons
who wish to be generous, but have not much experience, prudence seems
a very cold virtue, sometimes almost a vice. But believe me, my child,
it is possible for really kind and generous feelings to lead to results
far worse than even an excess of prudence might have caused. Don't
distress yourself! Only have a care of going too far in either way."

Their talk was here interrupted by a ring of the door-bell so
unusually loud as to betoken an excited visitor.

"A sick-call," said F. Chevreuse.

They heard Jane open the door; then a light step ran through the entry,
and, without any ceremony of knocking, Miss Lily Carthusen burst into
the room.

"O F. Chevreuse!" she cried, "Mr. Schöninger is in jail."

The priest looked at her without comprehending, and also without
speaking. When sudden and terrible news have come upon us once, casting
us to the earth, as though by a thunder-stroke, any startling address
awakens in us ever after something of the same terror and distress.

Jane had followed Miss Carthusen to the sitting-room door, and, the
moment she heard her announcement, broke out into exclamations: "I knew
it! I have known it all the time! O poor Mother Chevreuse!"

F. Chevreuse stood up, as if to take freer breath, and his face grew
crimson.

"In what way does this arrest concern me particularly, Miss Carthusen?"
he asked, striving to speak calmly.

"F. Chevreuse, cannot you guess?" she returned. "Many others have
suspected, if you have not. I believed it almost from the first."

"I do not believe it!" he exclaimed, and began to pace the room. "I
will not believe it! It is impossible!" And then, whether believing or
not in this accusation, he felt anew the whole force of that terrible
blow. "O mother, mother!" he cried, and burst into tears.

"I suspected him on account of the shawl," Miss Carthusen went on. "His
has not been seen in the house since that day; and...."

F. Chevreuse was leaning up against the wall, with his face hidden in
his arm; but he recovered his self-possession immediately, and put a
stop to these revelations. "Say no more!" There was a certain severity
both in his voice and gesture. "I do not wish to hear any surmises nor
particulars. I should suppose that some person in authority ought to
bring me this information. But I thank you for taking the trouble; and
perhaps you will be so kind as to stop at Mr. Macon's door on your way
home, and ask him to come to me. He cannot have gone out yet. I would
like to see him at once."

The young lady had no choice. She was obliged to go.

Mr. Macon was, in fact, already on his way to the house; and soon the
story received authoritative confirmation.

"He did not seem to be at all surprised, sir," said the officer who had
made the arrest. "He is a very cool sort of man on the outside; though
I would not have liked to go after him alone."

"Did he say anything?" demanded the priest.

"Not a word!"

"Did not he ask to see me?"

"No, sir!"

The face of F. Chevreuse darkened with perplexity and disappointment.
After what had occurred between them the night before, if the man had
trusted him then, and if he were innocent, surely he would have sent
for him at once.

"When I have said that I love him," he thought, "how could he suffer
me to rest a moment in ignorance of what had happened, or to wait for
his assurance? Or does his very silence prove his trust in me and
confidence in his own acquittal? Well, even if it does, I prefer a
confidence that speaks."

He looked the officer steadily in the face. "Sir," he said with
emphasis, "I wish every one to understand that I believe this
accusation to be a mistake, and that I regret it exceedingly. I shall
go to see Mr. Schöninger, if I am permitted, and say the same to him.
And now, gentlemen, if there is nothing more necessary to be said, will
you spare me the saying anything unnecessary on the subject?"

Jane had been trying to talk to Miss Pembroke, who put her back gently,
without answering a word; and as soon as their visitors had withdrawn,
she approached F. Chevreuse, and attempted to finish the story which
Miss Carthusen had begun. But he stopped her even more peremptorily
than he had done the other.

"That young lady is not a Catholic," he said, "but you are. Do not
forget charity. You have no right to hold any person guilty till
his guilt is proved, and even then you should not rejoice over his
condemnation. I forbid your saying any more on this subject to me
or any other person, except when you are questioned in court. I am
displeased at the spirit you have shown."

Jane withdrew, convicted, and, perhaps, a little indignant.

Then F. Chevreuse looked at Honora Pembroke. She had sat perfectly pale
and silent through it all. "Can you go home without assistance, child?"
he asked.

She understood his wish to be alone, and rose with an effort. "I am not
faint; I am horrified," she said. "It is a monstrous injustice. I wish
you would come to us by-and-by." She looked at him imploringly.

"I will go to Mrs. Gerald's directly after having seen him," he
promised.

When he was alone, F. Chevreuse locked the door, and began to pace the
room, tears running down his cheeks. "O my sweet mother!" he said, "so
it's all to be dragged up again, and your dear name associated with all
that is cruel and wicked in crime!"

He opened a closet, and took down a little faded plaid shawl that his
mother had used for years to throw over her shoulders in the house when
the air was chilly. It hung on the nail where she had left it; and
while he held it at arm's length, and looked at it, her form seemed to
rise up before him. He saw the wide, motherly shoulders, the roll of
thick, gray hair, the face faintly smiling and radiantly loving. And
then he could see nothing; for the tears gushed forth so passionately
as to wash away both vision and reality.

                            TO BE CONTINUED.




SLEEP.


                           FROM THE ITALIAN.

    O sleep! O missing first-born of the night!
    Child of the silent-footed shadow, thou
    Who comfortest the sick, and makest light
    Of ills, bringing forgetfulness of woe;
    Succor the broken spirit that faints for sight
    Of thee; these limbs, that travail hath brought low,
    Refresh. Come, sleep, and on my temples light,
    And make thy dark wings meet above my brow.
    Where is sweet silence which the day forsakes?
    And the shy dreams that follow in thy train,
    The silly flock that scatters at a touch?
    Alas! in vain I summon thee: in vain
    Flatter the chilly dark. O thorny couch!
    O heavy watches till the slow dawn breaks!




SPIRITUALISM.


CHAPTER II.

Before considering the merits of the third hypothesis for accounting
for the phenomena of spiritualism, I propose to draw out at some length
the church theory of magic and formal diabolic interference.

Magic, in the sense of a systematized use of and intercourse with the
spiritual world by other means than authorized prayer and ritual, has
been an idea familiar to all races and to all times. Its hostile or
consciously diabolical character has depended upon the vividness with
which it has appreciated the nature of God and his sanction of the
religion which it is confronting, and upon its consequent inability
to regard itself as an appendix to, rather than a contradiction of,
religion. Hence, it has been peculiarly virulent when it has had to
manœuvre in the face of the precise enunciations of Catholicism, as
was the case in mediæval Christendom; whilst, on the other hand, in
a system of tolerant eclecticism like that of pagan Rome or modern
America, it has naturally adopted a milder form.

The accounts given of the origin of magic in pagan and rabbinical
tradition are almost identical, and read much like a rude allegory of
Christian theology. In the first, the fair and proud Lamia, beloved
of Zeus, in revenge for being herself ousted and her children slain
by Hera, takes general vengeance upon the subjects of Zeus. In. the
second, Lilith, Adam's first wife, is ever seeking to destroy the
children of her successful rival, Eve. According to the more common
Catholic teaching, sundry of the angels, God's first creation, destined
to be the first partners of his bliss, fell for resisting God's designs
in behalf of his second creation, man, whose nature he was to espouse
in the Incarnation; whence the devil's hatred of the children of men.

The fathers[94] considered that the rebel angels first taught men magic
in the evil days before the Flood, and that the seeds of the black art
were carried on into the new world by Cham. His grandson, Mesraim,
or Zoroaster, was said to have used it extensively to give life and
reality to the false worship which was his legacy to his children, the
Egyptians, Babylonians, and Persians.

The worship of the hosts of heaven--the sun, moon, and stars--would
seem to have been the earliest form of false worship, and all
mythological research tends to show that this is, in fact, the core
even of those cults which at first sight would seem most unlike it. The
Persians were fire-worshippers, but fire was stolen from heaven; and
one of the miracles recorded of Zoroaster was his drawing magic sparks
from the stars. The name given him by his disciples was "the Living
Star." The host of deities with which the Greek and Roman world was
peopled, many of whom would at first sight suggest a purely terrestrial
origin, for the most part group themselves round central figures,
which, on examination, prove to be earthly reflections of astral
influences--of the sun or moon gods and their supposed satellites.

According to the fathers, magic was the very life and soul of idolatry,
and pagan worship was regarded as a union of conventional deception and
diabolic energy, the one or other element predominating according to
circumstances. Thus _diablerie_ lay beneath such orderly institutions
as, for instance, the national cultus of ancient Rome, like the
volcanic fires of Vesuvius under the rich vineyards which they have in
part created and for a while sustain.

But whilst it is to a great extent true that paganism was substantially
little better than an organized _diablerie_, and the devil, as the
strong man in the Gospel, was keeping his house in comparative peace,
still the very elements of man's nature, despite his fall, did in
various ways protest against the enemy and impede his action. The idea
of a supreme God could not be wholly withdrawn from the minds and
hearts of men, and many true prayers, despite the demon's elaborate
machinery to intercept them, pierced the heavens. Nay, the very forms
themselves of idolatry would often suggest thoughts and acts of worship
which no evil influence could control; for the world had been given
to men, and not to the demon. Even the senses, for all they were so
many inlets of temptation, did, by bringing men under the wholesome
influence of external nature, and by their equable excitation of his
mental powers, tend, in fact, to break the fascinating grasp which the
fiend would hold upon his imagination. The material world at once spoke
to him of God, and housed him from the pitiless storm of spiritual
influence with which he was assailed. Common sense was not without its
power of natural exorcism, and true affection often grew and flowered
where the devil only thought to have nurtured lust.

In the cults which express the religious sentiments of the more
civilized nations, we meet with much that is humane and noble, whilst,
at the same time, we are often shocked by manifestations of a very
different character--rites in which the fire of the pit seems to have
found a direct vent.

On the whole, in pre-Christian, as compared with Christian, times, the
devil reigned. When the apostle would warn the faithful of the foes
with whom they would have to contend, he says: "Our warfare is not
against flesh and blood"--_i.e._ these are, under the circumstances,
hardly worth considering--"but against principalities and powers;
against the rulers of the world of this darkness; against spiritual
wickedness in high places." It was by the direct onslaught of the early
church upon the citadel of paganism--her forcing the devil, by the
intolerable brightness of her presence, to show himself in his true
colors--and by thus enlisting on her side all the more honest elements
of human nature, that she gained the victory, and the devil was fairly
outlawed. In the expressive language of the Theodosian Codex (ix. tit.
xvi.), sorcerers are denounced as "aliens of nature," (_peregrini
naturæ_). Still, for all this, the war was by no means over, and its
character remained substantially what it had always been. The devil did
not lose his power of working marvels, but, as in the case of Pharaoh's
magicians, he was outdone and baffled.

I think there will be little difficulty in showing that the teaching
of the church on the subject of the devil's power was in the earliest
times substantially what it was in the middle ages and what it is
now. The contrary has been maintained by Janus, and we must do him
the justice to acknowledge that even reputable writers like Maffei and
Cantù have gone some lengths in the same direction. As Janus is still
quoted as an authority in this country, it will not be amiss to combine
his refutation with the illustration of my subject.

Janus maintains in so many words that in the Christian Church "it
was long looked upon as a wicked and unchristian error, as something
heretical, to attribute supernatural powers and effects to the aid
of demons"; that "for many centuries ... the popular notions about
diabolical agency, nocturnal meetings with demons, enchantments and
witchcrafts, were viewed and treated as a folly inconsistent with
Christian belief"; that this doctrine continued until gradually ousted
by the "threefold authority of the popes, Aquinas, and the powerful
Dominican Order."[95] Now, I of course admit that the action taken by
the authorities of the church in regard to particular phenomena of
witchcraft has varied extremely with circumstances; but she has always
held that the devil has the power, which he is sometimes allowed to
exercise, either _en rapport_ with human agents or independently of
them, of working marvels which transcend the natural power of the
particular nature in conjunction with which they are wrought, though
not transcending the sphere of universal nature; and that these are
done by rapid, imperceptible combinations of other natural powers.
When theologians disputed as to whether the devil could do this or
that particular marvel--for example, transport imprisoned witches
through their prison-walls to the "Sabbath"--the dispute did not turn
on the reality or non-reality of magic, but upon whether the marvel in
question did or did not transcend the sphere of universal nature. On
the other hand, theologians have always maintained that in a certain
sense witchcraft is an absurdity, no craft at all, an _ars nugatoria_,
as S. Thomas calls it, since it is founded upon no fixed principles,
but depends for its issues on the free will of one who has been a
deceiver from the beginning. The scholastics made a great point of
insisting upon the essentially unscientific character of witchcraft,
since the devil had taken advantage of the extraordinary thirst for
learning which prevailed in the middle ages to present himself in the
light of a guide to new realms of science.

Janus relies for the justification of his statement upon a document
long known as a chapter of the Council of Ancyra, but generally
acknowledged to be the utterance of some IXth century Frank council.
I subjoin it at length, together with the kindred questions from the
_Penitentiary_ of Burchard. Over and above their controversial value,
they have an antiquarian interest which I hope not to neglect:

"Neither must this be passed over, that certain wicked women, turning
back after Satan, and seduced by the illusions and phantasms of demons,
believe and profess that they ride by night with Diana, goddess of
the pagans, or with Herodias and a countless multitude of women, upon
certain beasts, and silently, and in the dead of night, traverse many
lands, obeying her commands as their mistress, and were, on certain
nights, summoned to do her service. And would that these only had
perished in their faithlessness! for an innumerable multitude, deceived
by this false opinion, believe these things to be true, and, so
believing, deviate from the true faith, and relapse into the errors of
paganism, in believing that aught divine and godlike can be besides
God. Wherefore, priests in the churches under their charge should
preach to the people with all earnestness, so that they may understand
that these things are, in all respects, false, and that such phantasms
are injected into the minds of the faithful, not by the spirit of God,
but by the evil spirit.

"Verily, Satan himself, who transfigures himself into an angel of
light, after seizing upon the mind of some silly woman, and subjugating
her to himself by infidelity, thereupon transforms himself into the
forms and semblances of various persons, and in dreams deceiving the
mind which he holds in captivity, and showing it anon pleasant things,
anon sad, anon known, anon unknown, leads it everywhere from the road;
and whilst the spirit alone undergoes this, the unfaithful mind thinks
that this is taking place, not in the soul, but in the body? But who,
in dreams and visions of the night, is not carried out of himself, and
does not see many things in his sleep which he had never seen awake?
yet who is so silly and stupid as to think that all these things which
take place in the spirit only, occur also in the body? seeing that
Ezechiel the prophet saw the visions of the Lord in the spirit, and not
in the body, and the Apostle John saw the mystery of the Apocalypse
in the spirit, not in the body. 'At once,' he saith, 'I was in the
spirit'; and Paul dared not say that he had been taken out of the body.
Wherefore, all must be told that whosoever believes these things and
the like loses the faith, and he who hath not the right faith in the
Lord is not the Lord's, but his in whom he believes--that is, the
devil's; for of our Lord it is written, 'By him all things were made.'
Whoever, then, believes that it can happen that a creature should be
changed into a better or a worse, or be transformed into another sort
or species save by the Creator who made all things, and through whom
all things were made, of a surety is an infidel, and worse than a
pagan."

The following are passages from what Burchard transcribes as an ancient
_Roman Penitentiary_, and are specimens of a practical application of
the preceding chapter:

  "Hast thou ever believed or taken part in the perfidious credence
  that enchanters and those that call themselves storm-senders can,
  by the enchantment of demons, excite storms or alter men's minds?
  If thou hast believed or taken part, thou shalt do penance for one
  year on the lawful Ferias.

  "Hast thou believed or taken part in the credence that there be
  women who, by certain charms or incantations, can change men's
  minds, that is to say, from hatred to love, or from love to hatred,
  or can injure or abstract men's goods by their charms? If thou hast
  believed or been partaker, one year, etc.

  "Hast thou believed that there be women who can do this, according
  to the saying of certain women beguiled by the devil, who maintain
  that they must of necessity and of precept so do--that is to say,
  must ride upon certain beasts, with a great multitude of fiends
  transformed into the semblance of women, which the foolish call
  _Holda_, and have been bound in fellowship with them? If thou hast
  been partaker in that belief, one year, etc."

The following points have to be considered in estimating the
controversial value of this chapter as used by Janus: 1st. How far do
its enunciations necessarily represent the theology of the universal
church? 2d. Do the beliefs which the chapter condemns, or do they not,
involve something more than the attribution of "supernatural powers
and effects to the aid of demons"? As to the first, this chapter is no
utterance of a council representing the church universal; for, even
supposing it really to belong to the Council of Ancyra, this was not
a general council. But, as Janus admits, the chapter is first quoted
without any title by the Benedictine, Regino, Abbot of Prumium, in the
diocese of Treves, who wrote about 906. It was first called a canon
of Ancyra by Burchard, another Benedictine (1020), who extracted it
from Regino's collection, and inadvertently headed it with the title
belonging to another passage. There is no trace to be found of it in
the early MSS. of either the Greek or Latin acts of the Council of
Ancyra. It is not to be met with in any collection of canons previous
to the XIth century. Baluze was no doubt right in suggesting that it
was part of some old Frank capitulary as yet undiscovered.

Janus[96] says that Regino compiled the chapter in question from
passages in the pseudo-Augustinian writing, _De Spiritu et Anima_--a
sufficiently remarkable statement, if we consider that Regino wrote
early in the Xth century, and that the _De Spiritu et Anima_, which
contains passages from S. Bernard and Hugo of S. Victor, was certainly
not composed before the XIIth century.[97]

But, it may be urged, on the strength of the passages from Burchard's
_Roman Penitentiary_, the Roman Church had given its sanction to this
chapter, and had embodied it in its practice, even before Burchard
had assigned it its imposing title. To this I reply that the brothers
Ballerini[98] produce an XIth century MS. of a _Roman Penitentiary_
(Vatican Codex, 3830) identical with Burchard's, save that it is
without certain passages, and among them this very interrogatory on
magic. The Ballerini remark that the expression, "were-wolf," which
occurs in a passage of the interrogatory which I have not quoted,
evidently marks it as belonging to some local German council. I may
add that the expression, "Holda," indubitably indicates the same
nationality; Holda, or Holle, being the wandering moon-goddess of the
Teutons.

As to the second point, the beliefs condemned clearly involve something
more than the attribution of supernatural power to the devil--viz.,
the acknowledgment that there is something "divine and godlike beside
the one God"; whence it follows that the fiend can exercise his power
independently of God; can force the wills of men to his service "by
necessity and precept"; and can change one thing into another wholly
different. Now, all these points have been persistently condemned by
the church of all ages. That this is the one admissible interpretation
of the chapter will become more and more evident as we examine the
teaching of previous and contemporaneous theology.

If it be urged that, anyhow, this chapter represents a more civilized
legislation, one more consonant in its wise leniency with the
sentiments of to-day, than that which prevailed in the last half
of the middle ages, and, indeed, for some centuries longer, I must
remind my readers that I have been engaged in refuting a specific
allegation of Janus, to the effect that the theology of the church had
undergone a substantial change on the subject of witchcraft. I admit,
of course, fully that the system which prevailed for some centuries
in church and state was calculated by its extravagant severity to
provoke the evil it was intended to repress. This has been often
admitted by Catholic writers. Cardinal de Cusa, in the first half of
the XVth century, when legate _a latere_ in the German Empire, used
these weighty words: "Where men believe that these witchcrafts do
produce their effect, there are found many witches; neither can they
be exterminated by fire and sword; for the more diligently this sort
of persecution is waged, so much the stronger grows the delusion;
for the persecution argues that the devil is feared more than God,
and that, in the midst of the wicked, he can work evil; and so the
devil is feared and propitiated, and thus gains his end; and though,
according to human law and divine sanction, they deserve to be utterly
extirpated, yet we must act cautiously and with great prudence, lest
worse come of it."[99] He goes on to say that he himself examined two
witches, and found them to be half mad. He shut them up, and made them
do penance. The name of the Westphalian Jesuit, F. Spee (A.D. 1631),
is identified with the relaxation of the penalties against witches,
as completely as that of Wilberforce with the abolition of slavery,
or that of Howard with the reformation of prisons; although he was
unable to accept the rationalist thesis, "It is impossible for one
person to influence another, except through sensible mediums; and
the devil is an absurdity." The rationalist text is, no doubt, the
sovereignest remedy on earth for cruelty to witches; but in the same
sense is the tenet, "All worship is absurd," the most effectual bar
to idolatry; and there are other less costly remedies. Whatever may be
said on the score of prudence, it cannot be denied that such witches
as deliberately produced fatal mischief by acting upon the excited
imaginations of their victims were justly put to death, and that the
formal transference of allegiance from Christ to the devil was formal
high treason against the constitution of Christendom. Abuses of justice
had no doubt crept into local practice, such as that of putting the
possessed person--that is to say, the devil within him--into the
witness-box, in order to discover the witch. This arose from the
delusion that the devil might, by certain formulas, be bound over to
speak the truth. It is vehemently denounced by all the standard writers
on the subject--_i.e._ Delrio and Carena. Pegna (_De Cffic. Inquis._,
pars ii. tit. xii. §§ 26 and 27) points out that the Roman inquisition,
contrary to the practice elsewhere, has always refused to submit a
witch to the question on the evidence of a companion, or to accept
the testimony of one witch as to another's presence at the "Sabbath,"
because of the great likelihood of delusion. Indeed, Rome seems to have
been always comparatively just and moderate in her practice, and often
singularly lenient. It was such specimens of provincial ecclesiasticism
as the Spanish inquisition, in which the secular interest had the
lion's share, that went furthest in active persecution; and these,
again, in their cruel persecution of witches, as the learned editor of
_Hudibras_, Dr. Zachary Grey, confesses, the sectaries of England and
Scotland "much exceeded."[100] Perhaps this was owing to their still
further separation from the centre of Christendom.

The arguments against execution for witchcraft of Spee and De Cusa
come pretty much to this: 1st. The imaginations of these unhappy people
are in such a condition that you cannot make out how much is reality,
how much delusion, nor, again, how far they are free agents. 2d. The
whole subject is one on which people's imaginations are so excitable,
and imagination has so large a share in the productions of witchcraft,
that fire-and-sword persecution breeds more mischief than it destroys.

If ever a belief in the substantial reality of spiritualism becomes
established as of old, and--as will inevitably happen--spiritualism
is used, not merely for amusement, but for mischief, the champions of
civilization may be glad to avail themselves of these almost forgotten
Catholic arguments against persecution.

This so-called chapter of Ancyra is so interesting an exhibition of
the blending of classical and mediæval _diablerie_ that I shall make
no apology for interposing a detailed examination of its mythology.
It will subserve my argument against Janus, by bringing out the
idolatrous, and so far unreal, element of magic as that which naturally
presented itself to the early church as the object of its denunciations.

Diana (Dia Jana) was one of the deities of ancient Latium; although
a Latin federal temple was erected to her by Servius Tullius on the
Aventine Hill, she never took any very high rank amongst the divinities
of Rome, but remained the special patron of slaves and rustics--that
is to say, the immediate cultivators of the soil.[101] Livy and Strabo
tell us that this goddess was identical with the Ephesian Artemis--an
acquaintance with whose cult the Latins might have obtained through
the Phocean colony at Marseilles. Dr. Döllinger describes the Ephesian
goddess as "a kind of pantheistic deity, with more of an Asiatic than
an Hellenic character. She was most analogous to Cybele as physical
mother and parent of all." S. Jerome (_Proœm. ad Ephes._) says that
the Ephesians worshipped Diana, "not the huntress who carries the bow
and is high-girt, but that many-breasted one, which the Greeks call
πολυμαστης."

The cultus of Diana in Italy, though substantially of a benignant
character, seems to have been early qualified by the sterner rites of
Thrace, where bloody flagellations had been accepted as a compromise
for human sacrifice. Aricia, one of the oldest towns in Latium, boasted
that its image of the goddess had been brought from Tauris.

Originally, Dr. Döllinger reminds us, neither the Roman Diana nor the
Grecian Artemis were connected in any way with the moon. As the ancient
Latin sun-god Janus' sister, Diana was the female divinity of the sun.
Æschylus is generally said to be the first author who speaks of Artemis
as the moon-goddess; whereas Hecate was an original goddess of the moon
and of the night. Hence, when she came to be identified with Artemis,
and through her with Diana, by an amalgamation of rites, Diana became
undisputed goddess of the moon and of the mysterious realms of the
night, the resort of ghosts and fays. Hecate was a Titan, the only one
who retained power under the Zeus dynasty; hence her name, Titanis,
or Titania, with which Shakespeare has familiarized us. Statius
(_Thebaid_, lib. i.) applies this epithet to the moon:

    "Titanis late mundo subvecta silenti
    Rorifera gelidum tenuaverat aëra biga."

Virgil doubtless gives this title to the stars as to the moon's
supposed satellites (_Æneid_, lib. vi.):

"Lucentemque globum lunæ Titaniaque astra."

In Lucian we have frequent mention of Hecate and her dogs; in a
fragment of S. Maximus of Turin the same "aerial dogs" are referred
to, and S. Hippolytus speaks of Diana and her dogs appearing in the
magician's cauldron.

The amalgamated worship of Hecate and Diana, the queen of ghosts
and the goddess of fertility, presents precisely those apparently
incongruous elements which strike us in fairy mythology, where fairies,
and ghosts, and witches combine so oddly in the web of mediæval
folk-lore.

It was very long before the pagan element to which the chapter
witnesses--the Manicheism which holds that there is something "divine
and godlike beside the one God"--had ceased to hold a prominent place
in the fancy of persons professedly Christian. S. Maximus of Turin, in
the fifth century, thus warns the Christian farmers of North Italy of
their responsibility in the idolatry of their servants: "My brother,
when you know that your farm-servant sacrifices, and you do not prevent
his immolation, you sin. Though you give him not the wherewithal,
yet leave is granted him. Though he do not sin by your orders, yet
your will co-operates in the fault. Whilst you say nothing, you are
pleased at what your servant has done, and perhaps would have been
angry if he had not done it. Your subordinate sins, not only on his own
score, when he sacrifices, but on his master's who forbids him not,
who, if he had forbidden him, would certainly have been without sin.
Grievous indeed is the mischief of idolatry; it defiles those who
practise it; it defiles the neighborhood; it defiles the lookers-on;
it pierces through to those who supply, who know, who keep silent.
When the servant sacrifices, the master is defiled. He cannot escape
pollution when partaking of bread which a sacrilegious laborer has
reared, blood-stained fields have produced, a black barn has garnered.
All is defiled, with the devil in house, field, and laborers. No part
is free from the crime which steeps the whole. Enter his hut, you will
find withered sods, dead cinders--meet sacrifice for the demon, where a
dead deity is entreated with dead offerings! Go on into the field, and
you will find altars of wood, images of stone--a fitting ministration,
where senseless gods are served on rotting altars! When you have looked
a little further, and found your servant tipsy and bleeding, you ought
to know that he is, as they call it, a _dianatic_, or a soothsayer."

In the VIth century, S. Cæsarius of Arles, in an almost contemporary
"Life," is said to have cast out "a devil, which the rustics call a
diana."[102]

In the XIIth, XIIIth, XIVth, and XVth centuries, this idolatrous cultus
was not extinct. Montfaucon quotes part of a decree, in which Auger of
Montfaucon, an ancestor of his own, Bishop of Conserans, in the South
of France, at the close of the XIIIth century, found it necessary to
denounce _dianaticism_: "Let no woman profess that she rides by night
with Diana, goddess of the pagans, or with Herodias, or Bensozia, and
raise a route of women to the rank of deities; for this is a diabolical
illusion."[103]

In the Bollandist _Life of S. James of Bevagna in Umbria_, who died in
1301, we are told that the saint distinguished himself "by rebuking
those women who go to the chase with Diana"; and in 1317, John XXII.,
in his bull addressed to the Bishop of Frejus, denounces those "who
wickedly intermeddle with divinations and soothsayings, sometimes using
Dianas."

In the XVth century, Cardinal de Cusa speaks of examining two women who
"had made vows to a certain Diana who had appeared to them, and they
called her in Italian Richella, saying she was Fortune."[104]

John of Salisbury, Bishop of Chartres in 1136, talks of this "Sabbath"
company in language which is a curious medley of classical and mediæval
phraseology. He speaks of the delusion of those "who assert that a
certain night-bird (_nocticulam_, or, according to the generally
received emendation, _nocte lucam_, the night-shiner, a synonyme for
Hecate), or Herodias, or the lady president of the night, solemnize
banquets, exercise offices of diverse kinds; and now, according to
their deserts, some are dragged to punishment, others gloriously
exalted."[105]

William of Auvergne, Bishop of Paris in 1224, tells us a good deal
about this queen of the ladies of the night. They call her, he says,
"Satia (_a satietate_), and the Lady Abundia, from the abundance she
is said to bestow upon the houses which she frequents." He goes on to
say that these ladies are seen to eat and drink, yet in the morning
the things are as they were. The pots and jars, however, must be left
open, or they will go off in a huff. To guard against such visitations,
Alvernus thinks, it was prescribed in the Levitical law that vessels
should be covered, or accounted unclean. He speaks of the "old women
amongst whom this delusion abides"; but it is evidently the cultus he
regards as a delusion, and the belief that there are spiritual beings
independent both of God and Satan, not the belief that these are real
diabolical phenomena.[106] Even in classic times, it would seem that
Diana and her crew fulfilled in some measure the office of household
fairies:

"Exagitant et lar et turba Diania fures";[107]

and in another passage of the same poet we find what seems to be an
early indication of the connection between witches and the feline race.
When worsted by the first onslaught of the Titans, the gods thus chose
their hiding-places:

    "Fele soror Phœbi, niveâ Saturnia vacca,
    Pisce Venus latult, Cyllenius ibidis alvo."[108]

But to return to the "ladies of the night." Alvernus says, "They
sometimes enter stables with wax tapers, the drippings of which appear
on the hairs and necks of the horses, whilst their manes are carefully
plaited." May we not exclaim with Mercutio,

              "This is that very Mab
    That plaits the manes of horses in the night,
    And bakes the elf locks in foul, sluttish hairs"?

Alvernus' expression is "_guttatos crines_," wax-clotted hairs.
Shakespeare's Mab seems to have played the same trick upon human beings.

The Lady Abundia is distinctly identified with Diana's crew, nay,
herself represents that goddess, in a most curious passage from an
early MS. of the _Roman de la Rose_, which was a composition of this
same thirteenth century:

    "Et les cinq sens ainssi deçoivent
    Par les fantosmes qu'ils recoivent
    Dont maintes gens par leur folies
    Quident estre par nuit estries
    Errans avecque dame _Habonde_
    Et dient que par tout le monde
    Le tiers enfant de nascion
    Sont de cette condition;
    Qu'ils vont trois fois en la semaine
    Si çon destinée les mainne,
    Et par tous les ostiex se boutent
    Ne clos ne barres ne redoutent
    Ains' sen entrent par les fendaces
    Par charnieres et par crevaces
    Et se partent des cors les ames,
    Et vont avec les bonnes dames
    Par lieux forains et par maisons."[109]

Bensozia, or Bezezia, as she is called in the _Glossarium Novum_
from some MSS. statutes of S. Florus, has been a great puzzle to
antiquarians. Montfaucon is inclined to identify her with the _domina
noctis_, or Abundia. The _Glossarium Novum_ suggests desperately that
it may be a name for Herodias' daughter. Mr. Baring-Gould, following
Grimm, has unwittingly furnished, I think, the true solution. He thus
comments upon a remark of Tacitus in his _Germania_--"a part of the
Suevi sacrifice to Isis": "This Isis has been identified by Grimm with
a goddess Ziza, who was worshipped by the inhabitants of the parts
about Augsburg. Kuchlen, an Augsburg poet of the XIVth century, sings:

    "'They built a great temple therein
    To the honor of Zize, the heathen goddess.'"

This Ziza, Mr. Gould suggests, is no other than Holda, or Holle, the
wandering moon-goddess of the Teutons, in other parts called Gôde,
under which name she resembled Artemis as the heavenly huntress
accompanied by her maidens; in Austria and Bavaria, Berchta, or Bertha
(the shining); in Suabia and Thuringia, Hörsel, or Ursel; in other
places, the night-bird, Tutösel. Bezezia would there be Bena Ziza--the
good Ziza. Alvernus' "Satia" is, in all probability, an attempt to
Latinize the sound, as "Abundia" the sense; and so the three names are
reducible to one.

Although the suggestion of the _Glossarium Novum_ is inadmissible, I
cannot but feel that its attempt to introduce Herodias' daughter into
the "Sabbath" crew is reasonable enough.

I should myself be tempted to think that Herodias should be understood
as Herodias Junior. Not only is there a propriety in this, considering
the daughter's antecedents, but it is clear that fancy was early busy
with her name; witness the weird story told by the Greek historian,
Nicephorus, of her setting to dancing on the ice in her mother's
sight, and persisting therein until she gradually broke through, and
finished by dancing her head off against the sharp edge. On the other
hand, this is, of course, in the teeth of what must be accepted as
the authentic account given by Josephus, who calls her Salome, and
allots her two husbands and three children. Moreover, Cesare Cantù is
able to produce a myth accounting for the mother's presence, though he
omits all reference to his authority, which I have vainly attempted to
discover. It is at least _ben trovato_: "Credevasi pure che Erodiade
ottenuto il teschio del Battista volle bacciarlo, ma quello si
ritrasse e soffio, di che ella fu spinta in aria, e ancora si va tutte
le notte."[110] There is nothing surprising in meeting with Jewish
features in the rites of mediæval magic, since Jews were notoriously
the leading magicians, both in Christian and Moorish states; as,
indeed, they had been before the Christian era, wherever they had been
known throughout the pagan world. The term "Sabbath," as applied to
the magic gathering, naturally suggests itself; but I think it is not
really any direct outcome of Jewish influence. The word, before its use
in _diablerie_, had come to be a general expression for a feast in the
Spanish Peninsula, and had thence no doubt found its way into France
and Germany. The _Glossarium Novum_ gives an extract from the will of
Sancho of Portugal (A.D. 1269): "Item ad unum Sabbatum faciendum mando
duas libras."

The idea of Diana, Herodias, and Bezezia as a magic trinity, or,
rather, as a triform manifestation of one deity, Latin, Jewish, and
barbarian, was no unnatural outcome of a mixed race such as peopled
Gaul and North Italy in the first centuries of the Christian era, and
to such an idea the common image of the triple Hecate, "Tergeminamque
Hecaten tria Virginis ora Dianæ," easily lent itself. Dr. Döllinger
says: "Hecate was represented with three bodies or with three heads,
as the goddess of the star of night, energizing in three spheres of
action--in heaven, and earth, and sea--and at the same time in allusion
to the three phases of the moon."[111] As Ben Jonson's witch sings:

    "And thou three-formed star that on these nights
    Art only powerful, to whose triple name
    Thus we incline once, twice, and thrice the same."[112]

The extraordinary way in which polytheism has sought by an amalgamation
of rites, and so of properties and personalities, to regain that unity
of worship of which it is the formal negation, is a great distraction
to antiquarians, who would fain distinguish precisely the various cults
of paganism. Almost all the female deities occasionally interchange
offices. Diana is especially a central figure, in which they all meet.
Venus, Juno, Minerva, ordinarily representative of such opposite
functions, are, under certain aspects, identified with Diana. Of Isis
Dr. Döllinger says: "She often stepped into the place of Demeter,
Persephone, Artemis, and Hecate, and became dispensatrix of food,
mistress of the lower world and of the sea, and goddess of navigation.
In some inscriptions she is pantheistically called 'the one who is
all.'"[113]

"Fables," Sir Francis Palgrave says, truly enough, "have radiated from
a common centre, and their universal consent does not prove their
subsequent reaction upon each other, but their common derivation from a
common origin."[114] None the less, however, the "subsequent reaction"
is in many cases most real and important; itself testifying, doubtless,
to a common origin, but at the same time productive of results of
a distinctly conglomerate character. Often, too, properties which
belonged to the original parent cultus, and which have been lost, or
have fallen into abeyance in a derivative, have been restored to this
last by amalgamation with another cult. For instance, the Ephesian
Artemis, the parent, as is generally supposed, of the Latian Diana,
was always associated with the practice of magic. Her garments were
covered with mystic sentences, which obtained the name of "Ephesian
Letters," and which were supposed to be potent charms. The deciphering
and application of these sentences was a regular art in Ephesus; hence
the magic books which the Ephesians burned in such numbers under the
influence of S. Paul's preaching. On the other hand, the Latian Diana
seems to have derived the most part of her magic properties from her
amalgamation with Hecate.

Evidence is not wanting to show that the mediæval magical cultus owes
its conglomerate character to something more than the accidental
mingling of races, or the spontaneous action of polytheism which I have
noticed.

The Gnostic heretics, and especially the disciples of Basilides, have
left numerous records of their teaching and practice in the shape of
engraved gems called _abraxi_, which have been discovered in great
numbers throughout North Italy, Gaul, and Spain. If we look through
the pages devoted to the illustration of these extraordinary relics in
Montfaucon, we shall find almost all the peculiar emblems of mediæval
magic, such as cocks and serpents, abracadabra, the triple Hecate, etc.
But beyond this there is conspicuous the medley, so characteristic of
mediæval magic, of sacred and profane, Christian and pagan, divine and
diabolical; the names of God and of our Lord mixed with those of Latin
and Egyptian deities, Old Testament prophets and local genii, piety and
lewdness, grace and brutishness--loathsomely incongruous, one should
fancy, even to unchristian eyes, as some royal banquet which harpies
have defiled with blood and ordure.

Basilides himself (A.D. 125) seems hardly to have been responsible
for these indecencies. He was an eclectic of the Hebrew-Alexandrian
school, and, if we are to believe Neander, meant to teach a not
unrefined monotheism by means of a vocabulary of symbols gathered from
all quarters. But he had prepared a powerful machinery for evil, of
which his unscrupulous disciples were not slow to avail themselves. The
diabolical guild spread with extraordinary rapidity, and struck deep
root on all sides. S. Irenæus writes against it and the kindred sect of
the Valentinians in the IId century, and S. Jerome in the Vth century
testifies to its influence in Gaul and Spain.

These Gnostics seem to have gradually identified themselves with
another and even darker sect of the same family--the Ophites, or
worshippers of the serpent; witness the vast number of serpent gems
amongst the _abraxi_. With these Ophites, as with the Cainites,
who closely resemble them, the demiurge, creator, or world-god,
is not merely subordinate, but imperfect and evil, and hostile to
the everlasting wisdom symbolized by the serpent. The malignant
creator, jealous of his creature, throws about him the net of the
law, restraining him from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil;
and from out of this net, the eternal wisdom, by the serpent as its
intermediary and symbol, delivers him. And so it is that, in this
perverse system, man's fall becomes his triumph, and the devil his
redeemer. This principle was only carried out by the Cainites when
they upheld Cain and Judas as the representatives of the higher wisdom
and examples of heroic resistance to the tyranny of the demiurge. It
must be admitted that it would be quite in keeping with their usual
manner if they are responsible for the deification of Herodias. Of the
Ophites, Origen reports that they admitted none to their assemblies
who did not curse Christ.[115] This systematic, detailed perversion
of Christianity is so perfectly in accord with what we are told of
the mediæval Sabbath, where Christ was renounced and the Blessed
Trinity reviled as a three-headed Cerberus, that, loath as are such
historians as Neander and Gieseler to entertain anything so _bizarre_
as devil-worship, they hardly know what else to call it. Amongst many
special indications of a connection between Gnosticism and mediæval
_diablerie_, I would remark the following: Alvernus speaks of the
magic book in use in his day, entitled _Circulus Major_, wherein are
instructions how to form the greater circle for the evocation of
demons; also of a "greater" and "lesser" circle, and of other figures
called "Mandal" and "Aliandet," wherein convene the four kings of the
East, West, North, and South, with other demons beside.[116] Now,
Origen speaks of the "greater and lesser circles" as rites of the
Ophites. It is true that in Origen's description we do not hear of four
kings, but of seven, who are styled the "seven princes," "lords of the
seven gates"[117] "of the seven heavens"; but the number does not seem
to be marked with any great precision; for Origen (cap. 31) reduced
them to six, and it is the worship of the six angels that S. Boniface
is said to have abolished in Germany in the VIIIth century.[118] Again,
Alvernus admitted that his circles contained other demons besides the
four kings.

The four kings are identified as a Gnostic subdivision of the seven
spirits by Feuerardentius,[119] who says that, according to the
Rabbins, Zamael was one of the four kings of evil spirits, and reigned
in the East, and also one of the seven planetary spirits, and presided
over Mars. He was the accuser of the Jews, as Michael was the defender.
The Jews are said to pray in their synagogues, "Remember not, O Lord,
the accusation of Zamael, but remember the defence of Michael." Michael
is another of the seven planetary spirits, ruling, according to some,
in Mercury, according to others, in the sun, and wielding the east
wind. The Ophites, with their instinct for desecration, blended Michael
and Zamael into one, calling them the "_Serpens projectibilis_," with
two names.[120] Of Adalbert, the heretical worshipper of the six
angels, who was discomfited by S. Boniface, we are told that "he
pretended to hold intercourse with S. Michael."

It would seem that something very much like the ancient rites for
evoking the four kings is still in use in Africa. Alvernus' account
is: "The master smites the ground in front of him, toward the eastern
quarter, with outstretched sword, and saith these words: 'Let the
great king of the East come forth'"; and so on with the others. In the
description of a modern incantation in Algiers, related in _Experiences
with Home_, p. 158, we are told, "Loud thrusts and blows were heard on
the ground, and several forms became visible, apparently issuing from
the earth."

We can hardly avoid the conclusion that mediæval magic is a Gnostic
tradition, and so additional light is thrown upon the vehement
language in which the "chapter" denounces as heretical, and more
than heretical--as something worse than paganism--every feature of
a system which apparently aimed at nothing less than a pantheistic
identification of good and evil through the deification of the devil.

I shall now proceed to show that antecedently to, and contemporaneously
with, the legislation of the "chapter," there existed in the church
a belief in the power of Satan and in the reality of magic differing
not at all from that which prevailed in the middle ages. It is easy to
make, as Maffei has done, a _catena_ of fathers who speak in contempt
of magic, some going so far as to call it a "nullity." The great fact
that impressed the early Christians with regard to magic was that
everywhere it was shrinking back before Christianity; that simple
children, armed with the cross, were more than a match for the masters
of devilish lore. They were full of that triumphant disenchantment
and purification of nature so gloriously expressed in the concluding
stanzas of Milton's "Nativity" ode. But men do not celebrate a triumph
over nothing, neither can nothing be brought to naught. The question
is, Did the fathers think it "heretical to attribute superhuman effects
to the aid of demons"? It will be to the purpose to collect a few
examples of the way in which they talked of two of the earliest and
most generally accepted relations of magic--the account of Simon Magus'
magic powers and Peter-stinted flight, and the legend of Cyprian and
Jovita. It is altogether beside the point to insist that one or both
of these relations are mere legends; the question is, what the fathers
thought it consistent with the Christian faith to believe. I shall
confine myself to passages which unmistakably exclude the hypothesis of
mere jugglery.

Of Simon Magus, Justin Martyr (A.D. 133, _Apol._, i. 26) says that "he
did mighty acts of magic by virtue of the art of the devils acting in
him."

S. Hippolytus (A.D. 220, _Refut._, bk. vi.) says that he did his
sorceries partly according to the art of Thrasymedes, in the manner
we have described above, and partly also by the assistance of
demons perpetrating his villany, "attempted to deify himself." This
testimony as to the reality of the diabolical intervention is the
more remarkable, as Hippolytus was a most keen exploder of the tricks
of pagan magicians, amongst whom was Thrasymedes, and gives, in the
work from which I quote, detailed accounts of how they produced their
effects by powders and reflectors, so that people saw Diana and her
hounds, and all manner of things, in the magic cauldron. Arnobius
(A.D. 303, _Advers. Gentes_, lib. ii.) says, "The Romans had seen the
chariot of Simon Magus and his fiery horses blown abroad by the mouth
of Peter, and utterly to vanish at the name of Christ."

S. Cyril of Jerusalem (A.D. 350, _Cat. vi. Illum._): "After Simon had
promised that he would rise up aloft into the heavens, and was borne up
in a demon chariot and carried through the air, the servants of God,
throwing themselves on their knees, and manifesting that agreement of
which Jesus spake--'If two of you be of accord concerning whatsoever
thing you shall ask, it shall be granted'--by the javelin of their
concord let fly at the magician brought him headlong to the ground."

S. Maximus of Turin (_Serm. in Fest. S. Petri_): "When that Simon said
he was Christ, and declared that as a son he would fly up on high to
his father, and straightway, lifted up by his magic arts, began to fly,
then Peter on his knees besought the Lord, and by his holy prayers
overcame the magic levity." The story of Cyprian and Jovita records
the repeated but fruitless attempts of the heathen magician, Cyprian,
to overcome the chastity of the Christian virgin, Jovita, by means of
a lascivious demon, whom he employs as his agent, and how Cyprian is
finally converted.

S. Gregory Nazianzen (_Orat._ 24) does not hesitate to speak thus: "He
(Cyprian) tried all the more, and employed as his procurer no ancient
hag of the sort fit for such things, but one of the body-loving,
pleasure-loving demons; since the envious and apostate spirits are keen
for such service, seeking many partners in their fall. And the wage of
such procuration was offerings and libations, and the appropriation of
the fumes of blood; for such reward must be bestowed upon those that
are thus gracious."

As to S. Augustine, even Janus admits that this father does furnish an
awkward passage (_De Civ. Dei_, xv. 23) about the commerce of demons
with women, which "the Dominican theologians seized on"; "but the
saint used it in mere blind credulity," and, though he never exactly
retracted it, did retract "a similar statement (_Retract._, ii.
30)."[121] Unfortunately for Janus, no two statements could be more
dissimilar. The statement which S. Augustine retracts is one limiting
the devil's power; the statement which he does not retract is one in
which it is precisely Janus' complaint that he exaggerates it. In
matter of fact, S. Augustine is the great storehouse from which the
scholastics have obtained almost all they have to say on _diablerie_.

S. Augustine, in his treatise, _De Trinitate_ (lib. iii. cap. 8),
having distinguished the creator of the "invisible seeds," the first
elements of things, latent everywhere throughout the frame of nature,
as the _Creator_, whereas all other authors are but _producers_, thus
speaks (cap. 9): "What they (the evil spirits) can do by virtue of
their nature, but cannot do through the prohibition of God, and what
they are not suffered to do by the condition of their nature, is past
man's finding out, except through the gift of God, which the apostle
commemorates, saying, 'To another the discernment of spirits.' We know
that man can walk, though walk he cannot unless he be permitted; so
those angels can do certain things if allowed by more powerful angels
at God's command, and cannot do certain other things, even if these
allow them, because he suffers it not from whom their nature hath its
native bounds, who, through his angels, very often prevents them doing
such things as he allows them to be able to do."

_De Civ. Dei_, lib. xxi. cap. 6: "Demons are allured to dwell with
men by means of creatures which not they, but God, has gifted with
sweetness diverse after their kind; not as brutes are attracted by
food, but as spirits by signs which are congruous to each one's
pleasure--by various kinds of stones, herbs, trees, animals, charms,
and rites. But in order that they should be so allured by men, they
first seduce them with astutest cunning, either by breathing into their
hearts a secret poison, or even by appearing in the deceitful guise of
friendship, and make a few their scholars and the teachers of many.
Neither would it be possible to learn, unless they first taught it,
by what name they are invited, by what compelled; whence magic arts
and their adepts have taken rise.... And their works are exceedingly
numerous, which, the more marvellous we acknowledge them to be, the
more cautiously we must avoid."

S. Isidore (_Etym._, lib. viii. cap. 9) says of magicians: "These
trouble the elements, disturb men's minds, and, without any
poison-draught, by the mere force of their charm, destroy life."

Venerable Bede, in the VIIth century (in _Luc._, lib. iii. cap. 8),
says of the commerce of _incubi_ and _succubi_, which Janus tells us
was an invention of the Dominicans, that "it is a matter as really
true as it looks like a lie, and is notoriously attested by numbers."
He tells us that a priest of a neighboring parish related to him that
he had to exorcise a woman so beset, and to heal the ulcers which the
devil had left upon her. These were all cured by blest salt, except
the largest, which was not healed until the priest was told what to
do by his patient. "If," said she, "you mix the oil consecrated for
the sick with the same medicine (_i.e._ the salt), and so anoint me, I
shall be at once restored to health; for I whilom saw in the spirit, in
a certain far-off city, a girl affected with the same calamity cured
in this way by the priest." He did as she suggested, and at once the
ulcer consented to receive the remedy, which it had before rejected.
Hincmar (_De Divort. Loth. et Tetb._, p. 654) says that certain
women "a Dusiis in specie virorum quorum amore ardebant concubitum
pertulisse inventa sunt"; and the context shows that he is not merely
quoting S. Augustine, but bearing his own testimony; for he speaks
of their exorcism. He proceeds to give an account of various kinds
of witchery, with an unmistakable conviction of their reality, and
clinches them with the wonderful story from the _Life of S. Basil_, by
the pseudo-Amphilochius, in his time newly translated out of the Greek.
It is the same story which Southey has turned to such good account in
his _All for Love_; and certainly few mediæval legends surpass it in
the realism of its _diablerie_. A young man obtains for his wife a
girl, who is on the eve of taking the veil, by means of a charm got at
the price of a compact written in his blood, surrendering his soul to
the evil one. When the young man repents, and the devil insists on his
bargain, S. Basil discomfits the fiend before the whole congregation,
and wrings from him the fatal writing. Now, Hincmar was the leading
prelate in the Gallic Church in the IXth century--that is to say, in
the very church and the very century in which was almost certainly
composed the "chapter" in which Janus supposes that all belief in
witchcraft was condemned as heresy.

Ivo of Chartres, in the XIth century, one of the very authors
whom, because they transcribe the "chapter," Janus appeals to as
representatives of what he regards as the ancient tradition, speaks
thus on the interpretation of Genesis vi. 2: "It is more likely that
just men, under the appellation of angels or sons of God, sinned with
women, than that angels, who are without flesh, could have condescended
to that sin; although of certain demons who maltreat women many persons
relate so many things that a determination one way or the other is not
easy."[122]

When we come to the great scholastics of the XIIIth century, we find
that where they have varied in aught from the teaching of their
predecessors on the subject of magic, it was, on the whole, in the
direction of moderation, or what would be called nowadays rationalism.
For instance, in considering the question of diabolical intercourse
with women, a belief in which, as we have seen, they had inherited from
a line of theologians, they gave an explanation which, whatever may be
said of it, at least repudiated the idea of an actual mixture of carnal
and spiritual natures. Again, they were very careful to guard against
the notion that there is anything that can be called with propriety an
art-magic--_i.e._ that there is any other than an arbitrary connection
between the charms used and the results obtained--which is more than
can be said of some of their predecessors.

Janus (p. 258), with the operose mendacity which is his characteristic,
pretends that the authority "of the popes, Aquinas, and the powerful
Dominican Order" established the reality of the Sabbath rides; that
in the XIVth and XVth centuries you might "be condemned as a heretic
in Spain for affirming, and in Italy for denying, the reality of the
Sabbath rides"; that some Franciscan theologians in the XVth century,
amongst others Alfonso de Spina, in his _Fortalitium Fidei_, maintained
the ancient doctrine asserting "belief in the reality of witchcraft
to be a folly and a heresy"; that Spina "thought that the inquisitors
had witches burned simply on account of that belief." "Tot verba tot
mendacia"! The question of the reality or non-reality of the Sabbath
rides has always been an open question. S. Thomas says nothing about
them one way or the other. It is much more probable than not that he
regarded those rides as fantastic, in accordance with the teaching of
his masters, Albertus Magnus[123] and Alexander Hales.[124] That he
never committed himself to the opposite view is pretty well assured
by the fact that the great representative of "the powerful Dominican
Order" in the XVth century, Cardinal Turrecremata, is an advocate of
the view which makes the rides fantastic. We may add that his eminence
got on very comfortably during his long residence in Italy, without
being molested for his Spanish heresy.

As to Alfonso Spina, he, indeed, asserts the fantastic character of the
Sabbath flights; but so little is he a disbeliever in _diablerie_ that,
not contented with maintaining its reality (_Fortal._, f. 146, p. 1,
col. 1),[125] he contributes a rather grotesque instance of it from his
own experience (f. 151, p. 1, col. 2).

He nowhere says that inquisitors had witches burned "simply on
account" of their belief in the reality of the Sabbath. He recounts
the burning of certain witches in Dauphiny and Gascony, who did hold
their Sabbath meetings to be real, which view, as attributing a certain
divine power to the devil, Spina thought could not be persisted in
without heresy. (See fol. 152, p. 2, col. 1.) But they were burned
because they were witches who had done real homage to the devil,
although sundry of its circumstances might be imaginary.

The following passages may be accepted as examples of the doctrine on
spiritualism of the principal scholastics of the XIIIth century.

S. Thomas, _Sum._ i. qu. 110, lays down that God only can work a
miracle properly so called--_i.e._ a work beyond the order of the
whole of created nature; "but since not every virtue of created
nature is known to us, therefore, when anything takes place by a
created virtue unknown to us, it is a miracle in respect to us; and
so, when the devils do something by their natural power, it is called
a miracle, _quoad nos_; and in this way magicians work miracles by
means of devils." (In 4 _Dist._ vii. qu. 3.) "The devils, by their
own power, cannot induce upon matter any form, whether accidental or
substantial, nor reduce it to act, without the instrumentality of its
proper natural agent.... The devils can bring to bear activities upon
particular passivities, so that the effect shall follow from natural
causes indeed, but beside the accustomed course of nature, on account
of the variety and vehemence of the active virtue of the active forces
combined, and the aptitude of the subjects;[126] and so effects which
are outside the sphere of all natural active virtues they cannot
really produce--as raise the dead or the like--but only in appearance."

_De Malo_, qu. xvi. art. 9: "The devils can do what they do, 1st,
Because they know better than men the virtue of natural agents. 2d.
Because they can combine them with greater rapidity. 3d. Because the
natural agents which they use as instruments can attain to greater
effects by the power and craft of the devils than by the power and
craft of men."

Alexander Hales, _Sum._, pars 2, qu. 42, art. 3, says that nothing,
however wonderful, "is a miracle which takes place in accordance with
the natural or seminal order, but every miracle holds of the causal
ratio (creative cause) only," (L.C. qu. 43). He admits that these
marvels of the seminal order are miracles _secundum modum faciendi_--a
term equivalent to S. Thomas' _quoad nos_.

Albertus Magnus, _Op._, tom. xviii. tract viii. qu. 3, art. 1, points
out that the miracles of Pharao's magicians are called lies, "not
because they are unreal (_falsa in se_), but because the devils have
always the intention of deceiving in those works which they are allowed
to do."

To sum up, the doctrine of the scholastics on the subject of the
devil's power comes to this: The devil is a great artist, who can
present incomparable shows to the senses and the imagination, and a
supreme chemist, who can combine natural agents indefinitely, and can
elicit in a twinkling the virtual contents of each combination; but
he can create, and, strictly speaking, originate, nothing external to
himself. They knew that, in mercy to mankind, Almighty God was ever
restraining the devil in the exercise of this power; but they conceived
that the power itself continued unaltered. It was generally admitted
that the devil could not raise a dead man to life, or restore a sense,
as the sight, when really destroyed. But such acts were regarded by
the scholastics as precisely instances of the creation or origination
of such a mode as could not be the outcome of any mere combination of
natural agents, and which, therefore, must require the fiat of the
Creator. At the same time, it must be admitted that they often found it
difficult to distinguish in fact between the operation of the limits of
the devil's finite nature and the result of the habitual reservation of
Almighty God.

And here it may not unnaturally be objected that the large allowance I
have made to natural powers, and to the devil's power of manipulating
them, tends to lessen the effect of the argument from miracles. No
doubt it tends to reduce a considerable number of miracles from the
category of logical proof to that of rhetorical argument. Where the
miracle is supposed wholly above nature, it is a proof that God is
with those who work it; but where it is not beyond the sphere of
universal nature, it can, for the most part, only offer a greater or
less persuasion dependent upon circumstances. However, such natural
miracles, so to call them, approximate more or less closely to logical
cogency in proportion as they manifest themselves as the victors in
a war of miracles; for it cannot be supposed that in such a war God
should allow himself to be worsted, or that Satan should be divided
against himself. When God first presented himself as a wonder-worker
before human witnesses, it was as developing and modifying in a
supernatural manner the powers of nature--nay, of local, Egyptian
nature--and outdoing and discomfiting the magicians "who did in like
manner." A recent Catholic commentator, Dr. Smith, in his very learned
work, _The Book of Moses_, points out in detail "the analogy which most
of the plagues present with the annual phenomena of the country."[127]
Of the prelude to the plagues, the conversion of the rod of Moses into
a serpent, he says: "Even at the present day, the descendants, or at
least representatives, of the Psylli ... can change the asp into a rod
stiff and rigid, and at pleasure restore it to flexibility and life by
seizing the tail and rolling it between their hands."

In his treatment of the first plague, he gives the following account of
the annual phenomenon: "For some time before the rise, the Nile assumes
a green color; it then becomes putrid and unfit to drink. Gradually,
about the 25th June, a change comes on; the green color and putrid odor
disappear; the water becomes clear again, then takes a yellow tinge,
which passes into an ochreous red; until for ninety days before the
inundation gains its greatest height, it is popularly called the _red
water_. 'On the first appearance of the change,' says an eye-witness,
'the broad, turbid tide certainly has a striking resemblance to a river
of blood.'[128] ... At the moment foretold by Moses, the miraculous rod
is lifted up and waved over the stream; instantaneously the red attains
all its intensity of color; the fish, which in ordinary years live on
through the gradual habituation to a different state, now perish in
numbers from the very suddenness of the change; and the putrid odor,
which usually exhales from it before the rise, comes back again in
consequence of this mortality. The blood-red hue is not confined to
the spot where Pharao and his magicians stood. It spreads at once
into the various channels into which the river divides itself, into
the canals which are carried through the land for irrigation, into the
lakes and ponds which served as reservoirs, into all the collections of
Nile-water, and the very vessels of stone and wood which were commonly
used both in town and country for private cisterns. The consequence is
that at the very time the water begins to sweeten, it becomes again
undrinkable; the Egyptians loathe the water, a draught of which is
esteemed one of the greatest luxuries they can enjoy; and, as the
inhabitants still do when anything prevents them from drinking of the
river, 'they digged round about the river for water, for they could not
drink of the water of the river.'"

Of the plague of frogs, the same author remarks: "Such a nuisance
was not unknown in some other countries, and there are instances of
the inhabitants being in consequence driven from their settlements,
as Athenæus remarks of the Pœonians and Dardanians, Diodorus of the
Antariats of Illyria, and Pliny of some Gaulish nation. But in Egypt
they are not unfrequently equivalent to a plague. Indeed, Hasselquist
believes that every year that would be the result, were it not for the
species of stork, called _ardea ibis_, which in the month of September
comes down in large flocks to feed upon the small frogs then beginning
to swarm over the country."

As regards the third plague, that of the _ciniphs_, or Egyptian
mosquito, Dr. Smith thinks that the magicians could not produce them,
because at that time of the year they were not yet out of the egg.
This, as we have seen, is not the doctrine of the scholastics, and is
hardly consistent with the idea that the magicians were anything more
than conjurers. I would suggest that the mosquitoes had to do something
more than show themselves and crawl in order to vindicate their reality
as plagues. Doubtless the magicians and their familiars hatched the
eggs; and there the effete creatures were, with knock-knees, and
flaccid trunks, and languid appetites; but they were as though they
were not when the orthodox mosquitoes sounded their horns for the
banquet, and put in their stings with all and more than all their
native vigor. Well might the magicians exclaim in anguish, "This is
the finger of God."[129] Abbot Rupert, a writer of the XIIth century,
gives precisely the same _rationale_ of the magicians' failure, whilst
maintaining that their successes were of the nature of phantasmagoria.

Of the remaining plagues, the fourth, that of flies, was too like the
third for the magicians to hope for success; and when at the sixth
plague they seem again to take heart, behold, they cannot "stand before
Moses for the boils that are upon them." The dreadful sequel, closing
in darkness and death, would seem to have simply swept them away in its
tide of horror.

So far, then, from there being any reason for shrinking from the idea
of a miraculous competition, in which the spirit of man, the demon, and
Almighty God enter the lists together, we ought rather to rejoice at
the recurrence of the very conditions which God is wont to choose for
the scene of his most triumphant manifestations.

I have thus drawn out the Catholic idea of _diablerie_, because I
believe that one of the causes most active in spiritualism--a cause
necessary to the evolution of a great number of its phenomena--is the
devil. In matter of fact, to this cause these phenomena have been for
ages universally attributed. It may, then, fairly claim to be the
hypothesis in possession. In the concluding chapter, I hope to consider
the amendment which spiritualists, as a rule, suggest--viz., that the
spirits whom they admit with us to be the causes of the phenomena are
not devils, enemies of God and man, but the souls of the departed in
varying stages of perfection.

                            TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[94] Cotelerius in lib. iv. _Recogn. S. Clementis_, p. 452.

[95] Eng. trans., p. 250.

[96] P. 250, note.

[97] Preface to Edit. Benedict. S. Augustin.

[98] _De Antiq. Collect. Can_, pars iv. cap. 12.

[99] _Vita Cardinal de Cusa._ By Hartzheim, S.J. Pars ii. cap. 8.

[100] Note to canto iii.

[101] See Döllinger's _Gentile and Jew_ (Darnell's translation), vol.
ii. p. 49.

[102] _Act. Sanct._ Aug., 27.

[103] _L'Antiq. Expliq._, lib. iii.

[104] _Vita_, Hartzheim, l. i.

[105] _Polycrat._, l. ii. p. 13.

[106] _De Univ._, p. 948.

[107] Ovid, _Fasti_, lib. v. line 141.

[108] _Metam._ v. fab. 7.

[109] _Ducange_, sup. (Diana).

[110] _Storia Univ._, lib. xv. cap. 15.

[111] Vol. i. p. 101.

[112] _Masque of Queens._

[113] Vol. ii. p. 177.

[114] _Quart. Rev._, vol. xxii. p. 370.

[115] _Cont. Cels._, lib. vi. c. 28.

[116] _De Univ._, tom. i. p. 1037.

[117] _Cont. Cels._, lib. vi. c. 38.

[118] _Life_, by Mrs. Hope, p. 186.

[119] _Iren._, Ed. Ben. Var. Annot., p. 230.

[120] _Iren._, cap. xxx. p. 111.

[121] P. 252.

[122] _Decret._, pars xi. cap. 105.

[123] Tom. xviii. tract. viii. qu. 30, art. 2, memb. 2.

[124] Pars ii. qu. 166, memb. 6.

[125] Edit. Nuremberg, 1485.

[126] Cf. _Scotus Oxon_, lib. ii. dist. 18.

[127] Vol. i. p. 320 et seq.

[128] Osburn, _Israel in Egypt_.

[129] In Exod. viii.




THE FARM OF MUICERON.


                            BY MARIE RHEIL.

                  FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.


V.

Those who are fond of singular events in this world had here a chance
to be satisfied; for, certainly, this affair surpassed anything in the
ordinary run. Pierrette quickly recovered, and nursed her little one
without fatigue. Far from becoming even the least pale or thin, it was
remarked, even by the envious--and there are always some of the tribe
around the happy--that she was rejuvenated, fresh as a cherry, and the
baby in her arms made her resemble the good S. Anne, mother of our
Blessed Lady, whose chapel was near our parish church.

Besides, the great esteem felt for the Ragauds, their charity, honesty,
and well-known piety, caused it to be acknowledged--and it was
true--that this new blessing, the choicest and most unexpected they
could have desired, was the recompense of the Lord God on account of
little Jean-Louis. M. le Curé said it to whoever would listen to him;
and, as we have seen he was fond of repeating proverbs, he did not fail
to add: "If there is one truth that each and every one of us can prove
if he wishes, it is '_that a good action is never lost_.' Now, if this
is always true in regard to men, judge if we should believe it when the
good God, all-powerful, is our creditor!"

M. le Marquis de Val-Saint was the first and most sincere in rejoicing
at the happiness of his good farmers. Mademoiselle, his daughter,
asked to be godmother, and had made under her own eyes, by her maids,
a complete outfit of fine Holland linen, of which all the little
garments were scalloped, embroidered, and trimmed with lace; such as
are only displayed in the shop-windows of the city.

M. le Marquis naturally stood godfather with mademoiselle, and, not to
be behind her in presents, ordered that, on the day of the baptism,
there should be feasting and village-dances on the lawn before the
château.

It was a day to be remembered in the neighborhood. As for the eating,
singing, and laughter, you can well think nothing was wanting; they
spoke of it for months afterwards. Only one person wore a rather long
face, and that was our _curé_; not that he was ever the enemy of
pleasure and enjoyment, but that, contrary to his advice, M. le Marquis
had three casks of old wine, reserved for his own table, tapped; and
the consequence was that, out of two hundred persons present, men,
women, and children, not one, towards twilight, was able to walk
straight on his legs.

Apart from that, everything passed off splendidly; and, to conclude,
I will tell you that they had awaited the complete recovery of Mother
Pierrette, so that she might be present at the celebration with her
little girl in her arms; which, to my mind, was the prettiest part of
the show.

The little Ragaudine had three beautiful names--Nicole-Eveline, after
M. le Marquis and mademoiselle, her god-parents; and Jeanne, in honor
of our great S. John the Baptist, on whose feast she had the good
fortune to be born. One fact, which would have touched devout hearts
if they had known it, was that little Jean-Louis had also come into
the world on S. John's day, four years before. M. le Curé, who had
it from poor Catharine, but who could not breathe a word of it, was
nevertheless so inspired by the thought that he made at the baptism a
speech which drew all the handkerchiefs out of the pockets; and if I
have one regret, it is that I cannot give a full report of his touching
words. But I was not born at that time, and my father, from his great
age, had forgotten them when he related this story to me.

If you fancy that this event affected in the least degree the condition
of Jean-Louis, you are vastly mistaken. True, there was no longer
thought of his inheriting Muiceron; but the tenderness and care of his
good parents were the same afterwards as before. Pierrette would have
thought it a sin to have acted otherwise; for she was always the first
to say: "It was the boy's guardian angel that obtained for me my little
girl from the good God." Ragaud thought the same as his wife, but was a
little more anxious than she about the temporal prospects of the boy.
It was evident that, between the fear of injuring his daughter, and the
dread of leaving Jeannet in want, his good heart did not know which
side to turn. Finally, in his embarrassment, he determined to consult
M. le Curé; and the good pastor, who had always an answer ready,
solved the difficulty in fifteen minutes' conversation. According to
his advice, it would suffice to place aside every year a small sum,
drawn from the harvest of such and such a field, and never to touch
either capital or interest. In that way, before twenty years, Master
Jean-Louis would find himself, without any injury to the little girl,
master of a nice little treasure, and capable, in his turn, of being
a land-owner. This affair settled, Ragaud returned home perfectly
satisfied, and told the whole story to Pierrette, who highly approved
of the step.

Thus, instead of one child at Muiceron, there were two, and that was
all the difference. The little things grew up calling themselves
brother and sister, there being nothing to make them doubt but that it
was really so. Never were quarrelling or bad words heard between them.
Ragaud often repeated to Jeannet that, as he was the eldest, he should
live patiently and amicably with his young sister; and Jeannet, from
his gentle heart and natural sweetness of disposition, easily put the
counsel in practice.

It is commonly said that girls are more forward than boys, as much
in body as in mind; and another proof of the truth of this remark
was evident as the Ragaud children grew up. At six years old, the
little girl was so bright, so cunning, so bold, and had such a strong
constitution, you would have thought her the twin-sister of Jean-Louis;
but with all that, there was no resemblance, either in face or
disposition, even though they say that, by living together, people
often grow to look alike. Jeanne Ragaud had very light hair, was joyous
and petulant, a little quick-tempered and rough in her actions, like
her father; Jean had a thoughtful look, and although he was always
ready to play, his tastes were rather quiet. They both loved to lead
the sheep to pasture in the field near La Range; but when it was the
turn of the little boy, you would have said the sheep took care of
themselves, so quiet was it around them; and the reason of this was,
that the shepherd was stretched in the wood, in the shade of an old
willow-tree, face to the sky, watching the clouds pass over his head.
Very different was it when Jeannette, armed with a switch, left the
farm, driving the flock before her in the noisiest style; she drove off
the dog, ran faster than he after the sheep which tried to get away
from her; and if she ever sat down, it was only because she was forced
to do so from want of breath. As for the clouds, little did she care
for all that Jean pretended to see in them--the beautiful and moving
things that kept him lying on the grass for entire hours, silently
gazing with fixed eyes on the blue sky above him. She obstinately
declared that a cloudy sky pleased her more than one entirely blue,
because generally clouds brought rain; and nothing, according to her
taste, was more delightful than a good soaking, which obliged the
shepherdess and sheep to return together at full gallop to the house,
running and paddling through the pools of muddy water.

This divergence of character grew more and more perceptible every day,
and led Pierrette to exclaim:

"Come next S. Martin's day, and if this continues, my little chickens,
I will have you change clothes; for, in truth, I begin to see that I
was mistaken, and that Jeannette is the boy, and _Louisieau_ the little
girl."

These words did not fall on the ear of a deaf person; for, after
that, _La Ragaudine_ became bolder and more resolute than ever. She
domineered over father and mother, who were weak enough to be amused by
it; and as for Jean-Louis, when he ventured to offer a little friendly
advice, she replied proudly, with her chin in the air:

"Hold your tongue; mother said I was the boy."

Thereupon good Jeannet was terribly confused, and could not find words
to reply.

Soon the time came when they must think of school. In those days, there
were no parish schools taught by the Sisters and Christian Brothers,
as now. Our good _curé_, through pure zeal, had taken charge of the
boys' education, and Germaine did the same for the girls. Thus the
Ragaud children did not have to accustom themselves to new faces in
this little change of their everyday life. But old Germaine could not
say as much; for until then, having only taught the village girls, who
were very obedient, even though a little stupid, she thought the devil
himself possessed the school the day that Jeannette put foot in it.
What tricks and drolleries this little witch of eight years invented to
distract the others would be difficult to enumerate. Threats, scolding,
shameful punishments, had no effect. At the end of a fortnight, she had
received all the bad marks of the class, and the fool's cap appeared to
be her ordinary head-dress, so that the greatest wonder was if she by
chance was seen without it.

Jean-Louis, in the adjoining room, accomplished wonders. In less than
four months, he learned to read and write; as for his catechism, he
knew it so well he could explain it like a priest. Never did he go to
sleep without knowing his lessons for the next day; so that M. le Curé
held him in high favor, and taught him many things that are found in
books, but which are not generally known in the country.

Thus it turned out that all the praises and dainties fell to the lot of
Jeannet as a reward for his good conduct. Every Thursday he returned to
the farm, holding up with both hands the front of his blouse, filled
with fruit and candies of Germaine's manufacture. Jeannette kept close
to his side, not at all displeased at having nothing--you can well
imagine why. The cunning monkey knew that hardly would they have turned
on their heels, before Jean-Louis would open his blouse, and say,
"Here, little pet, choose."

So that, without giving herself the least trouble, that imp of a
Jeannette feasted at will on the choicest morsels. Our _curé_ was not
long duped; without scolding Jean-Louis, who by acting in that manner
only proved his good heart, he warned Germaine that she must try some
other means of correcting the headstrong Jeannette, who could not be
allowed to grow up with such perverse habits. Germaine, very much hurt,
replied that she had used every punishment unsuccessfully, except
whipping, which she had never dared.

"Well," said the _curé_, "the next time she misbehaves, whip her,
Germaine. I authorize you to do it."

They had not to wait long. One very rainy day, Jeannette managed to
arrive the last at school, and seeing all the children's wooden shoes
and leather leggings ranged outside of the door, she gathered up the
greater part of them in her skirt, and ran off to the well, that she
might throw them to the bottom, running the risk of tumbling in herself
at the same time. Germaine, who was still light-footed, and feared
something wrong was contemplated, spied her through the window, rushed
after her, and caught her just in time to prevent the act.

"This is the way," cried she, holding the young one tightly by the
arm--"this is the way you, wicked good-for-nothing child, employ your
time, instead of learning your lessons!"

For the first time, Jeannette, in spite of her daring spirit, was so
overcome she could not say a word in defence. She saw quickly that she
would be well punished, and returned to the class very downcast.

Germaine commenced by making her pupil kneel in the middle of the room,
and then, seating herself in her straw arm-chair, with a severe and
troubled look, related the whole affair, taking care to make it appear
in its worst light.

"Now," added she, looking around at her little audience, who showed a
just indignation, "if I ask you, my children, what punishment Jeanne
Ragaud deserves for having attempted to enjoy herself in such a
malicious and shameful manner, you will doubtless answer that I should
expel her from the class; but do you think that would be a great sorrow
for a girl so careless of her duties? No, no, I say that would only
please her; and therefore, Jeanne Ragaud, you will immediately receive
a severe chastisement, but which, nevertheless, is not equal to your
great fault."

Thereupon Germaine readjusted her spectacles, drew from the bottom of
her big work-bag a leather whip with several thongs, and Jeannette,
more dead than alive with anger and shame, received in full view the
well-deserved punishment.

She neither cried, nor wept, nor made any protestation, not even an
attempt to defend herself; but she did not ask pardon either, and sat
straight up on her bench, whiter than Mother Germaine's cap. It was the
only day they had ever seen her quiet and good.

Towards evening, Jeannet, as usual, took his post where he could meet
her, that they might return home together; but great was his surprise
to see the little thing advance with measured steps, instead of running
and bounding according to her custom. What astonished him still further
was that she neither spoke nor laughed. Her little face was all
changed; but whether from grief or anger he could not discover. It
ended by making him feel very anxious, as he feared she was ill.

"What is the matter?" he asked gently. "Surely, Jeannette, something
troubles you; for this is the first time in my life I have ever seen
you sad."

The child turned away her head, and pretended to look at the trees.

"You will not answer me," continued Jean-Louis; "and yet I only
question you from pure love, not from curiosity. When one is troubled,
it is a relief to speak to a friend. Am I not strong enough to defend
you by tongue and arm, in case you _need_ it?"

"Nothing is the matter," replied Jeannette. "What do you fancy ails me?
Let us hurry, it is growing late; the crows are beginning to flutter
around the steeple."

"I am not thinking now about the crows, nor you either, Jeannette,"
said he, taking in his own her little, trembling hand; "and as for
going faster, that is not possible; we are already walking at such a
rate we can scarcely breathe."

Jeanne stopped short, and quickly drew away her hand.

"Then, don't go any further," cried she in a rebellious tone.

"Come, now, be good; we can't think of stopping here. Why do you
speak to me so roughly? Don't you know that I am your friend and your
brother?"

"When you will know what has happened," replied she impatiently,
"well--then--then--"

"Then I will console you as well as I can, my Jeannette."

"Oh! yes, but you can't do it, Jean-Louis; in my trouble nobody can
console me."

"Let us see," said he.

"There is nothing to see," she cried. "I won't tell you anything."

"Then it will be difficult," he replied sadly. "Jeannette, if I were
unhappy, I would not make such a fuss about telling you."

They continued on in silence. When they reached the top of the hill
in the meadow of Fauché, from which could be seen the buildings of
Muiceron, Jeannette suddenly stopped, and all the anger heaped up in
her little heart melted into sobs.

"What will mother say when she sees you return with red eyes?" said
good Jeannet, terribly distressed. "I beg of you, my darling, speak to
me; you would never cry like this for nothing."

"O Jean-Louis! I am so unhappy," she cried, throwing herself in his
arms; "and if they make me go back to school, I will certainly die."

"Now, stop; don't cry any more. You shall not go back," said he,
kissing her; "for none of us wish to see you die."

Jeannette this time did not need urging, but frankly related all her
wrongs and the affair of the whip. Jean-Louis for the moment was so
furious he would willingly have beaten Germaine; but after a little
reflection, he thought that after all the correction was not altogether
unjust.

He spoke wisely to the little thing, and succeeded in calming her in a
measure; but he could not make her change her mind about returning to
school. On this point it was as difficult to make an impression as on a
stone wall.

"What will we do?" said he. "For you see, Jeannette, father has
already received so many complaints about you he will most assuredly
not consent to let you remain idle at the farm. To-morrow we will
leave without saying a word. Do what I tell you; say your prayers well
to-night; and as, after all, you were a good deal in fault, the best
thing will be to ask Germaine's pardon, which she will willingly grant."

"I would rather run off into the woods," cried the rebellious child. "I
would rather be eaten up by the wolves."

"No, no, that is foolish," said he, "they would hunt for you, and the
woods around Val-Saint are not so big but what they could find you; and
then everybody would know your fault, and father would be so angry."

"Very well," said she resolutely. "I will go see my godmother."

"That can easily be done," replied Jeannet; "and it is a very good
idea. Dry up your tears now; to-morrow morning we will go together and
see mademoiselle; she will know what to do."

This agreement made, Jeanne's great sorrow was quickly dissipated. She
recovered her good humor, her lively manner, and was as full of fun and
frolic as ever. The grief of children is like the clouds in the sky--a
mere nothing causes them, a nothing scatters them; and the sun appears
more beautiful than ever after a shower. Jean and Jeannette reached
the house, running together hand in hand. Neither Ragaud nor Pierrette
suspected anything; and nevertheless, that night, without any one even
dreaming of it, the whim of a little eight-year-old witch led to many
new events which changed the life of our good friends, as you will see
in the end.


VI.

It is time that I should tell you about the château of our village,
and of its worthy lord, M. le Marquis de Val-Saint. The château was
an imposing edifice, so high and wide, with such thick walls, and so
well surrounded with deep ditches filled with running water, that my
father truly said such a building had nothing to fear from either time
or man. Before the great Revolution, our lords lived in great style.
I have heard it said that one of them, who was a great warrior, could
lead into the field more than a thousand soldiers, all of them his
tenants, armed and equipped at his own expense. What makes me believe
this was not false is the fact that there still remains in front of the
château a great lawn, flanked on each side by buildings of such length
they must surely have been used for barracks. But as to that, he that
chooses may believe; I cannot positively affirm it, and, besides, it
has very little bearing on the story of Jean-Louis.

As was to have been expected, our lords were driven away at the time
when the masters had to fly, that their valets could take their places.
Thank God! this fine condition of things did not last long. At the
end of a few years, the legitimate owner of the château of Val-Saint,
who was a little child at the time the family left France, was put in
possession of his property. He afterwards married, and had an only
daughter, the godmother of Jeannette.

Never was there seen a happier family or better Christians; from
father to son, they were models. M. le Marquis always remembered the
time when he was in poverty and exile, obliged to earn his bread as
a simple workman. It made him kind and compassionate to the poor,
and, consequently, he was adored by all around him; and I have heard
that Madame la Marquise even surpassed him in excellence and charity.
Frequently in the winter she was seen visiting the cottages, followed
by her servants carrying bundles of wood and bowls of soup, which she
loved to distribute herself to the most needy.

Contrary to many great ladies, who flock to the city for amusement and
gaiety in the winter, she made her husband promise that they would
remain at Val-Saint during the entire year; for, said she, "in summer
nearly every one has what is necessary; but in winter there is much
suffering among the poor, and if we are not at home to succor and
relieve the indigent, who will replace us?" You will agree with me that
she spoke as a true Christian; and you will also allow that if all
our fine ladies thought and acted in like manner, they would gain in
the benedictions of the poor what they might lose in pleasure, and it
would certainly be for the best. Between ourselves, M. le Marquis did
not give in very willingly to this proposition; it was not that the
dear man was fond of foolish dissipation; but after passing through so
much trouble, and having the happiness to see his true king once more
on the French throne, he could not resist the temptation of going to
Paris occasionally to salute him, and was very desirous that madame
should appear at court. She always excused herself on account of her
delicate health; and this reason, alas! was only too true. Besides, she
was quick-witted, like all women, and, without saying anything, saw
that a new revolution was not far off. M. le Marquis, on the contrary,
boldly maintained that, as his dear masters had only returned by a
miracle, they would not be off very soon again. 1830 proved that our
good lady was right. After that, there was no further talk about going
to Paris; but it was very sad at the château. M. le Marquis became
gloomy and half sick from grief, and madame, who had not been well
for a long time, felt that the blow would kill her; in fact, she died
shortly afterwards, leaving a little daughter, ten years old, and poor
monsieur, very lonely in his fine château.

As he feared God, he knew that a brave Christian should not sink under
trials. By degrees he appeared resigned to his fate, and resumed his
ordinary occupations. Besides the care of his large estate, he hunted,
fished, and visited his good neighbors. He gave large sums for the
restoration of our church and several chapels in the neighborhood.
All this, and his great watchfulness over the peasants who were
his tenants, made his time pass usefully. The evenings were rather
wearisome. Our _curé_ noticed it, and frequently visited the château
towards dusk, so that he could entertain him with the little news of
the district, and read the public journals to him. They discussed
politics. When I say discussed, it is only a way of speaking, as the
_curé_ and his lord always were of the same opinion; but they could
regret the past together, and build up new hopes for the future; and in
that manner bedtime came before they knew it.

Little mademoiselle was brought up very seriously, without companions
of her own age, or any amusements suitable to her rank. She was under
the care of an old governess, named Dame Berthe, who was tall and
severe in appearance, very well educated, but so soft-hearted in
regard to her pupil she always said _amen_ to all her caprices, only
regretting she could not guess them beforehand.

M. le Marquis exercised no control over his daughter; his great
confidence in Dame Berthe made him refer everything to her. All that he
asked of mademoiselle was that she should always look well and happy;
and in these two respects he had every reason to thank the good God.
As for the rest, he used to say it would take a very skilful person to
find anything to reprimand in such a sweet, good girl; and there he was
right.

All the petting in the world could not spoil such a lovely nature,
and every year she became more attractive. You may tell me there was
nothing very wonderful in that, since she had all she desired. I will
answer that, on the contrary, many in her place would have become for
that very reason wicked and disagreeable. But mademoiselle inherited
from her departed mother, besides a gentle and sweet face, a soul still
more gentle and sweet. She would not have hurt a fly; her temper was
so equal it resembled the tranquil water of a lake; she knew that she
was a rich heiress, and remained simple in her manners, never haughty
to others, always ready to be of service, and succeeded wonderfully
in calming monsieur, her father, who, notwithstanding his goodness,
was liable sometimes to be carried away with anger. Finally, I can
say, without extravagance, that this last daughter of our dear lord's
had, by the grace of God, all the virtues of her race united in her.
Nevertheless, as nothing on earth is absolutely perfect, I must add
that she had two defects--one of body; for when she was approaching her
fifteenth year, having grown too fast, it was very evident that her
spine was becoming curved; and notwithstanding the greatest medical
skill was employed, she became fearfully crooked. M. le Marquis was
greatly afflicted; but as for her, she quickly made her decision.

"No one will want me," she said sweetly; "and so, dear father, I will
always remain with you."

This idea consoled her perfectly. Being lively and gay, she laughed
about her deformity so pleasantly that the people of the château ended
by thinking it not the slightest misfortune, quite as an accident of
the very least importance; and, far from no one seeking her hand, the
suitors came in procession to ask the honor of alliance with her. She
was too keen not to see that her great wealth was the principal cause
of their eagerness, and consequently refused all offers of marriage
firmly and decidedly; and on that point the whole world could not make
her change her mind.

Her second defect was of the heart; her great good-nature made her
weak, as she never knew how to refuse when any one wept before her;
neither could she deny herself anything where her innocent whims
and caprices were in question. It was certainly a fault; for having
in her own hands wealth, power, and no superior to control her, you
can imagine that her kindness of heart would make her liable to fall
frequently in the pathway of life, and drag others after her.

Now we will again take up the story of the little Ragaudins at the time
when we left them.

You will remember that the foolish little Jeannette was resolved not to
return to school, from shame of the whipping she had received that day,
and was determined to go with the willing Jean-Louis, and complain to
her godmother. They left the farm the following morning at the usual
hour, passed right by the priest's house, and slowly ascended the <DW72>
before the château.

Mademoiselle had just come in from Mass, and was sitting in the
parlor of the grand tower that overlooked the whole country. Dame
Berthe was preparing her breakfast; for although there were in the
anteroom four or five big valets, who passed their time in gossiping
for want of work, she thought no one but herself was capable of
pouring the chocolate into the large silver cup, and presenting it to
her dear mistress. Mademoiselle, as it happened, felt a little bored
that morning, and gently reproached Dame Berthe for not having found
something to amuse her.

"If I were not eighteen years old," said she, throwing herself in her
big arm-chair, "I would willingly play with my doll. You have done
well, my poor Berthe; I feel like a little girl, and mourn for my
playthings. What can you invent to-day? Father went away last evening.
I am too tired to walk; tell me a story...."

Dame Berthe thought a moment; but in regard to stories, she scarcely
knew any but those she had told and retold a hundred times. Mercy
knows, that was not astonishing; two persons who are always together,
know the same things, and have never anything new to tell each other.

Mademoiselle looked at her governess laughingly, and took an innocent
delight in witnessing her embarrassment. It was just at this moment
that the Ragaud children emerged from the chestnut grove before the
château, and advanced straight to the bridge that led to the grand
entrance.

Mademoiselle, who was rather near-sighted, scarcely distinguished the
little things; but she heard the wooden shoes, which went click-clack
on the stone bridge, and requested Dame Berthe to see who it could be.

"It is little Jeanne of Muiceron, and her brother, Jean-Louis, who have
doubtless come to make you a visit," she replied; "for they are in
their Sunday clothes."

Here the good lady was mistaken; for Pierrette held the holiday clothes
under lock and key, and would not let them be worn on a week-day
without explanation.

Mademoiselle rose up joyfully; she dearly loved her god-daughter and
all the Ragaud family, and, more than that, in her frame of mind, it
was an amusement that came like a gift from heaven.

"Make them come in, poor little things," said she; "and I beg of you,
Berthe, to run to the kitchen, and order cakes and hot milk, as I wish
them to breakfast with me."

Jean-Louis was the first to enter the parlor. Jeannette kept behind
him, much less assured than you would have imagined. Until now she had
scarcely ever seen her mistress, except on Sunday, when coming out
from High Mass. Twice a year, on New Year's day and the anniversary of
Jeannette's baptism, all the farm came in great ceremony to present
their respects to monsieur and mademoiselle. Besides this, the visits
to the château were very rare; and to come alone, of their own free
will, and clandestinely, was something entirely out of the usual run.
Jeannette began to understand all this, and felt more like crying than
talking.

Happily, mademoiselle took the thing quite naturally, and asked no
questions. She kissed and caressed her god-daughter, seated her on her
lap, and petted her so much that for the first half-hour the little
thing had only permission to open her mouth that the bonbons could be
put in.

She thus had time to regain confidence, and Jean-Louis, who feared to
hear her scolded, recovered his spirits. Notwithstanding all this, both
were slightly overcome when mademoiselle, after breakfast, suddenly
asked them if they had not some favor to ask, promising to grant any
request on account of the trouble they had taken in coming to visit
her.

This was the critical moment. Jeannet became red with embarrassment,
and the little girl appeared stupefied. Dame Berthe gave her a slight
tap on the cheek, to encourage her not to be ashamed before such a good
godmother; but that did not untie her tongue.

"Speak now," said Jeannet, pushing her with his elbow.

"Speak yourself," she replied in a whisper. "I don't know what to say."

"What is it that is so difficult to obtain?" asked mademoiselle. "Is it
something beyond my power?"

"Oh! no, no," said Jean-Louis. "If mademoiselle wished, she has only to
say a word...."

"I will say it, my child; but still, I must know what it is about."

"Very well, mademoiselle, this is it--Jeanette does not wish to return
to school."

"She must be very learned, then," replied mademoiselle, smiling. "Come
here, Jeanne; read me a page out of this big book."

Only think of the blank amazement and terror of Jeannette at that
moment! She did not know A from B, and found herself caught like a
mouse in a trap. One last resource was left--it was to burst into
tears. This was quickly done, and she was heard sobbing behind her
godmother's arm-chair, where she had hidden herself at the first
mention of reading.

Mademoiselle, already very much moved, profited by this incident, and
asked an explanation of the whole affair, which Jeannet related, trying
his best to excuse the little thing. Mademoiselle was very much amused
at the recital, and was weak enough, instead of scolding Jeannette,
to praise her for her spirit. She replaced her on her lap, wiped her
tears, and, without further reflection, decided the case in her favor.

"But," said she, "I do not wish my god-daughter to be as ignorant as
a dairy-maid. Isn't that true, Jeanne? You will not make me blush for
you? I don't want you to go any longer to Germaine's school, but it is
on condition that you be a good girl, and learn to read and write. I
will teach you myself; how will you like that?"

"O godmother!" cried the little one, enchanted.

"Very well," replied mademoiselle; "then it is all arranged. Jean-Louis
will return to Muiceron to tell your parents, and in future I will take
care of you and teach you."

And it was thus that the good young lady, without understanding the
consequence of her act, in an instant changed the destiny of Jeanne
Ragaud. Dame Berthe dared not object, although she saw at a glance
there was much to blame in this decision. "Indeed, where the goat is
tied, there he should browse," said our _curé_. Jeanne, the child of
peasants, should have remained a peasant, instead of becoming the
plaything of a marquise. But mademoiselle's intention was not bad; and,
for the time being, to have taken away her distraction would have been
cruel, and Dame Berthe, although very wise, had not the courage to do
it.


VII.

In the village, every one had his own idea on the subject. The Ragauds
were happy, and rather proud; M. le Curé shrugged his shoulders,
keeping his remarks for a later period; Germaine was silent; Jean-Louis
willingly sacrificed the company of his little sister for what he
thought her greater good; and, for the rest of the people, some said
it was foolish, others that the Ragauds were always lucky.

Jeannette was puffed up with joy and pride. It is justice to say that
in a little while she became another child; her mind was so well
occupied she lost all her wilfulness, devoted herself to her studies,
and was no longer disobedient and rebellious. M. le Marquis, enchanted
to see his daughter so happy in her new duties, cheerfully approved of
the measure, and declared the château was a different place after this
humming-bird's warbling was heard in the house.

As long as the summer lasted, the thing went on without great
inconvenience, as the little one often went home to sleep, and thus did
not entirely lose sight of her first destiny; but with the bad weather,
mademoiselle feared she might take cold by being so much exposed, and
sent word to the Ragauds that she would keep her all the time.

Henceforward Jeannette was treated like a daughter of the château.
She had her own little room, well warmed, and a servant to obey her
orders; her hair was braided in tresses that hung below her waist,
which soon made her discover that she had the longest and thickest hair
of any child in the village. Her costume was also changed. She had fine
merino dresses, prunella shoes with rosettes, and the calico apron,
with big pockets, was replaced by a little silk affair, which only
served to look coquettish. In the morning she read with her godmother,
or embroidered at her side; after dinner she drove out in an open
carriage, and on Sundays assisted at Mass and Vespers, kneeling in the
place reserved for the château, whilst her parents remained at the
lower end of the nave, admiring her from a distance.

In the village were some sensible people, who openly condemned the
whole proceeding; especially Jacques Michou, formerly a comrade in the
same regiment with Ragaud, and his great friend, who one day, in virtue
of his long friendship, ventured a remonstrance on the subject.

"You see," said he to Ragaud, "the preferences of great ladies never
last long. Suppose mademoiselle marries, or takes another caprice,
what will become of Jeanne, with the habits of a nobleman's daughter?
She will not be able to wear wooden shoes or dress in serge; and her
stomach will reject the pork, and cabbage, and rye bread. As for her
mind, it will be pretty difficult ever to make her feel like a peasant
again. Believe what I say, Ragaud, take your daughter home; later she
will thank you, when her reason shall have been matured."

It was certainly wise counsel; but Ragaud had two reasons, sufficiently
good in his opinion, to prevent his accepting such advice. In the first
place, he thought it a great honor to see his daughter the friend and
companion of M. le Marquis. This came from the heart on one side, as he
was devoted body and soul to the good masters who had made his fortune;
but I would not swear, on the other side, that it was not mingled with
a good deal of pride. Old Ragaud was easily puffed up with vanity, and
sometimes at the wrong time, as will be seen in the sequel.

The second reason was, he had long been persuaded that mademoiselle led
too secluded a life.

"So many crowns, and so few amusements," he often said. "Poor, dear
soul! it must be hard for her."

Therefore, he regarded as a fortunate stroke her love for Jeannette;
and if it would have drawn down the lightning from heaven on the roof
of Muiceron, he could not, as much from conscience as from pity, have
deprived mademoiselle of the daily pleasure that gave the busy-bodies
so much to talk about. And then, it must be acknowledged that even
among our most intelligent farmers there prevails a pernicious mania,
which pushes them to elevate their children above themselves. They thus
act contrary to the designs of God, who lets the seed fall where the
tree should grow; and against themselves, as they are often, in the
end, humiliated by what should have been their glory. But what can you
expect? A man is a man.

You cannot pour more water in a pitcher than it will hold, and in a
head more truth than it can understand.

Ragaud was ill at ease when he perceived mademoiselle's splendid white
horses draw up before the church door. Only fancy that before the eyes
of the entire parish those fine horses were used as much for Jeannette
as for the daughter of M. le Marquis! It was precisely on a Sunday, a
little before High Mass, that our friend, Jacques Michou, had offered
his good advice; the moment was unpropitious, and Ragaud thus replied
to his old comrade:

"Friend Jacques, I thank you for your words, as they are said with
good intention; but I nevertheless believe that I have not arrived
at my age without knowing how to manage my own affairs; which I say
without wishing to offend you. As for dressing in serge, my daughter,
being my only child, will have enough money to buy silk dresses if she
should desire them; and that will not diminish her wealth. As for the
pork, do you think it never appears on the tables of the nobility?
Who knows to the contrary better than I? Twice a year M. le Marquis
has a supply from Pierrette. Thus, my daughter will not lose at the
château the taste of the meals at the farm. If we speak of rye bread,
which is certainly the ordinary country food, we have ours half mixed
with flour, that makes the bread as fine as the best made in the city.
I can tell you that mademoiselle will not refuse it to Jeannette, as
she often eats it herself; in proof of which she frequently sends to
Muiceron for some, without inquiring whether the flour is fresh or
stale. So you may rest quiet, and let each one act as he pleases."

And so, you see, without being impolite, a man can be made to feel his
advice is despised.

We will now, if you please, leave Jeannette to parade her fine dresses
in the château, like the linnets that sing and hop in the sun, never
caring for sportsmen or nets, and return to Muiceron and Jean-Louis.

I think the dear fellow thought pretty much as Jacques Michou in
relation to the little one; but it was in the secret of his heart, and,
as his friends appeared happy, he asked nothing more. His character as
a child, so gentle and devoted, did not change as he grew up. Different
from Jeannette, who became a young lady without learning much, he
remained a peasant, but advanced in knowledge like a schoolmaster.
His love of books did not interfere with his rustic labors. After one
year in class, M. le Curé was obliged to teach him alone, as he knew
too much to go with the others. But as Ragaud could not do without
an assistant on the farm, and disliked to take a stranger, Jeannet
returned to Muiceron, contented himself with one lesson on Sunday, and
studied by himself the rest of the week.

After his first communion, which, at his own request, was made rather
late, but with perfect comprehension and a heart filled with love, he
became still better. He was at that time a fine boy of thirteen, larger
than usual for his age, with a handsome face, brunette complexion, and
beautiful, large, dark eyes. M. le Marquis remarked his distinguished
air, which meant that he did not resemble the other young village boys.
The truth was, Jeannet, who always had lived a peasant, had the manner
and bearing of a gentleman dressed from caprice in a blouse; and yet I
can assure you it was neither vanity nor pretension that gave him that
appearance.

Who would imagine that about this time he nearly committed a fault
from excessive love of study? And nevertheless, it so happened in a
way which you will soon understand. One day, M. le Curé, wishing to
know how far this good child's mind could follow his, amused himself
by explaining to him the Latin of his Breviary. Jean-Louis caught
at this novelty like a fish at a bait. He became passionately fond
of the language, and, as he had no time during the day, gave up the
greater part of the night to its study. Now, the young need good, sound
sleep; above all, when wearied with working in the fields. Ragaud
soon understood it; I do not know how. He was very angry, and was not
altogether wrong; for, besides the fact that Jeannet lost flesh every
day, he was afraid of fire, as his room was next to the grain-loft.
Ragaud scolded Jean-Louis; M. le Curé also came in for his share of
reprimand; and for the first time these three persons, who had always
agreed so perfectly, were very unhappy on each other's account.

"If you wish to wear the cassock," said Ragaud to his son, "say it.
Although it will be a great sacrifice for me to lose your company and
assistance, I will not prevent you from following your vocation. But if
not, I beg of you to give up all this reading and writing, which keeps
you up so late. I think that to tend the cows and till the earth, the
village language is enough. You will know one day that for you, more
than for others even, the work of the hands is more useful than that of
the mind."

Thereupon he turned his back, and Jeannet, who was going to ask his
pardon, and assure him of his submission, could not reply. As he was
very quick under his quiet manner, he pondered all the rest of the
day upon his father's last phrase. What did it mean? What was he to
know one day? What harm was there in becoming learned, as he would
eventually be rich? The poor boy suspected nothing; and yet from that
moment a secret and profound sadness entered into his heart. He bundled
up his books, and took them back to M. le Curé with many thanks. Our
_curé_ admired his obedience, and Jeannet profited by the opportunity
to confide his grief to his dear friend.

The good pastor reflected a moment. It was, in truth, a great pain, and
one which he did not expect so soon, to be obliged to confide to this
child the secret of his birth; but sooner or later he must know it, and
whether to-day or to-morrow mattered little.

"My son," said he, "you are good and reasonable; I hope your conduct
will never change. Sit down there near me, and listen."

He related to him what we already know. He did it with gentle and
holy words, fitted to pour balm into the wound that he was forced to
make. He endeavored especially to show forth the mercy of God and the
generosity of the Ragauds. Poor Jeannet little expected such a blow;
he became pale as death and for an instant appeared overwhelmed with
astonishment and grief. His head was in a whirl; he rose, threw himself
on his knees, weeping and clasping his hands. Our _curé_ let this
first burst of grief exhaust itself; and then, with kind remonstrance,
finished by proving that, after all, grateful joy was more seasonable
than this great affliction. How many in his place had been abandoned,
without parents, without support, without instruction, condemned
to want and suffering, and doubtless lost both for this world and
paradise? Instead of such a fate, the good God had warmed the little
bird without a nest, had preserved him from evil, had provided for his
wants; and now to-day, thanks to all his blessings, he was, more than
any other, fitted to become a man worthy to rank with those around him.

"It is true! it is true!" cried Jean-Louis. "But how can I reappear at
the farm? Alas! I left it thinking myself the son of the house, and I
will re-enter it a foundling!"

"There you do not speak wisely, Jeannet," said our _curé_; "you will
re-enter Muiceron such as you left it, with the only difference that
you are now obliged to be still more obedient, more industrious, and
more devoted to your parents than ever in the past. It is not by having
learned the truth that your position is changed; on the contrary, by
not knowing it, you ran the risk of injuring it. When you believed
yourself the son of the house, you naturally thought it allowable to
follow your inclinations, and act as you wished. Now you must feel that
is no longer possible. 'An honest heart must pay its debts.' I know
your heart; as for the debt, you see now how important it is. Your life
will not suffice to pay it, but you can greatly lessen it by taking
upon yourself the interests of your benefactors; by relieving Ragaud,
who is growing old, of the heaviest work in the fields; by caring for
good Mother Pierrette, who is a true soul of the good God; and even
by continuing to consider Jeannette as your sister; which gives you
the right to offer her good advice. For remember what I tell you: 'The
distaff is known by the wood'; which means that it needs a strong
ash-stick to support a roll of hemp, whilst a mahogany wand is only
suitable for silk. Hence, I warn you that Jeanne Ragaud, after being
accustomed to display herself in the marquis' carriages, will one fine
day fancy herself a silken distaff, and we will have to untwist the
thread."

"Jeanne will one day know I am not related to her," said Jean-Louis,
weeping. "What then can I say to her?"

"Why will she know it? It would be useless to tell her. And besides,
the little thing's heart is not spoiled; she will remember that you are
the friend of her childhood and her elder."

"Father Ragaud," replied Jeannet, "told me this morning, if I wished to
wear the cassock, he would not hinder me."

"Well, then?"

"Well, then, M. le Curé, if I am ever sufficiently learned, can I not
aspire to that great favor?"

"Before our present conversation would you have thought of it, Jeannet?"

"I believe not," replied he frankly, lowering his head.

"Then, my boy, give up the idea. To wear the cassock is, as you say, a
great favor; who knows it better than I, who, after wearing it forty
years, acknowledge my unworthiness? But you must not start on a road
without knowing where it leads; and the cassock, taken through vexation
or disappointment, carries its wearer direct to the path in which he
walks with his back to heaven. You can save your soul by remaining
on the farm, which I would not answer for if you followed a vocation
formed in half an hour."

"Yes, I will remain a farm-laborer," said Jeannet; "that is my fate for
all time."

"You are vain, God pardon me!" cried M. le Curé. "I never before
noticed this monstrous fault in you, which has caused the loss of
so many of the best souls. Farm-laborer! that means a tiller of the
fields and shepherd. My son, it is one of the noblest positions in the
world; it was the calling of Abraham, of Jacob, of the great patriarchs
of the Bible, that I wished you to imitate; and they were not minor
personages. If I were not a priest, I would wish to be a laborer; at
least, I would gather with my own hand the wheat that I had planted,
instead of receiving it as the gift of a master, often a capricious and
bad Christian. Yes, yes, my Jean, take care not to be more fastidious
than the good God, who took his dear David, from minding sheep, to be
the ancestor of our Saviour. And then, I will ask you, how would your
destiny be elevated if you were really the legitimate child of the
Ragauds. Would you desire to be greater than your father? And what is
he?"

Jeannet was convinced by all these good reasons, uttered in rather a
firm tone, but which did not indicate displeasure. He threw himself
into the _curé's_ arms, and acknowledged his fault with a contrite and
penitent heart. His excellent good sense showed him that, in reality,
it was only vanity that had made him speak thus. He promised to return
to Muiceron, to preserve his secret, and to be the model of field
laborers.

Our _curé_ gave him his blessing, and watched him, as he returned to
the farm, with much emotion. Ah! if poor Catharine had known how to
sacrifice her self-love as her child had just done, how different would
have been his fate! "But," sighed the good pastor, "there will always
be frogs who will burst with the ambition of becoming oxen; and if the
ox, who thought the frog foolish, had known the elephant, undoubtedly
he would have acted in the same manner. Poor human nature! poor beasts!
The true Christian is the only wise man!"

                            TO BE CONTINUED.




THE EVANGELICAL ALLIANCE.


"We meet," said the Rev. Dr. Adams, in his address of welcome to the
members of the Evangelical Alliance in New York, "to manifest and
express our Christian unity. Divers are the names which we bear, both
as to countries and churches--German, French, Swiss, Dutch, English,
Scotch, Irish; Lutheran, Reformed, Anglican, Presbyterian, Episcopal,
Methodist, Baptist, Independent--but we desire and intend to show
that, amid all this variety of form and circumstances, there is a
real unity of faith and life; believing, according to the familiar
expression of our common Christian creed, in the 'Holy Catholic
Church and the communion of saints.'" Dr. Adams only gave expression
to a thought which was uppermost in the minds of nearly all those
five or six hundred gentlemen who assembled in this city from the
four quarters of the globe in the early part of October, and filled
the newspapers with hymns and speeches, and professions of love, and
little disputes and quarrels. "We are living," continued Dr. Adams,
"in times when, all over the world, there is a manifest longing for
more of visible unity." So the first business of the conference, after
the preliminary survey of the condition of Protestantism in the midst
of the Catholic populations of Europe--the review and inspection, so
to speak, of the army in the field--was to devote a whole day to the
discussion of Christian unity, in the hope of persuading themselves
and the rest of mankind that these warring sects were really one body
of Christian believers, and this theological battle, in which they
pass fifty-one weeks of the year, was nothing else than the communion
of saints. Indeed, a day was not too long for such a task. Anglicans
and Baptists, followers of John Wesley and disciples of Calvin, the
clergy of Calvary and the preachers of the Greene Street meeting-house,
deans of the English Establishment and dissenters who hate prelacy
as an invention of the devil--they were all here together, trying to
agree upon something, and to reconcile the fact of their Alliance with
the fundamental doctrine confessed by Dr. Hodge, of Princeton, as
the motto of the conference as well as the excuse for its existence,
that "The Church of Christ is one." We say it was no easy matter to
reconcile the fact of the Alliance with the confession of this truth.
An alliance supposes independent forces, acting together for a special
and temporary purpose, but preserving distinct organizations, and
acknowledging different commanders. There can be no "alliance" between
the members of the "one body in Christ," any more than there can be an
alliance between the right and left eyes, or the foot and the great
toe. Every one of the speakers was painfully conscious of this false
position. "There is no more common reproach against Christians,"
said Dr. Hodge, "than that they are so much divided in their belief.
There is some truth in this; but, my hearers, we are one in faith."
We confess we do not fully comprehend the distinction. Matters of
faith, according to Dr. Hodge's definition, seem to be those great
truths which all members of the Evangelical Alliance hold in common;
and matters of belief or opinion are everything else. The existence of
God, the Trinity, the Incarnation, the resurrection of the dead, the
punishment of hell, the rewards of heaven, and a few other doctrines,
more or less--these are the Evangelical articles of faith. But on what
authority does Dr. Hodge restrict his creed to these few points? Every
sect represented in the Alliance has a more or less extensive formulary
of belief, resting upon supposed divine revelation, and including a
good many other tenets besides the half-dozen or so held up by Dr.
Hodge. All depend upon precisely the same sanction. All are supposed to
be drawn from the same source. The Baptist has just the same ground for
insisting upon immersion that he has for believing in the resurrection.
The Calvinistic doctrine of total depravity has the same basis as the
Calvinistic belief in a divine Saviour. The Anglican theory of an
inspired but occasionally corrupt and lying church is just as well
supported as the Anglican's faith in the Trinity. What right have the
members of the Alliance to decide that this dogma is a matter of faith,
and that other is only a matter of opinion? All the contradictory
doctrines, they tell us, are found in the Bible. Who has the right to
decide which are binding upon the conscience, and which are open to
individual choice; which are certain, and which are only probable?
Oh! these reverend gentlemen will tell us, the essential points of
faith are those upon which we all agree. Very well. Whom do you mean
by "we"? What right have you to restrict the company of the faithful
to your eight or nine sects? You are not a majority of the Christians
in the world. You are even a small minority of those who believe in
the very points which you make the test of evangelical Christianity.
There are more than two hundred millions of Christians who believe,
just as you do, in God, in the Incarnation, in the resurrection, and in
heaven and hell; but you do not pretend to be one body with them. If
all who accept what you style the points of faith are fellow-members
with you, why do you not include Catholics? And, besides, if you
are to arrive at unity by a process of elimination--throwing out
one dogma after another until you reach a condition of theological
indifferentism where a certain number of sects can meet without
quarrelling--why should you stop at one point rather than another?
There is no logical reason why you should not eliminate the doctrine of
eternal punishment, and take in the Universalists; or the Trinity, and
take in the Unitarians; or Christian marriage, and take in the Latter
Day Saints; or the whole Bible, and take in evolutionists, and pure
theists, and the prophets and followers of free religion. Once begin
to make arbitrary discriminations between faith and belief, as you now
do, calling everything upon which your various denominations agree a
matter of ascertained truth, and everything upon which they differ a
subject of individual opinion, and it becomes impossible to say why
your common creed should not be narrowed down to a single dogma--for
example, to the omnipotence of God, or the existence of matter, or the
atomic theory, or the nebular hypothesis. Then, at least, you would be
consistent, and your Alliance would be a much more powerful body than
it seems to be at present.

This difficulty seems to have been passed over by the Conference in
New York; but the fact of denominational differences could not be
forgotten. It stared the meeting in the face at every turn. It got
into nearly all the speeches. It appeared in almost every prayer. One
after another, the preachers and essayists were moved to apologize for
it and explain it. Dr. Hodge laid down the rule, with great applause
from his uneasy listeners, that any organization formed for the worship
of Christ was a church, and every church must be recognized by every
other; that churches differed so radically about the great truths of
religion was no more to be wondered at, and no more to be regretted,
than that men and women should be organized into different towns, and
states, and nations; and, as a consequence, he held that the sacraments
of one church were just as good as the sacraments of another, and the
orders of one just as good as the orders of another. In fact, said he,
"no church can make a minister any more than it can make a Christian."
This remark was also received with applause, in which it is to be hoped
that the Church of England delegates and the Episcopalians cordially
joined. There were three bishops of the Protestant Episcopal Church in
the Conference; and after the centuries of war which their denomination
has waged for the validity of Anglican orders and the unbroken
apostolic succession, it must have been an inexpressible comfort to
them to be told by the Alliance that they were no more bishops than
Henry Ward Beecher, and Octavius B. Frothingham, and the Rev. Phœbe
Hanaford. They took it meekly, however, and did not even mind being
told that their church could not make a bishop or any other minister.
The Dean of Canterbury was there, as the representative of the Primate
of all England, and he took the rather singular position, for a
churchman, that denominational differences are rather an advantage
than otherwise. God's works in nature, he said, are marked by variety.
All creation, from inanimate objects up to man, is characterized by
diversity. So it is also, he continues, with religions. The parallel,
of course, supposes that the religions are imperfect and "natural"
works, which we hardly expected an Anglican dean to admit. An imperfect
religion is one that is partly true and partly false; that is to say,
it is a system of human devising, and not a revelation from God. And
Dean Smith confesses that all the churches embraced in the Alliance
are natural rather than supernatural works when he accounts for their
diversities by the limitations of human reason. "The gift of instinct,"
he tells us, "is perfect, and produces uniformity;" but "reason is
full of diversity." It is "tentative." "It tries and fails, and tries
again, and improves its methods, and succeeds partially, and so
advances indefinitely onward, and, it may be, at times falls back, but
never becomes perfect." All this means, if it means anything, that the
cardinal points of agreement between the so-called Evangelical sects,
or their faith, as Dr. Hodge terms it, are the only points of any creed
which are not subject to constant change. The dogma which is professed
to-day may be repudiated to-morrow, and taken up again next week. The
creed for which Cranmer went to the stake may be denounced as heresy
by the Archbishop of Canterbury, and preached as "moderately true" by
the Archbishop of York. In fine, Anglicans get their faith in God and
the resurrection by instinct, and the rest of the Thirty-nine Articles
by reason; and the result, of course, is that the proportion of truth
there may be in religion is regulated entirely by the intellectual
capacity of the believer. Salvation, according to this view, is
largely the result of a school education.

Moreover, says the dean, if we knew just what to believe, we should
not take much interest in religion. "Truth and the Bible are nowhere
valued, except where there is discussion, and debate, and controversy
about them." It adds wonderful zest to a dogma to have to dig for it;
and faith, like the biceps muscle, is developed by violent contention.
But if this is so, what does the world want of Evangelical Alliances?
If religious truth is only struck out in the heat of religious
wranglings, like sparks from the contact of flint and steel, the more
fighting the better. The Church of England must have found out pretty
much everything worth knowing in the persecuting days of Edward and
Elizabeth, and forgotten more than half of it in the subsequent years
of peace; while the era of brotherly love, towards which the Alliance
looks with longing eyes, will be a period of religious indifference or
of almost universal negation.

Dean Smith is logical in one thing. "If our state," he says, "is not
one of attainment, but one of progress; if, at the most, we are feelers
and seekers after God," why, then, of course, we must look upon all
denominations with equal favor. One is just as good as another where
none has any faith. But what, then, becomes of the Anglican idea of a
visible church and an apostolic succession? Where is that depository
of divine truth to which churchmen comfort themselves by referring?
What is the meaning of that prayer in the litany of the Anglican and
Episcopal service, "From heresy and schism good Lord deliver us"? Dr.
Hodge, indeed, believes that "no church can make a minister"; but the
Protestant Episcopal Church is very positive and particular about its
orders, and is entirely satisfied that it can make bishops, priests,
and deacons; that nobody else among Protestants can make them; and that
they are necessary to the legitimate administration of sacraments and
the well-being of Christian society. Pray, how are these contradictions
to be settled? There was a charming illustration of unity one Sunday
during the sessions of the Conference, when six clergymen, representing
five or six different denominations, joined in a celebration of the
Lord's Supper at the Madison Square Presbyterian Church; and a very
pretty row there was about it afterwards. The service was held in
the afternoon, and the company of celebrants included the Dean of
Canterbury (Anglican), the Rev. Dr. Adams (Presbyterian), the Rev.
Matteo Prochet, of Genoa (Waldensian), Narayan Sheshadri, the Bombay
convert, who has been ordained, we believe, according to the rite
of the Free Church of Scotland, Bp. Schweinitz (Moravian), and Dr.
Angus, of London (Baptist). So far as we can understand the ceremony,
no particular liturgy or custom was followed, but the representative
of each sect threw in a little of his own religion. Dr. Adams opened
the exercises with a prologue. The dean followed with an apology,
and then read the Apostles' Creed and a collect from the _Book of
Common Prayer_. Dr. Angus "gave thanks for the bread," his prayer
serving, apparently, instead of a consecration. Then the bread was
handed around by the lay deacons of the church. "Bp. Schweinitz was
called on to give thanks for the cup, which was afterward passed to
the congregation." After some further address, the dean dismissed
the assemblage with a benediction. We can understand how the various
dissenting ministers might reasonably take part in such a ceremony;
but the spectacle of a dignitary of the Church of England in such a
situation would be incomprehensible, had not long experience taught us
that all manner of amazing and inconsistent things are to be looked
for in the Anglican Church as matters of course. No sooner had the
story of this joint-communion service appeared in the newspapers than
the bubble of Christian unity burst with a tremendous report. An
ex-bishop of the Anglican Establishment, the Right Rev. Dr. Tozer, of
Central Africa, who happened to be in New York, addressed a letter of
remonstrance to the Protestant Episcopal bishop of this diocese. He was
shocked at the dean's breach of ecclesiastical order, and terrified
at the consequences which might follow his rash and insubordinate
conduct. If one service is just as good as another, why naturally,
says Bp. Tozer, people will run after the attractive worship of the
Church of Rome; and "the promise held out by the Episcopal Church in
this land, of becoming a haven of rest to men who are tossed to and
fro by the multiplicity of contending creeds and systems, is nothing
else than a mistake and a delusion." Dr. Tozer's letter found its way
into the newspapers; and then a bitter controversy broke out among
the Episcopalians, bishops, priests, and laymen berating one another
in the secular press, and striving in vain to determine whether
their church was a church or not. Only one thing seems to have been
finally settled by the quarrel, and that was, that on two of the most
important of religious questions--one relating to the very foundation
of the visible church organization, the other to the most solemn of
religious rites--the Anglican denomination has no fixed belief at all.
That very dignified and exclusive body, which sets so much store by
the apostolical succession, and has strained history and reason for so
many years to establish the validity of its own orders, has practically
treated ordination as a thing of no consequence whatever. It has
admitted Presbyterian preachers to its benefices, and recognized the
validity of priestly functions performed by men to whom it denies the
priestly character; and the best explanation its defenders can give of
such inconsequent conduct is that the "intrusion of unordained persons
into English livings" was one of the "irregularities of the Reformation
period." (See letter of "Theologicus" to the New York _Tribune_ of
Oct. 20, 1873.) With regard to the Lord's Supper, the position of the
Anglican and Protestant Episcopal Churches is still more curious. All
the members of those two organizations believe it to be a sacrament of
peculiar, if not awful, sacredness. The majority probably hold that the
body and blood of our Lord, in some mysterious and indefinite way, are
communicated to the devout receiver of the consecrated bread and wine,
if they are not literally present with the visible elements; and some
High Churchmen actually believe in the real presence. Yet, in the face
of all this, we find the Episcopal Church admitting that the proper
celebration of the Lord's Supper does not require the intervention
of a regularly ordained minister. Any kind of a service will do, and
any kind of a celebrant, even a layman. It is a great mistake to
suppose, as some Episcopalians did, that there was anything novel or
unbecoming in the Dean of Canterbury's participation with heretics in
the performance of a mutilated and nondescript service. The Dean of
Westminster (Dr. Stanley) did a similar thing at the meeting of the
Evangelical Alliance in Berlin in 1859, and an overzealous churchman
who complained of it to the Archbishop of Canterbury was rebuked for
his pains. Dr. Muhlenberg, one of the leading Protestant Episcopal
clergymen of this city, expressed the only logical Protestant view
of the joint communion question in an address before the Alliance
on the last day of its meeting. The Lord's Supper, according to Dr.
Muhlenberg, is "the highest social act of religion," and the custom of
restricting its celebration, each denomination to itself, is in the
highest degree objectionable. As a matter of convenience, it is better,
as an ordinary rule, that communicants should have their own "church
homes, so to call them, where, under their own pastors, and amid their
families and friends, they feel it a good and pleasant thing so to
participate in the sacred feast. They have an indisposition to go for
it beyond these companies of immediate brethren. Nor is this unsocial,
if it be merely a preference for their own associations, for the
sacramental modes and customs to which they, like their fathers before
them, have been accustomed; but when they do it on religious grounds,
when they make it a matter of conscience, when they would forego the
communion altogether rather than partake of it outside of their own
societies, then it is that unsocialness, to call it by its mildest
name, which it is hard to reconcile with aught of hearty realization of
membership in the one body of Christ."

Dr. Muhlenberg's position is so peculiar that we have given his
statement of it in his own language, lest we may be accused of
misrepresenting him. It never occurred to us to complain of heresy
and schism on the ground that they are "so unsociable," and we
never supposed that the most liberal of Protestant sects defended
denominationalism on the plea of custom and education. The manner of
taking communion, according to Dr. Muhlenberg, seems to be as much
the result of habit as anything else--like the manner of dining or
chewing tobacco. An Episcopalian has no better reason for kneeling
reverently at the chancel-rail, and consuming the consecrated bread
and wine, rather than sitting at ease in his pew while unconsecrated
food and drink are passed to him by lay deacons, than the reason that
he was brought up to that fashion, and feels more comfortable in the
society of his own friends and neighbors. This being the case, it
follows, of course, that the bread and wine are just as good without
consecration as with it; just as much the body and blood of Christ in
the bakery and the wine-shop as on the altar; and the most rigorous
Anglican will be entirely justified in communicating according to any
rite that he fancies. Indeed, Dr. Muhlenberg declares that the various
sacramental rites and ceremonies are all more or less agreeable to
Scripture, but not essential. The sacrament is just as good without
any of them. Our Lord commanded us to celebrate the holy communion in
remembrance of him. Well, then, let us go and do it, each in his own
way, each after his own idea of what it means, each admitting that
every other way is good, and perfectly indifferent to the tremendous
question whether the elements are the body and blood of the Saviour or
only common bread and wine. Nay, there is no need of an officiating
ministry. The Christian eucharist is only the antitype of the Jewish
Passover; and as "an officiating ministry was not required for the
ancient priestly dispensation, surely none can be demanded for the
antitype under the unpriestly dispensation of the Gospel." That
simplifies the administration very much; but it occurs to us that a
sincere Episcopalian, of less liberal views than Dr. Muhlenberg, might
be embarrassed by the joint communions which he so strongly recommends.
We can imagine such a man going into Dr. Adams's church, while the Dean
of Canterbury, and the Presbyterian and Baptist, and other ministers,
stood grouped together before the pulpit, and asking what the ceremony
meant. A deacon answers, "Oh! it is nothing but the communion service;
you had better join us." "But what is your communion service? Is it
the participation of the body and blood of Christ?" "Not at all; it is
merely the highest social act of religion." "Have the bread and wine
been consecrated?" "Oh! yes--that is to say, no; well, you see, these
gentlemen don't all think alike about it. One says it is the sacrament
of the body and blood of Christ, and another says it is nothing but a
rite of hospitality; and we let every man choose for himself." "But has
there been no blessing of the elements? No prayer over them?" "Yes; a
plenty of prayers." "And what was the intention of the celebrant? The
intention, of course, regulates the quality of the act." "Oh! there
were five or six intentions; for there were five or six celebrants,
and no two of them meant the same thing." Here the inquirer, if he had
any sense, would probably conclude that the ceremony was nothing but a
sacrilegious travesty on the holy communion, and would retire deeply
scandalized; and remembering, first, that the Thirty-nine Articles of
his creed forbid "any man to take upon him the office of ministering
the sacraments before he be lawfully called and sent to execute the
same," and, secondly, that the preface to the ordination service of the
Episcopal Church declares that no man shall be suffered to execute any
of the functions of a minister in Christ's church except he be duly
ordained by a bishop, he will doubtless be not a little puzzled to
account for the presence of a dignitary like the Dean of Canterbury in
such a motley assemblage.

The protests against joint communion are not confined, however, to
the Episcopal denomination. The Baptists are likewise exercised
in mind about it. They refuse to recognize the validity of infant
baptism, or to admit to the Lord's Supper those who have not been
duly baptized; and hence, with the great majority of Christians they
do not feel at liberty to communicate. The Baptist clergyman from
London who participated in the performance at Dr. Adams's church has
exposed himself to violent criticism from his own brethren, and,
like Dean Smith, is accused of forgetting ecclesiastical discipline
and theological orthodoxy under the impulse of a moment of gushing
enthusiasm. What a charming illustration of Christian unity this
joint-communion service has afforded!

The more closely we look into the Alliance, the more preposterous
appear its attempts to jumble up conflicting doctrines, mingle
contradictions, and confuse intelligence. If it is right for different
sects to communicate together, it must be right for them to perform
all other religious services together, and doctrine and ritual become
alike insignificant. Hence, we are not surprised to find among the
papers presented to the Conference an essay on the _Interchange of
Pulpits_, in which the Rev. Mr. Conrad, of Philadelphia, argues
that it is a Christian duty for Episcopal congregations sometimes
to listen to the sermons of Baptist preachers, and for Baptists to
invite the ministrations of a Presbyterian, and so on--hands across,
down the middle and up again; orthodox to-day, heretic next week. Is
it necessary to believe anything? Is there any such thing as faith?
Is there any reality in religions which have no dogmas, and which
look upon truth and falsehood, worship and blasphemy, as perfectly
indifferent? Surely this is reducing Protestantism to absurdity. You
gentlemen have adopted the principle of individual infallibility,
first, to declare that the church of God is the mother of falsehood,
and then to accuse each other of error and deceit; and after
multiplying your subdivisions till there is danger of universal ruin
and dissension, you come together and declare that there is no such
thing as religious certitude; no choice between one sect and another;
no difference between God's messengers and the lying prophets of Baal.
Your plan of composing controversies is to obliterate the distinction
between good and evil; and if we can believe Mr. Conrad, the plan of
the apostles was the same. They founded independent congregations,
and gave them such lax notions of faith that, as Mr. Conrad remarks,
"the primitive church was inoculated with error." Nevertheless, the
apostles and their first disciples went about freely from church to
church, exchanging pulpits, so to speak; and we do not read that the
denomination to which Peter belonged had any objection to an occasional
sermon from Paul, or that the Beloved Disciple was not welcomed as a
good Christian minister when he visited the sect established by S.
Luke. In those blessed days there was, we believe, a true interchange
of pulpits. But Mr. Conrad neglects to explain the warning which S.
Paul gave to the Christians at Rome:

"Now I beseech you, brethren, to mark them who cause dissensions and
offences contrary to the doctrine which you have learned; and to avoid
them.

"For they that are such serve not Christ our Lord, but their own belly:
and by pleasing speeches, and good words, seduce the hearts of the
innocent."[130]

What have the Episcopalians, with their fiction of a hierarchy, to say
of this plan of undenominational preaching? How are we to reconcile
the presence of a Presbyterian parson in one of their pulpits with
the rule, already quoted, which forbids the exercise of ministerial
functions by one who has not received Episcopal ordination? And what
would a Baptist say to a service conducted in one of their churches by
a Methodist who had been sprinkled in infancy, and therefore, according
to the Baptist view, not baptized at all?

The plain truth of the whole matter is that there is no such thing
as Christian unity in any of these periodical performances of the
Evangelical Alliance. The sects are not drawing closer together.
Denominational differences are not disappearing. The quarrelling is
as angry and as noisy as ever. But Protestantism has taken alarm. It
is confronted by two dangerous enemies, which are growing stronger
and stronger every day, and it is anxious to keep the peace for a
little while in its own family, that it may the better look after its
defence. One of these dangers is the philosophical infidelity which
Protestantism itself has bred. The other is the Catholic faith, against
which Protestantism is a rebellion. An address, prepared by the late
Merle d'Aubigné for the conference which was to have been held three
years ago, was presented at the meeting in New York. The historian of
the Reformation tells his brethren some plain and unwelcome truths
about their condition. "The despotic and arrogant pretensions of
Rome," he says, "have reached in our days their highest pitch, and we
are consequently more than ever called upon to contend against that
power which dares to usurp the divine attributes. But that is not all.
While superstition has increased, unbelief has done so still more....
Materialism and atheism have in many minds taken the place of the true
God. Science, which was Christian in the finest intellects of former
days, in those to whom we owe the greatest discoveries, has become
atheistic among men who now talk the loudest.... Eminent literary men
continually put forward in their writings what is called positivism,
rejecting everything that goes beyond the limit of the senses, and
disdaining all that is supernatural.... Unbelief has reached even the
ministry of the word. Pastors belonging to Protestant churches in
France, Switzerland, Germany, and other Continental countries, not
only reject the fundamental doctrines of the faith, but also deny the
resurrection of Jesus Christ, and see in him nothing more than a man
who, according to many among them, was even subject to errors and
faults. A Synod of the Reformed Church in Holland has lately decreed
that, when a minister baptizes, he need not do it in the name of the
Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.... At an important
assembly held lately in German Switzerland, at which were present
many men of position, both in the church and state, the basis of the
new religion was laid down: 'No doctrines' was the watchword on that
occasion; 'no new doctrines, whatever they may be, in place of the old;
liberty alone.' Which means liberty to overthrow everything; and too
truly _some of those ministers believe neither in a personal God nor
in the immortality of the soul_." Nor was Merle d'Aubigné alone in his
bitter judgment of European Protestantism. The same feeling is more or
less clearly manifest in the essays of various foreign delegates. Mr.
Prochet, the Waldensian minister from Genoa, in presenting a sketch
of the religious condition of Italy, laid great stress upon the close
union, brotherly feeling, and unflagging energy of the priesthood. "The
clergy," said he, "with few exceptions, have gathered themselves more
closely around the Holy See, determined to stand or fall with it."
Father Hyacinthe lectured in Rome; "but the clergy left him alone, or
his few adherents were such that nothing of any importance could be
done by them." Among the laity there is a large proportion of devout
adherents of the church. There is a great multitude which does not
practise any religion, and takes more interest in politics than in
faith; but this party has not renounced its allegiance to the church,
and believes in Rome as far as it believes in anything. Atheists are
not numerous, but their influence is constantly increasing. Protestants
are the fewest and the weakest of all. There are congregations of
foreign Protestants, but "their influence is of very little value." The
Waldensians have a theological school at Florence; but we are puzzled
to know what they can teach, for "it is open to students of every
denomination; they are never asked to leave their religion to join
another." Altogether, the Protestants of Italy, mere handful as they
are, are divided into ten different denominations. The Rev. M. Cohen
Stuart, of Rotterdam, gave a somewhat similar sketch of the situation
in Holland. Nowhere, he said, has the Pope more pious devotees and more
zealous adherents than in the land which gave England William of Orange
and sheltered the Pilgrim Fathers. If the church is not increasing
there in numbers, it is daily adding to its power and influence. "There
is no rent of heresy in the solid mass of that mediæval building save
the remarkable schism of the so-called Jansenists; ... but this sect,
with its few thousands of adherents, is far more interesting from its
history than important from actual influence." Protestantism, on the
other hand, shows little but dissension, with a strong tendency towards
scepticism. "There is a tide of neology, a flood of unbelief, which
no dikes or moles can keep back.... A great many, a sadly increasing
number, are more or less forsaking the Gospel and becoming estranged
from Christian truth. Materialism and irreligion are slaying their
tens of thousands in the ranks of so-called Christians." Mr. Stuart
draws a fearful picture of the disputes of the different Protestant
theological schools, and continues: "It is evident, indeed, that the
utter confusion into which the Reformed Church of Holland has fallen
cannot last very long, lest it should lead to a total disorganization
and overthrow of the whole.... Nothing for this moment is left but
to bear, though not without earnest protest, a state of things too
abnormal and too absurd to last." Of Switzerland, again, we have almost
precisely the same story. The Rev. Eugene Reichel, of Montmireil,
complained of the activity of the Catholic Church in his little
republic, and the great increase of infidelity among Protestants. "A
deplorable unbelief has led captive the masses of the people. They have
left their churches to engulf themselves in the vortex of business
and worldly pleasure.... On every side infidelity is become rampant,
and much more aggressive than in former years. Better organized than
once, and finding an efficient support both in the indifference of
the people and the countenance afforded by government, this insidious
foe, closing up its ranks, is not slow to assail the truth." Of Spain
Mr. Fliedner gave a vague and not over-brilliant account, and of
Greece Mr. Kalopathakes could only say that Protestants had a very
hard time of it there, and that there were very few of them. American
missionaries have been sustained in Greece for forty years, and yet
there is only one meeting-house in the kingdom. Mr. Decoppet, of Paris,
declares that "the Protestant population of France is still but a
feeble minority, which holds its own, but does not sensibly increase,"
while the church is evidently gaining every day in influence; and,
moreover, Protestantism is torn by internal discords, and weakened
by rationalistic tendencies, which give its enemies "a plausible
pretext for their assertion that Protestantism leads necessarily to
negation, and that it is on the high-road to dissolution." In Denmark,
according to Dr. Kalkar, of Copenhagen, Catholicism has made rapid and
extraordinary progress. In Protestant Sweden, "unbelief has spread
among the people, especially among the educated classes," and "the
moral condition of the people is tolerably low."

Upon the discussion of the various methods proposed in the conference
to combat the enemies of Protestantism we do not know that we need
linger. Infidel philosophy engaged most of the attention of the German
and American delegates; but how could Protestantism do battle with
its own offspring? The debate on the Darwinian theory was empty--nay,
it was almost childish. The essays on the same subject were timid and
inconsequential. And strange to say, when the day for demolishing
the Pope of Rome came around, the fiery, aggressive spirit which
animated the Alliance in former days was wanting. There were rumors
of dissatisfaction among the brethren at the time-honored attitude of
the Evangelical Alliance towards the Scarlet Woman of Babylon; and
it was thought that while atheism was so rife, and faith so weak,
and Protestantism dying, so to speak, of inanition, it was unwise to
quarrel with any kind of Christianity which seemed able to arrest the
downward progress. Those who judged thus instinctively felt, what they
would be slow to acknowledge, that between the Catholic Church and
no faith at all there is not a middle position. The whole Conference
teaches the same truth. Protestantism drifts away into the darkness and
the storm, but the Rock of Peter stands immovable, the same yesterday,
and to-day, and for all time.

"Upon this rock will I build my church, and the gates of hell shall not
prevail against it."

FOOTNOTES:

[130] Romans xvi. 17, 18.




CATHOLIC LITERATURE IN ENGLAND SINCE THE REFORMATION.


                               CONCLUDED.

After the death of Alexander Pope, in 1744, it was a long time before
English Catholic literature could boast of any living name. Prelates,
indeed, and priests there were, whose admirable writings circulated
among their co-religionists, but few who were known to the public
generally as successful aspirants for literary fame. Yet the devotional
and controversial writings of the time--the works, for example, of Bps.
Hay, Challoner, and Milner--took no mean part in the cultivation of the
intellect and taste. The influence of classical authors from without
was discoverable in their style, and they kept pace in general with
the enlarged experience of the age. There is no philosophy so deep as
Catholic philosophy; none so comprehensive, affecting, and complete. It
embraces all other philosophies so far as they are sound; and far from
being at variance with any branch of human science, it incorporates all
knowledge into itself as parts of a system of universal truth. It is
the philosophy of life and of society; the philosophy of the soul, her
joys and sorrows, her aspirations and ends. It solves all the questions
which vex the inquiring spirit, so far as it is possible for them to
be solved under our present conditions of being. Catholic philosophy,
under this point of view, is set forth in the most touching manner by
Bp. Challoner in his _Meditations for Every Day in the Year_. Apart
from the edifying character of these reflections, it is impossible to
read them attentively without allowing them distinct literary merit.
While they evince a tenderness and pathos that are sure to win on
the reader's heart, they exhibit also much art in composition. The
sentences are well balanced and musical; the subject is always exposed
methodically; and the appeals, however addressed to the feelings, are
controlled by strict reasoning.

Take, again, Bp. Milner's _End of Controversy_--a series of letters
addressed to the Protestant Bishop of St. David's. It is a complete
armory. If Dr. Challoner's _Meditations_ was fitted to implant the
divine philosophy of Catholicism deeply in the breast, Dr. Milner's
_End of Controversy_ was no less calculated to arm the sincere Catholic
with every needful weapon of defence against the assailants of his
creed. If luminous arrangement, clear reasoning, and profound learning
constitute claims to literary merit, that book possesses it in no
ordinary degree. Edition after edition has been published, and it has
been produced in so cheap a form as to be accessible to readers in
the humblest circumstances. Though the face of controversy between
Catholics and Protestants has much changed of late years in England,
firstly by the Anglo-Catholic or Tractarian movement, and, secondly,
by the wide spread of infidel opinions under the form of positivism,
yet the old arguments in support of Catholicism remain unchanged, and
there are few cases of heavy resistance which Dr. Milner's letters will
not meet even now. Ingenious additions and variations have been made by
subsequent controversialists to supply passing needs, but, after all,
these grand old field-pieces, when brought fairly into line, will be
found equal to the task of demolishing any bench of Protestant bishops
and any assembly of Presbyterian elders.

The _Lives of the Saints_, by the Rev. Alban Butler, appeared for the
first time in 1754, ten years after Pope's death. The venerable author
was Principal of the English College at St. Omer, then the principal
seminary for English ecclesiastics. The wide celebrity of the work,
and the fact of its having been made a reference-book in every good
Catholic library, render it needless to dwell on its excellences.
Suffice it to say that it exhibits a profound acquaintance with the
subjects of which it treats, and preserves a wise medium between
credulity and disbelief. The copious notes, containing accounts of the
writings of sainted fathers and doctors, are invaluable to literary
men; and the _Lives_ in general shows that the author's knowledge
and research extended far beyond the bounds of theology, hagiology,
and church history. His nephew, Charles Butler--himself a well-known
literary character--published an _Account of the Life and Writings
of the Rev. Alban Butler_, in which he gives, as nearly as possible,
a list of the principal works and sources from which the author of
the _Lives of the Saints_ derived his information. He then goes on to
say that literary topics were frequently the subject of his uncle's
familiar conversation, and quotes from memory many of his criticisms on
Herodotus, whose style he greatly admired, Cicero, Julius Cæsar, the
works of Plato, and the modern Latin poems of Wallius, together with
the relative merits of the sermons of Bossuet and Bourdaloue.

Charles Butler always took a laudable pride in dwelling on his
uncle's merits, and in making them better known to the public. To his
editorship is owing the publication of the _Notes_ of Alban Butler's
travels during the years 1744-46. He informs us in a short preface
that in many places they were little more than mere jottings, and not
intended for publication; that their meaning, also, was frequently
difficult to decipher. By his care and diligence, however, they were
brought into a readable form; and the volume, published in Edinburgh
in 1803, and now rarely to be met with, is valuable as showing the
highest degree of knowledge of Italian ecclesiastical affairs then
attainable by a cultivated and inquiring traveller. Seldom has a
book of travels had more facts condensed into it. It is a monument
of close observation; and at a time when handbooks were very few and
very imperfect, it must have been a precious _vade mecum_ in the hands
of Catholic travellers, and particularly ecclesiastics. The writer
seems, in every spot he visited, to have gathered up all that could be
collected respecting it either from books or individuals. The amount of
statistics is enormous, and the attention to details truly laudable.
Had these _Travels_ been written for the public, and graced with the
flowing style and the free and copious reflections which abound in the
_Lives of the Saints_, they would have been read frequently to this
day, and have ranked high among compositions of a similar kind.

The writings of Charles Butler are of no mean value, in consequence
of his having directed his attention to English Catholic history at a
time when scarcely any other writers thought it worth their while to
obtain accurate information on the subject, and still less to record
it for the benefit of others. Charles Butler made it his business to
preserve everything of importance which he could collect respecting the
political and religious condition of his co-religionists in England
since the time of the Reformation; and all subsequent historians have,
in such matters, been greatly indebted to his _Historical Memoirs_
and _Reminiscences_. His style, it is true, is very sketchy, and his
matter reads like notes and memoranda; but the intrinsic value of what
he places on record atones in some measure for this defect. In his
opinions he inclined rather to the liberal school of thought, and this
fact brought him into serious collision with Bp. Milner on the subject
of the veto and other matters then in debate. There can, however, be
no doubt of his sincere attachment to the Catholic religion, while
his love of literature and all that concerns mental progress is no
less apparent in his works. Acquainted as he was with most of the
distinguished men of the day, he had ample opportunities of observing
their peculiar gifts and habits. The remarks which he makes in his
_Reminiscences_ on the parliamentary eloquence of Chatham, North,
Fox, Pitt, and their compeers, whom he had seen and heard, have this
merit, that they were derived from no second-hand sources. His _Horæ
Biblicæ_, _Germanic Empire_, _Horæ Juridicæ_, his numerous biographies,
his _Historical Memoirs of the Church of France_ and of _English,
Irish, and Scottish Catholics_, were not merely up to the standard
of his time, but often beyond it, in consequence of the peculiarity
of the materials that he brought together. While he was familiar
with a wide range of literature, English, foreign, and ancient, he
was also conversant with algebra, music and other fine arts. The
motto he adopted for his _Reminiscences_ from D'Aguesseau shows his
love of study: _Le changement de l'étude est toujours un délassement
pour moi_--"A change of study is always a relaxation for me." If he
is sometimes formal and verging on priggishness--as when he styles
himself all through two volumes "the Reminiscent"--the fashion of his
day, which was far more stilted than we should approve, must be his
excuse. If we had enjoyed the pleasure of his acquaintance, we should,
no doubt, have pronounced him "a gentleman of the old school."

The Rev. Joseph Berington was another Catholic of the last century who
has embalmed his memory in a useful work. Charles Butler wrote of his
_Literary History of the Middle Ages_: "It presents the best account in
print of that important subject." The _Biographie Universelle_, that
Pantheon of genius, contains a very imperfect but interesting monument
to his memory. He was a contemporary of Charles Butler, and a link
in the chain of English Catholic authors since the great overthrow
of religion. Between the years 1776 and 1786, he published several
controversial works directed against infidelity and Protestantism. He
then published the _History of Abelard and Heloise_, with the genuine
letters of those around whom Pope's poem had thrown much romantic
interest. It soon reached a second edition, and was followed by a
_History of Henry II. and his Two Sons_, vindicating the character of
S. Thomas à Becket. But it was not till 1814 that he published the
work on which his reputation mainly rests, _The Literary History of
the Middle Ages_. By that time his experience had matured, and he had
collected a large body of materials from numberless sources. His work,
when it appeared, was the best compendium to be found; but since that
period the researches of Maitland, Kenelm Digby, and many others have
thrown open to our view more clearly the fair fields and wealthy mines
of mediæval lore. This volume served as a stimulus to the inquiries of
other students, and it was thought worthy of republication so late as
1846. What we admire in it is the taste of the writer and his genuine
love of the subject on which he treats. He does not write like a dry
bibliographer, but in a genial way--like one whose learning has not
eaten out his individual human heart.

But the merit of Berington and Charles Butler fades into insignificance
when compared with that of Lingard. Before his time, English history
was almost unknown. The Catholic side of a number of questions had
never been fairly presented, and the true sources of history had either
not been discovered, or were very scantily resorted to. It was Dr.
Lingard who first made the public sensible of the value of documents
brought to light by the Record Commission; the Close and Patent
Rolls extant in the Tower; the Parliamentary writs; the papers and
instruments of the State Paper Office; the despatches of De la Mothe
Fénelon, the French ambassador in London in the reign of Elizabeth;
the letters and speeches of Oliver Cromwell; and the archives of the
_Ministère des Affaires Etrangères_ in France. Accustomed as we now are
to see history written by the lights of such incontestable evidence, we
often wonder how our forefathers could have accepted with complacency
the jejune records founded in too many cases on tradition and fancy. To
Dr. Lingard and Miss Strickland is principally due the praise of having
introduced a more respectable and reliable method.

Historians generally train themselves unconsciously for their larger
works by the composition of some smaller ones. It was thus with
Lingard, who published, in 1806, his _Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon
Church_, and lived to watch over its success, and improve it in
numerous editions, during a period of forty-five years. He availed
himself gladly of the labors of other workers in the historic field,
and saw, with singular pleasure, the laws, charters, poems, homilies,
and letters of our Anglo-Saxon ancestors collected and published. But
no work on the Anglo-Saxon portion of English history is more valuable
and interesting than his own. He causes the church of that epoch to
live before us with its laws, polity, doctrines, sacraments, services,
discipline, and literature. He consults the original authorities, and,
putting aside wearisome controversies on points of detail, confines
himself to facts well ascertained.

It was during his residence at Pontop and Crook Hall, and before
removing to Ushaw--in a neighborhood where Weremouth and Jarrow
recalled the memory of Bede, and where Tynemouth, Hexham, Lindisfarne,
and many other spots spoke eloquently of the past--that Lingard
used, in his spare moments, to compile the several papers on the
religion, laws, and literature of the Anglo-Saxons, of which his
work is composed. Seated by the evening fireside, he would read them
to his companions, and their interest in his theme, and surprise at
the extent of his learning, increased with every reading. When, at
length, the series reached its close, his friends earnestly requested
him to publish them as a connected history; and thus the foundation
of his future reputation and usefulness was laid. If amateur authors
would more frequently try their strength in this way, without rushing
unadvisedly into print, they would be spared much disappointment and
expense, and the standard of current literature would be raised.

The publication of _The Anglo-Saxon Church_ naturally led to Lingard's
being solicited to extend his history to a later period. Why should not
he, who was evidently so competent, trace the fortunes of the church
through the Norman, Plantagenet, Lancastrian, and Yorkist periods?
Nay, what reason was there why he should not give the world a Catholic
version of the history of the Reformation, so commonly and flagrantly
misrepresented? How many old Catholic families would be delighted
to peruse a faithful record of events in which their ancestors were
concerned! Might not he throw a halo round many illustrious Catholic
names, and tear up by the roots many Protestant historic falsehoods?
Had not several of the Stuart kings shown a bias, and more than a bias,
towards the ancient religion? And who could exhibit the different
phases in the career and character of those kings so well as he? If
Queen Mary had been unduly reviled, and Queen Elizabeth extravagantly
praised, on whom could the task of rectifying these mistakes be
devolved so safely as on Lingard? Such questions stirred his activity
and laudable ambition; for he was not unconscious of his ability to
write the history of his country. At first, indeed, he modestly shrank
from so serious an undertaking, and contemplated only an abridgment
for the use of schools; but a secluded mission like that of Hornby,
to which he had retired, is highly favorable to the composition of
important works. The _Abridgment_ was revised when he had buried Henry
VII., and, after being rewritten, was thrown aside. The scaffolding was
thrown down, but the house stood.

When Lingard visited Rome in 1817, he was, in the first instance,
discouraged by the reception he met with. It was intimated to him by a
member of the Sacred College that Dr. Milner had already sufficiently
exposed and refuted the calumnies contained in Hume, and that further
researches for the purposes of English history were unnecessary or
of slight importance. Every writer of eminence has met with similar
rebuffs. Lingard was mortified, but not deterred from the object he
had in view. Before he left Rome, the archives of the Vatican had been
opened to him without reserve, his admission to the libraries was
facilitated, and transcripts of such unpublished documents as he might
require were promised him. Unfortunately, the privilege of consulting
the Vatican treasures was of little use, seeing that the French
Revolution had thrown the codices into much confusion.

In the early part of 1819 the three volumes of the _History of
England_, extending to the death of Henry VII., were published, having
been purchased by Mawman, the publisher, for a thousand guineas; and
other volumes followed at irregular intervals, till, in 1830, the whole
history down to the Revolution of 1688 had appeared. For the first and
second editions the author received altogether £4,133--an extraordinary
amount, considering the unpopularity of Catholics at the time of its
appearance, and the small number of English Catholic readers. But its
fame extended beyond the English shores; translations in French and
German were published; and an Italian translation was printed, by the
Pope's desire, at the press of the Propaganda. His Holiness subscribed
for 200 copies of this translation; and Cardinal Cristaldi, the
_Trésorière Générale_, for a yet larger number. It was reproduced in
America, and in Paris by Galignani, and read at Rome with enthusiastic
delight. Pius VII., in August, 1821, conferred on the author the
triple academical laurel, creating him at the same time doctor of
divinity and of canon and civil law. Leo XII. invited him to take up
his residence in Rome; but from this Lingard excused himself by saying
that it was necessary he should examine original papers which could be
found in England only. On his departure, the same pontiff presented
him with the gold medal which is usually reserved for cardinals and
princes, and he is said to have designed for him the dignity of the
cardinalate.

As time went on, Lingard's knowledge of English history widened and
deepened. He availed himself eagerly of the new sources of information
which this century has opened so abundantly, and, by the constant
revision of his work, he rendered it increasingly valuable. It would
be difficult to overstate its merits, one of the highest of which is
its impartiality and fearless statement of what the writer knew to
be true. He avoided all appearance of controversy, and often refuted
Hume without appearing to do so. His great aim was to write a history
which Protestants would read, and in this he succeeded. In 1825, the
President of the English College at Rome, Dr. Gradwell, wrote to him,
saying: "Your _History_ is much spoken of here as one of the great
causes which have wrought such a change in public sentiment in England
on Catholic matters." Dr. Wiseman, writing to Lingard in July, 1835,
said: "All the professors at Munich desired me, again and again, to
assure you of the high esteem they entertain for you, and the high
position your work is allowed, through all Germany, among historical
productions. Prof. Phillips, formerly professor of history at Baden,
now at Munich, requested me to inform you that he owes his conversion
(which made immense sensation, on account of his well-known talents)
chiefly to your _History_, which he undertook to review." A few weeks
only before Cardinal Wiseman's death, he thus expressed his sense of
Dr. Lingard's merits, both as an author and a man: "Be assured of my
affectionate gratitude to you for much kindness in my early youth, and
still more for the great, important, and noble services which you have
rendered to religion through life, and which have so much contributed
to overthrow error, and give a solid historical basis to all subsequent
controversy with Protestantism."

In mentioning those writers who have helped to construct an English
Catholic literature, it would be impossible to omit the name of Thomas
Moore. Though an Irishman by birth, the English, among whom he chiefly
resided, are accustomed to reckon him among their own; and though,
unhappily, he ceased, at an early period of life, to observe regularly
the duties of his religion, he never ceased altogether to frequent the
services of the Catholic Church; and in his writings he maintained to
the last the truth of Catholicism, and the immense superiority of its
system over all modern forms and sections of Christianity. His _Travels
of an Irish Gentleman in search of a Religion_ is no less forcible in
argument than humorous in style; and numberless passages in his diaries
and poems prove that Catholicism retained its hold over his heart as
well as his understanding, though it did not always influence duly his
practice as a member of the church. Probably his passion for society,
and his fondness for the great, were in some measure the causes of
his conforming outwardly to Protestant observances, and allowing his
children to be educated in the doctrines and usages of the Church of
England. Certain it is that his own affections were never weaned from
the faith of his parents; and one of his most intimate friends, Lord
Russell, who was also his biographer, assures us that, when in London,
it was his custom to frequent the Catholic chapel in Wardour Street.

We cannot in this place discuss as fully as it deserves the question
of Moore's personal Catholicity. Suffice it to refer to a passage
in his _Diary_, under the date November 2 to 9, 1834, and to the
following, dated April 9, 1833: "In one of my conversations with Lord
John (Russell), we talked about my forthcoming book, and I explained
to him the nature of it, adding that I had not the least doubt in my
own mind of the truth of the case I undertook to prove in it--namely,
that Popery is in all respects the old, original Christianity, and
Protestantism a departure from it." Such was the lesson which the
_Travels of an Irish Gentleman in search of a Religion_ was intended
to teach; nor could anything less than a deep sympathy for the faith
of the people of Ireland have inspired Moore with such touching
lamentations over their wrongs and sufferings. The frame of his mind
was essentially religious; and those who have been wont to think of
him as a dissolute devotee of fashion will feel surprised to discover
in the authentic records of his life a fond and faithful husband, an
affectionate son, a loving parent, and, as far as his feelings were
regarded, a devout Christian. His _Sacred Songs_ were not efforts
of the imagination merely; they expressed the genuine emotions of
his inmost heart; and how beautifully, and in numbers how inimitably
melodious! There is a disposition among some critics to disparage
Moore's poetry, and to treat him merely as a love-sick rhymer; but
his fame is proof against such pitiful assailants; and his poems will
awaken echoes in the human heart when their artificial and obscure
poetizings shall

    "... bind a book, or line a box,
    Or serve to curl a maiden's locks."

There cannot be a doubt that his writings contributed largely to
the success of the movement in favor of Catholic emancipation, and
that his _Irish Melodies_ in particular conspired with the speeches
and addresses of O'Connell to kindle in the breasts of Irishmen and
Irishwomen the determination to set their country free. The enthusiasm,
even to tears, which they excited on the lake, in the grove, in the
music-hall and the banqueting-room, when sung to the soft notes of the
piano or harp, burst forth sooner or later in action, and produced
results by which senates were moved and populations stirred. The power
which poetry has over men's hearts and actions is a test of its merits
that rises far above the technicalities of a pedantic school; and
Moore's lyrics are not found wanting when tried by this standard. They
are truly "magnetic." They have fired many a soldier on the field of
battle, and excited many an orator at the hustings; they have comforted
many a solitary mourner, and smoothed many a touch of sickness and
pain. We have, of course, no apology to offer for some of those in
which he celebrates earthly love; though it must be admitted he has not
been unmindful of that higher, that divine love, which alone can crown
earthly affections with true happiness. No one has sung more sweetly
than Moore the truths that God is "the life and light of all this
wondrous world"; that he dries the mourner's tear; that "the world is
all a fleeting show"; that there is nothing bright but the soul may
see in it some feature of Deity, and nothing dark but God's love may be
traced therein. What hymn-book contains a spiritual lesson more true
and beautiful than this?

    "As morning, when her early breeze
      Breaks up the surface of the seas,
    That in their furrows, dark with night,
      Her hands may sow the seeds of light,

    "Thy grace can send its breathings o'er
      The spirit, dark and lost before,
    And, freshening all its depths, prepare
      For truth divine to enter there!"

But it is in Moore's national poems that we must look for the principal
gauge of his influence on public opinion. Their effect in England was
no less magical than in Ireland. Wherever they were sung or read,
they turned enemies into advocates; and mammas little dreamed that
political treatises were entering their homes in the shape of rolls
of music. By adapting modern words to ancient airs, they appealed
to listeners by the twofold charm of antiquity and novelty. They
surpassed the plaintive sweetness of Carolan, being addressed to
more refined audiences than had ever gathered round Erin's minstrels
of old. During one-and-twenty years, from 1807 to 1828, the _Irish
Melodies_ transmitted the "light of song" "through the variegating
prism of harmony"; and the cruel acts against minstrels in the reigns
of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth were atoned for by the rapturous welcome
given in England under the last two of the Georges to the most tuneful
expressions of patriotism that ever broke from lip and lyre since the
days of "the sweet Psalmist of Israel." They laid bare the bleeding
heart-strings of the Irish cotter, exile, and emigrant; they pleaded
for the redress of his wrongs, centuries old; they invoked a Nemesis
on his oppressor; they enlisted on his side the suffrages of the
noble, the tender-hearted, and the brave. They coupled Ireland with
Poland in the minds of all lovers of political justice; and they even
suggested analogies between the Irish and the persecuted and outcast
people of Israel. That they promoted indirectly, and still promote,
the cause of Catholicism is certain; for the sequences of mental
associations are governed by rules as fixed as those which attend the
sequences of natural products. Under the symbol of lovers, which all
can understand, they frequently set forth the relation between the
Irishman and his country, including his religion. To the true Irishman,
indeed, of that period, the ideas of his native land and his father's
faith were inseparable, and he would have thought that which was
disloyal to either to have been treason against both. Moore's Catholic
education--the never-forgotten lessons of Catholic parents, whom he
fondly loved--constituted a large element in the power and charm of his
ever-varied and incomparable _Melodies_.

The practical importance of journalism as a branch of literature cannot
be too highly rated; for, though in itself it seldom reaches the
highest literary excellence, it brings it down to the level of ordinary
understandings, and retails to the public what in the wholesale they
would not buy. In the beginning of 1840, the Catholic field in England
was sufficiently extended, and its prospects were so promising that
a weekly organ of greater ability and wider scope than any which
then existed was imperatively required. No one appeared better able
to conduct such a journal successfully than Frederic Lucas. Born of
Quaker parents, and educated at the London University, he had, at an
early age, been distinguished for his ardent pursuit of literature in
preference to art, science, or mathematics. Skilful as a debater,
and insatiable in his historical researches, he was attracted to the
subject of religion by its controversial and historic side. The works
of Bentham, and the stirring events of the revolutionary period of
1830, drew him deep into politics, while the poetry of Byron, Shelley,
and Wordsworth strewed his pathway with shells and flowers, and 
every object around him with rainbow hues. Called to the bar in 1835,
he became intimately acquainted with Thomas Carlyle, personally and
as an author. The writings of this eminent historian and philosopher
had for him a special charm, to which the peculiarity of their style
was no drawback. He took great interest in the lectures on _Heroes
and Hero Worship_ when they were first delivered; and it was from his
accurate notes that a full report of Lecture No. 1 was published in the
_Tablet_. Though the tendency of Carlyle's works is towards anything
but Catholicism, they had, strange to say, an indirect tendency that
way in Lucas' case. They called up many sympathies in favor of the
middle ages, and pointed to increase of faith as the grand remedy for
human ills.

There was about this time a great stirring of the public mind on
religious subjects, and Lucas, reflecting deeply on the chaotic state
of Christendom and the ever-multiplying forms of schism, became
attracted to views set forth with great ability by Oxford divines,
tending to revive mediæval practices and produce a tranquil reliance on
ancient ecclesiastical authority. But he felt no inclination to stop
at the half-way house. To exchange Quakerism for Anglicanism would, he
thought, be a loss rather than a gain; for the doctrines of the Society
of Friends could, at least, be stated definitely, whereas those of
the Church of England were matter of ceaseless debate between three
parties--High Church, Low Church, and Broad Church. He therefore broke
through every barrier, and ruptured many ties of friendship, interest,
and old association. His _Reasons for becoming a Roman Catholic_ was a
pamphlet remarkable for the poetic exuberance of its style, and still
more from the fact of its being addressed to Friends, and its defending
Catholicism from a Friend's point of view. A few articles published in
the _Dublin Review_ established Lucas' literary reputation among his
co-religionists, and he was soon invited to edit a new Catholic weekly
journal, which he named the _Tablet_. The first number appeared on the
16th of May, 1840, and during fifteen years Lucas continued to direct
the undertaking, and to take a leading part in its composition. Some of
the literary and miscellaneous papers were, in the early days of the
publication, contributed by non-Catholics; but it was then, and has
ever since been, regarded as an exponent of Catholicism--not, indeed,
absolutely authoritative, but in the highest degree weighty, and
semi-official.

It can scarcely be necessary to speak of the ability which this journal
displayed in Lucas' hands. One anecdote will suffice to prove the
intellectual readiness and aptitude of the editor. An article which
appeared in the _Dublin Review_ in 1849, on the "Campaigns of the Duke
of Marlborough," at once attracted the notice of Sir William Napier,
the historian of the Peninsular War. Competent judge as he was, he
supposed the article to be written by a soldier, and could not conceive
that any other than a military man could exhibit so much familiarity
with the manœuvres of armies and the tactics of generals. When he
learned that it was a civilian who thus described and commented on
the battles of Blenheim, Ramillies, Oudenarde, and Malplaquet, he
hastened to make his acquaintance, and offered him every species of
encouragement.

But if English Catholics were fortunate in having a really literary
man at the head of their most popular journal, they were still more
so in possessing an archbishop who was a connoisseur in art, skilled
in science, and profound in ancient and modern lore. There were few
subjects with which Cardinal Wiseman was not conversant; and when
weary of business and serious study, he would often refresh his own
mind and entertain his friends by discussing topics altogether outside
the ordinary grave circle of a prelate's discourse. He could talk of
pancakes and posy-rings, of "Cymbeline" and "Peter Bell," as fluently
as of general councils and the _Acts of the Martyrs_. His _Essays_,
reprinted from the _Dublin Review_, his _Connection between Science and
Revelation_, his _Fabiola, a Tale of the Catacombs_, and his _Lives of
the Last Four Popes_, abundantly establish his literary reputation,
and are equally creditable to his research, observation, and inventive
faculty. The story of _Fabiola_ was composed, as he tells us, "at all
sorts of times and places, early and late; in scraps and fragments
of time, when the body was too fatigued or the mind too worn-out
for heavier occupation; in the roadside inn, in the halt of travel,
in strange houses, in every variety of situation and circumstance,
sometimes trying ones." In the midst of his episcopal labors, he found
time for the delivery of numerous lectures on secular subjects, which
attracted public attention to many curious points in literature, art,
and science. In the present age, when every field of knowledge and
experiment is crowded with eager students, and when a disposition
is seen everywhere to subordinate all discoveries and researches to
high, if not always correct, views of religion, it seems to be of the
utmost importance that Catholics in general should, as far as they are
able, copy the example of Cardinal Wiseman in cultivating the happy
and hallowed alliance of truth divinely revealed and truth humanly
ascertained, feeling sure that, however the two may seem here and
there to clash one with another, the discrepancy between them is only
apparent, and will vanish on closer investigation.

Dr. Newman has adopted a perfectly unique mode of enriching the
Catholic literature of his country. He is now, in his advanced age,
republishing all his works from the commencement of his author-life.
Many of these appeared while he was still a clergyman of the Church
of England; but to these he appends qualifying or explanatory notes,
thus laying before his readers both his first and second thoughts.
This often gives him an opportunity of rebutting his former errors,
and, by a brush of arms, laying low many a favorite Anglican defence.
The series serves, also, to fill up various parts of his biography
which had been sketched only in the _Apologia pro Vita Sua_. It
is, therefore, welcome to the reading public in general, to whom
his earlier life has never lost its interest in consequence of his
conversion. The avidity with which his works are read by non-Catholics
is no small proof of their merit intellectually considered. Indeed,
to use the words of one writing in a hostile spirit in the _Pall Mall
Gazette_ of Sept. 23, 1872: "The extreme beauty of his language, the
rarity of his utterances, his delicate yet forcible way of dealing
with opposition when obliged to do so--all these things have invested
his image with a kind of halo, to which, for our parts, we scarcely
remember a parallel."

Nothing could prove more conclusively the esteem in which he is held by
the English public than the reception given to his _Apologia_. Though
this publication was polemical, though Dr. Newman's adversary was a
Protestant clergyman and professor in the University of Cambridge,
the verdict given by the leading journals and reviews of the day was
emphatically on the side of the Priest of the Oratory--the convert
from Anglicanism! Mr. Kingsley was universally condemned as having
advanced what he could not substantiate; and the beautifully naïve
account which the assailed gave of his own life, opinions, literary and
ministerial career, was welcomed and hailed with praise, admiration,
and delight. The _Spectator_ (than which no review in England stands
higher) styled the _Apologia_: "An interior view of one of the
greatest minds and greatest natures ever completely subjected to
the influence of reactionary thought"; and it added: "Mr. Kingsley
has grievously wronged a man utterly unintelligible to him, but as
incapable of falsehood or of the advocacy of falsehood as the sincerest
Protestant." The _Union Review_, a High Church organ, said of the
same work: "Since the _Confessions_ of S. Augustine were given to the
world, we doubt if any autobiography has appeared of such thrilling
interest as the present." The _Saturday Review_ was scarcely less
emphatic. "Few books," it said, "have been published, in the memory
of this generation, full of so varied an interest as Dr. Newman's
_Apologia_." To these extracts we must add one more from a writer in
the _Times_: "So far as one can judge from the opinions of the press,
it is universally acknowledged that Dr. Newman has displayed through
his whole life, and never more so than at the time he was most bitterly
assailed, the most transparent idea of an honorable and high-minded
gentleman."

It is not so much to the theological as to the literary character of
Dr. Newman's works that we wish to call attention. As a writer of
sermons, he has never been surpassed. Old as the Christian religion is,
he never failed in preaching to present some portion of it in a new
light. The Scriptures of the Old Testament in his hands acquire new
meaning and import; and the subtlety of his thought is only equalled by
the limpid clearness of his style. To those who remember him only as
he appeared in the pulpit of S. Mary the Virgin's, Oxford, his image
is that of a seer piercing the depths of nature and redemption, and
enunciating, under the influence of a divine afflatus, truths full of
awe and tenderness, but often too vast for the comprehension of his
hearers.

The test of any work of art is this--that it will bear the closest
inspection. The fine gold of Dr. Newman's sermon-writing becomes more
evident when his discourses are molten down in the crucible of severe
criticism. They have nothing to fear from dissection; rather they court
the anatomist's knife. Their beauty does not lie on the surface merely,
though that surface is passing fair; they have that interior charm and
sweetness, that plaintive and mysterious tenderness, which belongs
to the notes of a Stradivarius violin when played by a master-hand.
They suggest more than they say; they are replete with thoughts that
often lie too deep for tears, and make us feel that we are greater
than we know. They win upon our hearts like a living voice, and make
us love the writer, whom we have perhaps never seen. "Eloquent" would
be a poor and vulgar adjective to apply to them. They are more than
eloquent; they are poetry, religion, and philosophy combined in prose,
which is prose only because it is not in rhythm.

Largely as Dr. Newman is gifted with the imaginative faculty, he has
not acquired, nor, indeed, deserved to acquire, the same honors as
a poet as by his prose writings. His verses entitled "Lead, kindly
Light," are faultlessly beautiful, and some parts of _Gerontius_ are
very fine; but in his poetry in general there is a want of color and
detail. His mind has not been turned sufficiently to the minuter
qualities and phases of natural objects to make a consummate poet. He
is too abstract, chill, and classical for the luxurious requirements of
modern verse. But when, in his prose, he launches into matter highly
poetical in its nature, as in _Callista_, when he describes the ravages
of the locusts, or in his _Sermons_, when he dwells on the assumption
of Our Lady's body into heaven, his language is equally copious and
brilliant, reaching the highest form of speech without any sacrifice of
simplicity, point, or color. Whatever Dr. Newman writes, be it sermon,
history, or fiction, it has the air of an essay. It is a charming
disquisition--the outpouring of the thoughts of a great and original
mind on some point which deeply interests him, and the connection of
which with other matters of high import he sees more clearly than other
men. But he is not discursive; he does not straggle about from one
subject to another, but keeps closely to that which is in hand. Hence,
to cursory readers he often seems to be forgetting some truths, because
he dwells so fully and forcibly on others. It is their minds which are
at fault, not his. All parts of a large system of Christian philosophy
are present to his view at all times; and for this very reason he can
afford to spend himself on each in detail and labor upward from the
particular to the universal. In this respect he resembles Plato, while
in others he has been compared, not unjustly, to S. Augustine:

    "Whene'er I con the thoughtful page
      My youth so dearly prized,
    I say, This foremost of his age
      Is Plato's self baptized!

    "But kindling, weeping, as I read,
      And wondering at his pen,
    I cry, This Newman is indeed
      Augustine come again.

    "The sweet, sublime 'Athenian Bee'
      And Hippo's seer, who ran
    Through every range of thought, I see
      Combined in this _new man_."

When Thomas Moore was visiting Sir Walter Scott at Abbotsford, nearly
fifty years ago, they both agreed that much of the poetry then
appearing in periodicals, and passing comparatively unnoticed, would,
not many years before, have made the reputation of the writers. If
they were alive now, with how much stronger emphasis would they make a
similar remark! Magazine poetry in England now is as superior to that
of 1825 as that of 1825 surpassed that of 1775. There are not a few
poets at this moment, whose names are scarcely known, who would, at an
earlier period of English literature, have been crowned with laurel
by general consent. The great poets of this century have raised the
standard of poetry, and verse nowadays is what Scott and Wordsworth,
Byron and Moore, Shelley and Tennyson, have made it. Mr. Aubrey de
Vere, in the time of Daniel, Carew, Drummond, and Drayton, would have
been a star of the first magnitude; whereas he is now, partly on
account of his Catholic principles, observed and admired by the public
far less than he deserves. Born of a Protestant family, and educated
in the Protestant religion, he has in ripe years chosen the better
part, and embraced the faith of the large majority of his countrymen.
He has thrown himself into the views of Irish Catholics on political
subjects, and has, without disloyalty to the existing government,
reproduced in modern verse the passionate sentiments of Irish
chieftains, captives, exiles, emigrants, and serfs of the soil in days
long past. Residing, however, chiefly in England, and representing,
as he does, the later colonists of Ireland, we may venture to class
him among English authors, or, at least, to consider his poems as a
contribution to English Catholic literature. Occasional obscurity
and faulty rhymes are, in his case, redeemed by poetry's prime
excellence--originality of thought and expression. Lines pregnant with
truth and beauty are constantly recurring, and the deeply religious
feeling which pervades all has the great advantage of not being
expressed in hackneyed and conventional language. The _May Carols_ is
a perfect conservatory of lovely images clustering round the central
figure of immaculate Mary. The 21st carol, on "The Maryless Nations,"
is perhaps better known in the United States than in England, for it
is said that this prophet is less honored in his own country than in
America; yet it may fairly be quoted here as a very favorable specimen
of Mr. Aubrey de Vere's reflective verse:

    "As children when, with heavy tread,
      Men sad of face, unseen before,
    Have borne away their mother dead,
      So stand the nations thine no more.

    "From room to room those children roam,
      Heart-stricken by the unwonted black:
    Their house no longer seems their home;
      They search, yet know not what they lack.

    "Years pass: self-will and passion strike
      Their roots more deeply day by day;
    Old servants weep; and 'how unlike'
      Is all the tender neighbors say.

    "And yet at moments, like a dream,
      A mother's image o'er them flits;
    Like hers, their eyes a moment beam,
      The voice grows soft, the brow unknits.

    "Such, Mary, are the realms once thine
      That know no more thy golden reign.
    Hold forth from heaven thy Babe divine!
      Oh! make thine orphans thine again."

There is another "May Carol" which has always struck us as particularly
beautiful, because so highly figurative. Metaphor and music make up the
soul of poetry. It is an apostrophe to the south wind, and is headed
by the motto, _Adolescentulæ amaverunt te nimis_, a text from the
_Canticles_, which sufficiently explains the mysticism of the lines:

    "Behold! the wintry rains are past,
      The airs of midnight hurt no more;
    The young maids love thee. Come at last:
      Thou lingerest at the garden door.

    "'Blow over all the garden; blow,
      Thou wind that breathest of the South,
    Through all the alleys winding low,
      With dewy wing and honeyed mouth.

    "'But wheresoe'er thou wanderest, shape
      Thy music ever to one Name;
    Thou, too, clear stream, to cave and cape
      Be sure to whisper of the same.

    "'By every isle and bower of musk
      Thy crystal clasps as on its curls;
    We charge thee, breathe it to the dusk,
      We charge thee, grave it in thy pearls.'

    "The stream obeyed. That Name he bore
      Far out above the moonlit tide.
    The breeze obeyed; he breathed it o'er
      The unforgetting pines, and died."

This is the very algebra of language, and all the terms employed are
raised, as it were, to their highest powers. Such verse could proceed
only from one of

          "The visionary apprehensive souls
    Whose finer insight no dim sense controls."

There is another poem by Mr. Aubrey de Vere, which deserves to be
quoted for its ingenuity; nor can we, in reading it, but be reminded
of what was said of Euripides, and might, with equal truth, be said of
him: "In all his pieces there is the sweet human voice, the fluttering
human heart." The Irish race in these verses is compared to a great
religious order, of which England is the foundress:

    "There is an order by a Northern sea,
      Far in the west, of rule and life more strict
    Than that which Basil reared in Galilee,
      In Egypt Paul, in Umbria Benedict.

    "Discalced it walks; a stony land of tombs,
      A strange Petræa of late days, it treads.
    Within its courts no high-tossed censer fumes;
      The night-rain beats its cells, the wind its beds.

    "Before its eyes no brass-bound, blazoned tome
      Reflects the splendor of a lamp high hung;
    Knowledge is banished from her earliest home
      Like wealth: it whispers psalms that once it sung.

    "It is not bound by the vow celibate,
      Lest, through its ceasing, anguish too might cease;
    In sorrow it brings forth, and death and fate
      Watch at life's gate, and tithe the unripe increase.

    "It wears not the Franciscan's sheltering gown,
      The cord that binds it is the stranger's chain:
    Scarce seen for scorn, in fields of old renown
      It breaks the clod; another reaps the grain.

    "Year after year it fasts; each third or fourth
      So fasts that common fasts to it are feast;
    Then of its brethren many in the earth
      Are laid unrequiem'd like the mountain beast.

    "Where are its cloisters? Where the felon sleeps!
      Where its novitiate? Where the last wolf died!
    From sea to sea its vigil long it keeps--
      Stern Foundress! is its rule not mortified?

    "Thou that hast laid so many an order waste,
      A nation is thine order! It was thine
    Wide as a realm that order's seed to cast,
      And undispensed sustain its discipline!"

The Catholic press in England, which at the commencement of this
century was smitten with barrenness, now teems with ceaseless
productions. Few of them, however, except those we have mentioned, are
destined to form part of standard literature. Even Miss Adelaide Anne
Procter's verses are not as widely appreciated as they deserve to be,
though, during her lifetime, they obtained for her the reputation of
being one of the most tuneful moralists that ever sung or breathed.
Mrs. William Pitt Byrne has earned well of the public by the lively
manner in which she has described so many Catholic countries, and
the diligence with which she has collected her materials. Her works
on Belgium, France--Paris in particular--Spain, and Hungary have
supplied amusement and instruction to a large number of subscribers
to circulating libraries, and have thus accomplished a great part of
the purpose for which they were written. F. Faber's numerous volumes
are too well known to need much comment on this occasion. They are
intensely devotional, full of fervid eloquence, and rich with the
coloring of a poetic mind. Many of his _Hymns_ are popular, and will
long remain so, because they are simple, forcible, and direct. Lady
Georgina Fullerton has succeeded as a religious novelist, and has been
the first as an English Catholic to occupy the ground which is now
especially hers. Kenelm Digby's _Ages of Faith_, _Compitum_, and other
works have a special charm for those who love choice quotations and
pictures of mediæval piety; Mr. T. W. Allies has ably and valiantly
defended the Papal supremacy; Mr. John Wallis has rendered _Heyne's
Songs_ in graceful English lyrics; Mr. Charles Waterton's _Wanderings_
are deservedly prized by naturalists; Mr. Richard Simpson's _Life of
Campion_ displays much historical research; F. Morris has depicted
admirably the sufferings of Catholic martyrs and confessors under the
Reforming sovereigns; the _Life of the Marquis of Pombal_, by the Conde
da Carnota (an English work), though too favorable to the Portuguese
prime minister, is highly valuable so far as it is documentary; and
the papers read before the _Academia of the Catholic Religion_, and
published in two volumes, supply in themselves a test of the literary
proficiency of many distinguished members of the church in England at
the present time. The following works also deserve to be mentioned
as valuable additions to the stock of English Catholic literature:
_The Evidence for the Papacy_, by the Hon. Colin Lindsay; _The Life of
Cardinal Howard_, by F. Palmer; Buckley's _Life and Writings of the
Rev. Father O'Leary_; _Christian Schools and Scholars_, by the author
of _The Knights of S. John_; Dr. Husenbeth's _Life of Bishop Milner_;
Mr. Maguire's _Rome, its Ruler and its Institutions_; and Dr. Rock's
_Hierurgia_.

Among Catholic poets, we ought not to forget Mr. Coventry Patmore,
whose playful, pleasing, and thoughtful octosyllabics--_The Angel of
the House_ and _Faithful for Ever_--found many admirers ten or twelve
years ago. There is in these fluent productions a simplicity which
at first sight strikes one as namby-pamby, but which, on further
consideration, is seen to be a light veil of serious thought and
genuine emotion. There are minds which can never appreciate poetry of
the highest order; who admire it only because they are taught that they
ought to do so, but cannot love it, even though it be stamped with
the approval of ages. "None ever loved _because he ought_" is true in
reference to more subjects than one; and it is well that second-rate
poetry should be written and preserved for second-rate appreciations.
Mr. Coventry Patmore's works fulfil a purpose, and are therefore not to
be despised, though they will never obtain a large reward.

It is to be hoped and expected that, as time goes on, Catholic
literature in England will enlarge its borders without declining in
orthodoxy. Colleges and universities yet to be founded will encourage
learning in all its branches, and prove to the world by new examples
that science and religion mutually support each other. The more firmly
the children of the church are rooted in the faith, the more strength
will their intellect acquire, and the more freedom will they be able
to indulge with safety. The literary spirit, animated and guided by
the true religion, will ever find new fields of useful speculation and
research; and the rebuke of ignorance, so often cast on members of the
church, will fall pointless when they are able to meet non-Catholic
historians and professors on their own ground, and to rob them
frequently of a crown in the arena of literary combat.




THE SONG OF ROLAND.


Among the epic romances of the middle ages, the first place must be
given to the _Song of Roland_. It deserves this, not only on account
of its antiquity, but also for the importance of the hero, and for
the _triumphant loss_, as Montaigne would have called it, which it
immortalizes. It is a _chanson de geste_, supposed to have been
composed by Turold or Théroulde, a troubadour who lived during the
first thirty years of the XIth century, though the only place where he
is mentioned is the line with which the Bodleian MS. of the _Chanson de
Roland_ terminates.

This poem is a curious example of the work of popular imagination upon
actual events, and shows, with remarkable unity and originality, the
power of this species of transformation.

The historical narrative, as related by Eginhard, son-in-law of
Charlemagne, recounts a grievous and unavenged disaster--the complete
destruction of the rear-guard of the French army, which, after a
succession of victories, was returning from Spain, and, being surprised
by mountaineers in the gorges of Roncevaux, left no living witnesses.

But Charlemagne's nephew, Roland, with all his peers, were among the
slain; it was needful, therefore, to do honor to his fall, and wash
away the affront against the arms of the always victorious king. Grief
and admiration combined to accomplish the task, and we have before us
the legend, which not only perpetuates the memory of the catastrophe,
but which makes of a death-dirge a hymn of victory.

The most ancient manuscript of this poem extant is, without doubt,
the copy in the Bodleian library at Oxford, which is supposed to be
of the XIIth century. Among other considerations, the brevity of this
manuscript as compared with others is a proof of its greater antiquity.
It has not more than four thousand lines, whereas others have six, and
even eight, thousand. But whether even this is the primitive version,
without alteration or addition, we have not the means of knowing.

That which, in the first place, distinguishes the _Chanson de Roland_
from all other productions of the mediæval poets anterior to Dante
is its unity of composition; but there are also other noticeable
differences. The first is in the subject itself, which is matter of
actual history, as we have seen from the testimony of Eginhard, who
adds, "This reverse poisoned in the heart of Charles the joy of all the
victories which he had gained in Spain." It was not a simple skirmish,
but the utter defeat of a valuable portion of his army--the only defeat
he had known during the thirty-eight years of his reign. It is easy
to understand how profound would be the impression produced by the
catastrophe, which, moreover, was indelibly deepened, when, half a
century later, the army of one of the sons of Charlemagne, by a fatal
coincidence, was cut to pieces in this same defile.

The imagination of the people was not long in merging these two
disasters into one, and in gradually changing nearly all the accessory
circumstances of the first event. But it matters little that Charles
is invested with the imperial purple more than twenty years before
the time; that he is represented as a white-bearded patriarch, when,
actually, he could not have been more than thirty-five years of age;
that his relationship to the hero of Roncevaux is more than doubtful;
that the Gascon mountaineers are transformed into Saracens; and that,
instead of their chief, Lopez, Duke of Gascony, of whom the charter
of Charles the Bald speaks as "a wolf in name and in nature," we have
two personages--King Marsilion and the traitor Ganelon. All these
transformations, which are easy to be accounted for, alter in nothing
the basis of the poem, which is historic truth, while legendary truth
has become its surface and superstructure.

Another point to be remarked is that in the _Chanson de Roland_
the subject is national. In other compositions of the period, the
heroes are Normans, Provençals, Gascons, and so forth, animated by a
patriotism either as circumscribed as their own domain, or as wide as
the world which they traversed in search of adventures. In the poems
recounting their acts and deeds, the name of France, when it happens
to be mentioned, has merely a geographical sense, being used as simply
designating the province of which Paris was the capital--"La France,"
"La douce France," so often invoked in the "Lay of Roland"; and the
glow of true and loving patriotism which warms this poem would alone
distinguish it from every other _chanson de geste_ that has been
written.

The figure of Charlemagne next demands our attention. By a strange
contradiction the Carlovingian poems, so called because they glorify
the companions of the great emperor and the deeds performed by them
during his reign, are, with scarcely any exception, nothing more than
so many satires upon Charlemagne himself, who is represented either as
a mute and doting imbecile, or else as a capricious despot; all the
wisdom and courage of the time being monopolized by the great barons.
The reason is not far to seek. At the epoch when these poems were
written or "improved," royalty in France was struggling to recover the
power of which the great crown vassals had possessed themselves at its
expense, and the feudal league defended its acquisitions _not_ by force
of arms alone. One of the most effectual means at that period of acting
upon the popular mind was by the influence of minstrelsy--that is to
say, by poesy and song; and the troubadours and _jongleurs_ of the time
willingly gave their services to promote the interests of their more
immediate protectors and patrons. Under the name of Charlemagne, it is,
in fact, Louis le Gros or Louis le Jeune whom they attack, glorifying
his epoch, but depreciating himself, as in "Les Quatre Fils d'Aymon"
and similar sarcastic romances. Turold is almost alone in showing
us the king "à la barbe grifaigne," with the authority and grandeur
befitting so great a monarch, and as one who rises above his peers more
by his dignity than by his lofty stature. The knights by whom he is
surrounded are noble and valiant, but he surpasses them all.

In this homage rendered to the personal glory of Charlemagne, and
in this sentiment of nationality, which is a remnant of the old
monarchical unity, of which, in the XIIIth century, the remembrance
had long been extinguished, but which, towards the close of the XIth,
still existed, we have two characteristics which stamp the date of
this poem more unmistakably than could be done by any peculiarities of
orthography or versification.

It is marked by two other specialties: the absence of gallantry or
amorous allusions, and the austerity of the religious sentiment.
Scarcely a line here and there lets us know that Roland has a
lady-love. It is his own affair, with which the public has nothing
to do. In the whole poem two women only appear, and these only in
slightly sketched outline. One is Queen Bramimonde, who appears for
an instant, as she unfastens her bracelets, and lets their priceless
jewels sparkle temptingly before the eyes of Ganelon; while later on
we are again given a passing glimpse of her, first as captive, and
then as Christian. In the other, "la belle Aude," the affianced bride
of Roland, we have a momentary vision of beauty and faithful devotion
even to death. She appears but to die of love and grief too deep for
words. A few centuries later, could any French poet have been able
to resign so excellent an opportunity for pouring forth a flood of
sentimental verses? Even the poets of the XIIIth and XIVth centuries
have lengthened out this tempting subject in endless variations.

As we pass on to the last consideration, we meet with other contrasts
between the forefathers and their posterity. Religion, in the time of
Wace and of Chrestien of Troyes, was still powerful and honored. Their
heroes, even the most worldly and pugnacious, are exact in saying their
prayers, kneeling devoutly, and confiding their souls to the care of
the Blessed Virgin; still, in times of great solemnity or extremity,
in the midst of danger, or face to face with death, we do not find the
calm and serene fervor, the submission as well as faith, which fill the
heart of Roland and his companions.

With regard to another point: if the "Lay of Roland," or, rather, if
the popular tradition which gave it birth, makes Saracens instead of
Gascons appear at Roncevaux, it is not pure fiction. After the death
of Charlemagne, the Saracens had so often quitted their province of
Castile to make inroads upon Aquitaine, and Western Europe had them
in such terror, that the fear of present misfortune had soon effaced
the remembrance of the old combats of Christian against Christian
on the Spanish frontier. A fixed belief had grown that every enemy
ambushed in the Pyrenees could not at any period have been other than
an army of mis-believers; and to this may be added the idea, which was
germinating, that a day would come when, in defence of Europe and of
the faith, it would be necessary to destroy the vulture in its nest
by carrying the sword into the country of Mahomet. It was not only
that the slaughter of Roncevaux cried out for vengeance; the Holy
War was in the spirit of the times, and naturally passed into the
poems. These, without preaching a crusade, prepared the way a century
beforehand, and the idea, dimly shadowed, it is true, but actually
present, is expressed in the last five or six lines of the poem, which
is, moreover, especially noticeable as being one which immortalizes
defeat and death. It is the glorification of courage, in misfortune and
in success, vain as to this world, but of eternal value for the next,
where the glory of the warrior pales before the glory of the martyr.

And this thought leads us to our last consideration, namely, the
meaning of the vowels A O I, with which every stanza terminates. From
the moment that Roland had died fighting against the Mussulmans, he
became a saint, whose name must forthwith be inscribed in the popular
martyrology. It was, therefore, only fitting to consecrate to him a
poem after the model of the hymns of the church, so many of which, as
well as the Latin poem on S. Mildred, are terminated by the vowels e u
o u a e--the modulation of _sæculorum amen_. This is the opinion of the
learned Abbé Henry, although neither he nor any of the other writers
whom we have consulted mention their suppositions as to the exact
meaning of the vowels A O I.

The _Song of Roland_ is mentioned in numberless romances, was imitated
in almost every language of Western Europe, and appears to have been
made use of as a war-song by the French armies before it had developed
itself to the proportions in which it has reached us. There is no
reasonable doubt that it was parts of this poem that were sung by
Taillefer on the advance of the Normans at the Battle of Hastings, and
not the "Song of Rollo," their first duke, as several modern authors
have supposed. We quote the words of Robert Wace:

    "Taillefer, qui moult bien cantait,
    Sur un cheval qui tost allait,
    Devant as (eux) s'en alait cantant
    De Carlemanne et de Rollant,
    Et d'Olivier et des vassaus
    Qui moururent à Raincevaus."[131]

Although we are not about to give a translation of the whole poem of
four thousand lines, we will present the reader with an abridgment
containing not only the thread of the narrative, but also all the
principal parts of the poem, without change or abbreviation; commencing
with the first stanza in the original French, as a specimen of the rest:


LA CHANSON DE ROLAND.

I.

    Carles li reis, nostre emperère magne,
    Set ans tuz pleins ad ested en Espaigne,
    Tresqu'en la mer cunquist la tere altaigne,
    Ni ad kastel ki devant lui remaigne,
    Mur ne citet n'i est remes à fraindre
    Fors Sarraguce, k'i est en une muntaigne.
    Li reis Marsilie la tient, ki Deu n'enaimet;
    Mahummet sert e Apollin recleimet
    Ne s'poet guarder que mals ne li ateignet, AOI.[132]


ABRIDGED TRANSLATION OF THE SONG OF ROLAND.

Charles the king, our great emperor, has been for seven full years in
Spain, where he has conquered the mountainous land even to the sea. Not
a castle which has held out before him, not a town which he has not
forced to open its gates; Saragossa on the height of its mountain alone
excepted. King Marsilion holds it, who loves not God, serves Mahomet,
and invokes Apollo(!) Nor can he hinder that evil shall befal him.

King Marsilion is reclining in his orchard, on a marble terrace, in
the shade of the trees, and surrounded by more than twenty thousand
men. He takes counsel of his dukes and of his counts how to escape
death or an affront; his army not being strong enough to give battle.
He asks, What shall be done?

No one answers. One only, the subtle Blancandrin, then ventures to
speak. "Feign submission," he says; "send chariots, laden with gold, to
this proud emperor. Promise that, if he will return to France, you will
there join him in his chapel at Aix on the great feast of S. Michael;
that there you will become his vassal, and receive his Christian law.
Does he demand hostages, we will give them. We will send our sons.
At the risk of his life I will send mine. When the French shall have
returned to their homes far away, the day will arrive, the term will
pass by; Charles will have no word from us, no news of us. Should the
cruel one cut off the heads of our hostages, better is it that they
should lose their heads than we our fair Spain."

And the pagans answered, He is in the right.

King Marsilion has broken up his council. He commands that six
beautiful white mules be brought, with saddles of silver and bridles of
gold. To Blancandrin and nine others who are faithful to him he says:
"Present yourselves before Charles, carrying olive branches in your
hands in token of peace and submission. If by your skill you compass
my deliverance from him, what gold, what silver, what lands will I not
bestow upon you!"

The messengers mount their mules, and set forth upon their journey.

The scene changes. We are at Cordova. There it is that Charles holds
his court. He also is in an orchard. At his side are Roland, Oliver,
Geoffrey of Anjou, and many others, sons of sweet France; fifteen
thousand are there. Seated upon silken stuffs, they pass their time
in playing; the oldest and wisest exercise themselves in the game of
chess, the young knights in fencing.

The emperor is seated in a chair of gold, in the shade of a pine-tree
and an eglantine. His beard has the brightness of snow, his figure is
tall and nobly formed, and his countenance majestic. Any man seeking
him has no need to be told which is he.

The pagan messengers, alighting from their mules, humbly salute the
emperor. Blancandrin then addresses him, showing the rich treasures
which his master sends him, and saying: "Are you not weary of remaining
in this land? Should you return to France, the king, our lord, promises
to follow you thither." Thereupon the emperor raises his hands towards
God; then, bending down his head, he begins to reflect. This was his
wont, never hasting to speak. Presently raising himself, he says to the
messengers, "You have spoken well; but your king is our great enemy.
What shall be a pledge to me for the fulfilment of your words?"

"Hostages," replies the Saracen. "You shall have ten, fifteen, or even
twenty, and among them my own son. What more noble hostage could be
given? When you shall have returned to your royal palace, on the great
feast of S. Michael my master will follow you thither. There, in those
baths which God has made for you, he desires to become a Christian."

And Charles made answer, "He may, then, yet be saved!"

The day was bright, the sun shining in full splendor. Charles caused a
large tent to be prepared in the orchard for the ten messengers. There
they passed the night.

The emperor rises betimes. He hears Mass and Matins, and thence going
forth, under the shadow of a tall pine-tree prepares to take counsel
with his barons; for without them he will do nothing.

Soon they are all before him: the duke Oger, the archbishop Turpin,
Roland, the brave Oliver, and Ganelon, the one who would betray them
all.

The council opens. Charles repeats to his barons the words of
Blancandrin. "Will Marsilion come to Aix," he asks. "Will he there make
himself a Christian? Will he be my vassal? I know not what to deem of
his words."

And the French reply, Beware of him.

Roland rises, saying: "Trust not Marsilion. Seven years have we been
in Spain, and during all that time naught have you had from him but
treachery. Fifteen thousand of his pagans have already been to you,
bringing olive branches and the same words as to-day. Your counsellors
advised you to allow a truce. What did Marsilion? Did he not behead two
of your counts, Basan and his brother Basil? Continue the war. Continue
it as you have begun it: lead your army to Saragossa, besiege the city,
and avenge those whom the felon has caused to perish."

While listening to him, the emperor's countenance darkens. He strokes
his beard, and answers nothing. All the French keep silence. Ganelon
alone rises, and, advancing to the emperor with a haughty air, thus
addresses him: "Heed not the headstrong! Heed not me nor any other, but
your own advantage. When Marsilion declares to you with joined hands
that he desires to be your liege-man, to hold Spain from your hand,
to receive your sacred law, are there those who dare to counsel you to
reject his offers? Such have scant regard to the sort of death they are
to die. It is a counsel of pride which ought not to prevail. Let us
leave fools to themselves, and hold to the wise."

After Ganelon rises the duke Naymes. In the whole court there is no
braver warrior. He says to Charles: "You have heard Count Ganelon.
Weigh well his words. Marsilion is conquered; you have razed his
castles, overthrown his ramparts; his towns are in ashes, his soldiers
scattered abroad. When he gives himself up to your mercy, offering you
hostages, wholly to overwhelm him would be a sin. There ought to be an
end to this terrible war."

And the French said, The duke has well spoken.

"Lords barons," resumes Charlemagne, "whom, then, shall we send to
Saragossa to King Marsilion?"

"By your favor, I will go," answers Naymes. "Give me, therefore, the
gauntlet and the staff."

"No," says the emperor. "No, by my beard! A sage like you go so far
away? You will in nowise go. Sit down again." ... "Well, my lords
barons, whom, then, shall we send?"

"Send me," says Roland.

"You!" cries Oliver. "Your courage is too fiery. You would not fail to
get yourself into some difficulty. If the king permits it, I can very
well go."

"Neither you nor he," answers the emperor; "both of you hold your
peace. In that place not one of my twelve peers shall set his foot!"

At these words, every one keeps silence. However, Turpin rises from his
seat--Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims. He, in turn, asks for the glove
and staff; but Charles commands him to sit down, and not say another
word. Then addressing himself once more to his barons, he says, "Free
knights, will you not, then, tell me who shall carry my message to
Marsilion?"

And Roland answers: "Let it be my father-in-law, Ganelon." And the
French agreed, saying: "He is the man you want; for a more skilful one
you could not find."

Ganelon at these words falls into a horrible anguish. He lets slip from
his shoulders his great mantle of marten; his figure is imposing, and
shows well under his coat of silk. His eye sparkles with anger. "Fool!"
he says to Roland, "whence this madness? If God permits me to return,
the gratitude I owe thee shall end but with thy life!"

"I heed not your threatenings," answers Roland. "Pride takes away your
reason. A wise messenger is needed. If the emperor gives me leave, I
set out in your stead."

"Nay," replies Ganelon, "I go. Charles commands me, and I must obey
him; but I would fain delay my departure for a little season, were it
but to calm my anger."

Whereupon Roland began to laugh. Ganelon perceived it, and his fury
was redoubled, insomuch that he was well-nigh out of his senses. He
darted words of wrath at his son-in-law, and then, turning towards the
emperor, said: "Behold me ready to do your bidding. I see well that I
must go to Saragossa; and he who goes thither returns not. Sire, forget
not that I am the husband of your sister. Of her I have a son, the most
beautiful that could be seen. Baldwin will one day be brave. I leave to
him my fiefs and my domains. Watch over him, for never shall I see him
more!"

And Charles made answer: "You have too tender a heart. When I command
it, you must go. Draw near, Ganelon; receive the staff and gauntlet.
You have heard that our Franks have chosen you."

"No, sire, but it is Roland's work; therefore, I hate him--him and his
dear Oliver, and the twelve peers likewise, who love him so well! I
defy them all before your eyes!"

The emperor silences him, and commands him to depart. Ganelon
approaches to take the gauntlet from the hand of Charlemagne, but it
falls to the ground. Heavens! cry the French; what may this forebode?

"My lords," says Ganelon, "you will know by the tidings." He then turns
to the emperor for his dismissal, saying, "Since I must go, wherefore
delay?" Charles with his right hand makes him a sign of pardon, and
places in his hands a letter and the staff.

Ganelon, retiring, equips himself in preparation to depart, fastening
on his heels his beautiful gold spurs; and with his good sword Murgleis
at his side, he mounts his horse Tachebrun, while his uncle Guinemer
holds his stirrup. The knights of his house entreat him with tears to
let them accompany him. "God forbid!" he answers. "Better that I alone
should perish than cause the death of so many brave knights. Go home to
sweet France. Salute on my behalf my wife, and Pinabel, my friend and
comrade; likewise, Baldwin, my son. Aid him, serve him, and hold him
for your lord." Having said thus, he departed on his way.

He had not ridden far before he came up with the Saracen messengers;
Blancandrin, in order to wait for him, having slackened his pace. Then
began between them cautious words. It is Blancandrin who speaks first:
"What a marvellous man is this Charles! He has conquered Apulia,
Calabria, passed the sea, and acquired at St. Peter's the tribute of
the English; but what comes he to seek in our land of Spain?"

And Ganelon makes answer: "Thus his courage wills it. Never will any
man hold out before him!"

"The French," replies the other, "are an exceedingly brave people;
but these dukes and counts who give council to overturn and desolate
everything do great wrong to their lord."

"Of such I know but one," says Ganelon; "it is Roland, and he shall
repent him yet." Thereupon he relates that on a certain day, before
Carcassone, the emperor being seated in a shady meadow, his nephew came
to him, clad in his cuirass, and holding in his hand a rosy apple,
which he presented to his uncle, saying: "Behold, fair sire, of all the
kings in the world I offer you the crowns!" "This mad pride will end in
his ruin, seeing that every day he exposes himself to death. Welcome
will be the stroke that shall slay him! What peace would then be ours!"

"But," said Blancandrin, "this Roland, who is so cruel--this Roland,
who would have every king at his mercy, and take possession of their
dominions--by whose aid will he accomplish his design?"

"By the aid of the French," answered Ganelon. "They so greatly love
him that never will they suffer any fault to be laid at his door. All
of them, even to the emperor, march but at his will. He is a man to
conquer the world from hence to the far East."

By dint of talking as they rode along, they made a compact to work the
death of Roland. By dint of riding, they arrived at Saragossa, and
under a yew-tree they got down.

King Marsilion is in the midst of his Saracens. They keep a gloomy
silence, anxious to learn what news the messengers may bring.

"You are saved!" exclaims Blancandrin, advancing to the feet of
Marsilion, and holding Ganelon by the hand--"saved by Mahomet and
Apollo, whose holy laws we observe. Charles has answered nothing; but
he sends this noble baron, by whose mouth you shall learn whether you
will have peace or war."

"Let him speak," said the king.

Ganelon, after considering a moment, thus begins: "May you be saved
by the God whom we are all bound to adore! The will of the puissant
Charlemagne is this: you shall receive the Christian law; the half of
Spain will be given you in fief. If you refuse to accept these terms,
you shall be taken and bound, led to Aix, and condemned to a shameful
death."

At this discourse the king grows pale, and trembles with fury. His
golden javelin quivers in his hand; he is about to cast it at Ganelon,
but is held back. Ganelon grasps his sword, drawing it two fingers'
length out of the scabbard, and saying, "My beautiful sword! while you
gleam at my side, none shall tell our emperor that I fell alone in this
strange land; with the blood of the best you shall first pay for me."

The Saracens cry out: Let us hinder the combat. At their entreaties,
Marsilion, calming himself, resumed his seat. "What evil possesses
you?" said his uncle, the caliph, "that you would strike this Frenchman
when you ought to hear him?" And Ganelon, meanwhile, composed his
countenance, but kept his right hand still on the hilt of his sword.
The beholders said to themselves, "Truly, he is a noble baron!"

Gradually he draws nearer to the king, and resumes his discourse: "You
are in the wrong to be angry. Our king bestows upon you the half
of Spain; the other half being for his nephew Roland, an insolent
companion I admit; but if you do not agree to this, you will be
besieged in Saragossa, taken, bound, judged, and beheaded. Thus says
the emperor himself in his message to you." So saying, he places the
letter in the pagan's hands.

Marsilion, in a fresh access of rage, breaks the seal, and rapidly
glances over the contents. "Charles talks to me of his resentment!
He calls to mind this Basan, this Basil, whose heads flew off at my
bidding! To save my life, I am to send him my uncle, the caliph;
otherwise he listens to no terms!"

Upon this the king's son exclaims: "Deliver Ganelon to me, that I may
do justice upon him." Ganelon hears him, and brandishes his sword,
setting his back against a pine.

The scene suddenly changes. The king has descended into his garden; he
is calm, and walks with his son and heir, Jurfalen, in the midst of his
vassals. He sends for Ganelon, who is brought to him by Blancandrin.

"Fair Sire Ganelon," says the king, "it may be that I received you
somewhat hastily, and made as if I would have stricken you just now.
To make amends for this mistake, I present you with these sable furs.
Their value is more than five hundred pounds of gold. Before to-morrow,
still more costly ones shall also be yours."

"Sire, it is impossible that I should refuse, and may it please Heaven
to recompense you!"

Marsilion continues: "Hold it for certain, Sir Count, that it is my
desire to be your friend. I would speak with you of Charlemagne. He is
very old, it appears to me. I give him at least two hundred years; how
worn out, therefore, he needs must be! He has spent his strength in so
many lands, when will he be weary of warfare?"

"Never," said Ganelon, "so long as his nephew lives. Roland has not his
equal in bravery from hence to the far East. He is a most valiant man,
and so, likewise, is Oliver, his companion, and these twelve peers, so
dear to the emperor, who march at the head of twenty thousand knights.
Can you expect that Charles should know fear? He is more powerful than
any man here below!"

"Fair sire," replies Marsilion, "I, also, have my army, than which a
finer cannot be found. I have four hundred thousand knights wherewith
to give battle to Charles and his French."

"Trust it not at all," the other answers; "it will cost you dear,
as well as your men. Lay aside this rash boldness, and try a little
management instead. Give the emperor riches so great that our French
will be dazzled by them, and give him twenty hostages. He will then
return into the sweet land of France, leaving the rear-guard to follow,
in which, I trust, may be Count Roland and the valiant Oliver. Only
listen to my counsel, and, believe me, they are dead."

"Show me, fair sire (and may Heaven bless you for it!), how I may slay
Roland."

"I am well able to tell you. When once the emperor shall be in the
great defiles of Cisaire, he will be at a great distance from his
rear-guard. He will have placed in it his beloved nephew and Oliver,
in whom he so greatly confides, and with them will be twenty thousand
French. Send, then, a hundred thousand of your pagans. I do not in
any wise promise that in a first conflict, murderous as it will be to
those of France, there will not also be great slaughter of your men;
but a second engagement will follow, and, no matter in which, Roland
will there remain. You will have done a deed of exceeding bravery, and
through all the rest of your life you will have no more war. What could
Charles do without Roland? Would he not have lost the right arm of his
body? What would become of his wonderful army? He would never assemble
it more. He would lose his taste for warfare, and the great empire
would be restored to peace."

Scarcely has he done speaking, when Marsilion throws his arms round his
neck, and embraces him; then offers, without more delay, to swear to
him that he will betray Roland.

"Be it so, if so it please you," answers Ganelon; and upon the relics
of his sword he swears the treason, and completes his crime.

Marsilion, on his part, causes to be brought, on an ivory throne, the
book of his law, even the book of Mahomet, and swears upon it that, if
he can find Roland in the rear-guard, he will not cease fighting until
he has slain him.

Thereupon Valdabron, a Saracen, who was formerly the king's guardian,
draws near, and, presenting his sword, the best in the world, to
Ganelon, says: "I give you this for friendship's sake; only help us to
get rid of Roland, the baron."

"With all my heart." And they embrace.

Another, Climorin, brings him his helmet: "I never saw its like. Take
it, to aid us against Roland, the marquis."

"Most willingly," says Ganelon; and they also embrace.

Comes at last the queen, Bramimonde. She says to the count, "Sire, I
love you well, seeing that you are very dear to my lord and to all
his subjects. Take these bracelets to your wife. See what gold, what
amethysts and jacinths! Your emperor has none like these; they are
worth all the treasures of Rome!"

And Ganelon takes the jewels.

Marsilion then summons Mauduit, his treasurer. "Are the gifts prepared
for Charlemagne?"

"Sire, they are in readiness. Seven hundred camels laden with gold and
silver, and twenty hostages of the noblest under heaven."

Then, with his hand on Ganelon's shoulder, the king says to him:
"You speak fair and fine; but, by this law which you hold to be the
best, beware of changing purpose towards us." After this, he promises
that every year he will send him, as rent, ten mules laden with
gold of Arabia; he gives him the keys of Saragossa to be carried to
Charlemagne. "But, above all, see that Roland be in the rear-guard,
that we may surprise him, and give him mortal combat."

Ganelon replies, "It seems to me that I have already tarried here too
long." And he mounts his steed and departs.

At daybreak he reaches the emperor's quarters. "Sire," says he, "I
bring you the keys of Saragossa, twenty hostages, and great treasure;
let them be guarded well. It is Marsilion who sends them. As to the
caliph, marvel not because he does not come. With my own eyes I saw
him embark on the sea with three hundred thousand armed men; they were
all weary of the rule of Marsilion, and were going forth to dwell in
the midst of Christians; but at four leagues from the coast a furious
tempest overwhelmed them, so that all were drowned. If the caliph had
been living, I would have brought him hither. Believe me, sire, before
a month is over, Marsilion will have joined you in France; he will
receive the Christian law, and will, as your vassal, do you homage for
the kingdom of Spain."

"Then God be praised!" said Charles. "You have well delivered your
message, and it shall profit you well."

The clarions sound. Charles proclaims the war at an end. The soldiers
raise the camp; they load the sumpter horses; the army is in motion,
and on its way towards the sweet land of France. Nevertheless, the
day closes; the night is dark. Charlemagne sleeps. In a dream he sees
himself in the great defiles of Cisaire, with his lance of ash-wood in
his hand. Ganelon seizes hold of it, shaking it so violently that it
flies in pieces, and the splinters are scattered in the air.

                      TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

FOOTNOTES:

[131] "Taillefer, who excellently sang, Mounted upon a charger swift,
Before them went forth singing Of Charlemagne and Roland, Of Oliver and
of the vassals Who died at Roncevaux."

[132] The ancient MS. of Versailles, now in the possession of M.
Bourdillon, begins,

    "Challes li rois à la barbe grifaigne
    Sis ans toz plens a este en Espaigne," etc.,

the thirteen lines of the stanza all ending with the same rhyme.




LAUS PERENNIS.[133]


In the early days of emigration, before the industry of the Old World
had cut down the forests and muddied the streams of the New, a young
man sat at noontide by the banks of a river, an insignificant tributary
of one of those mighty veins that intersect the continent from Canada
to Florida. His face was a study. He had the features of the North,
with thick, fair hair and glittering blue eyes, but his form was
slighter, though not less sinewy, than a Saxon's. Nerves of steel
and a will of iron, generosity and self-sacrifice, the bravery of an
Indian and the fidelity of a dog--such was the tale revealed by his
exterior. His history was simple. He was the son of a petty farmer in
Normandy, and the foster-brother of the Baron de Villeneuve. He had
been brought up with the young baron, an only child, and had been his
companion in his studies as well as his sports. Every one noticed how
refined his manner was, how noble his bearing; and yet his village
friends never had reason to complain of any superciliousness in his
deportment towards them. His mother, feeling that his superiority
would be wasted if he remained in the groove in which it seemed his
natural destiny to travel, earnestly wished for a different career for
her favorite, and urged him to enter the priesthood. This he was too
conscientious to do, feeling no call to so high an office; and his
foster-brother, in his turn, warmly recommended the army. Napoleon was
then in the full blaze of his military glory, and merit might win the
metaphorical spurs of what remained as the substitute of knighthood,
without the weary delays of official routine. But the young Norman was
insensible to military glory. There was no fair damsel, with high cap
and ancestral gold necklace, with spinning-wheel and a dowry of snowy,
homespun linen, who had made his heart beat one second faster than
it had in childhood. If his foster-brother had had a sister, Robert
Maillard would have been the very man to have loved her as the knights
of old loved the lady of their dreams, hoping for no reward save a
knot of ribbon and a pitying glance of faint approval. He had read of
such love, and of fairies, elves, and witches, of impossible quests,
and of princely donations; but he felt that the world had changed,
and that these things could never be again. Strong and brave as he
was, he began life with a secret hopelessness, knowing that it could
never give him the only things he longed for. One day, in the midst
of his irresolution as to what work he should undertake, knowing all
work to be but a _passe-temps_ until eternity gave him the life he
coveted, an old sea captain made his appearance in the inland village,
and electrified the inhabitants by tales of discovery and adventure,
of which curious proofs were not wanting in the shape of carved idols
two inches long, mineral lumps of diminutive size, a string of wampum,
etc., etc., and, above all, a tame monkey. Robert listened to the
"ancient mariner" with delight, and, never having seen the ocean, was
suddenly fired by a wild wish to try his fortune across the Atlantic.
Here was a land as wild as the Armorican forests in the old tales
of chivalry and legends of monasticism--a virgin land of practical
freedom, where new empires might be carved by the strong and willing
hand, and new mines of knowledge laid open by the daring intellect. It
was not money that the simple Norman thought of; it was excitement,
adventure, vague possibilities, limitless solitudes where hermits and
hunters might live and dream. To leave Normandy was not exile to him;
to leave all those he loved was not separation; but do not think he was
heartless. He only lived in a shadow-world of high, heroic deeds, and
the commonplaces of bucolic life palled upon him. Instinct bade him
seek something beyond home, with its petty interests; and never slow to
execute his resolutions, once they were formed, he bargained with the
old sailor to take him to America as soon as he recrossed the ocean.
From his father he received his portion of the scanty inheritance due
to him, and left home as the prodigal--so said his weeping mother. His
foster-brother loaded him with weapons of all kinds, and forced upon
him clothes enough to last a lifetime in a country where fashion seldom
changed. The first sight of the ocean was a poem to Robert. He thought
of the galleys of the Crusaders, as they sailed to the Land of Promise;
of Columbus and his unbelieving crew on their perilous way to the land
of faith. The glorious western sunsets awoke a new feeling in the heart
of the adventurer; he felt that this new "Ultima Thule" was the land of
the poet as well as of the warrior, and that its majesty, its serene
massiveness, should be, not the prey of murderous passion, but the
field of a new-born art. Here was a land whose history, if it had any,
had been blotted out, but whose immortal beauty was a picture of the
lost Eden--the true home of enthusiasm, the virgin parchment on which
to write a new hymn to the God whom its beauty revealed almost in a new
light. Such were not the thoughts of most pilgrims to the New World; if
they had been, people would have said that the millennium had come.

A Sir Galahad walks the earth but once in a century, and he has no
compeers. Such was our Robert. Why does the world call those men
_dreamers_ whose ideal is the only true reality, while the life of the
world around them is one long nightmare?

Robert's life, after he had landed in one of the old sea-coast cities,
was a checkered one. He fled from the civilization that had stifled
him at home, and which he saw with dismay roughly reproduced in the
communities of the sea-board; he found few men whose talk did not jar
upon him; even in the wilderness, when he came to a log-cabin, he
heard the oaths of low city haunts; in pastoral settlements, he found
no pastoral innocence; and even among the friendly Indians they asked
him for spirits, when he would have spoken of God. Discouraged and
oppressed, he persisted in setting his face ever westward, till at last
he came to a river, as it seemed to him; a brook, as it would figure
on the map. He wondered if man had ever been here before, but smiled
to himself the moment after, knowing that the red man, the natural
possessor of this princely inheritance, must have often breathed his
prayer to the Great Spirit by the banks of this stream. He began to
think how useless the discovery of this new continent had been, since
hitherto the country had been but a new field for the white man's sins,
a new theatre for the red man's sorrows. He fell to thinking of his own
far-off ancestors, roaming morass and forest, like these sturdy men
of bronze, hunting the deer, and wolf, and bear, like them, painting
their bodies like them, worshipping bloody gods of war, rearing
children indefatigable on sea and land--Scandinavian vikings, fair,
and ruddy, and golden-haired, each man a chief in stature, and their
chiefs giants. How like the race that still lorded it over these new
realms! But God's messengers had come among the Norsemen and daunted
their fierceness, turned their vices into virtues, and leavened, with a
true and manly, a Christian, civilization, their hardy, freedom-loving
tribes. Robert knew of the many efforts of the missionaries among the
Indians; but he knew, also, that it was the evildoing of the whites
that made these efforts so fruitless. It seemed as if wherever the
human race set foot it must disturb God's working; and in sudden
disgust at his kind, he vowed never willingly to enter again any
community of whites. Commerce was imposition, respectability was
hypocrisy, civilization was cruelty. "God and my dreams alone remain,"
he cried; "with them I will walk, and forget that any other building
exists save a church; that there is any language save prayer; any human
beings save God's worthy ministers!" Before long, the scent of the
pines and cedars lulled him to sleep, and, happy in his isolation, he
did not resist the drowsiness that, by the banks of Norman streamlets,
had often preceded the sweetest moments of his life.

Soon the pines began to sing in the strong wind that rocked them, and
the song shaped itself into a hymn of praise, the words seeming to
echo the form of David's psalm: "Then shall all the trees of the wood
rejoice before the face of the Lord, for he cometh.... Praise him, ye
strong winds that fulfil his word; ... fruitful trees and all cedars."

A voice came out of the rocks, as if wafted over miles of space,
and, mingling with the song of the pines, chanted with it, "The
treasure-house of the Lord is in the stones of the earth; from my
bosom flow the rivers of life-giving waters"; and gently the sound
of tinkling rivulets was added to the deep song of praise. It seemed
as if all creation, bent upon doing the task respectively allotted
to each of its parts, had met in conclave round that obscure Western
river, before the tribunal of a sleeping mortal. As the shadows grew
darker, the howl of wild beasts was heard, inexplicably free from
the impression of terror, and strangely fitting in with the hymn of
inanimate nature. At twilight, a concert of sweet scents rose from the
earth, and vaporous clouds bore up the prayer of the fruitful soil, a
gentle sound, as of crystal bells, accompanying the sacrifice.

"Let your prayer arise before me as an evening offering," came faintly
from somewhere, and the cry of myriads of insects rose to greet
the echo. Nothing seemed discordant. Robert, as it were, heard the
world-pulse beat, and yet was neither appalled nor astonished; it was
the same voice, whose whispers he knew, which was speaking to him now,
only it spoke aloud. A moaning sound, muffled and sad, but grave as the
voice of a teacher, now rose above the others, and the sleeper knew
that it was that of the ocean:

"The floods have lifted up their waves with the voices of many waters.
Wonderful are the surges of the sea; wonderful is the Lord on high."

Robert thought how true and how grand was this remorseless servant of
the Almighty will. It does its work though fleets brave its decrees,
and science peers into its secrets like a child feebly grasping a
two-edged sword. It obeys God, and its work, not its voice, is its hymn
of praise. But there is another mighty angel at work in the heavens,
and the trumpet-tones of his voice ring in the thunder behind those
fast-coming clouds. Tawny gold and ashen gray, like the shroud of a
fallen world, those clouds sweep up on the horizon; blades of light
rend them for a moment, and a livid radiance darts into every crevice
of the forest; the song of the pines is hushed, and the hymn of the
storm peals out:

"Holy and terrible is thy name.... Fire shall go forth before
thee; ... thy lightnings shine upon the world; ... for thou art
fearfully magnified!"

A cathedral of ice seems to grow suddenly out of the pine forest; the
trees are turned to crystal pinnacles, a world of untrodden snow lies
all around, and within the silence of the grave. Rose- lights
play on the fairy turrets, and turn the ice-pillars to amber and topaz.
More sublime than any dream of mediæval enchantment, Robert gazes
spellbound on this crowning marvel, and, though no articulate words
strike his ear, he is conscious of a life permeating this realm of
silence; of a link with all other creatures of God, which, if it spoke,
would utter the words that well spontaneously from his own heart:

"Thy knowledge is become too wonderful for me.... Whither shall I go
from thy spirit, and whither shall I flee from thy face?"

But he is no idle gazer, treating the world as a show; he is a
disciple--the Dante of Nature, led by her to the song-halls of her
everlasting concert, taught by her that all things have a voice to
glorify God and a mission to execute for him. He may not stay in the
heart of the pole, for other lessons are all around him, and the time
to learn them is so short--never more than a hundred years, seldom even
the third of that time!

The silent world melts from sight, and the earth seems to recede;
the blue vault of heaven is nearer; a rushing sound, so awful that
his humanity shudders at it, yet so beautiful that it deadens the
remembrance of the gentle sounds of the pine-trees, the crystal
flower-bells, the wind, and even the rolling of the sea, wraps his
being into itself, and holds him in its mighty spell. Worlds of light
flash by him; of their size he knows naught, of their qualities less;
but their radiance seems to him the face of God, "which no man can look
upon and live," while their voice is as that of a thousand cataracts,
each ringing forth a separate and harmonious note. "The heavens
declare the glory of God, and the firmament proclaimeth the works of
his hands." Did these words come out of the sound, or were they in
his own heart, and did the sound draw them into itself, as the great
ocean would draw back to its bosom some lonely fragment of its realm,
stranded for a moment by the last wave that kissed the shore? Robert
could not tell. He scarcely breathed. He would fain have kept this
vision for ever; he trembled at the idea of leaving a world after which
his own would look like a hive of bees, and whose sounds were so potent
that all the sounds of earth, massed together in one, would barely
seem a whisper in comparison. But his pilgrimage was not a reward,
not even a trial; it was only an apprenticeship. Hardly a transition,
save the coming of dawn and a consciousness of some void, and again
Robert gazed upon familiar scenes of earth. The sun's forerunner was
flushing the sky, and a wall of living water stood before him. He
watched intently; no sound came to his ears. Yet he could see the
coronal of rainbow-tinted foam rising at the feet of the cataract, and
felt as if this must be the very passage through which God's people
of old had come dry-shod in the bed of the sea. As he stood below,
breathlessly waiting, the crown of the waterfall quivered with a new
light, and the sun a crimson disk, rose slowly into sight. It seemed
as though a bleeding Host were lifted up to heaven in a chalice of
living jewels. A murmur began to rise from the clouds of spray; it grew
louder and stronger, and Robert knew that the voice of the cataract had
reached his ears at last. It was but a faint echo of that ineffable
hymn of the spheres which rang yet in his memory, but it was none the
less the sublimest sound he had heard on earth. Vaguely came to his
understanding a fragment of its meaning:

"Glory to the Power whose breath has built us into a wall, and whose
breath could hurl us like a flood over the corn-fields of man."

When Adam disobeyed God in Eden, this cataract was already thousands
of years old, and for ages had done God's bidding, calm as eternity,
regular as the course of the planets. Robert pondered on this sublime
obedience of all strong things to the law of the Creator, while man,
the weakest of creation, thought it a shame to follow any will but
his own. But even as he stood thinking, the earth seemed to tremble
beneath him, and he sank gently into its heaving bosom. A darkness that
bred more awe than terror encompassed him, and he felt that he was in
the presence of one of God's most dreaded ministers. Strange thunders
echoed around him, and a bewildered consciousness of some mysterious
agency being about him came to his wondering spirit. Out of the
darkness grew a twilight, in which objects began to be distinguishable;
precious ore glistened on the face of the rocks; metals and jewels,
heaped in confusion, met his eye; silver daggers hung within reach of
his hand, like bosses from a Gothic roof; columns of sparkling minerals
shot up like enchanted trees by his side; while the plashing of
fountains, the rushing of lava-rivers, and the dull, perpetual thunder
of ascending flames reached his ear--a dusky kingdom, awful in the
force it suggested, but hushed and chained by a power greater still;
a silent kingdom, the workshop of nature, where our dreamer feared
but to tread, lest a volcano might be set in motion on the earth, or
an earthquake overwhelm a score of cities. But not before hearing the
_credo_ of this mighty world could he leave its regions; it smote upon
him from out the roar of a furnace, whence a stream of blinding light
ran slowly into a rocky channel. Molten iron flowed at his feet, and a
voice sang in his ear:

"The earth is the Lord's; the compass of the world, and all that dwell
therein."

Like hammer-blows came the dread words; no spirit in living shape was
near, yet a living presence seemed to glow in each fiery stream or
glittering rock: the guidance of a will that, millions of ages ago,
spoke one creative word, was enough to lead the revolutions and point
the unerring road of this grim realm till time should be no more.

Slowly the walls of darkness dissolved, and the hard floor of metals
turned to a fine white powder, soft yet firm; trees grew up, but they
were white as with hoar-frost; and a marvellous vegetation sprang into
being, the mosses swaying to and fro, the flowers moving from rock to
rock, the fields of greenest grass swaying as if with animal life.
Jewels hung from the fairy rocks, but they closed a strong grip on the
finger that touched them; pearls lay scattered on the sandy floor, and
back and forth fled swift creatures all lace and film, like animated
cobwebs. Robert felt, by instinct, that as he had visited the bowels of
the earth, so now he was roaming the garden of the ocean. In reverent
wonder he paused, looking upward as if to the sky; and in the liquid
firmament wandering stars of fitful radiance shone out upon him. They
came now singly, now in strings like the milky way, or again in fields,
as if a flag had been studded with glow-worms. As he could not tell
why in the heart of volcanic fires he had been neither stifled nor
consumed, so now he knew not why he was not drowned; but with the water
veiling everything around, dripping in the coral caves, beating against
the rocks, stirring the living petals of millions of sea-flowers, he
stood upright, waiting for the voice that must swell the everlasting
song. It rose at first, as though muffled by the water, grew stronger
and clearer, till, in a tone of triumph, it gave forth its glad pæan:

"Bless the Lord, all ye seas and floods; ... all that move in the
waters; ... ye dragons of the deep."

"Is man, then, the only rebel in creation," Robert thought sadly, "the
only ungrateful one, who thinks it a loss of time to sing the praises
of God?" And an answer seemed to knock at his heart, saying:

"Work is prayer, work is song."

Again the sea-walls broke, the jewel-flowers disappeared, and a change
came over the dreamer. Snowy mountains; fleecy peaks, purple-shadowed
where the sunset light caught their sides; level horizons of gold,
suggesting far lands of miraculous radiance; banks of crimson by dun
oceans, seeming the grave of a thousand worlds; a solitude oppressive
and sublime; a silence which not even the riving asunder of the gray
mountain or dissolving of the tawny shore into the ocean of blue can
break--such was the new scene on which Robert gazed. Entranced with
its beauty, he told himself that this was lovelier than even the
ice-cathedral amid the soundless world of snow; and here would he
fain build him a home, and wander out his pilgrimage; for "this is the
threshold of heaven." Now the sun came from behind the translucent
masses, and left streaks of opal and amethyst where his footprints had
pressed the fleecy snow; and the dreamer started as the device of this
world of amazing beauty and absolute obedience flashed into his eyes
from out the great, golden heart of the sun. Here there was no voice,
as elsewhere; but the words were burned into Robert's mind as he gazed
at the mighty orb:

"He has set his tabernacle in the sun; hereafter ye shall see the Son
of man sitting at the right hand of the power of God, and coming in the
clouds of heaven."

No sooner had the dreamer gathered this new verse of the world-song
into his memory, than the mountains and plains, the valleys and the
sea, began to dissolve in mist. He stretched out his hands imploringly,
as if to stay the wondrous vision in its flight; but he struck at empty
air, and sank gently towards the earth. An echo from afar wafted him an
answer, which seemed a promise that the cloud-land would receive him
once more at some distant day, but the words were rather a command than
an encouragement:

"Work is prayer, work is song."

And now a scene broke upon his sight, which made him think he was back
among the apple-orchards and smiling farms of Normandy--a fair and
tranquil scene: wide meadows, with flocks of kine grazing, fields of
corn ripe for the sickle, and orchards, round which girls and boys
were frolicking in holiday costume. Beyond that was a village of white
huts and a church all of wood, its porch hung with evergreens, and a
wedding-party grouped beneath; and through the landscape the same
river on whose banks Robert thought he had fallen asleep once years
ago, when it flowed through the heart of the primeval forest. Higher
up in the distance were still the old pine-woods; but there was much
timber felled, and great rafts were paddled down the stream, laden with
the wealth of the forest. Robert knew that civilization had come to
this spot with a cross in its hand instead of a sword, and baptismal
dews instead of "fire-water." He saw the bronzed, athletic men of
the New World working like brothers side by side with the stalwart,
golden-haired pilgrims from the Old; and he looked around to see who
had thus brought about that which his former experience had sadly told
him was an impossibility. Just then there rose a chant from the village
church:

"Sing to the Lord a new song. Offer up the sacrifice of justice and
hope in the Lord, ... who showeth us good things.... By the fruit
of their corn, and wine, and oil are they multiplied"; while from
the fields where the red man and the white toiled together rose an
answering chorus: "Behold how good and pleasant it is for brethren
to dwell together in unity." Then from the church came a long file
of dark-robed men, with cowls of ancient make, like those that the
Norman boy had seen carved on the monuments of the abbots in his own
land--nay, his own village (for Villeneuve had once belonged to the
Benedictines)--and they marched in slow procession to a spot of ground
a mile beyond the gathering of white huts.

Here a large area was marked out in the shape of a cross, the outline
being drawn in wreaths of gaily- autumn leaves. Many Indians
stood round the enclosure, and one old chief kept in his hands a
quantity of wampum belts. Opposite him was a man of athletic build,
nearly seventy years old, in whom Robert thought he saw a great
likeness to himself as he might become in a happy and prosperous old
age. The chief of the dark-robed men lifted up his voice, and addressed
this figure:

"Robert Maillard"--and the dreamer started to hear his own name--"this
day you end a noble work; you crown a life worthy to be held in
remembrance for ever. You came to this spot a wanderer without an aim,
at war with man, almost despairing of God. You stand here, after half
a century has gone over your head, the father of your people, the
benefactor of two races, the founder, so to speak, of a new kingdom.
You crown the sacrifice of a lifetime used in God's service by a free
gift of your choicest possession to his everlasting majesty. To all
ages will a school of holy discipline and of sacred song plead for
you at the throne of God, and the _laus perennis_ of holy lives shall
represent the ceaseless hymn of inanimate creation to its Lord."

Then the old man turned to the Indian chief, and called him. "My
brother," he said, "I have only given to God what you gave me; without
a fair title to your land, I durst not have offered it to the God whose
eldest child on this side of the sea is the red man; and half the
blessing which this reverend minister of our Lord has promised me falls
to your share."

"My pale-faced brother speaks words of justice and of wisdom," answered
the chief; "his God shall be my God, and his people my people, because
his faith has taught him truth and honesty towards his red brother. The
black-robe hath spoken well, and Great Eagle is glad to hear him praise
the friend of his people, and he who hath taught the Indian maidens to
sing the song of the stars and the clouds."

So saying, he laid at the priest's feet a wampum belt; and as each
ceremony of the laying of a first stone was completed, he laid down
another, as if ratifying the compact after the manner of his people.
The dreamer stood apart in silent wonder; the dark-robed choir intoned
the psalm _Lauda Jerusalem_:

"Praise the Lord, O Jerusalem! Praise thy God, O Sion!"

"For he hath strengthened the bars of thy gates; he hath blessed thy
children within thee.

"He hath made peace within thy borders, and filleth thee with the
fatness of corn."

At last the procession turned back towards the white church, and all
the people, Indians as well as white men, joined its ranks. Robert
followed last of all, and an echo to the song of joy and praise rose
from his enlightened heart, whispering:

"Work is prayer, work is song."

He looked around; he knew the spot well; a little higher up the stream
was the place where he had rested at noontide, before his eyes were
opened to the true mission allotted him in life. He knew that this was
the warning, which, if he neglected it, would make of him no longer an
innocent dreamer, but a useless vagabond, a rebellious creature of God.
If poetry and beauty, truth and honesty, were things of the past, it
was at least the duty of every Christian to do what he could to make
them once more things of the present. No man who owed allegiance to the
great Maker of all things could go idly through life, a vain mourner
over an impossible ideal; he must bear his share of work, and do his
utmost to build up anew the spiritual temple of truth. And he, above
all, who had been led through the secret treasure-houses of nature,
and had listened to the ceaseless hymn of praise which the creatures of
God sang as they followed the immutable laws set down for them by their
Lord--he, above all, dared not stand still nor refuse the tribute of
his voice. He would not be an alien among his brethren, the children
of God. With these thoughts, he slowly followed the crowd as it filled
the little church, and broke out again into strains of solemn gladness,
singing:

"Now dost thou dismiss thy servant in peace, O Lord, according to thy
word; for my eyes have seen thy salvation."

The song grew fainter, and the multitude seemed to dissolve before his
eyes, as Robert, standing up, gazed around him. Everywhere the primeval
forest hemmed him in; the river flowed at his feet, clogged with mossy
boulders, and fringed with delicate fern; the squirrels rattled in the
trees with a sound like castanets; and the silvery disk of the moon was
just visible over the tree-tops. The young wanderer knew that he had
slept for many hours; but he awoke a new being. Reverently he gazed
upon the silent landscape, to which a fellowship beyond the expression
of human tongues now bound him; and, as he repeated slowly the prayers
that he had said at his mother's knee in the old Norman homestead,
he felt that at last his life's work had been pointed out to him.
He had read the pages of a book more wonderful than the romances of
troubadours, the tales of the Minnesingers, and even the chronicles
of olden abbeys; he had heard how the world was bound by a chain of
song, never ceasing, never wearying; and henceforth his frail human
life must not mar this awe-inspiring harmony; his heart must throb with
the world's heart, his voice sing in unison with the great voice of
creation. Night passed, and he scarcely slept; morning came, and found
him still in his holy rapture. Before long, an Indian approached him--a
tall and stately son of the forest, one still uncorrupted by the thinly
veiled heathenism of the white "children of the sun." He had never seen
a white man, though he had often heard of them. Robert knew a little
of some of the Indian tongues, but not that of the new-comer. What
with signs and a few words akin to those which the Indian spoke, they
gradually made friends; but the red man still gazed upon Robert with an
awe not unmixed with terror. He handled his weapons and his garments,
touched reverentially his fair and tangled locks, and at intervals drew
long breaths of astonishment and admiration. He then led him to the
assembly of his tribe, and Robert soon learnt enough of their language
to be able to speak fluently with them. He told them how he came there,
and spoke to them of the true God; and, though at first they listened
quietly, they soon grew grave. They had heard of the cruelty and
treachery of white men, who all professed to believe in this true God,
and they dared not trust to this teaching.

Then Robert had a happy inspiration. He told them of his dream, and
they brightened up at once; this was language such as they loved to
hear; these were parables such as they instinctively understood. He
told them of his life in Normandy, of his journey across the great salt
water, of his longings after a beautiful land of brotherly love, such
as had been shown to him in his dream. He asked them to help him in his
work for God.

We cannot dwell longer on the details of the story of this settlement
in the wilderness, but some things must be briefly touched upon. In
due time, the Indian tribe gave Robert a grant of many miles of land,
and he, in return, promised them protection, justice, equality, and
peace. One priest at first, then gradually others, came to preach the
Gospel; and the path of truth was exceptionally smooth in this strange
oasis. Robert called his settlement by a name which few at first
could understand--Perpetual Praise. Parts of the forest were cleared;
a thriving lumber trade was established; cottages sprang up; many
emigrants from fair Normandy flocked in, yet settlers of other lands
were all welcomed as brothers; a civilization that was rather that of
the monastery than of the factory sprang up, and Indians and whites
worshipped God side by side in joy and peace.

As years went by, Robert took an Indian wife, and loved her as
faithfully as though she had been the princess of some chivalric
romance: he had found his ideal at last. Sometimes--it was impossible
that it should be otherwise--there would be a ripple of adversity over
the smooth waters of this pastoral life; crime might throw a shadow
on the settlement; but peace was promptly restored, and Robert became
known as the justest and most merciful judge for hundreds of miles
around. He was the arbiter and referee of every feud, the father of
his colony, the terror of evil-doers. Over his house-door--a wide,
open-armed porch where his Indian sons, with locks of bronze, played
the games of infant Samsons at his feet--was carved in crimson letters
this brave motto:

"Work is prayer, work is song."

As his years advanced, he grew more thoughtful yet. One idea remained
unrealized; and now that the settlement had had a life almost as long
as the third of a century, he felt that it was time to begin the new
and crowning work. He negotiated with the Benedictine abbeys of France,
and held out hopes to them of the free gift of at least five hundred
acres of land for the foundation of a priory of their order, together
with a school of missionaries for the Indians, and for the revival of
sacred chant--a study Robert had greatly at heart. He received very
favorable answers and, before he died, he saw the wish of his heart in
a fair way to be accomplished.

The day of the arrival of the first Benedictine monks was a festival
throughout the settlement. Indian and European decorations vied with
each other; beads, feathers, flags, lanterns of painted birch-bark,
flowers strewn on the paths, wreaths hung from tree to tree, all
represented but poorly the heartfelt enthusiasm of the people. In a few
months, the old chant of the church in the early ages echoed through
the woods and corn-fields of the New World; the Divine Office was sung
in the intervals of agricultural labor; seven times a day did the bells
utter their summons to prayer, yet the fields and flocks thrived none
the less for this continuous intercession. The boys of red and white
race mingled their locks of black and gold, poring over the books of
church psalmody; the maidens and matrons joined in from their seats in
the body of the church. The wilderness became populous, great artists
came to sketch the stately figures of the monks and the innocent faces
of the choristers as they moved from choir to ploughed field, from
school to pasture; curious folks came to visit the little spot of land
where a great experiment had been tried and had not failed; musicians
came to seek rest for their minds and inspiration for their art; poets
came to describe the new Arcadia, and holy men to praise God in the
temple where such great graces had been conferred.

Robert Maillard began to fear that such publicity would endanger the
very perfection which was the theme of admiration, and with redoubled
fervor did he pray for his beloved work. As last came a day when
he knew that his earthly task was over; like a patriarch among his
people, he gathered the heads of the little community around him, and
blessed them, exhorting them to persevere in the happy and innocent
life of "Perpetual Praise." His wife knelt at his feet, his sons stood
around him, and one of them led by the hand a young child, whose eyes
were Indian eyes, but whose skin was nearly as fair as that of her
grandfather.

The Benedictine monks stood around Robert's bedside, chanting the
Divine Office; but suddenly the dying man raised his hands to heaven,
and, mingling his voice with the song of Compline, called out clearly
and joyously, as if in answer to some interior voice: "I come, O Lord!
Work has been prayer; be it now song."

FOOTNOTES:

[133] It was the custom in many of the monasteries of the VIth and
VIIth centuries, especially those of the rule of S. Columba, for
the monks to be divided into choirs, alternately officiating in the
church, and by means of which the divine praises were uninterruptedly
sung during the whole twenty-four hours. The "Perpetual Adoration"
is the only similar institution in our day, and the small number of
communities accounts for the discontinuance of the custom.




ENGLISH SKETCHES.


II.

RUINS OF AN OLD ABBEY.

In the year of grace 1121, Henry I. was reigning in England. On the
sudden death of his brother, William Rufus, he had seized the crown,
which devolved by right on the next elder brother, Robert of Normandy,
Robert being just then absent in the Holy Land, where, by military
exploits of high renown and sweet courtesy of manner, he was winning
the hearts of his soldiers and of Christendom. Hearing how things
were going in England, he set sail in haste for Normandy; and there
calling a fleet together, he steered towards Dover, where the usurper,
apprised of his arrival, stood with an army drawn up upon the shore
awaiting him. For three days and nights the brothers stood at bay,
like two tigers ready to fly at one another's throats, but neither
daring to strike the first blow in their fratricidal war. Presently
we see gliding high up along the cliffs a venerable figure, clad in
priestly garb, and bearing an olive branch in his hand. His name is
Anselm. He has been roughly handled by Rufus, and has little kindness
to expect from his successor. But Anselm heeds not his own interest or
his life; he goes boldly forward, and with outstretched hand entreats
the brothers to desist from their bloody intent, to exchange the kiss
of peace, and settle their quarrel as became men and Christians. They
hearkened to the voice of the saintly primate. This was his first
service to Henry, and it was quickly followed by others so numerous
and so important that the scholarly king, moved partly by gratitude,
and partly by a desire to atone for certain of his own and his
predecessor's misdemeanors towards the church, resolved, in 1121, to
build a monastery which should be one of the glories of his reign, and
bear witness to the end of time to his devout allegiance to the faith.
With this view he built the Benedictine Abbey of Reading. It was on
so royal a scale, both of magnitude and architectural splendor, that
even now, in their utter dilapidation, the fragments of the cyclopean
ruins give us no inadequate idea of what it must have been in the days
of its strength and glory. The gigantic skeleton walls, as they stand
out gaunt and ragged against the sky, resemble rather rocks than the
remains of the work of puny human hands. The style was in the massive
and lofty Norman Gothic of the period, as may be seen from the few bold
arches that have withstood alike the ravages of time, the artillery of
Cromwell, and modern depredations. The abbey was one of the wealthiest
in the kingdom, and the mitred abbot was counted among the notable
authorities of the land. He not only took rank with the highest nobles,
but he enjoyed, likewise, many of the supreme prerogatives of royalty;
he was privileged to coin money, and to confer the honor of knighthood.
He exercised hospitality to kings and princes, and that right royally.
King Henry, the founder, was a frequent guest at the monastery with
his court, who were entertained there for weeks at a time with regal
magnificence. The king was extremely fond of the abbey and the monks,
and made it his custom to spend Holy Week there every year. After
performing his Paschal duties in company with his family and his court,
and passing the solemn week in fasting and prayer, he celebrated the
joyful Easter dawn with a festive merriment, in which all the town was
invited to join. Bonfires blazed on every surrounding hill, ale ran
in the gutters, the poor were clad and fed, and all within reach of
the royal bounty felt the joy of the Paschal alleluia. Queen Adeliza
shared her husband's partiality for this lordly monastic retreat, and
at various festivals through the year repaired to it, sometimes with
her son, sometimes only with her women-in-waiting. When Henry died of
overindulgence in his favorite dish of lampreys, at Rouen, he directed
that his heart should remain there, but that his body should rest
under the roof of his beloved Benedictine abbey. After his demise, it
still continued to be a royal residence, and was often frequented by
Henry II., who held a parliament there for the first time in 1184--an
example which was followed repeatedly in the course of the succeeding
reigns; the calm of the cloister offering a fitter atmosphere for grave
deliberation to the law-makers than the hall of Westminster, disturbed
as it was by courtly intrigues and political agitations. In 1452,
Parliament was adjourned to Reading Abbey from Westminster, on account
of the sudden outbreak of the plague, and later, in 1466, for the same
reason. It was the scene of other meetings not devoid of historical
importance. Here the Patriarch of Jerusalem, Heraclius, visited Henry
II., and presented him with the keys of the Holy Sepulchre and the
royal banners of the city, in hopes of luring him to undertake another
crusade for the deliverance of the holy places.

Henry III. passed more of his time at Reading Abbey than at any of his
own palaces; here he convoked assemblies of the nobles, and received
brother princes and European guests of distinction. It was in the west
hall of the monastery that Edward IV. received his fair young queen,
Elizabeth Widville. In this same hall Longchamp, Bishop of Ely, who
had the regency in the absence of Richard Cœur de Lion in Palestine,
was put upon his trial. Two other ecclesiastical councils were held
here in the reign of John. When Richard II., through the intervention
of John of Gaunt, was reconciled to his nobles, he chose Reading Abbey
as the ground of meeting. So it continued, up to the reign of Henry
VIII., the resort of kings, and nobles, and prelates, until that
ruthless despoiler passed an act for the suppression of monasteries,
and converted the sacred precincts into a palace for his own sole
use. The monks were scattered, and their brave and loyal abbot, Hugh
Farringdon, having dared to denounce the iniquitous edict and defy
the king, was sentenced to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. With him
closes the line of the Benedictine abbots. It is curious to see Henry
VIII., after thus uprooting the church in his dominions, plundering
her treasure, and persecuting her in every way, leaving a large sum of
money in his will for "Masses to be said for the deliverance of his
soul." He had made it high treason to hold the doctrine of purgatory,
or to pray for the dead; and the act of saying Mass was punishable with
death. He had overturned altars and banished priests; yet, when he came
to die himself, he turned, in abject and cowardly fear, towards the
church that he had so outraged, and besought her help in his extremity.
Speaking of this act of Henry's, which throws such a sinister light on
his fanatical hatred to Catholicism, and his violent enforcement of
the "reformed religion," as it was styled, Hume, whose statements are
as accurate as his views are false, remarks naïvely that it is a proof
of the tenacity of superstition on the human mind, and says that it
was one amongst so many of "the strange contrarieties of his conduct
and temper," that he who had "destroyed those foundations made by his
ancestors for the deliverance of _their_ souls," should when it came to
be the hour of death "take care to be on the safer side of the question
himself." At the time of the dissolution, the revenues in money of this
royal abbey did not exceed the small sum of £675 a year. Its wealth
consisted not in accumulated riches, but in lands, and fisheries,
and flocks, and herds. Many English sovereigns had bequeathed their
dust to the consecrated shelter of Reading Abbey; amongst others, the
Empress Matilda, wife of Henry I., and mother of Henry II., had been
interred in its vaults. Their ashes found no mercy at the hands of
the infuriated fanatics, who seemed bent on erasing from the face of
the country every vestige of its ancient faith. The majestic pile,
which had witnessed so many royal marriages, and echoed to the dirges
of so many sovereigns, fell before the cannon of Cromwell, planted on
Caversham hill. The beautiful church of S. Thomas à Becket, where the
unfortunate Charles I., with a little band of his trusty cavaliers,
had halted and knelt in prayer for protection against the mad soldiery
before whom they fled, fared no better than the rest. The walls that
still exist bear traces at every point of this savage act of vandalism.
What the fury of the Roundheads left unfinished the more recent vandals
have completed. The ruins have been plundered of every vestige of
stone-facing; and those immense blocks that gave the old pile, even
in its decay, such an air of imperishable strength and grandeur were,
at great cost of labor and money, torn away and carried to Windsor,
to serve in building the Poor Knights' Hospital. Some were condemned
to the more ignoble use of erecting a bridge over the Wargrave Road.
It is difficult to go beyond mere speculation in fixing the spots
illustrated by so many memorable associations in the history of the
old abbey. There can be no mistake, however, about the Chapter Hall,
where the parliaments were held, and where kings and prelates feasted.
There is a tradition that after the battle of Newbury, Charles I. and
all his troops were daily fed for a considerable time in the refectory
of the monks, one wall alone of which is now standing, but which quite
justifies the supposition of this wholesale hospitality when we see the
area formerly occupied by the apartment. The site of the church is also
discernible, but the relative positions of the altars, transepts, and
nave are but dimly suggested by the broken bases of the four enormous
pillars that supported the towering dome. The present beautiful little
Catholic church, with its adjoining presbytery, is built entirely
from the ruins, so cruelly dismantled by successive goths. But all
their efforts have failed to obliterate the royal aspect of the
wreck, or to rob it of its air of immortality. The walls are built of
sharp, small flint, imbedded in mortar that has now become as hard as
iron--a circumstance which we may hope will put an end to any further
devastation, as the tools of the workmen break like glass in the effort
to penetrate it and dislodge the flint.

A fact that added to Reading Abbey a higher kind of interest than
any earthly privilege can convey was that it possessed the hand of
S. James the Apostle--a relic which had been brought from Germany
to France by the Empress Matilda, and given by her to her father,
Henry I., who presented it to the Benedictine monks encased in a rich
shrine of gold, where devout worshippers came from great distances to
venerate it. When the dissolution of monastic orders was decreed, the
sacred relics which each community possessed were secreted in secure
places, and often defended from outrage at the peril and sacrifice of
life; but no mention is anywhere to be found of similar precautions
being employed in the case of the famous Benedictine treasure. The
Roundheads desecrated the tombs of the kings, and threw to the winds
the bones of the monks who slept in the vaults around them; but we
find no trace of insult offered to the hand of S. James, nor is any
notice taken of it in the local chronicles of Reading from this time
forth. There was a vague rumor of its having been conveyed to a convent
in Spain; but no evidence of the slightest description supports this
notion. About seventy years ago, some workmen, employed in breaking
down a portion of the walls, came upon a small wooden box containing
a human hand; it was bought as a curiosity for a mere trifle by a
physician of the town, and after a while, we know not how or wherefore,
it found its way to the Museum of the Polytechnic, where it remained
until that institution was broken up; then the hand was transferred
to the Athenæum, in Friar Street. Meantime, the circumstance of the
discovery had travelled far beyond Berks, and some devout persons,
believing this could be none other than the lost relic of S. James,
offered considerable sums for it; but, for some reason that we can
neither discover nor surmise, these offers were declined, and the hand
remained "amongst other nick-nacks" to which some interest, historical
or otherwise, was attached. Finally, the vicissitudes of fortune
carried it to a shop-window, where it was long to be seen under a glass
case so insecurely guarded that any expert thief might easily have
purloined it. A Scotch Catholic gentleman saw it here, and offered
fifty pounds for it. It was sold to him for this sum, and he placed
it in the care of Canon B----, the dean of the church which is built
on the original resting-place of the real relic, and dedicated to S.
James. It was with the understanding, however, that he would claim the
hand as soon as he had a suitable place for it in his own house. Canon
B----himself was strongly inclined to disbelieve in the genuineness
of the relic. In the first place, the box in which it was found bore
no sign or symbol of its being a reliquary, and there was no mark or
seal attached to the contents indicating their character; then, again,
the hand was small and the fingers tapering, much more like the hand
of a woman than of a rude-limbed fisherman like the Apostle of Spain.
There was one way of ascertaining with certainty that it was _not_
the real hand, and this was by learning whether the body of S. James,
which is preserved in the Cathedral of Compostela, wanted one hand. If
the two were there, there was an end of the controversy, and it would
be clearly proved that the hand found at Reading Abbey had been, at
some unknown date, returned to its place. If one hand was missing, and
if that corresponded to the one in his possession, it was at least
a strong argument on the side of its genuineness, which other steps
should be thenceforth taken to prove. At the canon's request, Dr.
Grant, the late saintly Bishop of Southwark, wrote to the Archbishop
of Compostela, asking him to allow the shrine to be opened and the
necessary inspection of the relics made; but the archbishop replied
that he could on no pretext, however laudable, consent to such an act,
which, in his eyes, appeared like a desecration of their venerated
patron. The question fell back, therefore, into impenetrable doubt
as before. The hand remained at Reading, until at last the purchaser
arrived and claimed it. He was persuaded that it was the real hand
of S. James, and as such claimed to have it in his possession and
under his roof. Canon B---- gave it up at once; but it was remarked
by a pious Catholic at the time that if it was the real relic, the
act of _purchasing_ it for private possession, and removing it from a
church dedicated to the apostle to whom it was supposed to belong, to
a private house, could bring no blessing on those connected with it.
These warnings were laughed at as superstitious by the owner of the
relic; but they were strangely and fearfully fulfilled before long. He
and three clerical friends were one day seized at dinner with agonizing
pains, and, after a few hours' suffering, expired. One of the dishes
had, by some unaccountable accident, been poisoned by the cook, who
had employed some venomous root in mistake for horse-radish. We do not
attach for a moment any supernatural significance to the incident, but
merely give it as a strange coincidence. After this violent and sudden
death of its owner, the hand passed into the possession of a relative,
to whom he bequeathed it. Perhaps this short record of its recent
history may meet the eye of some one who may be induced to search out
the missing limb, and clear away the mystery that still hangs over
the supposed relic of the apostle who warned us so solemnly against
the iniquity of idle words. Who knows? Perhaps we may yet live to see
a Benedictine monastery rise on the site of the ancient one where
his hand was so devoutly venerated; monks, wearing the dark cowl of
the inspired author of the _Regula Monachorum_, may again tread the
hallowed ground of the old abbey, where in bygone days their fathers
lived grand and awful lives under the serene and solemn shadow of
their mighty cloisters, adjusting the strife of nations and of kings,
teaching Christendom, feeding the poor, and taking the kingdom of
heaven by violence amidst long vigils, and fasting, and humiliation,
and the heroic practice of Christian sanctity; the old stones may yet
echo to the chant of psalms as in the days of our forefathers, and the
song of praise resound again in the desert--the same words, with other
voices; for God changes not, neither does his church; for, like her
Founder, she is immutable, the same yesterday, to-day, and for ever.




THE COURT OF FRANCE IN 1830.[134]


                            BY M. MENNECHET.

                FROM PARIS, OU LE LIVRE DES CENT-ET-UN.

You think, my dear friend and editor, that the place occupied by the
Tuileries in the panorama of Paris is so prominent a one that you
desire to include a variety of accounts of it in the rich gallery of
description you are now giving to the world, and you ask me, unskilful
artist though I am, to draw you a faithful picture of its interior as
I once knew it. You say that, having for fifteen years inhabited this
palace, I must necessarily be well acquainted with all the details
of it, and you wish me to take upon myself the office of introducing
your numerous readers, and of giving them a nearer view of the chief
personages of this royal domain. I may, you add, imagine myself once
more at my bureau, distributing to curiosity or to attachment tickets
of admission for some _fête_ or ceremony, and that this will perhaps
prove, for the time being, a pleasant illusion for me. Dreams like
these, however, would possess no attraction for me. I have been too
near a spectator of the court for it to have any illusions for my mind.
In this respect, I may compare myself to an actor at the theatre,
over-familiar with the scenes of the green-room. I need realities now
to awaken my interest; and since the course of events has plunged me
again into my original obscurity, I can no longer abandon myself to
reveries of pride or of ambition. Nor had I risen so high that there
was any danger that my fall would distract my reason or shake my
philosophy. I had reached only that elevation which gives to objects
their due proportions. I was neither too near nor too far, neither too
high nor too low, not to be able to see and to judge calmly; and it
is in my former observatory that I am now about to replace myself, in
order to comply, as far as it may lie in my power, with your request.
Perhaps I ought to fear that it may be said of me, He served the exiled
family for fifteen years; he was indebted to them for his maintenance
and that of others connected with him; he is biassed by feelings of
gratitude; we cannot but distrust what he is about to tell us. God
forbid that the reproach of fidelity and gratitude should ever offend
me: these are virtues too rare for any one who is conscious in his own
heart of possessing them to be ashamed of the fact. If, therefore, I
should be accused of flattery, I shall not feel much grieved at the
charge; for at least I shall have flattered only the unfortunate. Had
not the sanguinary events of July shattered at one blow the crown of
Charlemagne, the sceptre of S. Louis, and the sword of Henri IV.; did
the family of Charles X. now reign at the Tuileries, I might be silent,
lest my encomiums should be deemed interested; or were I to take up
my pen, it would only be to demonstrate that the liberal ideas of the
youth of the present day were even then admitted to the court; there
was no exclusion, excepting for revolutionary principles.

Here might be a fine opportunity for me to enter upon a chapter of
politics. I might prove to the partisans of the sovereignty of the
people that they alone invoke the divine right, since the voice of the
people passes for the voice of God--_Vox populi, vox Dei_; or, on the
other hand, that their adversaries do well to range themselves on the
side of hereditary right, which is a principle of order and security,
as well for governments as for families--a right sacred and inviolable,
and which has existed unquestioned from the days of Adam until the
present time.

But I should find myself quite out of my sphere in the domain of
politics, having always withheld myself from its complications. I
therefore give your readers notice that I shall not introduce them into
the great cabinet in which the councils of the ministers were held. I
was not admitted there myself; and as I never listened at the doors,
it would be impossible for me to relate anything that took place. All
I know is that under the last ministry they used three sheets of paper
too much, since the latter kindled so deplorable a conflagration.

The exterior aspect of the Tuileries is doubtless well known to my
readers, at least from description, or through pictures or engravings.
But those who have never had the opportunity of penetrating further
I now invite to follow me into the interior, while I endeavor to
bring before them some of the _fêtes_ and ceremonies of the court
of Charles X. Unless you are in full dress, let us not enter by the
great staircase. There we should find a man, who is called a _Suisse_,
although he is a Frenchman, who would tell you that etiquette does not
permit you to enter the palace of the king wearing boots. You might
exclaim against etiquette, forgetting, however, that, at least, it
imposes upon vanity the obligation of enriching labor. The staircase by
which I shall introduce you is free from such restrictions. You will
find the steps much worn. They lead to the treasury of charities--a
treasury quite the opposite of the cask of the Danaïdes; for although
it be constantly drawn from, it is never empty.

Let us ascend another flight, and cross the _black gallery_, where, on
the right and left sides, are lodged, in narrow and inconvenient rooms,
the great lord and the _valet de chambre_, the _maître d'hotel_ and the
physician, the _aide-de-camp_ and the chaplain, the gentleman and the
plebeian. Here all ranks, all grades, all dignities, are confounded.
When we shall repair to the final judgment, I suppose we shall all pass
through a black gallery, in which, like that of the Tuileries, will
be mingled all social ranks. We will now descend a flight, and enter
the apartment of the first gentleman of the chamber, one of the great
officers of the household. Let us request of him tickets of admission
to the ceremony of the Supper; and, when we shall have obtained them
from his habitual complaisance, let us hope that there may not have
been, the night before, between him, the captain of the guards, and
the grand-master of ceremonies, any dispute regarding the rights,
privileges, and attributes of their respective offices. In that case
it is by no means certain that the life-guardsman would permit us to
enter, the password being frequently regulated by some petty revenge of
the chief. This time, however, all is harmonious; the life-guardsman
has made no objection, the usher has taken our tickets, and the
_valet de chambre_ has indicated our places behind the ladies. What
an interesting tableau is presented by this religious solemnity! The
chapel of the château being too small for the occasion, the gallery of
Diana has been arranged for the ceremony. I see you smile as you raise
your eyes to gaze upon the rich paintings which decorate the ceiling
of this gallery. Cupid and Psyche, Diana and Endymion, Hercules and
Omphale--all these gods and goddesses of paganism appear, little in
keeping with the scene of a Christian celebration. But lower your eyes;
look at this simple altar, at this pulpit, from which the minister of
God will shortly speak, and you will no longer be tempted to smile, for
you will have realized the distance which separates truth from error.

At one of the extremities of the gallery is laid an immense table, on
which thirteen dishes of different kinds are thirteen times repeated.
Each one of them is decorated with fragrant flowers, which exhale a
delicious perfume. Along the entire length of the gallery are placed,
right and left, three rows of benches. On one side are seated the
ladies, whose elegant costumes are, it is true, somewhat worldly;
but the books they hold in their hands attest, at least, their pious
intentions.

Facing the pews reserved for the royal family, and on more elevated
benches, are ranged thirteen poor young children, representing the
thirteen apostles; for, at the time of the Supper, Judas had not denied
his Master. Behind these are placed the musicians of the king, at their
head Cherubini and Lesueur, and directed by Plantade; this combination
of talent exhibiting a taste and power of execution unrivalled at that
period, and which will still be remembered by many who have had the
privilege of listening to them.

But suddenly a voice is heard--"The king." All advance, lean forward,
and endeavor to obtain a view of him. He salutes all with the grace so
natural to him; and respect alone represses the demonstration which
his kindness seems to encourage. The divine office begins; at its
conclusion comes the sermon; and finally, carrying out the pious custom
of the kings of France, he himself washes the feet of the thirteen
apostles as a token of Christian humility. The impious may smile at
these touching solemnities of the worship of their forefathers; had
they once assisted at a ceremony like this, they would smile no more.
Afterwards, the officers of the household advance in a procession,
holding in their hands the insignia of their office and bouquets. After
them marches the dauphin of France, followed by the high officers.
Thirteen times in succession they approach the table to seek the bread,
the wine, the different dishes intended for the representatives of the
apostles. They carry them to the king, who deposits them in baskets
at the feet of each child. To these gifts he adds a purse for each,
containing thirteen five-franc pieces. Then the ceremony is over, and
the king may say to himself, "I have not only fulfilled an act of
devotion and humility; I have also made thirteen families happy."

Having beheld the Most Christian King stooping from his royal majesty
to those whom Père Bridaine called the best friends of God, let us
now view him in that ceremony which alone, until lately, recalled the
ancient traditions of chivalry. Here he is not only King of France; he
is Grand Master of the Order of the Holy Ghost. This order, founded
by Henri III., and which all the sovereigns of Europe were proud and
happy to wear; this order, which decorated the breast of Henri IV., of
Louis XIV., and of all the great warriors and statesmen of the last two
centuries; this order, the most glorious recompense, and the one most
coveted by the celebrated personages of the beginning of the present
epoch, is at an end--the late revolution did not choose that it should
survive the monarchy.

The last ceremony of the Order of the Holy Ghost took place on May 30,
1830, at Whitsuntide. The most perfect taste and the greatest luxury
were displayed in the hangings which decorated the great vestibule and
the stone gallery that lead to the chapel; the ingenious and varied
talents of Hittorf, Lecointe, and Ciceri being brought into requisition
on this occasion. The chapter of the order was held at eleven o'clock
in the grand cabinet. There were assembled, in their rich costumes
of black velvet, embroidered with gold and faced with green silk,
the knights already received into the number, wearing crosswise
the collar of the order, and on their cloaks the silver plates--the
brilliant insignia of their dignity. The king, the natural nobility of
whose appearance was enhanced by this picturesque costume, opened the
assembled chapter; then the cortége took up their march to the chapel,
where the knights lately promoted were to be received. They marched in
double-file through rows, on either hand, of ladies elegantly dressed;
the bystanders gazed eagerly on the knights as they advanced, and many
satirical remarks were made upon the singular junction of the new
celebrities with the members of the old aristocracy.

There walked together the Duc la Tremouille and M. Lainè, M. Ravez and
the Duc de Montmorency.

To show how ambition may attain its ends by different paths, the Duc de
Décaze and the Comte de Villete, the Comte de Peyronnet and the Duc de
Dalmatie; and as if to demonstrate how differently two gentlemen may
comprehend the duties of their position, the Duc de Mortemart and the
Vicomte de Châteaubriand.

An especial circumstance added the attraction of curiosity while it
lent a more touching interest to this scene; the king received as
Chevalier of the Order of the Holy Ghost the young Duc de Nemours, in
the presence of all his family. All those who were present on this
occasion cannot fail to remember the noble and gracious air of the
young prince, and the deep emotion perceptible in the voice of the
august old man as he defined the duties of a true knight. One might
have supposed him a father, happy and proud to find in his son a heart
in which the seeds of honor and loyalty must necessarily germinate. All
the spectators were moved. A mother wept. Would that these had been
the last tears she was destined to shed!

Let us now pass from this grave and imposing ceremonial to those
animated and joyous _fêtes_ which took place every year at Saint-Cloud
on the day of S. Henri. Shall I show you the _Trocadere_, filled with
games of every description, shops of all kinds, in which the most
famous actors of the capital, transformed into foreign merchants,
distributed to all comers songs, toys, bonbons, and flowers, all for
the trifling remuneration of thanks? Will you assist with the whole
court at that brilliant representation of the heroic drama of _Bissen_,
in which Franconi and his actors, men and horses, give proofs of such
rare intelligence and address? At the conclusion of this spectacle, the
Duc de Bordeaux[135] assembles his little army of children, and before
the eyes of the astonished crowd causes them to manœuvre with all the
coolness and experience of a veteran captain; then he leads them to the
gymnastic games, in which he surpasses them all in strength, daring,
and skill. Then, mingling with the soldiers of a neighboring post, he
plays at quoits with the latter as if with comrades; but he takes care
to lose the game just as he is on the point of winning it, so as to be
generous without the appearance of it. Perhaps you might be interested
to know that this promising child likewise ardently devotes himself to
his studies under the care of his admirable instructors, MM. de Barande
and Colart, and more especially to the history of his country; he
obstinately refuses to call the Constable of Bourbon anything but the
_bad Constable_, asserting that he has forfeited his right even to his
name, having borne arms against his sovereign.

But whither have my reminiscences carried me? Here we are at
Saint-Cloud; the games of a child have made me forget the pomps of a
court, and, besides, I was only to speak to you of the Tuileries.

This court was not wanting in brilliancy; its luxury, however, was
by no means extreme. These three hundred gentlemen of the chamber,
these equerries, these officers of ceremony for the household and
hunting service, richly dressed in vestments embroidered in gold, were
tributaries to industry, and willingly paid the tax of vanity. We too
often forget that the bread of the poor is in the hands of the rich,
and that it is better for the former that this bread should be the
price of labor than the gift of charity.

In order to reconcile ourselves with this luxury, which many
unthinkingly condemned, let us assist at those _jeux du roi_, to which
all the social notabilities were invited.

A week before the invitations had been issued, it would be known in all
the workshops of Paris that a reception was to take place at the court,
and more orders would be received than could be executed. Tailors,
dressmakers, embroiderers, _modistes_, hair-dressers, jewellers, etc.,
all rejoiced; and the happiness of the invited guest, who repaired to
the _fête_ in a showy equipage, was shared by the workman who saw him
pass.

Let us hasten to follow the line of those thousand carriages which
advance in order towards the Tuileries some time before the hour
indicated by the card of invitation; for here it is quite different
from those balls of society where the fashion is to arrive late in
order to produce a sensation; on the contrary, every one desires to be
among the first to obtain a glance from the king. Already crowds are
pressing into these vast drawing-rooms, where innumerable wax candles
shed so favorable a light over the beauty of the women and their superb
dresses. It is impossible to imagine, without having seen it, the
magnificent spectacle presented by the throne-room and the Gallery of
Diana; on entering these, the dazzling _ensemble_ could be taken in
at a glance, and each one stops for a moment, lost in admiration, to
contemplate it.

Here are assembled the late minister, thinking how he may seize again
the reins of power; the present minister, absorbed in the fear of
losing them; and the future minister, musing over the chances he may
possess of obtaining them. All three salute each other, press each
other's hands affectionately: one might mistake them for friends. Here
are grouped peers of France, proud of their hereditary rights, and
confident in the stability of them, calculating how much the son of
a lord may be worth, and by what dowry the daughter of a banker may
purchase the title of countess and the _entrée_ to the court. Here
we behold the former senators of Napoleon, who have not, perhaps,
renounced their own ideas and illusions; see beside them old generals,
who, from the epoch of the Republic down to Charles X., have served all
the different governments. The banner has changed, but what does that
matter? Military honor has not suffered; that is to be placed only in
courage.

These officers, with their large epaulettes, appear to cast disdainful
glances on the crowd of men in blue coats, the collars of which,
embroidered in _fleur-de-lis_, designate civic functions. The
supporters of the ministry are surprised that so many members of the
opposition should have been invited; the latter complain that there are
so few of their own party present compared with the number of their
adversaries. There is, however, for the time being, neither Right side,
Left side, nor Centre--all appear harmonious; and should a vote now be
taken, the urn would be filled with white balls, so great in those days
was the influence of an invitation from the king--almost equal to that
of a ministerial dinner at the present time.

But to the hum of conversation suddenly succeeds a profound silence;
the king appears, followed by all the royal family. He circulates
slowly through the apartments, and his kindness of heart suggests to
him what to say, so as to please each one in turn. None are forgotten;
and in addressing himself to the ladies, he perfectly understands the
art of complimenting so as to flatter without embarrassing them. I must
not omit, in my description of these brilliant assemblies, to speak of
the members of the diplomatic corps, the richness and variety of whose
costumes enhanced the magnificence of the scene; nor can I conclude
without some mention of the courtiers of Charles X. I know it is a
usual thing on the stage, and perhaps elsewhere, to depict a gentleman
of the court as a low-minded, grasping, insolent imbecile. Those who
view them all in this light resemble the traveller who, passing rapidly
through a town, and seeing at a window a woman with red hair, came
to the conclusion, and wrote, that all the women of the place were
red-haired.

The gentleman of the court, such as I have usually known him, since the
Restoration, is proud of his birth and of his name; but he knows that
he has no more reason to pride himself upon their possession than a
singer has to boast of the voice with which nature has gifted him, or
a rich man of the fortune left him by his father. Devoted to the king,
he does not consider himself the humble servant of the ministers; and
when his conscience prescribes it, he places himself in the ranks of
the opposition. He is extremely polite, knowing that this is the surest
means of securing the recognition of his social superiority. He does
justice to merit, and admires it frankly and without envy; but should
this merit exist in a man of equal rank with himself, he would be
tempted to dispute it. He is generous, for he knows that generosity is
a great and noble virtue; and even should it not be a pleasure, it is a
duty, for him to exercise it. Without being learned, he is not ignorant
of any of the sciences, and he has a tact which enables him to appear
a connoisseur in art even when such is not the case; but he no longer
takes upon himself to be the protector of artists; he is their friend.
He understands that the empire of the white plume and of the red heel
is at an end, and that, in order to be respected, he must deserve to be
so.

Finally, his morals are good, and this is, perhaps, the greatest change
effected by the revolution.

Such, as a general rule, were the courtiers of my time, and amongst
them were men full of talent, courage, and energy, sincerely devoted
to the true interests of the people, who hated without knowing them;
men of noble and loyal souls, filled with devotion to their country,
and possessed of that strong, real, and passionate eloquence which
astonishes, moves, and persuades those who are resolved to oppose them;
men, in short, who, finding it impossible to do the good they desire,
and unwilling to participate in the evil which may be done, retire
into private life, carrying with them the regrets and the admiration
of their fellow-citizens. I do not need to name them. The days devoted
to _jeux du roi_ were not the only ones on which persons of various
stations were invited to the court. The birthday of the king was the
_fête_ of the people; on that day, every cottage was made happy, every
family was supplied with bread. But as this _fête_ was not celebrated
in the year of grace 1830, I will speak only of New Year's day, on
which, according to custom, all the different state corporations come
to renew to their sovereign, whoever he may be, their pledges of
fidelity and attachment, to pay their homage and proffer their good
wishes. To these uniform speeches, prescribed by etiquette, expressive
of sentiments more or less real, and couched in phrases more or less
high-sounding, according to the taste or ability of the orator, Charles
X. had the faculty of returning answers marked by kindness and good
sense, rendered with a grace and facility of execution which no one has
ever thought of disputing.

The custom which obliged the king to dine in public on New Year's day
was not an unpleasant one to Charles X. He had no reason to fear that
he might be compared to those Oriental monarchs who, when they have
dined well themselves, think that none of their subjects ought to feel
hungry. He knew that the wish of Henri IV. had been realized, and that
the chicken in the pot was wanting neither to the industrious artisan
nor to the hard-working laborers.

If, however, these state dinners were not destitute of charm for
him, how much more did he enjoy that family reunion on the _jour
des rois_, which, with its simple pleasures, is an inheritance of
past generations! The customs attending this festival, on which
royalty is freed from all cares or regrets, are of long standing. The
ancients, when they desired to render a feast an especially gay one,
always appointed a king, who was elected for the time. Neither is
the use of beans, as a distinctive mark of power, a modern idea. The
Greeks employed them in the nomination of their magistrates; and when
Pythagoras told his disciples to _abstain from beans_, he gave them a
wise counsel, of which every one does not comprehend the enigmatical
and mysterious meaning.

Amongst us, however, the bean is attended by none of the dangers
dreaded by Pythagoras. How happy is the king of the bean! He has
neither courtiers who flatter him nor ministers who betray him; his
subjects are his friends; he chooses his queen without regard to
political considerations; he eats, he drinks, and, fortunate man, his
reign is but for a moment!

The delights of this passing royalty were never more keenly experienced
than at the Tuileries on the 6th of January, 1830. All appeared
prosperous in the kingdom, and the descendants of Henri IV., assembled
at a family dinner, were united in opinion and in affection. It was
a _fête_ day for all, and especially for the children, who rejoiced
at the unwonted freedom from the restraints of etiquette. Around the
royal table were seated, first the august old man, whose goodness of
heart ever shone through the dignity of his character. On one side of
him was placed the Duchess of Orléans, the happy mother of a numerous
and handsome family; on the other the dauphiness, who endeavored to
console herself for the want of the same happiness by adopting all the
unfortunate--a woman sublime in misfortune, heroic in danger, and who,
passing through every stage of affliction, at length reached that
height of virtue before which all human glory must bow. Beside her
was the Duc d'Orléans,[136] who, when exiled in foreign lands at the
same period with Charles X., had given proofs of fidelity, affection,
and devotion; he had shared the same trials, and conceived the same
hopes. Then came the Duchess de Berri, handsome, happy, proud of her
son, imparting gaiety and vivacity to all around her, little dreaming
of the future which awaited her, and certainly very far from imagining
that, ere long, the poor and afflicted of her asylum at Poissy would
be obliged to petition for the charity of the public. We must not
forget to mention, in this family group, the dauphin, Mlle. d'Orléans,
the Ducs de Chartres, de Nemours, d'Aumale, the Prince de Joinville,
the two young and pretty Princesses of Orléans. The Duc de Bourbon is
not able to be present; his infirmities confine him to his château of
Saint-Leu, where he had, at least, expected to die in peace. But let us
reserve our attention for this child who is about to play so important
a part among the guests.

By this time, the first two courses have exhausted the patience of
these young hearts, but respect restrains any expression of this
feeling in them. At length, however, the wished-for moment has arrived,
and all eyes are turned towards an officer of the table, who carries
on a silver salver, covered with a napkin, fifteen cakes, one of which
contains the coveted bean. It falls to the lot of the Duc d'Aumale, as
being the youngest, to distribute them among the guests, taking care
to keep one for himself. Each one makes haste to ascertain his fate,
and exclamations of disappointed ambition are heard on all sides. One
child alone blushes and is silent; not that he is embarrassed by the
rank about to devolve upon him, but he does not wish to mortify his
competitors by giving vent to his innocent delight. His new majesty
cannot, however, long remain incognito, and the Duc de Bordeaux is
proclaimed king of the bean by universal acclamation. Then, following
the example of their new sovereign, the children all give way to an
extreme of gaiety, which the king encourages and partakes, and which
the dauphiness does not seek to restrain. Soon the choice of the queen
is made; it is the Duchess of Orléans, who willingly lends herself to
receive an honor which, perhaps, she might not have coveted; and the
dinner is concluded amidst shouts of laughter and cries of _The king
drinks! The queen drinks!_ frequently re-echoed.

The august personages seated around the royal table are not the only
ones who share the cakes of the king. Pieces of these cakes are
profusely distributed throughout France. Poets, authors, artists,
actors, artisans, old and infirm servants of the Republic and of the
Empire, destitute widows and orphans partake of the cake of the king
and the bounty of Charles X. on this occasion.

But the time has come to rise from table, and Charles X. requests a
moment of silence, which he succeeds with difficulty in obtaining.

"Sire," he says to his grandson, "your reign will be at an end in
about five minutes; has your majesty no orders to give me?"

"Yes, grandpapa. I wish...."

"You wish! Take care; in France the king always says _we wish_."

"Well, then, we wish that our governor would advance us three months of
our allowance."

"What will you do with so much money?"

"Grandpapa, the mother of a brave soldier of your guard has had her
cottage burned down, and this will not be too much to build it up
again...."

"Very well. I will undertake it...."

"No, grandpapa; because, if you do it, it will not be I."

"And how will you do without money for three months?"

"I shall try to gain some by the good marks I get from my teachers, and
for which you always pay me."

"Ah! you depend upon that?"

"Certainly; for I must dress my poor people. I have my poor people,
like you, like mamma, like my aunt.... Oh! I have made my calculations,
and I am quite satisfied. When I shall have given ten francs to the
poor woman in the Bois de Boulogne, who has a sick child, I shall still
have twenty sous left for the prince."

At these words Charles X. tenderly embraced his grandson, and
exclaimed, "Happy France, if ever he should be king!"

FOOTNOTES:

[134] We translate the following chapter from a work published in Paris
many years ago, on account of its historical interest, containing, as
it does, reminiscences of the youth of Comte de Chambord and other
characters since become prominent.--ED. C. W.

[135] Afterwards Comte de Chambord.

[136] Afterwards Louis Philippe.




THE FUR TRADER.

A TALE OF THE NORTHWEST.


Few men are now living who remember Montreal as it was in the beginning
of this century, when the Northwest Fur Company had reached the summit
of its prosperity, and the Frobishers, McGillivrays, McTavishes, and
McKenzies, with a host of their associates, were "names to conjure
withal"; so potent had they been made by a long and uninterrupted
series of successful adventures in the fur trade of the northwestern
wilds.

The princely hospitality exercised by the partners in their Montreal
homes, and the fitful deeds of profuse generosity with which they
delighted to surprise the people on both sides of the border, served
to spread their fame far and wide, and to keep their "memory green" by
many a sequestered hearthstone long after the Northwest Fur Company had
ceased to exist, and its members had all passed away.

For many years the fireside legends of rural hamlets on the frontier
were made up in a great measure from narratives of startling
adventures, hazards, fatigues, and privations encountered by the
clerks, agents, _voyageurs_, and _coureurs des bois_ employed by this
most energetic and enterprising, if at the same time most unscrupulous,
corporation. Its schemes were devised with masterly skill, and executed
with reckless daring. Not content to limit its transactions within
the extensive regions allotted to its sway, it extended them north
into territories over which the Hudson's Bay Company had long held
control, and south into a large domain belonging to the United States,
and occupied to some extent by traders under the protection of our
government.

These invasions of the rights of others brought the servants of the
company into frequent collision with its rivals; but the men appointed
to such posts were selected from a large band of trained and tried
veterans in the service, and the dashing promptitude with which they
met or evaded opposition and obstacles seemed like magic to the
opposing parties of trappers, free-traders, and half-breeds thus
encountered, and gained them the reputation, among that superstitious
class, of being in league with the father of all evil.

These collisions and outbreaks among the disciples of Mammon, as well
as the pernicious influence gained and exercised by them over the
savage tribes with whom they were engaged in traffic, were the occasion
of great grief and anxiety to a widely different class of men, who
had long occupied those territories, and braved the difficulties,
dangers, and hardships of those bleak and desolate regions, on a widely
different errand. Dauntless sons of Loyola, they had steadfastly
pursued their vocation, "in journeyings often, in perils of waters, in
perils of the wilderness, in labor and painfulness, in much watching,
in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness,"
proving their allegiance to the Prince of Peace and their claim to his
apostolic mission, while proclaiming the Gospel of salvation to the
native children of those boundless deserts.

And so it befell that the servants of lucre, who traversed the same
districts, at later periods, in pursuance of their vocation, not
unfrequently took advantage of the openings thus prepared, and pitched
their outposts side by side with the humble chapel and lodge of the
missionary. Then the conflict between good and evil, between avarice
and generosity, selfishness and benevolence, which had always agitated
the Old World, was renewed in the wilderness, and carried on as
earnestly as if rival crowns were striving for the mastery. An unequal
strife it must always prove, so long as poor human nature prefers to be
the victim of evil rather than the servant of virtue.

Many years ago--and long before Catholic missions interested us further
than to excite a certain vague admiration for the self-sacrificing
zeal with which they were prosecuted--we listened to the following
recital from the lips of an old clerk of the Northwest Company, which
we repeat as it was told to us, to set forth some of the difficulties
that encompassed the missionaries among the Indians of the Northwest,
tending to impede, if not frustrate, the object of their efforts.

On a fine day in the month of September, 18--, a fleet of canoes
was sweeping down one of the large rivers which flow through the
northwestern portion of our country. They were manned by Canadian
_voyageurs_, the plash of whose paddles kept time with the gay
_chansons_, which were borne in such unison upon their blended voices
as to seem, except for the volume of sound, the utterance of but one.

In the leading vessel of the little squadron, well enveloped in the
folds of a magnificent fur mantle, to shield from autumnal chills,
which settle early upon those regions, their commander reclined at his
ease. He was a person of imposing presence and stately manners, whose
face, grave and thoughtful for one from which the flush of youth had
scarcely passed, presented that fine type of manly beauty peculiar to
the Highland Scotch.

He seemed too entirely absorbed in his own thoughts to notice the songs
of his light-hearted companions, the merry chat with which they were
interspersed, or even the sly jokes that, with the freedom produced by
the lawless habits of the wilderness, were occasionally levelled at
himself and, the confidential clerk who was his inseparable attendant.
Nor did his reflections seem to be of an agreeable nature; for at times
his dark eye would flash fiercely, and his brow contract to an ominous
frown, and again his countenance would subside into its habitual and
somewhat pensive expression.

Twilight was closing around them as they approached a trading-post
of the Northwest Company, which had been recently opened near a
long-established missionary station, the spire of whose humble chapel
was lifted above the numerous huts that formed an Indian village of
considerable extent along the bank of the river.

Here their commander ordered them to land, and, after securing the
canoes for the night, to transfer their cargoes to the storehouse of
the company. He directed in person the removal of the most valuable
merchandise, and, entrusting the remainder to the care of his clerk,
proceeded with haughty strides toward the lodge of the resident
missionary.

He was met at the entrance by a reverend father in the habit of the
Society of Jesus, and saluted with a distant politeness which quite
unsettled his accustomed expression of composure and easy indifference.
An embarrassing silence followed his admission within the lodge--a
silence which the good father seemed in no haste to break--when the
gentleman began with a hesitating manner, as if his proud spirit
disdained what he was about to say in opening the conversation:

"I regret to hear, reverend father, that we have been so unhappy as
to incur your displeasure in the course of our transactions with the
natives; and I frankly confess that this regret is greatly increased
by our knowledge of your influence over them, the exercise of which we
would gladly have secured to promote the interests of our trade."

"It is not a question of my displeasure," the priest replied sadly. "To
my Master you must answer for the crying injustice you have practised
towards his children of the wilderness, and for the sinful courses
into which they have been beguiled. You have betrayed his cause with
those who trusted you on account of the name of Christian, which
you so unworthily bear, and to him you must answer for it. As to my
influence, it would have been easily secured, if your dealings with
these untutored natives had been governed by justice and integrity.
But I warn you, that unless you repent the wrongs you have inflicted
yourself, and by the hands of your agents, upon them, making such
requital as remains within your power, a fearful retribution awaits you
in this world, and eternal despair in the next. 'Vengeance is mine,
saith the Lord, and I will repay.'"

"Pardon me, good father; but I think you greatly exaggerate the wrongs
of which you speak. It is not possible for men of your calling to
estimate or understand the scope of vast commercial enterprises and the
course of great mercantile operations. Your imagination has brooded
over the transactions which you so sternly condemn, until it has given
them a false magnitude. They transpired in the ordinary course of
business, and though followed by results which I deplore as deeply as
yourself, I do not feel disposed to take blame to myself or our company
for them."

"You will not plead 'commercial enterprise' or 'mercantile
transactions' before the bar of the great Judge in excuse for eternal
interests which have been sacrificed to your greed for gain; for
confiding and innocent souls that have been betrayed and lost by your
fault. Through your iniquities and those of your servants in dealing
with these children, once so willing to be taught and to practise the
duties of our holy religion, they have been transformed into demons
of revenge; and, disregarding our remonstrances, have committed, and
will continue to commit, deeds of bloody vengeance at which the world
will stand aghast. Alas! the world will never know the provocations
that goaded them to madness; for who will tell the story for the poor
Indian? Merciless slaughter and extermination is all they have to look
for at the hands of men calling themselves Christians."

"Good father, your imagination or ambition, or both, have led you
astray in these matters, and hoodwinked your reason. You wish to be the
sole power among these people, and are jealous of intruders who may
endanger your sway. Your order, if it has not been greatly belied, has
more than once mistaken worldly ambition for zeal in the service of
God."

"One would think," the priest replied, smiling and casting his eyes
around the comfortless apartment and its meagre furniture--"one would
think that the scattered sons of a suppressed and persecuted order, who
must toil diligently with their own hands to procure their sustenance,
while they break the bread of life to these poor savages, might have
escaped such accusation, if any servant of their Master might; but I
thank him that he thus permits our enemies to set the seal of sacred
verity upon the bleakest altars of our sacrifice!"

"All this is foreign to the purpose of my visit. I do not wish to
dispute the glories of your exalted mission or to interfere with its
dominion, but simply to inquire if we may not in some way propitiate
your favor in the interests of our business. I am a man of few words,
more accustomed to command than to entreat, and go directly towards the
object at which I aim, instead of seeking out crooked paths. We will
furnish money, if that will gain your patronage, to build and decorate
temples and houses for your missions in these deserts that shall
dazzle the senses of their savage tribes, and allure their souls to
Christianity; for a master of the craft needs not to be told how easily
they are impressed by external splendor. You would be wise to accept
our proposal, were it only to promote the great ends for which you are
striving."

"Sell the flock to the wolf, for the purpose of building and
embellishing the fold! But in what direction do you wish our influence
with this people to be exercised?"

"To draw back to us the trade which they withheld at first through
dislike of our agents, and are now preparing to transfer to our
rivals, these newly established American companies, greatly to our
disadvantage. We have incurred enormous expense and labor to organize
and provide our trading-posts at points accessible to them on the
northern rivers, for their convenience as well as our own, to prevent
the necessity for frequent and tedious journeys to Montreal; and it
is unjust to deny us the benefit of them, and transfer it to rival
associations. Then, these Americans have interests opposed to ours in
every respect. I should think that you, who are a Canadian citizen,
from Montreal like myself, would naturally take our part against our
Protestant rivals."

"As befits my calling, I shall most approve those who deal most
justly with my flock, of whatever name or nation. As to religion, I
greatly fear it holds but feeble sway, by any name, among those who
are fighting the fierce battles of Mammon! The officers and agents
of the new establishments, like those of the Hudson's Bay Company,
have, however, given an example, which you would do well to follow,
by treating the missionaries and their cause with great respect, and
refraining from defrauding the natives or seducing them into evil
practices by the unlimited sale of liquors, by which they are changed
to demons. The persuasions and example of your _coureurs des bois_ have
done much to demoralize the Indians; but your own conduct has done
more, as your conscience must testify. Though you renounced the name
of Catholic when you turned your back upon the obligations it imposes,
your apostasy will not shield you from the consequences of your acts."

The gentleman started suddenly to his feet, as if stung by the words,
his voice trembling with agitation as he said: "I see I but waste time
and words in this parley, since you are resolved to magnify trifling
faults into enormous crimes. But remember, should these natives
persevere in their present savage schemes, and, from refusing to trade
with us, proceed in their senseless anger to deeds of blood, it will be
easy to fasten the odium of instigating their crimes upon you and your
fraternity, who have stubbornly refused our proffered friendship."

As he gathered his mantle about him to depart, the priest replied
meekly: "Your threats are vain; we have planted the grain of
mustard-seed in these wilds, and it will grow and flourish. It matters
not whether our hands or those of others shall carry on the work we
have begun. Our times are in the hands of God, and not of men."

As his visitor withdrew, the reverend father opened his Breviary, and,
pacing the apartment with measured steps, soon forgot the griefs,
annoyances, and discouragements of his position in the consoling
occupation of reading his Office, which now entirely absorbed him.

While he was thus engaged, the door was opened quietly, and a
singular-looking stranger entered without hesitation or ceremony,
depositing his rifle at the door. After peering inquisitively around
the room, and casting sundry furtive glances towards the deeply
abstracted priest from keen, gray eyes, which were deeply set under
shaggy eyebrows, he proceeded to divest himself of a large package
of furs and a miscellaneous assortment of traps that had been thrown
over his shoulder, and, taking the place lately occupied by the lordly
commander of the post, seated himself on one of the rude settles
which served as chairs in the simple furniture of the lodge, with the
careless ease of one accustomed to make himself quite at home wherever
he might chance to halt.

The appearance and dress of this free-and-easy guest were so peculiar
as to merit description. He was very tall, of lean and bony but
muscular frame. He wore a hunting-frock, made from the dressed skin of
the antelope, and confined at the waist by a leathern girdle buckled
firmly; from which depended, on his right side, a sheath, into which
a large hunting-knife was thrust, and on his left a shorter one for
another knife of smaller size, used in skinning the animals taken.
By the side of the latter hung a powder-horn and a large leathern
pouch for other ammunition. His nether gear was a compromise between
civilized and savage attire, as it served the united purposes of
trowsers, leggings, and hose, being laced on one side with thongs of
deer's tendons from the knees to his huge feet, which were encased in
stout moccasins made of buffalo-hide.

He sat very composedly, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin
on his clasped hands in a musing attitude, his battered, sunburnt, and
hardened face wearing an expression curiously compounded of shrewd
intelligence, simplicity, inquisitiveness, and good-humor, over which
a slight dash of veneration cast an unwonted gleam of bashful timidity
as he threw occasional sidelong glances towards the good father, who,
when he had finished his Office and closed the Breviary, noticed the
presence of his guest for the first time, and, approaching to greet
him, asked whom he had the pleasure to address.

"Wa'al," he replied in a voice cracked, as it were, by the northern
blasts to which he had long been exposed, and marked by the sharp nasal
twang of his native State--"wa'al, I'm Hezekiah Hulburt, at your
sarvice. I hail from Conneticut, and follow trappin' for a livin'.
The Injins call me Big Foot, and they've told me 'bout you and your
dewins. Though I haint no great 'pinion of 'em, wild or tame, and don't
put much faith in what they say, I conclude, from all I've seen and
heard, that you're a preachin' the Christian religion among 'em under
consid'able many difficulties. An Injin needs more'n a double load
of Gospil truth to overbalance the evil that's in him, and then's,
like's not, the fust you know, his Christianity'll kick the beam when
opportewnity sarves. I know the critters well; and here, a while ago
when our Methodist preachers undertook 'em, I told 'em 'twas no go, the
Christian religion wouldn't fit an Injin no how; and they found t'was
so. Mebbe you'll come eout better; and I guess likely you will, for
you seem to know better how to go to work with 'em and keep the right
side on 'em, which is everything with Injins. And then, you've got
more things to 'tract their attention, and help to 'splain and 'spound
Scripter truths to an Injin's idees. But this an't what brought me here
neow. I come to have a little talk with you 'bout the doins of these
here fur companies that are kickin' up such a shine among themselves
and the trappers. It's gittin' to be a plaguy risky bizness to trade
with any on 'em, they're so 'tarnal jealous of one another, and each
one's so mad if a fellow trades with any but themselves. Nat'rally
enough, I take to my own folks, and would ruther trade with the new
company, bein's they're Americans and my own flesh and blood, as a body
might say. Now, in this awfully spread-out country, for one who's only
a pilgrim and sojourner, as 'twere, like myself, and who has nothin'
but his own broad shoulders to depend on for carrying his marchandise,
it makes a sight of odds whether he can trade it off near by, or has to
foot it across the plains, and as like's not clean to the big lakes,
'fore he can onshoulder it. I'm a man of peace, and haint no notion
of goin' in for a fight with 'em, du what they will. But they better
look out for them Injins! These Nor'westers haint seen the airthquake
yet that's to foller that are bizness of the Big Feather; but when it
comes, it'll shake 'em in their shoes for all their big feelin's, and
swaller their proud and scornful leader quicker'n a feller could wink.
I wash _my_ hands of the whole consarn, but I've hearn the rumblin'
on't, and it's a-comin' as sure's my name is Hezekiah, if suthin' an't
done, an' pretty quick time, too! Revinge is an Injin's religion; and
be he Christian or be he pagan, what's bred in the bone stays long in
the flesh."

The attention of the reverend father was now thoroughly awakened. He
had heard from the Indians of the friendly Big Foot and the frequent
assistance he had given to protect them from the dishonesty of the
traders. He proceeded at once to draw from the trapper further
particulars of an affair, the rumor of which had reached him and been
alluded to by him in his interview with his preceding guest, but of
which he could gain but little information from the natives.

The facts communicated were, that as soon as the new company was
formed, the Northwest traders had scattered their spies among the
Indians to watch any symptoms of an intention to transfer the trade,
withheld from them on account of their dishonest conduct, into the
hands of their rivals. These scouts had reported a general movement
of all those tribes to whom the American stations were accessible,
indicating their intention to unite among themselves, and open a
friendly traffic with the new traders.

The "Northwesters," as those connected with the old company were
called, took the alarm at the prospect of seeing a large and very
lucrative branch of their business pass to the benefit of rivals, who
were the more formidable from being on their own territory and under
the protection of the United States government.

Their leader in that department, who visited the lodge of the
missionary, was a man of unlimited resources; clever and crafty in
scheming, unscrupulous in executing his devices. He entered without
delay upon a systematic course of harassing and perplexing measures
to clog the machinery and impede the operations of his competitors.
There is reason to believe he found efficient aid in these from former
partners and clerks of the Northwest Company, who, in accordance with
the terms of agreement between the two companies at the time the
American association was organized, had unfortunately been retained in
its service.

He also enlisted a motley crew of _voyageurs_, _coureurs des bois_,
half-breeds, free trappers, and renegades from civilization, to carry
out his well-concerted plans for embarrassing the enterprises of his
rivals by land and water, and discouraging their officers and agents in
every department. All these designs were accomplished with such silent
adroitness as not only to baffle detection, but to avoid awakening any
suspicion in the minds of his victims, who found themselves thwarted
and defeated at every point without being able to discover the cause.

As part of his general policy, he dispersed a large body of hirelings
among the tribes who had formerly been hostile to those embraced in
the newly contemplated alliance (but whose animosity had been quelled,
and mutual friendly relations between the factions established, by the
diligent exertions of the missionaries), representing to them that
their ancient enemies were about to unite, under the approbation of
the missionaries, with the American companies, to destroy them and
take possession of their hunting-grounds; that the missionaries had
been insincere in their professions and instructions, aiming only to
keep them quiet until measures were perfected for their ruin. These
emissaries were also instructed to offer them arms and ammunition, if
they would waylay the different parties on their course to the American
trading-posts, and prevent their reaching them; and the highest price
for any peltries thus obtained.

The most considerable body of Indians, bound for one of these posts
with a large amount of valuable furs, was under command of the great
chief, Big Feather. Against this band the hostile force was directed.
It was surprised, completely routed, and the chief, with many of his
followers, killed. All the goods were conveyed by the victors without
delay to the nearest station of the Northwest Company.

Their operations were equally successful in other quarters, and the
trade entirely secured for that season.

The free trapper whom the Indians called Big Foot had held himself
neutral, but had noted, with the keen shrewdness of his race, the
course affairs were taking, and had traced the disturbing cause to his
own satisfaction. He exerted all his influence to pacify the outraged
Indians, so cruelly betrayed and plundered, and used his best efforts
to convince the victors of the stratagems and falsehoods by which they
had been deceived.

Both parties listened with cool decorum to his arguments, but would
make no reply. This silence was deemed an ill omen by the priest and
the hunter.

Now, this chief, Big Feather, had a young daughter, who was the delight
of his heart and the glory of the whole tribe. She was beautiful,
graceful, and modest; with a quiet stateliness of manner that
distinguished her among the daughters of her people, and was attributed
by them to the power of the Christian faith, which she was the first
of her nation to profess, and soon led her father and brother also to
receive.

She had been so unfortunate as to captivate the unprincipled commander
of the Northwestern trading-posts, who had used every artifice to gain
her young heart, and, it was well known, had long sought an opportunity
to get her within his power. On the night of the ambush and attack
by which her father lost his life, the quarters where she was left
were also attacked, some of the women and children cruelly massacred,
but her body and that of her nurse, or attendant--with whom she was
provided, as daughter of the chief, according to the custom of the
natives--were not to be found among the slain. Her people suspected
they had been carried captive to the headquarters of the company.

The trapper was convinced that her brother, who escaped from the fatal
affray, and was now chief in the place of his father, was preparing to
make a vigorous effort to recapture her and avenge the death of the
old chief. It would need little persuasion to bring all the natives
friendly to his tribe to make common cause with him in such a conflict,
and scenes of frightful bloodshed must ensue, the end of which could
hardly be conjectured.

The question discussed with painful anxiety between the missionary
and the trapper was, whether anything could be done to prevent this
shocking result. To this end, a Christian brave of the village was
summoned, and the subject of their conference explained to him.

"And now," said the reverend father, "if you know of any plans of this
kind, or of any means by which their execution can be prevented, it is
your duty, and I conjure you, to reveal them."

"The voice of our father is good," replied the Indian with great
respect, "and, when he speaks for the Great Spirit, his words are
strong; but would he make of his son a babbling woman? Who drew the
knife? Was it the hand of thy children that dug up the hatchet? And
shall they talk of peace when the blood of their chief and his men
cries to them for vengeance. When the daughter of our nation is seized
for the wigwam of him whose words filled the coverts with creeping foes
to drink our blood, shall we give him our Bird of Heaven and say 'it is
well'?"

"But if she could be recovered without the shedding of blood; if a
council of the Indians on both sides could be called, that the truth
of this matter might be fully revealed and understood, would it not be
better than useless strife? The traders care not for your race. They
care not if you fight until there is no one left of your tribes to tell
the tale; and will you give them that satisfaction? They have set you
against each other. They have deceived your brothers with lying words;
and will you crown their lies with success? Above all, shall it be said
that we have delivered the message of peace and the commands of the
Great Spirit to his children of the wilderness in vain?"

"If he loves his children, why did he not smite their foes? The tongue
of the pale-face is long; its words reach afar. They are sweet as
honey, while his heart is full of poison. His arm is strong, and the
knives in his camp are sharp. His coverts in the wilds are many, and
past finding out. Who shall find and bring back our daughter, if we
take not the war-path to the strong house of the pale chief?"

"I'll warrant ye I will!" exclaimed the trapper, unable to remain
silent any longer. "I haven't wandered through this awfully mixed-up
part of God's creation, where the woods and the waters, the mountains
and the valleys, lay round in a permiscus jumble that'd puzzle a
Philadelphy lawyer, for these twenty years, without sarchin' out
as many hidin'-places as there's quills on a hedgehog. And to say
that I've sojourned all that time among Injins of all sorts, on the
freendliest tarms, and 'thout a hard word with any on 'em, drunk or
sober, heathen or Christian, to be carcumvented by a pesky Britisher
at last, is an idee that'd raise a Yankee's dander if anything would.
No, no! Just you jine hands with me, and he'll find he's no match
for Injins and a Yankee, or my name an't Hezekiah! We'll be too much
for the 'tarnal sarpent!" And he fell into a series of low chuckles
expressive of his foregone persuasion of victory.

"Enough!" said the Indian gravely. "The ear of the young chief shall
be filled with the words of our father and the Big Foot, and his voice
make reply." And he departed. The missionary requested the trapper to
remain with him through the night and until the answer of the young
chief should be made known.

                      TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.




S. CATHARINE OF RICCI.[137]

  [The following sketch of a great Dominican saint is from the pen of
  a member of the same order who escaped in an extraordinary manner
  from the massacre of Paris. We are pleased to learn that a colony
  from the French province so auspiciously restored by F. Lacordaire
  is about to be established in St. Hyacinthe, Canada.--ED. C. W.]


"All the mysteries of Jesus Christ gleam with the same brightness,"
says Bossuet; they are stamped with the mark of that divine folly which
is the summit of wisdom, and of which S. Paul spoke when he confessed
that he knew nothing but Jesus Christ crucified, and wished no other
glory than his sublime ignominy. Now, this scandal of the cross is
especially manifested in the lives of the saints; for the saints are
the most faithful images of Jesus Christ crucified. The world does not
understand these magnanimous souls, all of whose desires tend to the
things above; it is offended by this scandal, and sympathizes only
with those lives in which the mysteries of divine love are closely
concealed. It does not understand the Gospel, and is, as it were,
blinded by these words of Jesus Christ. "Father, I thank thee that
these things have been concealed from the proud, and revealed to the
humble of heart."

"Whenever," again says Bossuet, "we attempt to fathom the depths of
divine wisdom by our own strength, we are lost and confounded by our
pride; whereas the humble of heart may enter therein undisturbed."
Such are the maxims to be kept in view whilst reading the lives of the
saints, and especially the admirable life of S. Catharine of Ricci,
wherein God pleased to manifest to the world all the riches and all the
folly of his love.

S. Catharine of Ricci was born at Florence on the 23d of April, 1522.
On the day following, she was baptized in the church of S. John the
Baptist, and received the name of Lucretia Alexandrina Romola. Her
father was the head of the family of Ricci, one of the most illustrious
in Florence, and her mother was the last offspring of the noble house
of Ricasoli. From her earliest years Alexandrina gave evidence of the
eminent sanctity to which God had predestined her. When only three
years old, she began to devote herself to prayer. She sought solitude
and silence, that she might more freely converse with God, who wished
to draw to himself the earliest affections of this chosen soul. When
God predestines a soul to heroic sanctity, he generally bestows on her
many special graces, even before the development of free will gives
to the creature the full possession of herself. True, there are many
exceptions; God calls to himself some, who, having allowed themselves
to be deceived by the artful smiles of the world, bring to the foot
of the altar only the shattered fragments of their hearts; but in
general, he comes before the dawn, knocks at the door of the heart, and
cries out, as in the Canticle: "Open to me, my sister, my spouse; for
my head is covered with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night."

It was at once evident that Alexandrina was not made for the empty
and turbulent pleasures of worldly life. God could not permit so
pure a chalice to be profaned; so sweet a flower could blossom only
under the quiet shelter of the cloister. It was in the convent of the
Benedictine nuns of S. Peter de Monticelli that the daughter of Pier
Francesco de Ricci was initiated into the monastic life. It was a house
of education, and Alexandrina entered there as a pupil. The religious,
seeing the angelic piety of the child, doubted not that she would one
day take the habit of their order. Unfortunately, the primitive fervor,
charity, self-abnegation, and humility ceased to dwell within these
cloisters; and Alexandrina, perceiving that she could not there make
her permanent abode, at the age of nine years returned to her father's
house. There she continued, as well as she could, the customs of the
convent, without objection from her father, who, considering them as
innocent plays of a puerile piety, allowed her full liberty to exercise
her devotions.

But Alexandrina had higher views. Already had she decided, in her own
mind, to become a religious. One day, two lay Sisters of the Monastery
of S. Vincent de Prato came to Pier Francesco to beg alms. Alexandrina
was so edified by their piety, their modesty and recollection, that
she decided at once that the convent of Prato was the one to which God
called her. She acquainted her father with her determination; but he,
unwilling to be separated from a child who was all his joy, replied by
a formal refusal. He knew not that when God calls a soul to himself,
even the heart of a father must yield to the irresistible attraction of
that love in comparison with which all other affections, even the most
holy, are incapable of enchaining a soul which listens to the voice of
Jesus Christ. Therefore, rather than see his daughter wither like a
plant kept from its native soil, he permitted Alexandrina to receive
the veil in the convent of Prato. She received the habit of S. Dominic
on Whitmonday, May 18, 1535, having completed her thirteenth year. She
took the name of Catharine, in memory of her mother, who had been dead
several years. The fervor of the young novice can be easily imagined;
but God, who had destined her to the most sublime revelations,
wished to cast into the depth of her soul the foundation of all
solid virtue--humility; therefore, he permitted that this precious
treasure should not be appreciated by the community during her year of
novitiate. The supernatural gifts which had already been bestowed upon
her rendered more difficult the obligations of common life. Meanwhile,
she was admitted to profession on the 24th of June, 1536. From that
day the order of S. Dominic received a new and most pure glory. This
glory had been foretold by Savonarola, who, one day pointing to a place
in his neighborhood, said to some religious of S. Dominic: "There a
fervent community of pious sisters will be soon established." As soon
as the soul of Catharine, like an altar prepared for a long sacrifice,
was consecrated by her religious vows, Jesus Christ surrounded her with
his sweetest favors, and illumined her with his most brilliant lights.

But lest the sublimity of these revelations might weaken the profound
humility of this soul, God permitted that the Sisters of Prato, far
from admiring in her the wonders of the divine operations, understood
nothing of these ecstasies, which they attributed to the most common
causes; and, in fine, she was afflicted by two terrible diseases, which
lasted two years, after which she was miraculously cured by blessed
Jerome Savonarola. At this time the Sisters of Prato began to judge
more rightly their holy companion, and her confessor commanded her to
tell him faithfully all that God deigned to reveal to her in these
intimate communications.

It is here begins that wonderful succession of extraordinary favors
bestowed on S. Catharine de Ricci. Her life seemed one continual
ecstasy; her visions participated more and more in the divine light;
her union with Jesus Christ, consecrated by a nuptial love and the
stigmata, became more intimate; the report of her sanctity spread
itself abroad; the most important personages of Italy came to Prato
to consult and venerate the humble religious, whose whole life is an
eloquent teaching and living representation of Jesus Christ crucified.
This part of the saint's life contains facts of too elevated a
character to be completely treated of in a synopsis; it is necessary to
read those chapters in which the author has so well treated of the most
difficult questions of mystical theology. But it is easier to follow S.
Catharine in the government of her monastery and her salutary influence
abroad.

She was elected prioress in the first month of the year 1552. Her
immediate duty was to instruct her sisters, and to inspire them with an
appreciation of their sublime vocation. Often she called her community
to the chapter-room, and, addressing to them a doctrine which came
from God himself, she taught her spiritual daughters the way they were
to follow in order to reach the summit of religious perfection. She
has left us an abridgment of her mystical teaching in a letter which
she addressed to a religious. "At first," says she, "we must endeavor
to be disengaged from every earthly affection, loving no creature but
for God's sake; then, advancing a degree, we must love God, not only
from self-interest, but purely for himself and because of his supreme
excellence.

"Secondly, all our thoughts, words, and actions should tend towards
God; and by our prayers, exhortations, and good example, we should aim
only at procuring his glory in ourselves and in others.

"Thirdly, and lastly, we should rise still higher in the fulfilment of
God's will, to such a degree as to have no longer any desire in regard
to the misfortunes or joys which happen to us in this miserable life.

"But we shall never arrive at this height of perfection unless
by a firm and courageous denial of our own will. To acquire such
self-abnegation, it is absolutely necessary to lay the foundation of
profound humility, that, by a perfect knowledge of our own misery and
fragility, we may ascend to the knowledge of the greatness and goodness
of our God."

It appears that the whole spiritual doctrine of S. Catharine is
contained in these two fundamental points--self-abnegation and
humility, in order to deserve the enjoyment of divine contemplation:
this is the true and the only way to sanctity.

Although the first duty of a superior is to guide those confided to
his care, he has, however, a more painful task--he must govern them;
and it is here that the superior meets the most serious obstacles in
the exercise of his charge. It is always difficult to govern others;
for government is the application of laws with firmness, yet without
too much severity. Now, human nature shrinks from submission, which,
nevertheless, the superior is obliged to require, unless he be a
prevaricator; on the other side, he must often adopt measures of
government which can be discerned only by the most consummate prudence
and a profound knowledge of the weakness of human nature.

In a religious community the difficulty is still greater; for the law
is supported by conscience only, and it tends to guide those who have
accepted it to that ideal perfection in which the soul is no longer
attached to the earth. During forty years S. Catharine governed the
convent of Prato with a prudence, a sweetness, and a firmness that
made it the perfect type of a religious community. She combated most
energetically all abusive exemptions from common life, and showed
herself a faithful guardian of holy observances. But if she was the
enemy of relaxation of the rule, she also censured severely the proud
zeal of those souls whose whole perfection consisted in repeating the
prayer of the Pharisee: "O God, I thank you that I am not as the rest
of men. I fast twice a week."

Under the direction of a prioress so holy and so wise, the Sisters of
Prato walked with rapid strides in the way of perfection; and how could
it be otherwise, when they beheld their superioress tender towards them
as a mother, and discharging her offices sometimes even in the raptures
produced by the divine revelations?

The influence of S. Catharine was not confined to the monastery of
Prato. God would not permit that this community should be the only
witness of such elevated sanctity. The religious of her order--her
brethren in S. Dominic--were the first witnesses of the extraordinary
graces which she had received from heaven, and, on her side, S.
Catharine had for them the greatest esteem, the most lively affection,
regarding them as laborers chosen by God to cultivate his choicest
vineyard. Every time the fathers came to Prato to exercise the
functions of prior, confessor, or preacher, they seemed to her as "so
many angels descended from heaven, whose presence alone was sufficient
to inspire the sisters with sentiments of respect, and whose coming was
to infuse fresh zeal for a more perfect life."

By degrees the influence of S. Catharine, and the renown of her
sanctity, were spread throughout Italy. Persons from all parts came
to consult her and beg her prayers. Joan of Austria, Archduchess of
Tuscany, was bound to her by a tender friendship; she went often to
the convent of Prato to confide to the holy prioress all the vexations
and sorrows of her life. She profited so well by the counsels of her
holy friend that she was no longer called by other name than the good
archduchess. As if Germany envied Italy the treasure she possessed
in the monastery of Prato, the King of Bavaria sent his son there
to convince himself of that which the renown had spread concerning
this servant of God, and to recommend himself and his kingdom to her
prayers. The influence of S. Catharine in the world had been deepest on
those whom the author of her life so justly calls her spiritual sons:
Antonio de Gondi, Philippo Salviati, Giovanni-Batisti de Servi, Lorenzo
Strozzi, and many others.

The first and most celebrated of all was of the illustrious house of
Gondi. A branch of this family established itself in France at the
commencement of the XVIth century, and from it descended the famous
Cardinal de Retz.

The author, in devoting a short and interesting biography to some of
the spiritual sons of S. Catharine, shows us what salutary influence
she exercised over the chief persons of her country, and to what degree
of eminent sanctity she conducted those souls who sought her direction.
Faithful to all the suggestions of gratitude, she did not forget that
the great Apostle of Tuscany had prophesied the glory of the monastery
of Prato, and that twice she had been cured by his supernatural
intervention; therefore, she forwarded in every way devotion to
Savonarola. She charged Brother Nicholas Fabiani to revise the writings
of that celebrated Dominican, and she addressed herself to Count Luis
Capponi to procure a beautiful portrait of Savonarola. She had for that
illustrious character the tenderness of a daughter and the admiration
which a great life inspires in a soul capable of comprehending it.

The last years of the life of S. Catharine was a union the most
intimate with God, a continual succession of ecstasies; her body was on
earth, but her soul was in heaven.

Towards the month of January, she fell sick, and died on Friday, the 2d
of February, in the same year. Numerous miracles attested the eminent
sanctity of her life. She was beatified by Pope Clement XII. on the
30th of April, 1732, and was canonized by Benedict XIV. on the 20th of
June, 1746.

This is an incomplete synopsis of the two volumes published by R. P.
Bayonne. This work, destined to make known one of the greatest glories
of the order, recommends itself to us by the grandeur of the subject
itself, and unites a solid doctrine to a brilliant style, and all the
charms of a perfect narration. We hope it will soon be translated into
English, that the American public may become more fully acquainted with
a book which takes an honorable place in modern literature.

FOOTNOTES:

[137] _Life of S. Catharine of Ricci_, Religious of the Third Order of
S. Dominic. By R. P. Hyacinth Bayonne, O.S.D.




THE GREATEST GRIEF.


                    FROM THE FRENCH OF MARIE JENNA.

    Yes, Father! on the altar of the past
    We may lay down a joy, too sweet to last;
    See the flowers wither that our pathway strewed,
    Incline our brows beneath the tempest rude,
    Behold the rainbow glory fade away
    That made fair promise for our opening day:
    And yet, like that poor stricken plant, survive,
    Blighted by frost, half dead and half alive,
    Give to the desert winds our morning dream,
    And _still_ support our agony supreme!
    We may behold, stretched on a bed of pain,
    The form to which we minister in vain--
    The last, the dearest, the _consoling_ friend--
    Count every moment of his weary end,
    Kiss the pale brow, and watch each wavering breath;
    Close the cold eyelids, murmur, "This is death!"
    And still _once more_ to life and hope belong.
    O God! _thou_ knowest through faith the heart grows strong
    But, ah! another human soul to love
    So fondly that we tremble as above
    Its purity and beauty we incline,
    Then suddenly to mark its depths divine
    Shadowed and chilled, and from our Paradise
    Perceive an icy, vaporous breath arise,
    Whence blew sweet zephyrs, odorous with grace!
    To seek in vain religion's luminous trace
    Amid the ashes of her ruined shrine,
    To pray, to weep, to doubt, to hope, divine
    All _but_ the truth; and at the last to dare
    The long, deep look that tells us our despair,
    Revealing vacancy, a faith withdrawn
    Without a glance towards the retreating dawn,
    Without a cry of grief, a sigh, a prayer--
    O God! that loss is more than we can bear!




NEW PUBLICATIONS.


  CATHOLICITY AND PANTHEISM--ALL TRUTH OR NO TRUTH. An Essay by the
    Rev. J. De Concilio, etc., etc. New York: Sadliers. 1874.

This essay was first published in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, and we are
glad to see it published in a separate volume. It is not a complete
treatise, but only one complete part of a treatise, the _prima primæ_
of a more extensive work, which we hope the author may be able to
write and publish. F. De Concilio is one of our most learned and
acute philosophers and theologians, a disciple of no modern clique
or innovating system, a vender of no patent contrivance of his own
for reconciling contraries, but a modest yet intrepid advocate and
defender of the old time honored scholastic wisdom of S. Thomas. In
its own line, his essay is superior to anything ever before produced
in this country, and we trust that due attention and a just meed of
praise will be awarded to it by the few who will be able to understand
it, in Europe as well as in America. If the author, who has for a long
time struggled to bring his work into the light, is left in the lurch
by everybody, as the learned Dr. Smith has been in England with his
splendid unfinished work on the Pentateuch, it will be a sad proof of
our intellectual degeneracy.

We will not make a critical review of F. De Concilio's argument in
the present short notice, but we think a few words in reply to some
criticisms which have been made, and may be repeated, either publicly
or in private, are almost imperatively called for.

The only one of these criticisms really worth any attention relates
to the argument from reason for the Trinity. It has been objected by
some very respectable theologians that the rational argument for the
Trinity professes to demonstrate from purely rational principles of
natural human intelligence the entire revealed mystery of the Trinity.
We admit frankly that, if the supposition is correct, the censure
founded on it, that the author has undertaken something pronounced by
Catholic doctrine impossible and unlawful, is just and inevitable. We
have never, however, understood the author in this sense. We understand
him to profess to argue in part from premises given by revelation,
and thus merely to explicate a theological doctrine, and in part to
furnish proofs from pure reason, first, that the rational objections
against the dogma are invalid; and, second, that the dogma as disclosed
by revelation taken as a philosophical hypothesis, and it alone,
satisfactorily solves certain difficult problems respecting the divine
nature, which otherwise would be insoluble. So far as any direct proof
of the distinction and proprieties of the three persons in God is
concerned, we understand that such proof is put forward as inadequate
and only probable, but by no means either a complete or strictly
demonstrative argument.

We think, therefore, with due submission to higher authority, that the
author escapes the censures of the Syllabus and the Vatican Council,
and attempts no more than has been done by Bossuet, Lacordaire, and
other great thinkers, who have never been thought to have gone beyond
the bounds of allowed liberty. We leave the author, however, to defend
and advocate his own cause, if it requires to be further vindicated,
and merely give this statement as an explanation of our own reason
for admitting his admirable articles into this magazine without any
alteration.

Another criticism, which the author himself has sufficiently answered,
imputed to him the doctrine of a necessary creation and of _optimism_.
It is only necessary to read his book carefully to see how unfounded is
this imputation.

Still more futile is an objection, urged by the author of the criticism
just now noticed, that F. De Concilio's opinion of the precedence
of the decree of the incarnation to the decree of the redemption of
fallen man is contrary to the opinion of S. Thomas and the _schola_
generally. Be it so! But what then? Must we follow the common opinion,
or that which is extrinsically more probable, if the contrary opinion
has a real intrinsic and extrinsic probability? _Minime gentium!_ F.
De Concilio but follows S. Athanasius, Suarez, and other authors whose
works have passed the Roman censorship, against S. Thomas; and he gives
good intrinsic reasons for doing so. Let any one who wishes to attack
him do so by refuting his arguments; but it is most untheological to
find fault with his opinion as any less sound and orthodox than the
contrary. Let us be rigorous in censuring opinions which are really
unsound and untenable, but let us beware of that carping and unfriendly
spirit which has always been the bane of theological discussions, and
which throws out the imputation of unsoundness without a certain and
sufficient warrant of authority. We do not concur in all the opinions
which are held in the school which F. De Concilio follows, and which
must inevitably come out with greater distinctness in the second part
of his essay; but we shall look forward with pleasure to see him
develop and defend them with his usual masterly ability, and we express
our great desire that he should write as much as his pastoral duties
will permit on philosophical and theological topics.

  THE CHRISTIAN TRUMPET; or, Previsions and Predictions about
    Impending General Calamities, the Universal Triumph of the
    Church, the Coming of Antichrist, the Last Judgment, and the End
    of the World. Divided into three parts. Compiled by Pellegrino.
    "The testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy," Apoc. xix.
    10. Boston: Patrick Donahoe. 1873.

It is beyond question among learned and devout Catholics that many
saints and pious servants of God in all ages have received private
revelations in which are contained predictions of events in a near or
remote future time to the recipients of this supernatural light. It
is, moreover, certain that a number of supernatural and miraculous
events of a most extraordinary character, and evidently intended
as warnings to the good as well as to the wicked, and some very
credible revelations respecting great judgments and great mercies
of God which are impending, have occurred in our own time. It must
be, therefore, not only interesting, but useful, to have authentic
and judicious accounts of grave and sacred matters of this kind
published and circulated among the faithful. A collection of this
sort has been published in France by a learned priest, the Abbé
Curicque, with the approbation of several bishops, entitled _Voix
Prophétiques_; and several other critical and judicious writers in
Europe have published books or articles relating to different persons
and events of this extraordinary class, which are truly valuable,
instructive, and edifying. The end and object of the compiler of the
book before us is, therefore, one which we must approve, although we
are sorry not to be able to give an unqualified commendation to the
manner in which he has executed his task. That he is a very pious and
zealous priest is evident at first sight. That he has laid down in
general terms the sound theological doctrine about the credibility of
private revelations, and made some very just reflections and timely
exhortations about the times in which we live, and the sentiments we
ought to cherish and put in practice in view of the certain approach of
the consummation of this world, is also obvious to any reader of his
book. The research and painstaking which he has used in collecting his
materials are very great, and the greatest part of them are undoubtedly
derived from respectable and trustworthy sources of information, and
therefore entitled to credit.

Nevertheless, as a whole, the compilation lacks the sobriety,
discretion, and authority which a book of this kind ought to have,
in order to give it proper credibility and weight with the general
class of readers, who cannot judge for themselves or discriminate
properly, and who need, therefore, that evidence should be given them
by reference to standard authorities, and by the guarantee of names
which are known to them and sufficient to warrant their belief in the
genuineness and credibility of such remarkable documents as those
contained in this compilation. An anonymous author, whose work appears
without any ecclesiastical approbation or recommendation of persons
known to the Catholic public, is entitled to no credit on his own mere
assertion. He must cite his authorities and witnesses, and must exact
no assent without giving a sufficient motive. A translation of the work
of the Abbé Curicque would, in our opinion, have been much more likely
to accomplish the end of the pious author than a compilation like the
one he has made. Moreover, there are some things in this book, and
these the very matters which make the most exorbitant demand on the
credulity of the reader, for which no evidence whatever is furnished
but the _on dit_ of certain unknown parties. Other things are very
doubtful; some are contradictory to one another. The author mixes
up with the citations he makes his own favorite view of the course
of present and coming events, especially about the schism and the
anti-popes, whose coming he forebodes; and a haze of the visionary,
the wondrous, and the improbable is thus thrown over the whole, which
envelopes even that which is really entitled to credence and pious
veneration, and tends to bring the whole into suspicion and discredit.
The hint thrown out that a certain cardinal, whose name might as
well have been given, since every one will know who is meant, may
become an anti-pope, is contrary to Christian charity and prudence;
and, in general, we must notice with regret that the author's zeal
is sadly lacking in discretion, and devoid of that delicate tact and
discernment, more necessary in one who handles such difficult and
perilous themes than in any other sort of writer or teacher of the
people.

It is not the fault of the author, who is a foreigner, that he has
fallen into many inaccuracies of language; but we think the publisher
might have secured a revision of the text by some competent person, and
that it would have been in better taste, as well as more befitting the
reserve and sobriety due to matters which are so very serious, if he
had made a less sensational announcement of the book. It is, however,
notwithstanding these drawbacks, certainly a very curious collection
of documents and pieces of information which are interesting to know
about, and contains so much that is truly valuable and edifying that we
hope it will not only gratify curiosity, but also do good to a great
many of its readers, by turning their attention to the great subjects
which it presents in such vivid colors, and in a startling proximity to
the present and coming events of our own age.

In order to assist those of our readers who may wish to have some
direction to guide them in perusing this book with discrimination and
understanding, we will specify in part which are the most valuable
and trustworthy portions, which are less so, and which are altogether
without sufficient grounds of probability to entitle them to any regard.

First, there are the prophecies of canonized or beatified saints, whose
authenticity is well established and their interpretation more or
less clear. These are the prophecies of S. Remigius, S. Cesarius, S.
Edward, S. John of the Cross, and the B. Andrew Bobola, S.J. In regard
to those of S. Bridget of Sweden and S. Francis of Paul, they would be
entitled to equal respect, if clearer evidence were furnished of their
authenticity than that given by the author--a matter in regard to which
we are not able to pronounce any judgment. The prophecy of S. Malachy
is one in respect to which there is great difference of opinion. We
give our own for what it is worth, after some reading on the subject,
in its favor. After these come the prophecies of persons of recognized
sanctity, which have gained credit with judicious and well-informed
persons competent to form an enlightened opinion. The most valuable
and trustworthy of these are from the V. Holzhauser, the V. Anna Maria
Taigi, the V. Curé of Ars, F. Necktou, S.J., Jane le Royer, Sœur de la
Nativité, and Mary Lataste. The prophecies of the Solitary of Orval
and of the Nun of Blois have their warm partisans and opponents, the
Abbé Curicque being among their defenders. The Signora Palma d'Orio
is a person whose ecstatic state seems to be beyond reasonable doubt,
yet it is difficult to ascertain with certainty what she has really
predicted; so that what is reported from her, although interesting, is
scarcely to be considered as having evidence enough to be classed among
authentic predictions. The revelations made to Maximin and Melanie
appear to us to belong to a similar category, as worthy of the greatest
respect in themselves if we had an ample guarantee of their genuineness
and authenticity, but as not yet placed in a sufficiently clear light
to warrant a prudent assent. The remainder of the contents we pass
over without any special remark, with the exception of those few
matters which we have noted above as making an exorbitant demand on the
reader's credulity without any evidence to warrant it. One of these
points is the story of David Lazzaretti, another about Zoe Tonari,
"destined soon to be a second Joan of Arc," and the most censurable
of all is what is said about Antichrist having been born in 1860, and
other things connected with the same. (Pp. 265-268.)

In connection with the wonderful narrative of David Lazzaretti the
author has woven a very flimsy texture of conjectures out of the
materials furnished by some of the curious documents which he cites for
his hypothesis of a schism and two anti-popes to come immediately after
the death of Pius IX. It is with regret that we are compelled to touch
on these subjects in such a superficial manner; they require careful
handling. Excessive and imprudent credulity in those who have faith and
piety is certainly unreasonable, and may be blamable and hurtful.

But the utter incredulity and dogged refusal to admit anything
miraculous and supernatural which is exhibited by our modern illuminati
is the very _ne plus ultra_ of unreason, and the acme of wilful,
despicable, and wicked folly. The most sensible, as well as the most
pious rule is, to follow the church without reservation in all that
she teaches and sanctions, and in those things concerning which she is
silent to follow her saints and doctors, who are the most enlightened
of all men.

  SPAIN AND CHARLES VII.; or, "Who is the Legitimate Sovereign?" By
    General Kirkpatrick. Published under the sanction of the Carlist
    Committee. London: Burns, Oates & Co. 1873. (New York: Sold by
    The Catholic Publication Society.)

This timely and clearly-written plea for Don Carlos places beyond
a question his right to the Spanish throne. The Bourbons succeeded
to the Spanish throne through the marriage of Louis XIV. with the
Infanta of Spain, eldest daughter of Philip IV. Her grandson, Philip
V., became king on the failure of direct issue from his grand-uncle,
Charles II., the son of Philip IV. The Salic law, confirming the
succession to the heirs male of the royal house, was established by
Philip V. and his cortes, with the consent of all the great powers,
in order to prevent the union of the French and Spanish crowns, the
King of Spain relinquishing all his rights as a French prince. This
law has never been validly repealed. Christina of Naples, the queen of
Ferdinand VII., a most ambitious and unprincipled princess, had this
law violently and illegally set aside in order to make way for her
daughter Isabella to ascend the throne. The base and illegal nature of
the intrigues by which Don Carlos and his family were exiled from Spain
and deprived of their just rights is fully exposed by Gen. Kirkpatrick.
Charles V., the brother of Ferdinand VII., was succeeded in his claim
to the throne by his son, Charles VI., in 1845, who, dying in 1861
without issue, was succeeded by his brother, Don Juan, who abdicated
October, 1868, in favor of his son, the present Don Carlos, who is now
twenty-five years of age, and married to the niece of the Comte de
Chambord. Charles V. would undoubtedly have succeeded in regaining his
throne but for the shameful interference of Louis Philippe of France,
and the English crown. The party of Christina was composed of all the
liberals, communists, and enemies of the church, and Isabella was
merely tolerated by the sound and Catholic majority of the nation from
necessity.

The clergy, the ancient nobility, the peasantry, and most of the
friends of order and religion in all classes, desire the restoration
of Don Carlos to the throne, which belongs to him by the laws of the
Spanish constitution. It is very true that a mere restitution of
legitimate monarchy is not a certain guarantee for good government, and
that many of the Bourbons have been bad rulers. It is, nevertheless,
the only hope for Spain; and the character and principles of Don Carlos
give reason to hope that, taught by adversity and trained by experience
to value the sound Catholic traditions of Spain, he will prove to be a
good sovereign. We wish him, therefore, most cordially, a speedy and
complete triumph, which we believe he is in the way to win.

  ESSAYS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS. By His Eminence Cardinal Wiseman. In
    Six Volumes. Vols. V., VI. New York: P. O'Shea. 1873.

These two volumes complete the series of the famous cardinal's
_Essays_. The Catholic reader is under great obligations to Mr. O'Shea
for the reprint of these splendid compositions, the London edition
being out of print. It is to be regretted, however, that the references
adapted to that edition should not have been changed to suit the
present issue. Having indicated one fault, we might as well inquire of
the publisher why he _will_ use perfumed paper in his books? Though not
a serious objection, it is an annoying one to reasonably fastidious
readers, as we happen to know.

Vol. V. opens with an article on Spain, which takes up more than
half the book. It is superfluous to remark that this essay is of
peculiar interest at the present hour. Next we have a vindication
of Pope Boniface VIII.--a very important subject. Then a review of
Montalembert's _S. Elizabeth of Hungary_. The three remaining articles
are specimens of the writer's scholarship as an antiquarian. Vol.
VI. contains ten essays. The first treats learnedly of S. Peter's
chair at Rome. A plate accompanies the article. The fifth administers
flagellation to Charles Dickens for certain things in his _American
Notes_; and also to Mrs. Trollope, for her _Visit to Italy_. Then
follow four other essays on the subject of Italy: "Italian Guides and
Tourists," "Religion in Italy," "Italian Gesticulation," and "Early
Italian Academies." The volume concludes with "Sense _vs._ Science."

We are reminded, while noticing the completion of this work, of an
article on the Donatist schism, "Catholic and Anglican Churches" (p.
199, v. iii.), which "caused in no slight degree" the doubt which first
crossed the mind of Dr. John Henry Newman "of the tenableness of the
theological theory on which Anglicanism is based," and which we cannot,
therefore, do better than commend to the serious attention of all
honest and conscientious Episcopalians.

  BIBLE HISTORY, with Maps, Illustrations, Examination Questions,
    Scriptural Tables, and Glossary. For the use of Colleges,
    Schools, Families, and Biblical Students. By the Rev. James
    O'Leary, D.D. _Permissu Superiorum_. ✠ John, Archbishop of New
    York. New York: Sadliers. 1873.

We cordially recommend this excellent and beautifully printed manual
to all those for whom the title states it has been prepared by its
learned author. It will be a favorite, especially with young people
and children, whether used as a class or a reading book, particularly
on account of its pictures, which are generally good, and many of
which are remarkably fine. Such a book, which, so far as we know, is
much the best of the kind, must do incalculable good; and we hope it
will be appreciated by parents and teachers, so as to find its way
into every family and school throughout our country and elsewhere,
wherever Catholics are found who use the English language. The author
has done well by taking into account those generally received facts
and hypotheses of natural science which have a bearing on topics
handled, in their connection with the facts and truths of revelation,
by the sacred writers. His statement, however, that the surface of the
earth bears on it the marks of perturbations caused by the Deluge,
and otherwise not capable of scientific explanation, is not one which
geologists would admit, and we doubt very much its correctness.

On page 16 the author observes that, "as the divinity of Christ was
doubted before the Council of Nice, so these [deutero-canonical] books
and passages might have been doubted before the decision of the church."

The cases are not parallel. The divinity of Christ was an article
of faith before the definition of the Council of Nice, and no good
Catholic could doubt it. But the canonical authority of certain books
was not an article of faith before it was defined, and might have been,
as it indeed was, doubted by good Catholics.

We think the author would improve his work by inserting a good,
succinct historical account of the events which occurred between the
period of the Books of the Machabees and that of the Evangelists.
Moreover, we do not like the termination "eth" in the index, which
is unnecessarily quaint and old-fashioned, or approve all the rhymes
which precede the chapters, although some of them are not without a
quaint poetic vigor, and most of them are terse and ingenious, likely,
therefore, to strike the fancy and stick in the memory of children.

It is seldom that we take the trouble to make so many criticisms on
a book. This one, however, is so good and so very important that we
would like to see the author continue to improve it in every new
edition, and therefore offer our suggestions in the most kindly
and respectful spirit to the reverend and learned author, adding to
what we have already said in commendation of the _Bible History_
that it is not merely a good school-book, but a work of really sound
and solid scholarship. We are very glad to see that the author has
sought and obtained the approbation of the ecclesiastical authority
before publishing his work, and we trust that his good example will be
generally followed, and, moreover, that the law of the church will be
enforced in every diocese and in all cases, requiring this approbation
for all books treating _de rebus sacris_.

  MEDITATIONS FOR THE USE OF THE CLERGY, for every day in the year.
    On the Gospels for the Sundays. From the Italian of Mgr. Scotti,
    Abp. of Thessalonica. Revised and edited by the Oblates of S.
    Charles. Vol. II. From Septuagesima Sunday to the Fourth Sunday
    after Easter. London: Burns & Oates. 1873. (New York: Sold by The
    Catholic Publication Society.)

We have already noticed the first volume of these invaluable
_Meditations_, and need not repeat what we then said. The present
volume fully sustains the promise of the first, and makes us look
eagerly for the completion of the work.

  THE ILLUSTRATED CATHOLIC FAMILY ALMANAC FOR THE UNITED STATES FOR
    THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1874. Calculated for different Parallels of
    Latitude, and adapted for use throughout the Country. New York:
    The Catholic Publication Society.

The season does not bring a brighter, pleasanter, or more useful and
necessary book than this cleverly executed little work. From cover to
cover the reader finds something to catch the eye and attract him in
every page. For a wonder, the title is an exact index of the book; it
is illustrated, and remarkably well illustrated; it is Catholic, and
it is a _family_ almanac, which the children will pore over for hours,
delighted with the pictures of famous Catholic men, women, and places,
and the short but well-written sketches accompanying them; which their
parents will consult in order to find all the information concerning
feasts, fasts, and the like necessary for the coming year; which all
will read who wish to obtain accurate information on matters relating
to the spread and progress of the church, particularly in the United
States. When this has been said, there is really nothing more to say,
as far as recommending this almanac to Catholics goes; but there is a
great deal to be said concerning this present number, which in many
respects is an improvement even on its predecessors. For instance,
in the matter of filling in a page with short but pithy notices of
Catholic works, in the excellent but necessarily incomplete tables of
statistics of the Catholic Church in the United States, and in the
fulness of the Catholic chronology for the past year, which forms, as
it were, the headlines of Catholic history in this country--all this
displays enterprise, and the excellence of the whole speaks tact and
care on the part of the editor.

Glancing at the illustrations, we find portraits and sketches of Abp.
Odin; Rt. Rev. Michael O'Connor, first bishop of Pittsburgh and of
Erie; Bishop Fitzpatrick, of Boston; Father Southwell, S.J., whose
poems and writings are now being collected and given to the public;
Father Lacordaire, Father De Smet, and others. Here is a head of
Manzoni, in another place the Comte de Montalembert; here John Banim's
well-known face looks out, and here is genial Thomas D'Arcy McGee
smiling at us. In another place is a portrait of S. Ignatius in armor,
and a sunny picture of his birth-place. Miss Honora Nagle, foundress
of the Ursuline Order in Ireland, Mother Mary of the Incarnation,
Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque, Church of Our Lady of Lourdes, of
S. Stephen of the Mount, Abbey of Cluny, and others, form subjects
for illustrations and sketches, all careful, accurate, and finished.
Looking again at the _Almanac_, and then considering its price, the
publishers may congratulate themselves on having accomplished that
miracle of presenting to a Catholic public something which is _cheap
and excellent_ throughout.

  SONGS FROM THE SOUTHERN SEAS, AND OTHER POEMS. By John Boyle
    O'Reilly. Boston: Roberts Brothers. 1873.

These _Songs_ have a rare charm of novelty about them. Australia is a
land yet unconquered to the muse, but evidently as fruitful in poetic
themes as any of "the shores of old romance."

Our author is peculiarly at home, perhaps, in the scenes from which his
book is named. Yet some of the "other poems" are of considerable merit;
such as "A Wail of Two Cities" (Chicago and Boston), "The Wreck of the
Atlantic," and "The Fishermen of Wexford."

We thank him for his modest volume, and hope to hear from him again.

  RECENT MUSIC AND MUSICIANS, as described in the Diaries and
    Correspondence of Ignaz Moscheles. Edited by his wife, and
    adapted from the original German by A. D. Coleridge. New York:
    Henry Holt & Co. 1873.

Born in 1794, and living to the advanced age of seventy-six, this
distinguished musician had the opportunity of cultivating an intimate
acquaintance, or of holding more or less correspondence, with all the
composers, artists, singers, and patrons of music who flourished during
his long life. Reference is made in this exceedingly interesting memoir
to the names of over five hundred of these, furnishing to the reader
a vast amount of information concerning musicians and their works in
this century. The book is written in an agreeable, vivacious style, and
is altogether the best of the several memoirs of the kind which have
appeared.

  THE STORY OF WANDERING WILLIE. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co.
    1873.

We have been attracted by the beauty and pathos of this simple tale,
and by its high moral tone, in which it contrasts favorably with many
more pretentious works.

  THE LIFE OF THE MOST REV. M. J. SPALDING, D.D., ARCHBISHOP OF
    BALTIMORE. By Rev. J. L. Spalding, S.T.L. New York: The
    Catholic Publication Society. 1873.

We had contemplated an extended notice of this very interesting
biography, but were unable to finish it in time for the present number.
We fancy, however, that few intelligent Catholics who are made aware of
the subject, author, and superior mechanical execution of the volume,
will delay securing possession of a copy.


BOOKS RECEIVED.

  From BURNS & OATES, London (through "The Catholic Publication
    Society," New York): Meditations for the Use of the Clergy. From
    the Italian of Mgr. Scotti. Vol. ii., 1873. 12mo, pp. viii. 280.

  From WEED, PARSONS & CO., Albany: Fourteenth Annual Report of the
    Superintendent of Insurance, Fire and Marine, pp. lviii.-463.
    Life and Casualty, pp. lvii.-249. 8vo, 1873.

  From SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG & CO., New York: Lombard Street: A
    Description of the Money Market. By Walter Bagehot. 12mo, pp.
    viii. 359.

  From KELLY, PIET & CO., Baltimore: Little Manual of the Holy
    Angels' Sodality. 1873, 24mo, pp. 68.

  From P. O'SHEA, New York: Mrs. Herbert and the Villagers. By the
    Comtesse E. M. De Bondenham. 2 vols, in 1, 18mo, pp. xii. 341,
    vii. 318.

  From D. & J. SADLIER & CO., New York: The Irish on the Prairies,
    and other Poems. By Rev. Thos. Ambrose Butler. 12mo, pp. 161.




THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XVIII., No. 106.--JANUARY, 1874.[138]




THE PRINCIPLES OF REAL BEING.


All knowledge which is truly scientific rests on demonstration, and all
demonstration depends on principles or axiomatic truths. But, besides
the principles of demonstration, there are other principles on which
not only the knowledge, but the very existence of things, and their
origin and constitution, essentially depend. These latter principles
are nowadays less known than the former, as we may argue from the fact
that they are scarcely ever alluded to in modern speculations; and yet
they undoubtedly have the best claim to the attention of philosophical
minds, for it is in such principles that the real germs of all true
science are hidden. For this reason, we have determined to offer our
readers a short but accurate summary of the philosophical doctrine on
principles; which, if presented, as we shall try to do, with becoming
perspicuity, will prove to be a kind of popular introduction to
metaphysical studies.


I. NOTION OF PRINCIPLE.

By the name of _principle_ philosophers designate that whence anything
originally proceeds in any manner whatever: _Id, unde aliquid
quomodocumque procedit_. This definition implies that there are many
different manners of proceeding, and consequently many different kinds
of principles. And so it is. Aristotle, however, shows that principles
of all kinds can be reduced to three classes; that is, to those
principles of which a thing consists, those through which or out of
which a thing is made, and those by which a thing is known: _Primum,
unde aliquid est, aut fit, aut cognoscitur_.[139]--Arist. _Metaph._ 5.

The first class comprises the principles through which a thing is,
viz., by which the thing is intrinsically constituted. These principles
are called _constituent_ or _intrinsic_ principles, and are always
present _by their own entity_ in the thing principiated; as the matter
in the body, and the soul in the animal.

The second class contains the principles through which a thing _is
made_. These principles serve to account for the origin of the thing,
and are called _extrinsic_ principles, because they are not present by
_their own entity_ in the thing principiated. Thus, the motive power of
the sun is not, by its own entity, in the planets to which it imparts
movement, but in the sun only; and the medical art is not in the person
who has been cured through it, but in the doctor. There is, however,
in the planets something proceeding from the motive power of the sun,
and in the person cured something proceeding from the medical art, as
every one will acknowledge. Whence it is obvious that the extrinsic
principles by their very principiation must leave some mark or vestige
of themselves in the thing principiated.

The third class consists of those principles through which any
conclusion is _made known_. These principles are general truths, which
are made to serve for the demonstration of some other truth, and are
called principles _of science_.

Among the principles of this third class we do not reckon the
principles from which the first apprehension and immediate intuition
of things proceeds; to wit, either the power through which the object
makes an impression on the cognoscitive faculty, or the faculty itself
through which the object is apprehended. Our reason is that these
principles, thus considered, do not form a class apart. The power of
the object to make its impression on the subject is an _extrinsic_
principle of knowledge, and ranks with the principles of the second
class above mentioned; whilst the power of the subject to perceive
through the intelligible species is an _intrinsic_ principle of
knowledge, as well as the species which it expresses within itself,
and, therefore, is to be ranked among the principles of the first
class. Accordingly, the third class is exclusively made up of those
principles which serve for the scientific demonstration of truth; and
this is what Aristotle himself insinuates, at least negatively, as he
gives no instance of principles of this third class but the premises by
which any conclusion is made known.

Before we advance further, we have to remark that, in metaphysics,
the first principles of science are assumed, not as a subject of
investigation, but as the fundamental base of scientific demonstration.
Thus, the principles, _Idem non potest simul esse et non esse_,[140]
_Non datur effectus sine causa_,[141] _Quæ sunt eadem uni tertio
sunt eadem inter se_,[142] and such like, though usually styled
"metaphysical" principles, are not the subject of metaphysical
investigation, but are simply presupposed and admitted on the strength
of their immediate and incontrovertible evidence. Such principles
are perfectly known before all metaphysical disquisition, and need
not be traced to other principles. On the other hand, metaphysics,
which is the science of reality, deals only with the principles of
_real_ beings; whence it follows that the principles of demonstration,
which, like the conclusion deduced therefrom, exist in the intellect
alone (and therefore are _beings of reason_, and principiate nothing
but other beings of reason), are not comprised in the object of
metaphysical inquiry. Hence, the only principles which metaphysics is
bound to investigate are those that belong to the first and second
class above mentioned; that is, the intrinsic and the extrinsic
principles of things: _Primum unde aliquid est_, and _primum unde
aliquid fit_.[143]

Principles and causes are often confounded, although it is well known
that they are not identical. Hence, our next question is: In what does
a cause differ from a principle?

It is commonly admitted that all causes are principles, but not all
principles causes; which evidently implies that a cause is something
more than a principle. In fact, when we use the word "cause," we wish
to designate a being in which we know that there is a principle of
causation; whence it is evident that the common notion of cause implies
the notion of principle, _and something else besides_--that is, the
notion of a subject to which the principle belongs. Thus, we say that
the moon causes the tides by its attractive power; the moon is the
_cause_, and the attractive power is its _principle_ of causation. In
like manner, we say that an orator causes great popular emotion by
his eloquence; the orator is the _cause_, and his eloquence is his
_principle_ of causation.

From these instances it would be easy to conclude that the difference
between a cause and a principle lies in this, that the cause is a
complete being, whilst the principle is only an appurtenance of the
cause. But as we know from theology that there are principles which
cannot be thus related to causes, we cannot consider the above as an
adequate and final answer to the question proposed.

Some of the best modern scholastics account for the difference between
cause and principle in the following manner: A principle, they say, is
conceived to differ from a cause in two things: first, in this, that
a cause always precedes its effect by priority of nature,[144] whereas
a principle does not require such a priority; secondly, in this, that
the cause does not communicate its own identical nature to its effect,
whereas the principle can communicate its own identical nature to that
which it principiates.[145] From these two differences a third one
might be gathered, viz., that the effect has always a real dependence
_from_[146] its cause, whilst the thing principiated does not always
really depend _from_ its principles.[147] These grounds of distinction
between principles and causes have been thought of, with the avowed
object of paving the way to explain how the Eternal Father can be the
principle, without being the cause, of his Eternal Son, and how the
Father and the Son can be the principle, without being the cause, of
the Holy Ghost.

But we must observe that there are four genera of causes and of
principles: the _efficient_, the _material_, the _formal_, and the
_final_; and that the two differences alleged by these writers between
principle and cause do not apply to principles and causes of the same
genus, but are applicable only when some principle belonging to one
genus is wrongly compared with some cause pertaining to another genus.

That there are four genera of causes we will take for granted, as it
is the universal doctrine of philosophers. That there are also four
genera of principles corresponding to the four genera of causes is
evident; for every cause must contain within itself the principle of
its causality; and, in fact, Aristotle himself clearly affirms that
there are as many causes as principles, and that all causes are also
principles,[148] in the sense which we have already explained. Lastly,
that the two aforesaid differences between principle and cause do not
apply to principles and causes of the same genus can be easily verified
by a glance at each genus. Let the reader take notice of the following
statements, and then judge for himself.

The efficient cause (the agent) and the efficient principle (its active
power) are _both_, by priority of nature, prior to the thing produced
or principiated, and _both_ have a nature numerically distinct from
that of the thing produced or principiated.

In the same manner the final cause (the object willed) and the
finalizing principle (the known goodness and desirability of the
object) _both_ are, by priority of nature, prior to the act caused or
principiated, and _both_ have a nature numerically distinct from that
of the act caused or principiated.

Thus, also, the material cause (actual matter) and the material
principle (the passiveness of matter) are _both_, by priority of
nature, prior to the thing effected or principiated, and _both_
identify themselves with the thing effected or principiated.

Accordingly, with regard to these three kinds of causation and
principiation, it is quite impossible to admit that the difference
between a cause and a principle is to be accounted for by a recourse to
the two aforementioned grounds of distinction, so long as the causes
and principles, which are compared, belong to one and the same genus.

As to the formal cause and the formal principle, we shall presently see
that they are not distinct things; but, even if we were disposed to
consider them as distinct, such a distinction could not possibly rest
on the two grounds of which we have been speaking; for the formal cause
and the formal principle have no priority of nature[149] with respect
to the thing caused or principiated, and _both_ identify themselves
with the same. We are, therefore, satisfied that the opinion which we
have criticised has no foundation in truth.

Let us, then, resume our previous explanation, and see how the
difficulty above proposed against its completeness can be solved. We
have shown that the notion of cause implies the notion of principle,
together with that of a subject to which the principle belongs. We
must, therefore, admit that a principle differs from a cause of the
same genus, as an incomplete or _metaphysical_ entity differs from a
complete or _physical_ being; or, in other terms, that a real cause,
rigorously speaking, is a complete being, _which_ gives origin to
an effect; whilst a real principle, properly speaking, is only that
_through which_ the cause gives origin to its effect. The cause is _id
quod causat_;[150] the principle is _id quo causa causat_.[151]

The formal principle, however, is an exception to this general
doctrine, as formal principles do not differ from formal causes. The
form, in fact, not only _has_ within itself something through which it
is fit to cause its effect, but also _is_ itself that very something,
and _through itself_ brings its effect into existence. Thus the soul,
which is the form of the body, _through itself_, and not through any
of its faculties, actuates the body and vivifies it. On this account,
then, any form might be indifferently called either a formal _cause_
or a formal _principle_. But we must further consider that a form, as
such, is an incomplete entity, since no formal act can exist apart from
its essential term;[152] and on this ground we maintain that the name
of _principle_ suits it better than the name of _cause_.

And this conclusion will be approved even by those philosophers
whose opinion concerning the distinction between cause and principle
we have just refuted; for the two differences which they allege as
characteristic of cause in opposition to principle have no room in
formal causation or principiation, since we have seen that the formal
act has no priority of nature with respect to its essential term, and
identifies itself with the thing of which it is the act. Consequently,
the form, even in the opinion of said philosophers, is not a cause, but
a principle.

We hope to give a fuller explanation of this point on a later occasion;
but what we have just said suffices to show what we at present intend,
viz., that the doctrine which considers principles as appurtenances
of causes admits of a remarkable exception in the case of formal
principles, and by such an exception is competent to account for the
existence of other principles importing real principiation without
real causation. Now, this is exactly what the theological doctrine on
divine processions requires. The fact, therefore, that the procession
of one of the divine Persons from another involves no causation, but
only principiation, can be accounted for by a simple reference to the
nature of formal principiation. The Eternal Father is certainly not the
efficient, but the _formal_, principle of His Eternal Son; and this
already suffices to explain how the being of the Son is not _a new
being made_ by the Father, but is the very same being of the Father
communicated identically to the Son. Thus, also, the Holy Ghost not
efficiently, but _formally_, proceeds from the Father and the Son,
through their conspiration into a simple actuality of love; and this
suffices to explain how the Holy Ghost is not _made_ by the Father and
the Son, but is the very actuality of the one in the other.

To sum up: Formal principiation is not causation; hence, that which
immediately proceeds from a formal principle is not caused by it, but
only principiated; it is not its effect, but its connatural term; it
has not a distinct nature, but the very nature of its formal principle
identically communicated; lastly, it has no real dependence _from_
its formal principle, but only real relative opposition; for real
dependence has no place where there is identity of nature. This is
eminently true of God, and, by imitation, of every primitive contingent
being, which is strictly one in its entity, and consequently also
of all the ultimate elements into which a physical compound can be
resolved; for the ultimate elements of things cannot but be primitive
beings.

The preceding remarks regard those formal acts which enter in the
essential constitution of being as such, and which are called strictly
_substantial acts_. Of accidental forms we have nothing to say in
particular, as it is too evident to need explanation that they are not
causes, but mere principles. It is, therefore, to be concluded that the
distinction between cause and principle applies only to _efficient_,
_material_, and _final_ causality and principiativity. Thus, as we have
said, _the sun_ is the efficient cause of certain movements, and _its
attractive power_ is the efficient principle of those movements; _the
object_ is the final cause that moves the will, and _the goodness_,
through which the object moves the will, is the finalizing principle of
the volition: _the steel_ is the material cause of the sword, but the
material principle of the sword is _the passive potency_ of the steel,
which allows it to receive the form of a sword or any other form.

We must not forget, however, that the words _cause_ and _principle_
have been, and are, very frequently used without discrimination by
philosophical writers, even of the highest merit. It is by no means
uncommon to find, for instance, the premises described as the _cause_
of the conclusion, the rules of the art as the _cause_ of an artificial
work, the exemplar as the _cause_ of that in which it is reproduced or
imitated. In these examples, the word _cause_ stands for _principle_.
The old Greek theologians even said that God the Father is the _cause_
of his Eternal Son; the word _cause_ being undoubtedly used by them in
the sense of _principle_. We should not be astonished at this. Indeed,
while we ourselves persist in giving the name of cause to the formal
principle, we should be the last to be surprised at the Greek fathers
doing the same.

And now, let us come to another part of our subject. Philosophers,
when wishing to give a full account of things, besides principles and
causes, point out _metaphysical reasons_ too. We think it our duty
to show in what such reasons consist, and in what they differ from
principles.

A reason, in general, may be defined as _that from which anything
immediately results_; and since a formal result is not made, but simply
follows as a consequence from a conspiration of principles, we can
see at once that a reason, or the formal ground of a given result,
must consist in a conspiration of given principles. There are logical
reasons, which give rise to logical results; and there are metaphysical
reasons, which give rise to metaphysical results. We will give an
example of each.

In a syllogism, the consequence is the result of a conspiration of
two propositions, called premises. The propositions themselves are
the _principles_ from which the conclusion is to follow; but the
actual following of the conclusion depends on the actual comparison of
the two propositions, and on the actual perception of the agreement
of two extreme terms with a middle one. It is, in fact, through the
middle term that the two premises conspire into a definite conclusion.
Hence, when we are asked the reason why a conclusion follows from two
premises, we point out not only the fact that the two premises are
true, but especially the fact that the extreme terms, which are to be
directly united in the conclusion, are already both linked, in the
premises, with the same middle term. For it is evident that the whole
strength of a legitimate conclusion lies in the universality of the
axiom, _Quæ sunt eadem uni tertio, sunt eadem inter se_. The words,
_sunt eadem uni tertio_,[153] express the formal reason, and the words
_sunt eadem inter se_[154] express the formal result. In scholastic
language, the premises would be called the _principium formale
quod_[155] of the conclusion, and the suitable connection of their
terms would be called the _principium formale quo_,[156] or the _ratio
formalis_[157] of the conclusion; whilst the conclusion itself would be
called the _rationatum_.[158]

For an example of the metaphysical order, we will take a known subject,
_animal life_, and ascertain its formal reason. Every one knows that
the soul is a principle of life; but animal life, besides the vivifying
soul, requires also an organic body as its other principle. These two
principles, however, are, with respect to animal life, in the same
relation as the two premises with respect to their conclusion. For as
the conclusion proximately results from the connection of the premises
and their bearing on one another, as we have just explained, so, also,
animal life results from the connection of soul and body--that is, from
the actuation of the latter by the former, and consequently by the
completion of the former in the latter. Hence, the formal reason, or
the _principium formale quo_, of animal life is the very information
of the body by the soul, while the soul and the body themselves, taken
together, constitute the _principium formale quod_.

From these two examples, to which it would be easy to add many more,
it is manifest that what we call _formal reason_ is _a conspiration of
correlative principles towards a common actual result_. All results are
relations between terms, or principles, communicating with one another,
either through themselves or through something which is common to them.
In the first case, the result, or relation, is transcendental, and is
nothing else than the _actuality_ of one principle in the other--of
the soul in the body, for instance. In the second case, the result,
or relation, is either predicamental or logical (according as its
principles and its formal reason are real or not), and is nothing else
than the _actuality_ of the terms as correlated.

Let the reader remark that we have pointed out three kinds of so-called
formal principles, viz., the form, or act, which is a _principium
formale_ properly, and without qualification; then the _principium_,
_formale quod_ of a resultation, consisting of correlated principles
conspiring together into a common result; lastly, the _principium
formale quo_, or the proximate reason of the resultation, consisting
in the very conspiration of the correlated principles. In English,
the better to distinguish the one from the other, it would be well
to retain the name of _formal principle_ for the first alone; the
second might be called the _formal origin_, and the third the _formal
reason_, of a resultation. Thus the name of _formal principle_ would be
preserved to its rightful owner, without danger of mistaking it for a
formal reason, or _vice versa_.

Before we conclude, we beg to add, though it may appear unnecessary,
that the _conditions_ of causation are not principles. We make this
remark because nothing, perhaps, is more common in ordinary speech
than to confound conditions with principles and causes. It is not
uninstructed persons only, but educated people and men of science too,
that express themselves as if they believed that conditions have their
own active part in producing effects. If a weight be suspended by a
thread, the cutting of the thread is popularly said _to cause_ the
fall of the weight. He who throws a piece of paper into the fire is
said _to burn_ the paper. He who rubs a match is said _to light_ the
match. A change of distance between the sun and a planet is said _to
cause_ a change of intensity in the central forces. Now, it is scarcely
necessary to show that _cutting_ the thread, _throwing_ the paper,
_rubbing_ the match, etc., are only conditions of the falling, the
burning, the lighting, etc., respectively; and conditions are neither
causes nor principles of causation. A _condition_ of causation may be
defined to be _an accidental relation between principles or causes,
inasmuch as they are concerned in the production of an effect_. Causes
and principles cause and principiate in a different manner, according
to the difference of their mutual relations, but do not cause or
principiate _through_ such relations, as is evident.

A weight suspended by a thread falls when the thread is cut. But he
who cuts the thread is not the real _cause_ of the falling. The true
_cause_ is, on the one hand, the earth by its attractive power, and,
on the other, the body itself by its receptive potency. Cutting the
thread is only to put a condition of the falling. The fall, in fact,
depends on the condition that the body be free to obey the action of
gravity; and this condition is fulfilled when the thread is cut. In
like manner, he who throws a piece of paper into the fire does not burn
it, but only puts it in the necessary relation with the fire, that it
may be burnt; and he who rubs the match does not light it, but only
rubs it, the rubbing being a condition, not a cause, of the lighting.
In fact, the lighting of the match is caused by the actions and
reactions which take place between the molecules of certain substances
on the end of the match; and such actions and reactions depend on the
rubbing only inasmuch as the rubbing alters the relations of distance
between molecules, disturbs their equilibrium, and places them in a new
condition with respect to their acting on one another. Of course, the
rubbing is an effect, and he who does the rubbing is a cause; but he
causes the rubbing only. So, also, the change of distance between the
sun and a planet is neither the cause nor the principle of a change
of intensity in the mutual attraction. The action of celestial bodies
follows a law. With such or such relation of distance between them,
they act with such or such intensity; but distance is evidently not an
active principle, and therefore a change of distance is only the change
of a condition of causation.

As we have just mentioned the fact that celestial bodies are subject
to _a law of action_, it might be asked whether _law_ itself be a
real principle. We must answer in the negative; for _law_ is nothing
but _the necessity for every agent or patient of conforming to its
own nature in the exertion of its powers, and in the subjection of
its potency_. Such a necessity is permanent, since it arises from
the determination of nature itself, and may be divided into _moral_,
_physical_, and _logical_, according as it is viewed in connection
with different beings or powers; but it is certainly neither an active
power nor a passive potency, but only a natural ordination of the same,
and accordingly is not a cause nor a principle, but an exponent of the
constant manner in which causes and principles bring about the various
changes we witness throughout the world.

These few notions may suffice as an introduction to what we intend to
say about the principles of things. We have seen that a principle is
less than a cause, a reason less than a principle, and a condition
less than a reason; and we have determined as exactly as we could the
general character of each of them, by ascertaining the grounds of their
several distinctions. This was our only object in the present article;
and therefore we will stop here, and reserve particulars for future
investigation.

                            TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[138] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
Rev. I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
Washington, D. C.

[139] The principle whence anything exists, is made, or is known.

[140] The same thing cannot at the same time be and not be.

[141] There is no effect without a cause.

[142] Things which are equal to a third thing are equal to each other.

[143] The principle whence anything is, and the principle whence
anything is made.

[144] Philosophers teach that one thing can precede another in three
ways, to wit, by priority of _time_, by priority of _nature_, and by
priority of _reason_. A thing existing while another thing is not yet
in existence has, with regard to this latter, a priority of time. A
thing, on the existence of which the existence of another depends,
has, with regard to this latter, a priority of nature. A thing, the
conception of which is needed to form the conception of another, has,
with regard to this latter, a priority of reason. The priority of
_origin_, by which one of the divine Persons is prior to another, is a
priority of reason, not of nature, and implies no real dependence of
one Person from another.

[145] See Liberatore, _Metaph. Gen._, n. 125.

[146] We advisedly employ the preposition _from_. There is a vast
difference between depending _on_ and depending _from_. To depend
_from_ is properly to be hanging from, as a lamp from the ceiling; but
nothing forbids the use of the phrase in a metaphorical sense in order
to translate the Latin phrase, _pendere ab_, for which we have no other
equivalent. The usual English phrase, _to depend on_, corresponds to
the Latin _pendere ex_. Were we to employ it also for _pendere ab_, a
confusion would arise of the two different meanings. Certainly, the
two phrases, _Homo pendet a Deo_, and _Exitus pendet ex adjunctis_
express different kinds of dependence; and we cannot translate them
into English in the same manner without setting their differences at
naught. We would, therefore, say, that _Man depends from God_, and that
_Success depends on circumstances_. In philosophy, both prepositions
are needed, and, if used with proper discrimination, they will save us
the trouble of many useless disputes.

[147] A being and its constituent principles may be said to have a
certain dependence _on_ one another, inasmuch as they have such an
essential connection with one another that the one cannot be conceived
apart from the other. But this so-called "dependence" means only
correlation and "mutual exigency"; and therefore does not entail a
priority of nature of the one with respect to the other. In a being,
which is strictly _one in its entity_, there are three principles: an
act, its term, and the actuality of the one in the other. The act has
only a priority of origin with respect to its essential term, and both
have only a priority of origin with regard to their formal actuality.
They depend _on_ one another in the sense explained, but not _from_ one
another. We shall treat of them in a future article.

[148] _Toties autem causæ quoque dicuntur (qucties principia); omnes
namque causæ principia sunt._--Aristotle, _Metaph._ 5.

[149] Priority of nature implies in that which is prior an existence
independent of that which is posterior; but a mere formal act has
no existence independent of the being of which it is a constituent;
therefore, the formal act is not prior, by priority of nature, to such
a being.

[150] That which causes.

[151] That by which the cause causes.

[152] To say that the human soul can exist apart from the body, is no
objection. Our soul is not merely a formal act; it is a _subsistent_
being--that is, an act having its own intrinsic term, and therefore
possessing an independent existence; which cannot be said of other
forms. And on this account the soul is the only form which without
impropriety might be called a formal cause as well as a formal
_principle_.

[153] Are equal to a third.

[154] Are equal to each other.

[155] The formal principle _which_.

[156] The formal principle by which or through which.

[157] The formal reason.

[158] The product of reasoning.




THE SERIOUS "VIVE LA BAGATELLE."


    Bright world! you may write on my heart what you will,
      But write it with pencil, not pen;
    Your hand hath its skill: but a hand finer still
      What you write soon erases again.

    To the moment its laugh, and its smile to the flower!
      Not niggard we give them; but why?
    Old Time must devour the year as the hour:
      Remains but Eternity.

                                          AUBREY DE VERE.




THE FARM OF MUICERON.


                            BY MARIE RHEIL.

                  FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.


VIII.

Jean-Louis, on leaving the _curé_, went to pray in the church, which
remained open all day for the consolation of devout souls. In the
presence of God he reviewed the sad history of his life, shed many
tears, but soon felt wonderfully strengthened. This fourteen-year-old
boy had a more resolute heart than many a man of thirty. What he swore
before the altar of God and the statue of Our Blessed Lady was the oath
of a Christian, who knows the value of an engagement made in the face
of heaven. It was the contract of his whole life that he then signed,
and it will be seen if he knew how to keep it. His first weakness
on learning the secret of his birth had passed; he determined to be
courageous, humble, and docile, should it cost him his heart's blood;
and full of these brave resolutions, he retook the road to Muiceron.

Nevertheless, he failed in one, and you as well as I will excuse him
for it.

As he had remained rather long in the village, Pierrette, who had heard
him reprimanded, and had seen him depart with his books under his arm,
became very anxious, fearing that he had been more hurt than he had
shown. She was standing on the threshold of the door, watching the
path by which he would return; and when she perceived him, she could
not conceal her joy, for the child's face was bright and animated, and
seemed the mirror of a happy heart.

"Oh! I am so happy to see you, my Jeannet," cried the good woman in a
burst of joy.

"Were you alarmed at my absence?" asked Jean-Louis, running to her.

"Alarmed?" said she. "No ... that is to say, yes, I was a little....
Your father sometimes conceals his great kindness under rather too
quick a manner. A child like you, who never deserves to be scolded,
will be easily hurt at a severe word; and I thought, on seeing you go
away so quickly, you were unhappy. But now you are at home again, are
you neither hot, nor hungry, nor troubled? Where do you come from? What
do you think of doing? Tell all to your mamma, who loves you so dearly."

These gentle questions pierced the soul of the poor child more than
the severest words would have done. Gratitude and grief choked him and
prevented him from replying, and made his emotion the greater, as these
two sentiments seldom go together. He looked at his dear mother, with
his great, black eyes filled with tears, and could only take her hand
and press it to his bosom.

Thus they entered the house together, and Ragaud, whom they thought
in the fields, but who had returned by the door that opened on the
bleaching yard, was standing before the hearth, as if awaiting them.
You doubtless know, as you must have many times experienced it, that
when one suddenly sees somebody, thought to be half a league away,
without wishing it, he looks rather taken aback, as we say. You can
well believe that Pierrette and the child so looked, as they remained
dumb as fish, like poachers hiding from the forest-guard.

"Well," said the good man in a loud voice, "what is the matter with you
both? It seems I was not expected. And the supper, wife?"

"Here it is," Pierrette hastened to reply; "only move a little to one
side, that I may take off the pot."

And in the twinkling of an eye, the excellent green-cabbage soup was
smoking on the table; but Jeannet, who stood like one petrified, did
not move.

"You are not hungry, then?" asked Ragaud. "What is the matter? You look
as if you had been crying."

"Excuse me," replied Jeannet. "I do not feel like eating this evening."

"None of that," answered Ragaud; "to punish his stomach is the act of a
spoiled child. Sit down and eat; be quick about it, do you hear?"

Jeannet obeyed, but only to sit down; eat, he could not.

"See here," said Ragaud in a joking manner, looking at him, "you are of
the true modern style. Formerly, my boy, when parents reproved their
children, they did it oftener with the hand than the voice, and things
were not the worse for it. My father used to give us blows with his
cudgel without counting them; in his opinion, it was a language easily
understood, and which he preferred to reasoning, as it saved his time.
We rubbed our backs, and it was over; none of us thought of losing our
appetites, still less of crying. But nowadays children must be handled
with gloves; and even with that they think themselves martyrs. The
parents must endure everything without a murmur, even to see the house
catch fire. Ha! ha!--is what I say true?"

"Oh! yes," said Jean-Louis, "you have always been good and kind to me;
and believe me, believe me when I say that I am truly grateful, that I
thank you with my whole soul. I was guilty without knowing it; but I
am penitent and sorry for having offended you. I have carried back my
books, which, in reality, I did not need, and never again will you have
to reproach me about them."

"That is right, that is right," said Ragaud. "You are a good child,
Jeannet, and now it is ended. What I said, you see, was to your own
interest; so now eat and be cheerful. I don't like tears, above all
in a boy who will soon be a man; give me your hand without any bad
feeling."

"No, no! embrace him," said Pierrette. "His heart is full; isn't it so,
my son?"

"Kiss me, if you wish," said Ragaud, extending his honest, bearded
face. "Generally I don't like these baby-kisses; but if it is
necessary, in order that you may eat your soup, make yourself happy,
boy."

Just at this time it was too much for Jean-Louis; nearly fainting, he
fell on his knees by the side of Ragaud; he threw his arms around him,
pressed him to his breast, and kissed him in the tenderest manner, to
the great astonishment of the good farmer, who could not understand
such a wonderful display of affection.

"Good, good," said he; "but be easy, Jeannet. Don't I tell you I am no
longer angry?"

"O my father! my dear father!" cried the child, "how can I ever repay
you?"

And seeing that Ragaud looked at him in amazement, he added, sobbing,

"Father, mother, I know all...."

"Explain yourself," said Ragaud, beginning to understand what he meant.
"What do you know, my child?"

"_All_" he repeated in a tone which expressed everything.

"There," cried good Pierrette, her heart melting with pity, "I
understand. I know now what he means. But after fourteen years that the
secret has been so well kept, where has the creature been found wicked
enough to make this poor child so unhappy?"

"Dear mother," exclaimed Jean-Louis, "he who told it to me did it from
true kindness of heart; you must not be displeased with him. It is to
him I owe my life, after God and you. Do not mistake my tears; they do
not come from grief, but from the gratitude which will last through all
eternity."

"My dear, dear child," said Pierrette, "you have already well repaid us
by your tender affection and good conduct. Isn't it true, Ragaud?"

"Yes," replied he; "and I will add, my boy, that the Lord God, through
love of whom we received you, made joy and prosperity enter into the
house at the same time with you. Thus, although I like the gratitude
which comes from a truly filial heart, in good conscience I think we
are quits."

"Oh! never, never," cried Jeannet. "At the moment of my death I will
still thank you."

"On condition that you die before us, which is scarcely probable," said
Ragaud, smiling. "Come, child, get up, and let it all be over. Since,
from what I can make out, no other than our _curé_ has told you the
story, I am happy to think we are all 'big John, as before'--that is
to say, that nothing is changed. You will remain our child, the elder
brother of Jeannette, and the prop of my old age."

"Your servant and your slave for ever!" cried Jean-Louis.

"Bah! bah! No slave, Jeannet; that is an accursed word to fall from
your lips. Let it all remain in the _curé's_ library, which it never
should have left. As for me, I am not learned; but, to my mind, a slave
is a man changed into a beast of burden. I ask you if I have brought
you up in that way? No, my son, you will serve me--it is my wish--but
in working as a free man by my side, according to your strength. Is it
well understood?"

"I have no other desire but to please you; and I pray to God, my
father, that I may prove it to you every day."

"I hope so, my boy. The past, they say, is the guarantee of the future;
and never have you caused me serious displeasure. As for the little
affair of this morning, I tell you it was nothing. Don't regret it; the
only result will be that we will love each other still more."

"I think so, too," said Pierrette, "if it is possible."

"O my dear parents!" cried Jeannet, kissing them both, "if ever the
history of your kindness could be written, who would believe it true?"

"Don't let that trouble you," said Ragaud, laughing heartily, "there is
no chance of its being written; and, besides, things do not improve by
being known to men, as evil is more easily believed than good."

"It is very well," said Pierrette, "that mademoiselle kept Jeannette at
the château this evening; she would have been in the way, dear little
thing!"

"As regards that," replied Ragaud, "I request you, Jean-Louis, never
to breathe a word to Jeannette of what has just been said. Do you
understand me? I have my own idea about it."

"I promise you, my father," answered Jeannet.

The name of the little girl, thus pronounced by chance, led to further
conversation about the two children. They remembered the infant plays,
where she was so lively and wilful, her great romps with the shepherd's
dog, and many other little details, which recalled the innocent
pleasures of her infancy and gave such zest to their tranquil country
life. Jeannet, well consoled, and with lightened heart, told his
parents a crowd of little events, which he loved to relate in praise
of Jeannette, and which proved the goodness of her heart and mind,
to the great delight of the Ragauds. From that to remarking that the
little girl had nearly disappeared from the family was but a step, and
which, in my opinion, was a leap easily made. In the meantime, Ragaud,
who appeared half asleep--I rather think so as not to talk upon the
subject--suddenly awakened, and ended by acknowledging that if Jeannet
were not at Muiceron, the house would be as destitute of children as it
was fifteen years before.

"My dear husband," said Pierrette, "it is not to-day that we are to
learn that parents must sacrifice everything to the happiness of their
children."

"For their happiness, yes," replied Ragaud; "but it remains to be seen
if Jeannette will always be as happy as she is now."

And as he was clear-sighted, when the momentary vanity had passed, he
related with earnestness the conversation with Jacques Michou, which he
had so unwillingly heard at the time.

"There," said Pierrette, "is something which does not please me. If
people already commence to talk about our daughter, it is a sign that
we should think about our course in regard to her, and perhaps change
it."

"Think about it we should," replied Ragaud; "but to change it is
another question. For then we would have to take Jeannette from
mademoiselle; and as her regard for our little girl is a great honor
for us and a great happiness for her, never will I behave in that
manner to the daughter of our lords, seeing that I owe them everything."

"It is very embarrassing," said Pierrette, who spoke rather from the
feelings of the heart than of the head.

"Not so very much," replied Ragaud. "By acting with gentleness and
respect, without causing pain to mademoiselle, we can, in the end, make
her wishes accord with ours."

"Oh! if Jeannette could return," cried Jean-Louis, "what happiness for
us all, dear father!"

"You!" said Ragaud. "You may boast of being very brave in her absence;
but I can remember seeing you many and many a time racing together over
the meadows; the girl would torment you to her heart's content, and
you, like a big simpleton, never once stumbled so as to humbug her in
return. Thus you accustomed her to think herself the mistress, which
she did not hesitate to show."

"She is so sweet," said Jeannet, "and so good-natured; if she had half
killed me, I would not have minded it."

"If you only wished to know Latin that you might talk such nonsense,"
replied Ragaud, "you did very well to give up the study. You, too,"
added he, turning towards Pierrette, forgetting he should be the first
to accuse himself--"you, too, have so completely spoiled Jeannette, I
will be obliged to undertake the difficult task of repairing your work.
But patience; to-morrow I will take the shovel and the spade. I will do
it."

"What are you going to do?" asked Pierrette, alarmed.

"I am going to see," said Ragaud, "if my daughter is of the good and
true blood of her father. I will ask mademoiselle to give her to me
for the octave of S. Martin; and during that time I will make her
resume her peasant-life as though she should never quit it again. If
she becomes sullen and cross, I won't say what I will do; but if, as
I believe, she will appear happy and contented, we will know that the
château does not injure her, and then we will sleep in peace. How do
you like that?"

"Oh! that is a capital idea I never would have dreamt of," said
Pierrette, clasping her hands in admiration.

Ragaud appeared pleased at being thought so brilliant; he resettled
himself in his big linen collar, drank a glass of good cider, and knelt
down to say the Our Father and Hail Mary, which he always did before
retiring.

Jeannet made no remark; he had too much sense to think that this little
trial would be sufficient and satisfy every one; but he would see
Jeannette for a whole week, and he decided to amuse her in such a way
that she would not regret her life at the château.

Ragaud's plans were fully carried out. Mademoiselle willingly gave up
Jeannette, thinking by that means she would have still stronger claims
for keeping her afterwards; and the little one, led by her father,
returned to Muiceron the eve of S. Martin's day, which is, among us,
the feast of the vine-dressers.

If you are anxious to know how she behaved, I will inform you that the
very next day, and without any one having to tell her, she tumbled
over the things in the chest to find her woollen skirts and coarse
linen apron. She had grown so much, she was obliged to rip and remake
for a full hour before she could put them on, which caused much talk
and laughter that rang through the house. Her wooden shoes, which had
remained in a corner during the past fifteen months, were likewise too
small; and as that could not be remedied by the needle and thread, it
was a real difficulty; but Jeannette, who had not lost her habit of
having an answer for everything, declared she would wear Pierrette's.
You can imagine the amusement this caused; and, in fact, at her first
step she stumbled, and nearly fell down.

Thereupon Jeannet darted off like an arrow, and brought a new pair from
the harness-maker at Ordonniers.

Jeannette was equally well pleased with the eating, sleeping, and all
the old habits of her country life. Never had she appeared happier,
more active, and better disposed to assist her mother in her household
labors. It could be well imagined that, having heard of the gossiping
about her, she wished to prove by every means the good people were
wrong; and Ragaud had only one wish, which was that the busy-bodies of
the village could look through the key-hole and see her at work.

This was scarcely possible; but he could, at least, satisfy Jacques
Michou, the first grumbler, whom he had so well repulsed, as you may
remember.

For that purpose, without mentioning the return of Jeannette to the
farm, with a frank and simple air, he asked his old comrade to come and
break bread with him on S. Martin's day. M. le Curé was also invited,
and on the morning of the feast Ragaud gave Pierrette her lesson:

"Understand well this day I wish you to be quiet. You can tell the
child all that must be done, not only for the cooking, but for the
table and the serving of it. I don't wish to have the shame of seeing
the children seated at table, whilst the mother is going around the
hearth, skirts pinned up, doing the servant's work; which is not
proper. It is very well to be a good woman, always ready to sacrifice
herself; but it is also well every one should know there is but one
mistress of Muiceron."

"Jeannette is too little," Pierrette gently objected; "she could not
reach up to the stove, and I am afraid the dishes will be too heavy for
her arms to carry, little darling!"

"You will make Marion, the dairy-maid, aid her in the heavy work," said
Ragaud. "I don't ask impossibilities, and I would be the first to fear
if our little girl ran the risk of burning herself. What I wish is that
she, and not you, should have all the trouble."

Pierrette yielded to this good argument, although a little afraid that
Jeannette would have too much trouble. As for the little girl, she was
very proud to give orders to Marion, and commenced immediately to play
her part of mistress of the farm.

Then could be seen how bright she was. She came and went, passing
from the barn-yard to the wood-house, from the wood-house to the
linen-chests; bravely looking on when they bled the chickens and cut up
the meat; selecting the beautiful, white table-cloths; superintending,
polishing the glasses, dusting, flying about like a will-o'-the-wisp.
Big Marion trotted after her on her heels, scarcely able to follow her,
stifled half with heat and half with laughter at the sight of such an
active young mistress.

Who would have thought, on seeing her thus occupied, that the very
evening before she had been seated at the right of mademoiselle in her
beautiful carriage, driving around the country? It was really wonderful
to see her so quick at everything, young as she was; and you would have
been as much surprised as the Ragauds, who gazed at her in astonished
admiration--parental vanity easily forgiven in this case--and asked
each other where Jeannette could have learned so much that even
housekeepers of thirty hardly knew.

The truth was, she had never learned anything from anybody or anywhere;
but she was precocious in every respect. It was enough for her to hear
or see a thing once always to remember it; so she had only to think an
instant to put in practice what she had observed. Add to this she was
as sly as a fox, and ardently loved to give satisfaction, and you will
easily understand there was nothing very astonishing in her performance.

About twilight, Jacques Michou made his appearance, accompanied by
the _curé_, whom he had overtaken on the road. Jeannette came forward
to meet them, and made a low reverence in true peasant style, totally
unlike the bows made in M. le Marquis' _salon_. It was a great surprise
for these honest souls, who had been conversing along the way about the
blindness of Ragaud in regard to his daughter, and they were both too
frank not to show their satisfaction.

"So you have come back, my child?" said the _curé_, patting her kindly
on the head.

"To wait upon you, M. le Curé," she sweetly replied.

"And your beautiful dresses?" asked Jacques Michou.

"They are hanging up in the wardrobe," said Jeannette, laughing.

"Indeed! And do you like to have them there as much as on your back, my
little girl?"

"Why not?" she replied. "I am happy here with my father, my mother, and
Jeannet."

"It is your best place," said the _curé_. "I am delighted, Mme. Ragaud,
to see your daughter at home. Is it for some time?"

"If mademoiselle does not reclaim her," said Pierrette, blushing, for
she never would speak falsely, "it will be for ever."

"Well, I hope it will be so," said he. "And you, Jeannette, do you
desire it also?"

"I am always happy with my dear parents," replied the little one; "but
mademoiselle is so kind and good, I am always happy with her also. If
my mother sends me to the château, I will go; and if she commands me to
return, I will come back."

They could not help being pleased with this speech of the good,
obedient little girl, and they took their places at table without any
further questions or raillery. Jeannette, during the supper, rose
more than twenty times to see that all was right; and Ragaud, you can
well imagine, did not fail to inform his guests that everything had
been prepared under his daughter's eye. It was strictly true, as they
clearly saw; and, consequently, the compliments were freely bestowed.
Nevertheless, when the dessert was brought on, Ragaud could not resist
saying to Michou, with a significant look, as he held up his glass:

"Well, my old fellow, will you now give me credit for knowing how to
bring up my children?"

Jacques nodded his head, and, holding up his glass, replied, "I will
come to see you eight years from now, comrade, and then I will answer
your question."

"Very good," said Ragaud. "M. le Curé, you will be witness. I promise
to give a cow to Jacques Michou, if, at that time, Jeannette is not
the best housekeeper in the country."

"I take the bet," replied Jacques, laughing; "and I add that I hope to
lose it as surely as the good God has no master."

"Come, come," said the _curé_ gravely, "it is not worth such an oath.
Between good men, my friends, it is enough to say yes or no. I consent
to be witness, and I also say I hope that Jacques will lose the bet."

They stopped as they saw Jeannette, who returned to the table, crimson
with pleasure. Behind her came big Marion, carrying, with great care, a
large dish, upon which stood, erect on his claws, a beautiful pheasant
that seemed ready to crow. As it was at the end of the meal, every
one looked at it with amazement, especially Pierrette, who had not
been let into the secret. It was a surprise invented by Jeannette, who
clapped her hands and laughed heartily, and then wished them to guess
what it was. After she had thoroughly enjoyed their astonishment, she
rapidly took out the feathers, and then they saw it was a delicious
pudding, stuffed with plums, which she had manufactured, with Marion
and Jeannet's assistance, after the style of M. le Marquis' cook.
Pierrette, it must be acknowledged, wept tears of admiration; for this
was a wonder that surpassed her imagination.

This magnificent performance increased Ragaud's good humor; and I
verily believe, but for the presence of M. le Curé, he would have
emptied more than one bottle in honor of Jeannette and the pheasant.
But our good pastor, without being the least in the world opposed
to innocent enjoyment, did not like the gaiety which comes from
drinking, as we already know. Consequently, they soon rose from the
entertainment, and wished each other a cordial good-night. The little
pet was so worn out with her extraordinary efforts, she soon after fell
asleep in her chair, and they had to carry her off to bed. She was
thoroughly tired, and Pierrette observed it was not surprising, after
such a day's work, which, perhaps, she herself could not have stood.


IX.

That night something occurred which appeared of small importance at the
time, but that had great results, which many persons never understood,
and that I will reveal to you at the proper time and place. For many
years it was a great mystery; and I remember, when I was young, my
honest and pious father was conversing in a whisper one evening, in
the dim twilight, with an old friend, and I hid myself under a chair
to find out what he was saying; but not one word of the secret could I
make out. Nevertheless, one fearful expression I remembered for a long
while. When my father was tired with talking, he dismissed his chum,
saying:

"Now we will stop; and be silent as the grave. You know you might lose
your head!"

And at these terrible words, the friend replied by placing the finger
of his left hand on his lips, and with his right pulled down his cap
over his ears, as if to make sure that his head was still safe on his
shoulders. It was really a gesture which froze one with terror; and as
for me, I shook so I thought I would overturn the chair which served me
for a hiding-place.

And now, I beg of you not to be as curious as I was, for you would gain
nothing by it. I am only going to tell you what happened the night
after the dinner on S. Martin's day.

No matter how late it might be, Ragaud, excellent manager as he was,
never went to bed without having carefully made the tour of all his
buildings with a dark lantern. He remained seated by the fire, while
Pierrette carried off the little girl to bed, and Jean-Louis retired to
his room. When all was still, he rose and went out softly to commence
his round.

It was a beautiful night, rather dark, but mild for November. Ragaud
walked through his little orchard, from whence could be seen the
stables and barns, behind which rose the tall fir-trees, unruffled
by a breath of wind. He passed into the barn-yard, silent likewise;
chickens, geese, ducks, and turkeys slept soundly, heads under their
wings, on the perches appropriated to them by Pierrette. All was quiet
and in good order, and Ragaud, content with himself and the world,
prepared to re-enter, when, accidentally raising his head, he saw in
the distance something so astonishing he remained as though nailed
to the spot, and nearly dropped his lantern in the excitement of the
moment.

The château of Val-Saint, which could be seen from a certain point in
the garden, like a great, black mass in the horizon, appeared as though
lighted up with sparks of fire. A light would be seen first at one
window, then at another, and then disappear as quickly as it came. Good
Ragaud could not believe his eyes. Surely something extraordinary was
taking place at the château; for M. le Marquis and mademoiselle, with
all due respect, went to bed with the chickens, and the servants were
not allowed to remain up.

"What the devil is the matter with me to-night?" thought Ragaud. "Am I
dreaming on my feet, or must I fancy the two or three glasses of white
wine more than usual at dessert have turned my brain?"

Not a bit of it; he saw perfectly clear. The light danced about the
windows, as though to mock him, and finally went out entirely. But now
comes the crowning mystery. A great, blue star appeared on the summit
of the high tower, and rose upward until it was hidden by a cloud.

At the same instant, Ragaud felt two heavy hands resting on his
shoulders and something breathe heavily on his neck.

Indeed, only put yourself in his place. There was something to fear;
and so the brave fellow, who in his youth had fought in our great
battles, was all over goose-flesh. But it was only momentary; for,
quickly turning, he saw that he had on his back the soft paws of his
dog Pataud, who, making the rounds at his side, took this means of
caressing him.

"Down, Pataud, old fellow!" said he gently; "it is not daybreak. Go lie
down! Be quick! Be off to your kennel! Do you hear me?"

Pataud heard very well, but obedience was not to his taste that night.
He wagged his tail, and appeared in splendid humor; one would think he
suspected something was going on at the château.

"So you think there is something in the wind up there, do you?" asked
Ragaud, snapping his fingers in the air. "Will you come with me, and
see what it is all about?"

At these words, he started as though to leave the garden, and Pataud
this time seemed to consent.

"This comes from having an animal well brought up," thought Ragaud. "If
you could speak, my cunning old fellow, doubtless you would tell me
what I wish to know; but as that can't be expected, I must remain very
anxious until the morning."

He re-entered the house after this reflection, having obliged Pataud to
remain quiet by giving him a friendly kick over the threshold of the
kennel.

To sleep was difficult; he had the faithful heart of an old servant,
who could not repose when he feared evil was impending over his
masters. He remembered that ten years before, on a similar night in
November, lights appeared in every window the whole length of the
façade of the château, and on the next day, alas! it was known they had
been lighted during the agony of our beloved mistress, Mme. la Marquise
de Val-Saint. Was it not enough to make him apprehend some misfortune
for his dear lord?

Poor mademoiselle's health was not very robust, and she frequently
said, in such a mournful tone, that the country air was not good for
her.

"To-morrow," said Ragaud to himself, "I will take back Jeannette the
first thing in the morning; if mademoiselle is sick, it will do her
good to see her again; and perhaps I would have done better if I had
let her remain. Who knows but the dear soul was so fondly attached to
the child, she has become ill in consequence?"

You must know Ragaud listened to the voice of his conscience as a
devotee hears a sermon; and once persuaded that it was his duty to take
back to mademoiselle her favorite plaything, twenty-five notaries could
not have shaken his decision. Consequently, at the first break of day,
he took from the chest his Sunday clothes, and was in holiday trim when
Pierrette came down to go out and milk the cows. You can well imagine
her astonishment.

"Wife," said Ragaud, "go and make Jeannette get up quickly, and tell
her to put on her château dress."

"Is it possible the child will leave us so soon?" replied Pierrette,
deeply grieved.

"I wish it," said the good man, "for reasons, Pierrette, that you will
know later."

She obeyed without answering. Jean-Louis, meanwhile, entered the room.

"Light the fire, boy," said Ragaud, "and warm us up something. I must
go to the château with your sister, and I will not take her out in the
cold, fasting."

"Father," said Jean-Louis, while rapidly breaking up the fagots, "did
you see a bright light last night around the big tower of the château?"

"Did you?" asked Ragaud.

"I saw something like a rocket go up from the château," the boy replied.

"Yes, I saw it also," answered Ragaud; "and Pataud did, too. What do
you think it could have been, Jeannet?"

"I think," said Jean-Louis, "they illuminated the château and fired off
rockets in honor of S. Martin."

"Very probable, child; that is a good idea," said Ragaud laughing.
"Perhaps, after all, it is the whole secret; but, any how, I would
rather go and find out."

"Shall I go with you, father?" asked Jeannet.

"No, stay and help your mother; if I want you, I will tell you. It is
enough that I must carry off the little girl."

Jeannette all this time was dressing as fast as possible, without
asking why or wherefore. She yawned and rubbed her eyes, not having had
her full sleep; but I think the idea of returning to her godmother was
not very disagreeable.

However, she was sufficiently wide awake to swallow down a big bowl of
sweetened milk; after which, Pierrette wrapped her up in a warm shawl,
and kissed her good-by with a full heart.

All this had taken two hours; and Ragaud not wishing to hurry her, the
village clock struck eight when they reached the door of the château.

The first person they saw, contrary to the usual custom, was Master
Jean Riponin, who was M. le Marquis' man of business. From his imposing
manner and the great fuss he was making--ordering every one here and
there with a voice as rough as the captain of a fire-brigade--it was
difficult to fancy there was any one above him in the château; Ragaud,
sharp fellow that he was, took it in at a glance, and, instead of
approaching the steward, as he had always done, without ceremony and a
good shake of the hand, he remained at a slight distance, and touched
his hat.

"It is you, Master Ragaud?" said Jean Riponin with a patronizing air.
"Wait a moment; I will speak to you after I have given my orders to
these stupid things."

"Don't disturb yourself," replied Ragaud. "I have not come on business
to-day; I only wish to see mademoiselle."

"It is I who have received full power from M. le Marquis at his
departure," replied Riponin, a little provoked. "Mademoiselle is not up
yet; and, if she were, be assured, Ragaud, she would send you back to
me. So let me know what you want without further delay, as I am in a
hurry."

"Did you not say M. le Marquis had left?" asked the farmer, as much
from interest as to cut short the puffed-up superintendent.

"Yes, this morning before the day-dawn," said he; "and it seems it was
something very hurried, for he had only time to hand me all the keys of
the house, except those of his desk and safe, which were forgotten in
his great haste. But he must have already perceived it, and I expect to
receive those two keys by express."

"Indeed," thought Ragaud, "it will be time enough to see them when
they come--that is to say, if they will ever come." For he knew Master
Riponin was not a man who regarded the marquis' crowns as relics once
that he saw the heap. Fortunately, M. le Marquis was of the same
opinion; therefore, he kept Riponin in his service on account of many
other good qualities that he possessed; but as for the desk and safe,
he never saw anything but the key-holes.

While Riponin and Ragaud were conversing, mademoiselle, who had just
risen, drew aside her curtains to see what caused such a noise in the
court; and the cunning little Jeannette, as soon as she perceived her
godmother, kissed her hand to her. In less than a minute, Dame Berthe
appeared at the door.

"M. Ragaud," said she, "I am sent by mademoiselle to beg that you will
go to her immediately; and you, Jeannette, run and kiss your godmother."

"M. Riponin, I wish you good-morning," said Ragaud, carelessly turning
his back on the steward.

The steward watched him enter the château with anything but a pleased
expression; but he dared not show his displeasure before Dame Berthe,
whom he knew was not friendly to him.

Dear mademoiselle's eyes filled with tears when she saw her darling
pet. The little one was tender-hearted, and was deeply moved by this
proof of affection. Ragaud, likewise, showed great emotion, and Dame
Berthe said it would have been a cruel shame to have longer deprived
the château of its chief delight.

"Ragaud," said mademoiselle, "my dear Ragaud, if you had not come
to-day, I was going myself to bring back Jeannette. You see, I am so
unhappy."

"I did not think you loved the child so much," replied Ragaud; "it is
a great honor for Jeannette and for us all, dear mademoiselle, and I
desire nothing so much as to contribute to your happiness."

"Only think," said mademoiselle, sighing, "I am always alone; and now
that my father has left home, ... and perhaps for such a long time!"

"Will M. le Marquis go far?... Excuse my curiosity," said Ragaud; "but
you know, mademoiselle, I only ask the question from the great interest
I feel in your dear family."

Mademoiselle was about to reply; but Dame Berthe stopped her short by
glancing at Jeannette, who was listening with profound attention.

"I will take her with me," said she in a low tone to her governess,
"and then tell everything to Ragaud; our family never keeps a secret
from this old servant."

When mademoiselle had withdrawn, under the pretext of showing some new
article of the toilet to Jeannette, Dame Berthe carefully closed the
door, and approached Ragaud.

"Can I rely on your devotion?" she asked in such a solemn manner Ragaud
could only bow his head in assent. "And even on your life?" continued
Dame Berthe with a still more serious air.

"If I must give it in exchange for that of my master, yes, certainly,"
replied the faithful old fellow without any hesitation.

"Very well. Sit down, Ragaud; you are going to learn a secret--the
greatest secret a Christian can keep."

Ragaud sat down, rather astonished, his heart beating in spite of
himself. However, strictly speaking, the words of Dame Berthe appeared
a little exaggerated, and he felt so without being able to account for
it, except from his own good sense.

"Master Ragaud," said the governess, who was a devoted reader of
newspapers, and had learned to talk in their style, "great events are
preparing, and, before long, the face of the world will be changed."

"Ah!" said Ragaud. "Excuse me, my good lady, but the face of the
world, ... I don't know what that means."

"When I speak of the world," resumed Dame Berthe, "I mean
France--_France_--Ragaud, our country."

"Now I understand better; yes, I know that France is our country. Well,
then, what is going to be changed in France?"

"Everything," said she, rising in a frantic manner. "France, my good
Ragaud, is tired of the odious yoke that has weighed her down for ten
years."

"My oxen are also sometimes tired of the yoke," said Ragaud dryly; "but
that does not pay them while the whip is around."

"Yes, but a nation can't be whipped like a beast of burden," replied
Dame Berthe. "Come, Ragaud, I see you do not understand what I am
aiming at."

"No, not at all," said he. "I am not learned, my good lady; sometimes I
hear such expressions as you use when M. le Curé reads aloud from some
public journal; but, between ourselves, it always puts me to sleep. You
see, the useful things in the newspapers, for a farmer, are the price
of grain and the announcement of the fairs; the rest is all twaddle for
me."

"So it appears," answered Dame Berthe, a little hurt. "I am now going
to talk in a way that you can understand. Well, then, Ragaud, M. le
Marquis left home last night. Where do you think he has gone?"

"It is not my custom to inquire into the private affairs of my
masters," replied Ragaud. "By chance I walked through my garden late
last night, and I saw the château lighted up. I was afraid mademoiselle
was ill; so this morning I brought back Jeannette to amuse her. In the
court, M. Riponin told me of the departure of M. le Marquis; and now I
do not wish to hear anything further, unless you judge it necessary."

"It will certainly be useful," said Dame Berthe, who was longing to
tell all she knew, "you will agree with me, M. Ragaud, when you know
that M. le Marquis was called off by a letter, which assured him that
they were only waiting for him...."

"To change _the face of the world_," said Ragaud with dry humor.

"Precisely," replied Berthe seriously. "It appears that the
insurrection has broken out near Angers, where there are thousands of
armed men. Monsieur, who fought with the Chouans in his youth, will be
appointed general, and they will advance to the capture of Paris, where
nothing is suspected. The usurper will be driven out, M. Ragaud, and
our dear young legitimate prince will ascend the throne. Won't it be
magnificent? Dear Eveline will go to court. Poor child! she has been so
long tired of the country."

"Hum!" said Ragaud, not the least bit excited. "Are they very sure of
all that?"

"Sure? How can it be doubted, when the friend of M. le Marquis in that
province declares, do you understand--declares positively--that it only
needs a spark to set fire to the powder?"

"To the powder!" cried Ragaud, this time very much frightened. "Are
they dreaming of blowing up the magazine at Angers? That would be a
terrible misfortune, my dear lady."

"Be easy," replied Dame Berthe, shrugging her shoulders. "I always
forget that you don't read the papers. 'Setting fire to the powder'
means to kindle the insurrection, to inflame the minds and hearts of
the people; and it is expected that, at the first word, the country
will rise as one man."

"They are going to fight?" said Ragaud. "Battles are not gay, and the
poor fare badly in time of war."

"Fight? Oh! you are blind, my dear M. Ragaud," replied Dame Berthe,
laughing with the most charming simplicity. "Do you expect a few little
regiments to withstand millions of men? Before a week, the insurgents
will be counted by millions. And now, if you wish to know the real
truth, ... well, ... the army itself is with us."

"Ah! indeed," said Ragaud. "This is great news."

"Do you think those gentlemen would be so silly as to commence the work
without being assured of this support?" replied the governess, clasping
her hands. "My God! Ragaud, for whom do you take M. le Marquis and his
friends?"

"For brave men, most assuredly," said the farmer, unable to repress a
smile; "and since all is so well arranged, Dame Berthe, allow me, with
all due respect, to ask you two questions. In the first place, when
will the marriage come off? In the second, what does my dear master
wish me to do under the circumstances?"

"When will the marriage take place? You mean, when will the king enter
Paris?"

"Just so, my good lady."

"I don't think this great event could possibly take place before a
month, or three weeks at soonest. Although this revolution, inspired
by God, must, I am fully convinced, spread like lightning, time flies
rapidly; and then, we must always think of unforeseen accidents."

"Doubtless, doubtless; it is always more prudent," said Ragaud.

"As for what M. le Marquis expects of you, my good Ragaud, it is very
easy. It would be shameful, you know, when all France is rising in
arms for her true sovereign, to see Val-Saint and the neighborhood
sleeping in carelessness and indolence. You are, then, designated--you,
Jacques Michou, who for forty years has been the head-keeper of the
estate, Master Perdreau, the notary of the family, and some other old
servants--you are expected to prepare the people for the change about
to take place, and make them cry 'Long live the King!' throughout the
commune."

"And if they won't do it?" asked Ragaud innocently; "for, in truth,
that is to be well considered."

"They will do it; they will _all_ do it," cried Dame Berthe. "France is
burning with the desire of uttering this cry of love and gratitude,"
she added, remembering that she had just read this expression in her
morning paper.

"So much the better," said Ragaud; "and it only remains to thank you
for your confidence, my dear lady, and I will do my best to fulfil the
wishes of M. le Marquis."

The entrance of mademoiselle, who thought there had been time enough
for the secret to be told and retold, cut short the conversation, as
she brought Jeannette with her. Ragaud bowed politely to the ladies of
the château, kissed his daughter, told her to be good and obedient,
and closed the door behind him, his head full of all he had just heard.

Dame Berthe overtook him at the head of the staircase.

"Ragaud," said she, "you told me you were up late last night. Did you
not see, about midnight, a blue light go up from the summit of the
tower?"

"Yes," replied Ragaud, "and I was dumb with astonishment; I do not
conceal it."

"It was the given signal to warn several châteaux of the neighborhood
of the departure of M. le Marquis. Watch all these nights, for we
expect a messenger, who will come to announce the triumph of the holy
cause, and then a second light will go up at the same hour. This one
will be red, and, when you see it, you will instantly march, with the
armed bands you will have assembled, to join the grand army."

"All right," said Ragaud; "we will do our best."

And he descended the staircase slowly, without appearing the least
excited.

"Eveline," said Dame Berthe, pressing mademoiselle to her breast,
"thank God, my dear child. I have had the happiness of completely
winning over good Ragaud to the holy cause. He is even more ardent than
myself, and as well disposed as we could wish. Before long, we will see
Val-Saint and Ordonniers rise and march to victory under the command
of this brave peasant. Jacques Cathelineau and M. Stofflet should be
of the same stamp. What I admire in Ragaud is that cold determination,
which would make one fancy he was not enthusiastic; but I am not
deceived by appearances."

"Perhaps," said mademoiselle, "all will be over in time for us to go
and finish the winter in Paris."

"I have no doubt of it," replied Dame Berthe; "and thus, my dear child,
as I have thought the dressmakers might be half crazy with the quantity
of court-dresses that would be ordered, I have already decided what
your costume is to be on the entrance of the king into Paris; for I
expect the daughter of the commander-in-chief to be the first to salute
her sovereign; and I will immediately commence to embroider the satin
train, so as to be ready."

"How good you are! You think of everything!" said mademoiselle, very
much overcome. "I wish I was there now!..."

"Oh!" cried Dame Berthe, "only be patient."

After leaving the château, Ragaud, with his hands in his pockets, went
off in search of his old comrade, Jacques Michou, that he might consult
with him over Dame Berthe's revelations. Jacques lived alone--being a
widower and childless--in a little house close to the edge of the woods
that bordered La Range. He had no one about him but a niece of his late
wife, whom he fed and clothed; in return for which, she cooked for him
and cleaned his hunting-gun. The girl was little trouble to him; she
was idiotic and half dumb, and, among other little eccentricities,
liked to sleep with the sheep. So, in the summer she camped out on
the meadow with the flock, and in winter slept in the sheepfold,
which certainly had the advantage of keeping her very warm, but could
have had no other charm. From this habit she had acquired the name of
_Barbette_ throughout the country; and it was not badly given, as with
us a great many shepherd-dogs are called Barbets, on account of the
race; and since the poor girl shared their office, she had at least a
claim to the name if she so pleased.

Jacques Michou, on his side, had his particular fancies. First of
all was the idea (which he would only give up with his life) that,
in virtue of his badge and his gun, he was the head-keeper of M. le
Marquis de Val-Saint. Now, we must acknowledge it was mere show, there
was nothing in it; for our good lord never wished to displease any one,
not even the poachers. He said there was always some good in those men;
and as in everything he pursued one aim--which was, as you know, to
enrol one day or other all our boys in a regiment for the benefit of
the king--he preferred to be kind to these bold and cunning rascals,
who were not easily hoodwinked. After a while, Jacques Michou became
weary of carrying the delinquents before M. le Marquis only to see them
graciously dismissed, so it ended by his letting them alone; and at the
end of a few years, his principal occupation was to carefully keep to
the right of the estate in making his rounds when he knew the poachers
were at work on the left. However, he took pride in letting them know
that each and every one could be caught at any moment he wished; he
knew every path in the woods as well as the bottom of his sauce-pan,
and all the thieves as though they belonged to his family. When he
met the rascals, he threatened them with loud voice and gesture, and
swore tremendous oaths that made heaven and earth tremble. "But," he
would shout, "what can I do? Robbers and vagabonds that you are, if M.
le Marquis allows himself to be plundered, the servant must obey the
master's orders; but for that, you would see!" And the end of the story
was--nothing was seen.

You can understand very well that the brave old fellow, having only the
title of keeper, and nothing to show for it but the fine silver badge,
engraved with the arms of the family of Val-Saint, which he wore on
the shoulder-strap of his game-bag, clung all the closer to the empty
honor, and allowed no joking on the subject.

When Ragaud entered his friend's house, he found him carving playthings
out of cocoanut-shells--something which he did wonderfully well--and in
a few words related what had taken place at the château.

"We will find ourselves floundering in the mire," said Ragaud. "As for
me, I am ready to promise before the good God that I will give my life
to fulfil the commands of our dear master; but it remains to be seen if
many around here are of my opinion."

"Many?" exclaimed Jacques, shrugging his shoulders. "Bah! I am very
sure you will not find one out of a dozen!"

"If it is true," replied Ragaud, with hesitation; "I wonder if it is
really true about the insurrection in Anjou?"

"Nonsense," said Jacques Michou. "That poor M. le Marquis is crazy on
one point, which takes him out of the country every five or six years
for change of air, and that is good for his health; for every man needs
hope to keep him well. That is the truth of the business."

"Do you think, then, we had better not attempt to fulfil his orders?"
asked Ragaud.

"As for that, a good master must always be obeyed, old fellow; we can
say a few words here and there quietly. You will find the people as
stupid as owls, and they will understand you as well as though you
spoke Prussian. We shall have done our duty. As to monsieur, he will
return before long, a little cross for the moment, but not at all
discouraged--take my word for it."

"It is a great pity," said Ragaud, "that a man of such great good sense
couldn't listen to reason!"

"Why so?" replied Jacques. "A great lord like him is bound in honor to
be devoted, body and soul, to his king; for you see, Ragaud, the king
who is not on the throne is the real one--no doubt about that. But
often one tumbles over in running too fast; and since it appears not to
be the will of the good God that things should return to the old style,
it would have been much better not to have sent off letters, gone off
at night, and fired off signals. It is just as if they had played the
flute. Men stop a moment, listen, and then, the music ended, each one
returns to his plough."

"You speak capitally," said Ragaud; "it is just what I think also; so
I will do as you say--neither more nor less. But we will agree on one
point, old fellow, which is, to have an eye on the château, so that we
can defend the doors if the women are threatened."

"Bah! bah! No fear about that," said Michou, shaking him by the hand.
"I will give my life for all that belong to the house of Val-Saint,
comrade. I would as willingly fire a pistol in defence of monsieur,
mademoiselle, and the old fool of a governess, as for the hares and
rabbits on the estate. But for these it would be powder thrown away,
as monsieur, we must believe, only likes butcher's meat, and prefers to
leave his game for those devils of thieves!"

Thereupon the worthy old souls refreshed themselves with a jug of
cider, and conversed together for some time longer, principally
repeating the same ideas on the same subject, which was the one we have
just related--something which often happens to wiser men than they,
and, therefore, I consider it useless to tell you any more of their
honest gossip.

They separated about mid-day, and I will inform you what was the result
of the great insurrection. At Angers, as with us, it was as Michou had
predicted. M. le Marquis returned from his trip rather fatigued and
thoroughly disgusted with France, which he called a ruined country.
Mademoiselle wept for a week that she could not go to Paris. Dame
Berthe commenced Novenas to the Blessed Queen Jeanne, in order that the
next enterprise, which would not be long delayed, might succeed better
than the last; and the result of all was that Jeannette remained more
than ever at the château, as she was the greatest consolation to her
dear godmother.


X.

I think we will do well, at this period of our story, to pass over
several years, during which time nothing of great importance occurred.
In the country, days succeed each other in undisturbed tranquillity,
unmarked by many great events. According as the spring is rainy or
dry, the villagers commence the season by making predictions about the
summer, which, twenty times out of twenty-two, are never fulfilled.
It must be acknowledged that we peasants seem afraid to appear too
well pleased with the good God; and, though it is a great fault,
unfortunately it is not rare. Men grumble and swear, first at the sun,
and then at the wind, for burning and parching their fields; and when
the rain commences, there is another cause for displeasure; and most
of all, at the end of summer, when, after these doleful repinings,
the harvests have been plentiful, far from thanking the Lord God, who,
instead of punishing them, has sent blessings, they instantly commence
to worry about the approaching vintage. And so S. Sylvester's day finds
them with well-stacked barns and cellars filled with barrels of wine,
but not to make them wiser the year after from such experience, which
should teach them faith in divine Providence.

Whence I conclude that men are only incorrigible, gabbling children,
and that the good God must have great patience and mercy to tolerate
them. Much more could be said on this subject; but, not being a priest,
I prefer to leave off moralizing, and return to our friends.

Therefore, we will, if you please, resume our narrative about seven
years from where we left off, at which time Jeannette Ragaud had nearly
completed her sixteenth year and Jean-Louis his twentieth.

Weeks and months, rapidly passing, had brought them from childhood
to youth without their knowing it, and they had each followed their
inclinations, as might easily have been foreseen. Jeannette, well
educated, coquettish, and extremely pretty, was the most charming
little blonde in the province. She scarcely ever came to Muiceron,
except on Sundays and festivals, between Mass and Vespers; and if you
ask me how this could have happened, so contrary, as you know, to the
wishes of father and mother Ragaud, I will reply that I know nothing,
unless there is a special wind which blows sometimes over men's
desires, and prevents their ripening into facts. To be convinced of
this truth needs only a little unreserved frankness. See, now, you who
listen to me, you may be more learned than a schoolmaster, and more
malicious than a hump-back--that I will not dispute; but if you will
swear to me that everything in this life has happened as you desired,
without change or contradiction, I will not hesitate to think you, but
for the charity which should reign among Christians, the greatest liar
in your parish.

If any one spoke to Ragaud about the dangerous road in which he had
placed his daughter, and that there was no longer chance to retrace his
steps, he did not show displeasure or excuse himself, as heretofore.
His serious and rather sorrowful air, joined to a very convenient
little cough, showed more than by words that he did not know how to
reply, and the poor man was truly sensible of his weakness and error;
but what could he do? Something always happened to prevent him from
carrying out his intention of taking Jeannette from the château.

Sometimes mademoiselle was sick; sometimes it was a festival of the
church that needed a reinforcement of skilled embroiderers to make
vestments and flowers for the altars; another day Dame Berthe had gone
off for a month's vacation. In winter the pretext was that Jeannette's
health would be endangered if she resumed her peasant life, as she
could not bear the exposure; and when that was over, the summer days
were so long, mademoiselle would have died of _ennui_ without her
darling Jeannette; and all this mademoiselle explained with such a
gentle, winning air, old Ragaud never could refuse her; so that at last
he was so accustomed to ask and be refused each time that he went for
Jeannette, he finally abandoned the attempt; and seeing that his visits
to the château were mere matters of form, he submitted with good grace,
by making none at all, at least with that intention.

As for good Pierrette, she remained quiet; but accustomed to submit,
and filled besides with admiration for the great good sense of her
husband, she told all her troubles to the good God, and awaited,
without complaint, the time when he would decree a change. But yet I
must say things were not so bad as you might fancy. Life at the château
had not spoiled Jeannette's heart. She was rather light-hearted,
and the vanity of fine clothes had more effect on her than that of
position; but as for her parents, she adored them, and overwhelmed
them with embraces and kisses on her visits to the farm, which gave
her undisguised pleasure. Our _curé_, who watched her closely, and who
never liked to see country girls quit the stable for the drawing-room,
was forced to acknowledge that the affair had not turned out so
badly as he apprehended; and although he did not hesitate to scold
mademoiselle for spoiling Jeannette--which he had the right to do, as
he had known her from her birth, and had also baptized her--it was easy
to see, by his fond, paternal air, that he loved the child as much as
at the time when Germaine whipped her.

I will also tell you that this good pastor was beginning to feel the
weight of years. He lost strength daily, and, like all holy men, his
character softened as he drew nearer to the good God. Besides, fearing
that soon he would be unable to visit his beloved flock, he thought
rightly it was better not to be too severe, as it might wean them from
him.

"For," said he, "if it is true that flies are not caught by vinegar, it
is still more evident that men are never won by scolding and threats."

It was a sound argument, and, consequently, who was more venerated
than the _curé_ of Val-Saint? I will give only one proof. His
parishioners, seeing that walking fatigued him, consulted among
themselves at a fair, and resolved to buy him a steady animal, with a
sheep-skin saddle and leather reins, embroidered in red, according to
the country fashion.

It so happened that just at that moment a pedlar, owning a good mule,
wished to barter it for a draught-horse, put up for sale by a farmer
from Charbonnière. The bargain was made after a short parley, and our
good friends returned home joyfully, and, without saying a word, tied
their present to the tree before the priest's house. It was too good an
act to be kept silent; the next day the _curé_ and all the parish knew
it. I need not ask who was deeply moved. The following Sunday our dear
_curé_ thanked his flock with words that repaid them a hundred-fold;
and really, if you know anything about country people, you must
say, without meaning any wrong by it, they are not accustomed to be
generous; therefore, a little praise was fully their due.

As for the mule, it was a famous beast. She was black, and sniffed
the air at such a rate, she always seemed eager to start off at full
gallop; but, fortunately for our dear old _curé_, it was only a little
coquetry she still practised in remembrance of her youthful days, and
never went further. After making six or seven paces, she became calmer,
dropped her head, and trotted along as quietly as a lady taking up a
collection in the church. Otherwise she was gentle and easily managed,
except at the sight of water, into which she never could be induced to
put her foot.

"But who has not his faults?" as the beadle of Val-Saint was accustomed
to say to his wife, when she scolded him for returning home rather the
worse for having raised his elbow too often.

In speaking a little here and there about each and every one, don't
think that I have forgotten Jean-Louis; on the contrary, I have kept
the dear boy as the choicest morsel.

You must not expect me to relate in detail all his acts and gestures.
In the first place, he spoke little, and what he said was so kind and
gentle that, if he was forced to deal with the noisiest brawler in
the neighborhood, he soon conquered him by his mildness. One reason
of this was that, having learned so young the painful circumstances
of his birth, and being proud by nature, he controlled himself before
people, in order not to provoke any insolence. I must also add that the
greater part of our young men get into trouble over their wine; and for
Jeannet there was nothing to fear in that respect. Why, you can easily
guess: because he knew nothing of the tavern, but the entrance and the
sign--just what could be seen in passing along the street.

The good fellows, his companions, loved him dearly; the wicked were
forced to respect him, and feared him also, as Jeannet had grown up
tall, and had arms strong enough to stop a mad bull; and as for work,
no one could compete with him. Only one thing on earth he feared, and
that was to commit a sin. And do you know, that those who have only
this fear can overcome, with a sign, a raging madman? It daily happens,
as much in the city, among the black coats, as in the village, among
the blouses. Try it, and you will be convinced, and then you will
acknowledge I speak the truth.

The Ragauds, as they watched this pearl of a boy grow up, learned
to love him more than many parents do their legitimate sons. He was
worth five hired men, and Ragaud, with his strict sense of justice,
had calculated the value to the last cent, and for the past ten years
had placed to his credit in the savings-bank, every 1st of January,
one thousand francs, upon which the interest was accruing. Jean-Louis
knew nothing of the secret, and never did he dream his labor was worth
remuneration. The boy's mind and heart were so thoroughly at ease that,
knowing he had not a cent, and nothing to expect on the death of his
parents, as they had a daughter, he never troubled himself about the
present or the future, believing firmly that the good God, who had
given him a family, would provide for his daily wants; for this second
blessing was nothing, in his eyes, in comparison with the first.

Pierrette was careful that her Benjamin's pocket was never empty. At
Easter and on S. John's day she always gave him a five-franc piece;
and even this was often too much, as Jeannet's clothes and linen were
always kept in perfect order by his devoted mother, and, consequently,
as he never indulged in dissipation, and seldom joined in the village
games, he did not know how to spend it. He would have liked sometimes
to treat himself to a book when the pedlar--the same who had sold the
mule to the farmers for M. le Curé--came around, and Ragaud, sure now
of his good conduct, would certainly not have objected; but one day,
after having searched over the package, he bought for thirty sous what
he thought was a good and entertaining work, as it bore the seal placed
by the government on all publications peddled through the country; but,
to his horror, he found it filled with villanous sentiments. This
saddened and disgusted him for several days; these thirty sous laid
heavy on his mind, not from the avaricious thought that he had thrown
his money to the wind, but from the idea that he had wronged the poor;
for thirty sous was the exact price of a six-pound loaf of bread of the
best quality. Between ourselves, I verily believe he accused himself of
it in confession, as what I ever heard of the good boy makes me think
it most likely he would do so.

Perhaps you would like to know if Jean-Louis had grown up handsome
or ugly. Well, he was ugly, at least according to common opinion; we
villagers admire red faces and those who look well fed, and dress
showily. Jeannet's face was long and pale; his features delicate; teeth
white and beautiful, in a large mouth that seldom smiled; and his
deep, dark eyes were brilliant as stars; and when those eyes looked in
displeasure at any one, they were fearful. Besides, Jean-Louis, who was
tall, appeared so thin you would have thought him a young gray-beard,
ready to break in two at the first breath of wind. With us, thin people
who have not a pound of flesh on their bones are not admired, and it is
quite an insult to be called thin. I think that is all nonsense, for
vigor does not come from fat, but from good health, flesh strengthened
by exercise and good habits; and as Jeannet was acknowledged to be
the strongest boy in the neighborhood, he was only called thin from
jealousy, as he certainly could thank God for being a sound young man,
as strong as the foundation of a barn.

The only amusement he allowed himself was sometimes, on great
festivals, to assist at the pigeon-shooting which M. le Marquis had
established on the lawn before the château. It was a difficult game,
which demanded good sight, coolness, and, above all, great strength of
wrist. Jeannet, on two successive years, carried off the prize; the
first was a silver goblet, the second a beautiful knife, fork, and
spoon of the same metal. On these occasions his pale face became red
with pleasure; do you think it was from vanity? Not at all. If his
heart beat quickly, it was at the thought of the splendid presents he
would make his good mother Pierrette; and, in reality, he made her
promise she would never drink a drop or eat a mouthful but out of the
goblet or with the knife and fork. We must say, in spite of the crowns
heaped up at Muiceron, the earthen pipe and tin cups were alone used.
At first Pierrette was ill at ease with her silver service, but she
nevertheless accustomed herself to the use of it, so as to please
Jeannet; and at last, to make her feel more comfortable, Ragaud, on his
next trip to the city, bought himself a similar set, very fine, for
eighty-four francs, which he constantly said was rather dear; but at
heart he thought it very suitable, as it was not proper for his wife to
eat with silver and he with tin; and to Jeannet's mind, who regretted
that he had not drawn four prizes instead of two, so as to delight both
his dear parents, a brighter idea had never entered his good father's
head.

If I relate all these little anecdotes at length, it is to show you
Jeannet's good heart; and without speaking ill of little Jeannette, who
had also her fine points, I think her brother surpassed her in delicate
attention to their parents, which I attribute to the difference in
their education. Believe me, it is always better to let a cabbage
remain a cabbage, and never attempt to graft a melon upon it. You will
make nothing worth eating; for the good God, who created the cabbage
on one side, and the melon on the other, likes each to remain in its
place, without which you will have a hybrid vegetable, which will not
really be of either species.

Pierrette, like a true woman, knowing Jeannet's excellence, often
thought he could make some woman very happy, and that it was her duty
to speak to him of marriage, since he was twenty years old, and they
knew he would never have to enter the army, even though he should
draw the fatal number. One evening, when she was spinning beside the
hearth, with Jean-Louis near her, making a net for catching birds,
she commenced to speak of the happiness of her married life, the
blessings she had received from heaven, and her perfect contentment on
all points. Jean-Louis listened with pleasure, and acknowledged that
a happy marriage was something to be envied, but, according to his
custom, never thinking of himself, he did not dream of wishing this
fine destiny might one day be his.

"And you, my Jean, would you not like to marry?"

Jean-Louis dropped his shuttle, and looked at Pierrette with
astonishment.

"What an idea!" said he. "I have never even thought of it, dear mother."

"It is nevertheless very simple, my son. Ragaud was your age when he
married me, and, when his parents asked him the same question, he
thought it right, and instantly replied, yes!"

"Doubtless he knew you, and even loved you; then I could easily
understand it."

"That is true," replied Pierrette, slightly blushing; "for a year
before, the dear man had cast glances at me on Sundays at High Mass;
at least, he told me so after we were engaged. Why don't you do
likewise?"

"For that, I should be obliged to think of some of the girls around us,
and I have never troubled myself about them yet."

"That is queer," said Pierrette innocently. "You are not like other
men; for without showing particular attention, it is allowable to look
at the girls around when one wishes to be established."

"Bah!" said Jeannet; "but I don't care about anything of the kind. When
I am in the village on Sunday, I have something else to think about."

"About what, dear boy?"

"Well, then, I think that we will all be quiet at Muiceron until
evening, and I hasten to return, so as to sit down near you, as I
am now, and laugh and talk to amuse you; and I don't wish any other
pleasure. Besides, it is the only time in the week when we can see
Jeannette; and, to speak the truth, dear mother, I would not give that
up for all the marriages in the world."

"All very well," replied Pierrette; "but without giving up those
pleasures, you can take a wife."

"Oh!" said Jeannet, "I see that you are tired of me, or else you would
not speak thus."

"What do you say?" replied Pierrette, kissing him on the forehead.
"It is not right to speak so, and surely you do not mean it. On the
contrary, whether you marry or remain single, I never wish you to leave
me. There is room enough for another woman, and even for children. What
I proposed, my Jean, was for your happiness, and nothing else."

"Well, then, dear mother, let me remain as I am; I never can be happier
than now."

"But when we come to die, it will be so sad to leave you alone!"

Jeannet started up, and leaned against the mantel. A clap of thunder
at the time would not have astonished him more than such a speech. He
to be left alone in the world, no longer to have his father and mother
beside him! And nevertheless it was something to be anticipated; but
his life flowed on so smoothly and happily, the thought of such a
misfortune had never before struck terror to his heart.

He remained silent a moment, looking fixedly at the bright wood fire
that burned upon the hearth; and suddenly, as it often happens when
some remark has penetrated the very soul, he saw, as in a picture, his
dear good mother Pierrette and father Ragaud stretched on their biers,
and laid in the cold ground, in the dread repose of death that never
awakens. But, no! it was not possible; and yet it happens any day,
sometimes for one, sometimes for another. Muiceron, where they all
lived in tranquil happiness, was truly a paradise on earth, but most
assuredly not the celestial paradise where immortality alone exists.

For the first time since the memorable day when he had suffered so
cruelly on learning the secret of his birth, Jeannet felt his poor
heart ache with a similar grief. Pierrette, who thought it perfectly
natural to have opened his eyes to such a desirable event, continued
her spinning. Seeing Jean-Louis in deep thought, and receiving no
answer, she simply fancied her argument had been conclusive, and that
he felt the necessity of establishing himself, and so was debating in
his own mind the relative attractions of the girls in the neighborhood.
Besides, Jeannet's back was to her, and she did not see the change in
his face.

"Think a little," said she, pursuing her idea; "there is no greater
pleasure for parents who feel themselves growing old than to see their
children well married. Then they can die in peace, thinking that,
after they are gone, nothing will be changed; only, instead of the old
people, young ones will take their place, the work will go on, all
hearts will be happy, and kind prayers and fond recollections will
follow them to the tomb."

"Oh!" cried Jean-Louis, covering his face with his hands, "if you say
another word, I will die!"

"What!" said Pierrette, "die--of what? Are you ill?"

Jeannet, in spite of his twenty years, burst into tears like a little
child; he clasped Pierrette in his arms, fondly embraced her, and said
in a tone melting with tenderness:

"My mother, my dear, dear mother, I shall never marry--never, do you
hear? And I beg of you never to mention the subject again. I have but
one heart, and that I have given you undivided; nothing remains for
another. When you speak of marriage, it makes us think of death and the
grave; and that is beyond my strength--I cannot speak of it. If the
good God calls you before me, my dearest mother, it will not be long
before I rejoin you; and thus it will be better for me to die single
than to leave a family after me. And now, as I do not wish to marry,
and you only desire my happiness, do not urge me further."

"Your heart is too gentle for a man," said Pierrette, feeling the
tears of her dear child on her brow; "you make me happy, even while
opposing me, and I see that I have made you unhappy without wishing
it. Be consoled, my Jeannet; we will never speak of it again. If you
change your mind, you will tell me. Meanwhile, we will live as before.
Don't be worried; it will be a long time yet before we leave you. I am
in good health, and your father also; and so Muiceron will not change
masters soon."

"No, no, thank God!" cried Jean-Louis; "the Blessed Virgin will watch
over us. We have not lived together for twenty years now to separate,
my darling mother!"

Truth to say, this was not very sound argument, for, whether twenty
years together, or thirty, or forty, friends must separate, all the
same, at the appointed hour; but Jeannet spoke with his heart torn with
sorrow, and Pierrette was perfectly willing to acknowledge, in her
turn, that she really desired things should happen as he wished.

From that time the question of marriage was put in her pocket, and
never taken out again. God and his holy angels looked down with delight
upon this innocent household, full of tenderness and kindness, and did
not allow evil to overshadow it. However, the child Jeannette deserved
to be cured of her little sins of vanity, and you will see the means
taken by the Heavenly Father to make her a Christian according to his
will.


XI.

About this time came a year which is still remembered, although a good
long time has since elapsed. Swarms of locusts devoured the young wheat
before it ripened, while the field-mice, moles, and other villanous
pests, gnawed and destroyed it at the roots. Corn especially suffered
in this unlucky season; not a plant escaped. Before it had grown ten
feet in height, it was blighted, and then withered and died. It would
take too long to enumerate all the difficulties that overwhelmed the
peasants. Hailstorms beat down the meadows at haymaking time; splendid
cows died of the pest; sheep were suddenly attacked and perished; and
as for the horses, decimated by the glanders, which became epidemic,
and was very dangerous, as it often passed from animals to men, it
would be impossible to count the victims.

This year, at least, those who had begun the season by prophesying
evil had their predictions fully accomplished; but, thank God! such
an unfortunate season rarely happens. The poor people were fearfully
discouraged; and, in sooth, it was not strange that men dreaded the
future, in face of such a present.

Nevertheless, greater activity was never seen in the fields. To save
the little that remained, each one did his best, even down to the
little children, in reaping, gathering the harvest, piling the carts,
in spite of the locusts, the hail, and the devil, who was said to have
a great deal to do with the affair, and which I am very much inclined
to believe. The people even worked until late in the night. It was a
devouring fever, which made every one half crazy, and it was a miracle
that no one died of it; for, in our province, we are accustomed to
work slowly, without hurry or excitement, and it is commonly believed
everything happens when and how it is decreed, but none the worse
on that account; but I wish to prove that they could hurry up when
occasion required.

Our friend, Jean-Louis, did wonders in these sad circumstances. He
seemed to be everywhere at once--in the fields, the stables, at
the head of the reapers, at the barn when the carts were unloaded;
encouraging some, urging on others, in a friendly way; hurrying up
the cattle; when necessary, giving a helping hand to the veterinary
surgeon; and, withal, gentle and kind to everybody.

You think that, with order, energy, and intelligence, work will always
be rewarded with success. He who first said, "Help yourself, and Heaven
will aid you," did not speak falsely. God does not work miracles for
those who fold their arms in idleness, but he always gives to humble
and persevering labor such abundant reward that, for many centuries, no
matter what may be the suffering, the truth of the Holy Scriptures has
always been verified, that "never has any one seen the just man die of
hunger, or his seed begging their bread."

In virtue of this rule, it came to pass that, at Muiceron, the harvest
of hay, as well as of wheat, rye, and corn, was far better than could
have been expected by the most sanguine. The unfortunate ones, who lost
nearly all their crops, said that Ragaud had dealt in witchcraft to
protect himself from the prevailing bad luck. This nonsense made every
one laugh, but did not stop their envy and jealousy; and so unjust do
men become, when their hearts are envenomed by rage and disappointment,
that some of the worst--the laziest, undoubtedly--went so far as to
declare openly, in the village inn, that it would be for the good of
the public if some of the splendid hay-stacks at Muiceron were burned,
as the contrast was too great between the well-kept farm and the ruined
fields around.

Fortunately, our friend, Jacques Michou, was drinking in a corner while
this delightful conversation took place; he rose from his seat, and,
placing his hand on the shoulder of him who had been the loudest in
threats, declared he would instantly complain of him to the police; and
that, merely for speaking in such a manner, he could be sent to prison
for a month. No further grumbling was heard after this speech, and it
can be easily understood no wicked attempt was made. So true is it
that a little courage will easily defeat the most wicked plans; for
vice is very cowardly in its nature.

While all the country around Val-Saint, Ordonniers, and many other
neighborhoods, were thus afflicted, M. le Marquis had been busy with
some of his grand affairs, of which we have already heard, and started
on a journey for some unknown place. He returned this time a little
happier than usual, as it was near the beginning of 1847; and it is
not necessary to remind you that it preceded 1848. At this time even
the stupidest felt that a revolution was approaching, and our good
lord and all his friends were doubly certain of the impending storm.
He was therefore excusable in having neglected the care of his large
estate, so as to devote himself to that which was the first desire
of his heart. But he who should have watched over his interests in
his absence, the superintendent Riponin, he it was that was every
way blamable; for, whether intentionally, that he might continue his
orgies in the midst of disorder, or through idleness and negligence,
he had allowed the place to fall into a fearful state of ruin. Nothing
was to be seen but fields devastated by the ruin, or grain rotting as
it stood; the animals that died had not been replaced; and even the
vegetable garden of the château presented a most lamentable picture of
disorder and neglect. Ragaud and Michou, had seen all this; but they
were too insignificant to dare say a word, and too proud, besides, to
venture a remonstrance, which certainly would not have been received.

M. le Marquis, on his return, was anything but agreeably surprised. He
summoned Riponin before him, and reprimanded him in a manner which he
long remembered. Our master was goodness itself, but he could not be
unreasonably imposed upon; his old noble blood would fire up, and he
could show men that for more than five hundred years his ancestors, as
well as he, had been accustomed to command and obey only the laws of
the Lord God.

Riponin was a coward; he trembled and asked pardon, promised to do
better, and gave a hundred poor excuses. M. le Marquis would not
receive any such explanation; he ordered Riponin out of his presence,
and seasoned the command with several big military words, which I
will not repeat. It was a sign that he was terribly angry. Thus the
unfaithful steward was obliged to retire without further reply; and,
between ourselves, it was the best he could do.

Thereupon M. le Marquis, still in a fury, sent off for Ragaud, who came
in great haste, easily divining what had happened.

"Ragaud," said the master, "you are no better than the rest. I will
lose forty thousand francs on my crops; and if you had seen to it, this
would not have happened."

"Forty thousand francs!" quietly replied Ragaud. "I beg your pardon, M.
le Marquis; but you mean sixty thousand francs, and that, I think, is
the lowest calculation."

M. le Marquis was naturally cheerful; this unexpected answer made him
smile, instead of increasing his anger. He looked at his old servant,
whom he highly esteemed, and, folding his arms, said:

"Is that your opinion? Come, now, let us say fifty thousand; I think
that is enough."

"No, no, sixty," replied Ragaud. "I will not take off a crown; but
there is yet time to save half."

"Is that so? What can I give you, if you do that much?"

"Nothing, M. le Marquis, but permission to be master here for a week,
and the honor of serving you."

"Old fool!" said the marquis. "And your own work, what will become of
it?"

"It is all finished," replied the good farmer; "don't be uneasy, my
dear master, only give me, as I said before, full power."

"Be off, then. I know your devotion, and I have full confidence in you;
but you will not object to my making a present to your children?"

"Presents!" said Ragaud, much moved. "What else have you done for the
past twenty years, M. le Marquis? Is it not the least you can do to let
me be of some use to you for once in my life? I owe everything to you,
down to the roof that shelters me, my wife, and the children. Presents!
No, no, if you do not wish to pain me."

"Proud and obstinate man that you are," said the marquis, smiling,
"have everything your own way. I am not so proud as you; you offer to
save me thirty thousand francs, and I don't make such a fuss about
accepting it. Isn't that a present?"

"It is thirty thousand francs that I will prevent you from losing,"
said the obstinate Ragaud.

"Yes, as though one would say grape-juice was not the juice of the
grape," replied the marquis, who was highly amused at the replies of
his old servant. "Well, if I ask you to drink a glass of old Bordeaux
with me, will you take that as the offer of a present you must refuse?"

"Certainly not," said Ragaud, "but it is too great an honor for me to
drink with my lord."

M. le Marquis made them bring refreshments on a silver waiter, and kept
Ragaud in close conversation for a full hour, knowing well that this
friendly manner of treating him was the greatest reward he could give
the good, honest soul, to whom God had given sentiments far above his
condition. Afterwards, he dismissed him with such a warm shake of the
hand that Ragaud was nearly overcome and could scarcely restrain his
tears.

"Well," said he, returning to Muiceron, where he found Jean-Louis
occupied with arranging the wood-pile, "what do you think we are going
to do, my boy, after having worked like ten men to get in our crops and
fill the barns?"

"I was thinking about that," replied Jeannet; "and, meanwhile, I have
put the fagots in order, so that mother can easily get at them, when I
am not at hand, to make the fire."

"You have never thought to take a little rest?" asked Ragaud, who knew
well beforehand what would be the reply.

"Why, yes," said Jean-Louis, "an hour's rest now and then is very
pleasant; but after that, my dear father," he continued, laughing, "I
like to stretch my legs."

"Well, then, let us imagine nothing was done at Muiceron, and that, at
this very moment, we should be obliged to begin; what would you say?"

"All right; and I would instantly begin the work. I hope you don't
doubt me?" he replied, with his usual air of quiet resolution.

"No, I do not doubt you, my good boy," resumed Ragaud; "and to prove
my confidence in your courage and good-will, I have to-day promised to
undertake an enterprise which, in honor, we are bound to accomplish."

And he related to him what we already know.

"Hum!" said Jean-Louis, after having listened attentively; "it will be
pretty hard work, but with the help of God nothing is impossible."

"That is just what I think," replied Ragaud; "but for that, I would not
have undertaken such a task. Now, Jeannet, we must begin to put the
place in order to-morrow at the latest."

"That will be time enough, father, and we will do our best," said
Jean-Louis.

The subject was dropped for the rest of the evening. Ragaud did not
trouble his head about the means his son would employ; and Jeannet,
without being otherwise sure of himself, remained tranquil, like all
those who ask the assistance of divine Providence in the management
of their affairs. Nevertheless, it was a difficult task, not only on
account of the severe manual labor, but also from the certainty of
incurring the deadly hatred of Riponin, who was a very wicked man.
The thought of it somewhat disquieted Ragaud, and Jean-Louis from the
first understood the full danger; but what could be done? Duty before
everything.

The next morning Jean-Louis was up before sunrise. During the night,
he thought over his plan, like the general of an army; he remembered
having read somewhere that a troop can do nothing, unless conducted by
able chiefs. He would need one hundred hands, and, for one all alone,
that would be a great many. His first care was to knock at the window
of a fine young man of his own age, who, from infancy, had been his
most intimate friend. He was called Pierre Luguet, and lived in the
hamlet of Luchonières, which is a small cluster of twelve or fifteen
houses a little lower down than Ordonniers, but on the other side of La
Range. By good fortune, the stream at this place is so choked up with
a big heap of gravel and old stumps of willow-trees, which serve as
stepping-stones across the water, that any one who is light-footed can
cross as easily as on a narrow bridge.

This name of Luguet, I suppose, strikes your ear oddly. He was really
the nephew of poor Catharine, and thus first cousin of Jean-Louis, who
undoubtedly knew it, as you can imagine. Perhaps it was the reason
these two young men were so much attached. They say the voice of blood
cannot be smothered; and although it is not always true, in this case
it was very evident that, whether for that reason or simply from
similarity of character and pursuits, good conduct and age, Pierre
Luguet was the only one of the neighborhood whom Jeannet ever sought,
and that Pierre was never happier than when he could detain Jean-Louis
for several hours in conversation or some innocent amusement.

Jean-Louis went straight to the house of his friend, who, recognizing
his voice behind the shutter, quickly opened it and let him in.
He lived in a little room in front of the farm-buildings, and,
consequently, the noise did not awaken his parents. Jeannet entered
by the window, and, without losing any time, explained his plans to
Pierre, while he rapidly dressed.

"You," said he, "must be my lieutenant. We must get together one
hundred young men, each one resolved to do his part. M. le Marquis will
not begrudge the crowns; we will promise them good wages, and they must
work all night, if necessary; and, to encourage every one, we will keep
a roaring fire in Michou's house, so that Barbette will always have
the soup warm and a tun of cider ready for tapping. In this manner the
laborers will be contented, and not obliged to return home twice a-day
for their meals. As for you, Pierre, be assured that M. le Marquis
will reward you most generously for your work; and, besides, you will
be doing a good action, for it is a great sin to see the estate of the
master worse cared for than that of his servants."

"I am not thinking about the price," said Pierre Luguet, putting on his
blouse. "I ask no more than you will have."

"That is good; we will see about it," replied Jeannet, laughing in his
sleeve; for he knew well that he was going to work for the honor of it,
and he did not wish to make Pierre go by the same rule, knowing that he
supported his old parents.

They decided upon the places where they would expect to find the best
men, and separated, one to the left, the other to the right, promising
to meet again at twelve o'clock.

There was really great rejoicing when the young men of Val-Saint
and Ordonniers learned that they were required to work for M. le
Marquis under the lead of the two best men of the neighborhood. They
had nothing to fear from brutality and injustice, as in the time of
Riponin; and the news of his disgrace put all the brave fellows in the
best humor.

Riponin was cordially detested, and for double the pay not one would
have volunteered to serve under him, or have undertaken such a
disagreeable and bungled affair; but with Jeannet it was another thing,
and although he warned them beforehand that he would allow neither
idleness nor bad language, and that they must work long and steadily,
they followed him, singing as joyously as though they were going to a
wedding.

Before noon, the two bands met on the edge of the wood, where dwelt our
old friend, the game-keeper. Pierre Luguet, after leaving home, had
taken care to pass by, so as to forewarn him. Jacques Michou threw
up his cap at the news; he also despised Riponin, and, more than any
other, he had good reason for hating him. He therefore laid his plans,
and borrowed from the château a huge kettle, such as is used during the
vintage for pressing the grapes, which he put up, for their service, in
his little barn. Everything was ready at the appointed hour, and I can
assure you the delightful surprise was fully appreciated by our young
friends. The two leaders had taken the precaution to tell each one
of the boys to bring half a loaf of bread, a piece of goat's cheese,
and a slice of pork; so the soup was doubly welcome, as it was not
expected, and the cider still more so, as they had counted only on the
river-water. This good beginning put them in splendid humor; and when,
after being fully refreshed, they marched up to the château to pay
their respects to M. le Marquis before beginning their work, one would
have said, from the noise and singing, that it was a band of conscripts
who had drawn the lucky number.

They instantly put their shoulders to the plough. Jeannet wisely made
them commence with the worst fields, so that, when the first excitement
was over, and they would be rather fatigued, they could find that they
had not eaten the white bread first. Thus, having been well selected,
well fed, well paid, and, above all, well led, our boys did wonders,
not only that afternoon, but on the following days. The weather,
however, was decidedly against them; rain drenched the laborers, and
strong winds prevented them from building up the hay-stacks; but their
ardor was so great that nothing discouraged them; and often, when
Jeannet, moved by sympathy, put it to vote whether they should continue
or not, he saw with pleasure that not one man deserted his post.

At the end of a week, half the work was so well under way it could
easily be seen that, in spite of the bad season and worse management,
M. le Marquis would not lose all his crops this time, but that, on the
contrary, his barns would make a very good show, if not in quality,
at least in quantity. The worthy gentleman came several times himself
to visit the laborers and distribute extra pay. On these occasions it
was admirable to see the modesty of Jean-Louis, who always managed to
disappear, leaving to Pierre Luguet the honor of showing the progress
of the work to M. le Marquis; and as workmen are generally just when
they are not found fault with, brow-beaten, or ill-treated, they
rendered to Jean-Louis greater honor and respect the more he concealed
himself from their applause. In short, everything went on well to the
end without interruption.

The given fortnight was not over when the last cart-load, ornamented
on top with a huge bouquet of flowers and sheaves of wheat tied with
ribbons, was conducted in triumph, accompanied with songs of joy,
under the windows of mademoiselle, who appeared on the balcony, with
Jeannette Ragaud on her right and Dame Berthe on the left. M. le
Marquis was in the court of honor, enchanted with the success of the
measure; and Ragaud and Michou could not remain quiet, but clapped
their hands, and cried "Bravo!" to the brave young men.

Jean-Louis tried to escape this time also, but was not allowed.
His friends raised him in their arms, and placed him on top of the
cart with his good comrade, Pierre Luguet; and thus they made their
appearance, both standing alongside of the bouquet, Jeannet crimson
with shame and vexation, whilst Pierre sang loud enough to crack his
throat.

You can imagine that this cart, upon which had been heaped the last
gleanings of the harvest, was piled up immensely high, so that the top
was on a level with the first floor of the château, and mademoiselle
could thus converse at her ease with the young men.

She spoke most graciously to Jean-Louis, and congratulated him with
words so complimentary that the poor fellow wished himself under the
grain, rather than on top. What embarrassed him still further was to
see his sister Jeannette playing the part of great lady as much as her
mistress. With his usual good sense, he considered it out of place, and
would have been much better pleased if she had appeared ill at ease in
her false position; but, far from that, she leaned over the balcony,
laughing and talking like a vain little parrot, and even rallied
Jean-Louis on his subdued manner.

He did not wish to spoil the affair by looking severe and discontented,
but he was grieved at heart, and hastened to put an end to the scene.

Mademoiselle, at the close of her complimentary remarks, presented
each of the two friends with a little box of the same size, wrapped in
beautiful paper, and tied with pink ribbon.

"They are filled with bonbons," said she in her sweet, gentle voice;
"and you will not refuse to eat them in remembrance of me?"

Then she made them a most friendly bow, which they returned with great
respect, and the big cart was driven off to the barn to be unloaded.

"Bon-bons!" said Pierre to Jeannet, taking out his box after they
had descended from their high post of honor. "What do you think,
Jean-Louis? It seems to me this plaything is too heavy only to contain
candies."

"At any rate," replied Jean-Louis, "they can't do us any harm, as the
boxes are not very large."

They quickly untied the pretty pink ribbon, and found in Pierre's
box fifteen bright twenty-franc pieces, while Jeannet's contained a
beautiful gold watch, with a chain of equal value.

To add to the general happiness, the sky, which until then had been
cloudy as though threatening rain, suddenly cleared, and the sun went
down in the full splendor of August, and shed a brilliant light over
the bare fields, as Jean-Louis was carried in triumph by his comrades,
who cried out that surely he controlled the weather, as the very winds
seemed to obey him; and, strange as it may appear, the season continued
so fine that never was there a more delightful autumn than after the
unfortunate spring and summer.

If I dared express my opinion, I would tell you that, without calling
it miraculous, the good God scarcely ever fails to send joy after
sorrow, peace after war, heat after cold, as much to the visible things
of the earth as to the secret ones of the heart. It is, therefore, well
not to throw the handle too quickly after the axe; and, to prove this,
I will tell you a short and true story, which I just happen to remember.

It relates to Michel Levrot, of the commune of Saint-Ouaire, who,
against everybody's advice, married a woman from near Bichérieux.
She was a bad Christian and totally unworthy of the good little man,
who was rather too gentle and weak in character. For a year they got
along so-so, without any great disturbance; but gradually the wicked
creature grew to despise her poor husband, for no other reason but
that he was too good for her, and let her have her own way completely.
She wasted money at fairs, bought more fine clothes and silver jewelry
than she knew what to do with, kept up a row in the house from morning
until night, and ended by being nearly always drunk; all which made
Michel Levrot so unhappy that one sad day in a moment of despair,
without stopping to think of his eternal salvation, he threw himself
headlong into the river Coussiau, which, fortunately, was not so deep
as La Range, although nearly as wide.

As he was out of his head, and acted without thinking, his good angel
most assuredly took care of him; for, if he had been drowned, he
certainly would have lost his soul; but, although he did not know how
to swim, he floated on his back, and the current carried him to the
bank of the stream, where he was picked up, half-dead and in a swoon,
by some of the neighbors, who rubbed and warmed him, and managed to
bring him back to life. Those who had saved him were good, pious men,
who spoke to him in such a Christian manner, they made him feel ashamed
of his cowardice and want of confidence in the Heavenly Father; so he
promised to go and see our _curé_, who lifted him upon his beast--that
is to say, made peace enter his soul; after which he explained to him
that, having no children, he had the right to leave this wicked and
perverse woman, who deserved a severe lesson, and not return home
until she should be converted or dead.

He left that part of the country, entirely cured of his desire to kill
himself, and made the tour of France, honestly earning his bread by
working at his trade, which was that of an upholsterer. From time to
time the neighbors sent him news of his abominable wife, who led such
a scandalous life it was easy to predict she would not make old bones;
for, if strong drink and vice soon kill the most robust men, they are
still more fatal to women. After a few years, he received the welcome
intelligence that his house was rid of its baneful mistress. He then
returned to Saint-Ouaire, and was charitable enough to give fifty
francs for Masses for the unfortunate soul. Some time after, he married
the daughter of Pierre Rufin, a good worker and housekeeper, who,
besides other excellent qualities, never drank anything stronger than
honey and water that she took for a weak stomach, which she had from
childhood. They lived most happily, and had a family of five handsome
children. I knew him when he was very old, and he always loved to
relate this story of his youth, never failing to return thanks to the
good God, who had saved him from drowning.

"For," said he, "my dear children, if I had been drowned that day from
want of a little patience, I should have lost my soul, besides the good
wife you see here and all my present happiness."

                            TO BE CONTINUED.




ORDINANDUS.


    The goal--and yet my heart is low,
      When rather should it brim with glee!
    They tell me this is ever so.
    Ah! well, I cling to one I know:
      Sweet Virgin, keep thou me.

    O thou for whom I venture all--
      The fragile bark, the treacherous sea
    (I needs must serve my Lady's call,
    Her captive knight, her helpless thrall)--
      My pilot, keep thou me.

    From tyranny of idle fears,
      And subtle frauds to make me flee--
    Distorting unto eyes and ears
    The burden of the coming years--
      My mercy, keep thou me.

    From shirking the accepted cross
      For all the galling yet to be;
    From seeing gold in what is dross,
    And seeking gain in what is loss,
      My wisdom, keep thou me.

    From lures too strong for flesh and blood--
      With show of ripe philosophy,
    That points the fallen, who had stood,
    Contented with the lesser good--
      My victory, keep thou me.

    O Lady dear, in weal, in woe,
      Till Heaven reveal thy Son and thee,
    Thy true love's mantle round me throw;
    And tenderly, calmly, sweetly so,
      My glory, keep thou me.

NOVEMBER, 1870.




ONE CHAPTER FROM HESTER HALLAM'S LIFE.


"Ah! Hester, Hester, keep back your tears. Be the brave little wife and
woman now. Have faith, hope, and courage; the year will soon speed by,
and, lo! here shall I find you again! God grant it! And good-by, my
wife, my children--my all and only treasures."

They are engraven on my memory--these last words of Henry Hallam, my
husband, my beloved. They were spoken hopefully, cheerfully, though I
knew they were intended to cover the sorrow of a heart that ached, even
as did mine, at our final parting.

Henry Hallam was to go to South America as chief engineer of a proposed
road from some inland city to the Pacific. After a marriage of eight
years, this was our first separation. I never did consent to it. Better
poverty and the humblest life together than that mountains and seas
should divide us, I argued.

But Henry was proud, as he was tender and loving; he could not bear to
see his wife, delicately reared, doing menial service; nor his little
girls deprived of waxen dolls, because they would usurp the ragged
dollar that must go for bread.

Our situation had fallen from bad to worse; an expensive lawsuit had
been decided against us, to liquidate the cost of which an out-West
piece of land, that was to have been our children's fortune, had to
be sold at a sacrifice; and when all was paid, except our scanty
furniture, we had but three hundred dollars in the world. We lived in
a rented house in the beautiful suburbs of Brooklyn; three months'
rent would consume our all. Meantime, upon what should we live, and
wherewithal should we be clothed? This was a serious question, which
vexed my husband for many days. He suddenly answered it by accepting
with alacrity this lucrative position in South America. My only living
relative in all America was one sister, widowed and childless. She came
from the West to abide with me during my husband's absence. She, too,
had comparative poverty for her dowry, her only income arising from the
interest of less than a thousand dollars.

No thought of poverty haunted us, however; heretofore all our wants
had been supplied, and we had lived almost luxuriously, counting upon
the fortune which had been for six years dwindling to less and less in
courts of law.

It was with no dread of poverty, I repeat, that I saw my husband
take his departure. I thought only how the light had gone from our
house, and joy from existence. I am distressed whenever I read of the
ever-recurring matrimonial quarrels and divorces which appear now the
order of the day. I could have lived with Henry Hallam through the
countless eternal years, and--God forgive me!--desired no other heaven.

We had no particular creed or faith. The Hallams had been Methodists;
the Griffeths, my father's family over in Wales, had been members of
the Church of England.

Henry and I, reading here and there indifferently, had become somewhat
inclined to Swedenborg's theories. We read Dr. Bushnell and his
colleagues with some faith and more interest. But we fashioned the
great hereafter--the heaven we all talk of and dream so much of--after
our own ideals. Those may have been in the right, thought we, from
whom Shelley and many another poetical dreamer imbibed the idea that
the Godhead was but the universal spirit pervading and animating
nature; that man was immortal, and was to arise from the dead, clothed
in purity and beauty, and was to wander endlessly in some limitless,
enchanting paradise, where should be all things lovely to charm the
eye, all sounds to entrance the ear, all spirits gentle, and wise,
and good for communion of intellect and heart. In this heaven stood
no stately throne upon which sat a God of justice, receiving one unto
life, banishing another unto everlasting perdition. It was the same
here as upon earth; the beauty, bloom, fragrance, and glory were
permeated with an essence subtle, invisible, intangible, but present,
the life and source of all--and this was God! The ancients had a heaven
and a hell, which Christianity had adopted; but we lived in the XIXth
century, and we need not pin our faith to such notions borrowed from
the heathen. Were youth and health on earth immortal, we would prefer
never to pass through the iron gate of death and the pearly gate of
life; since, however, all must yield to the inexorable fiat, and _all
men must die_, we would make a virtue of necessity, and be willing to
go to that sensual heaven, which wore all the beauty of earth, with
naught of its thorns and blight. Ah! we, Henry and I, were still in the
glow of youth and hope; life seemed a beautiful vista, and the end far
off! Of the great beyond we but carelessly dreamed--as carelessly as if
our feet were never there to stand, nor our souls to tremble upon its
awful brink.

With Henry gone, I was like a child bereft of its mother. I wept and
would not be comforted. I counted the hours of every day; they seemed
so inconsiderable, deducted from the almost nine thousand which the
three hundred and sixty-five days yielded. I see now how foolish, weak,
and wicked I was!

I was seized with a slow fever, which lasted me through the summer.
In my weakness and wakefulness I saw visions and dreamed dreams which
haunted me constantly. I began to fancy that I was to die. I would have
been satisfied to have fallen in a sleep that should have known no
waking until the dread year was over.

Early in September I heard from my room an unusual bustle in the
house--the feet of men, and the unwonted sound of boxes or trunks laid
heavily upon the floor. But why need I go into details?

Henry Hallam had died of yellow fever, and his trunks had been sent
home!

In my despair, one thought overpowered me. I had made myself wretched
counting over the hours until Henry should return. Now he would never,
never come back, no matter how many hours; I might count for an
eternity, and he would not come at the end. Oh! could he but some time
come, even in the distant years, when his step was feeble and his hair
was gray, how patient I would be, how hopeful, cheerful, in the waiting
for that certain time!

_Why_ had I not been happy when I knew that he still lived; when the
fond hope was mine that, after a few months, I should again behold him?

We never know--alas! we never know! With my beloved gone, I fancied
myself sunk in the lowest depth of desolation.

More than two years elapsed. My sister struggled bravely to keep a roof
above our heads and the wolf of hunger from our door. Notwithstanding
her closest economy, untiring industry, and fertile ingenuity, her
small principal had become reduced one-half. Her zeal and energy were a
reproach to me, and I had already commenced heroic endeavors to imitate
and assist her. We might still have done well, educated my two little
girls, and taken comfort in each other, now that my hopeless grief had
become partially assuaged, and I had begun to take an interest in the
management of our affairs. A fresh grief, however, was in store for me.
Maria, my sister, upon whom alone I had come to depend, was stricken
with an incurable disease, and, after lingering through months of pain,
which often amounted to torture, died, and was buried.

I was not allowed to remain in my stupor of grief after I had beheld
the cruel grave close over my only sister. The fact that but a trifle
remained after all expenses had been paid aroused me to most painful
apprehensions for the fate of my children. But for them I fully
believe I should have adopted the advice of his friends to Job, the
patient--curse God, and die!

The dear little children, however, who had no friends but their
unhappy mother, and who clung to me as if they had in me all that was
sufficient and all the world, were an incentive to further endurance
and fresh exertion.

In a moment of discouragement and gloom I wrote an unaccustomed letter
of six pages to a lady who had been my friend while sojourning in the
West. I had spent a year with my husband in a growing village upon the
banks of the Mississippi where this lady resided. She had a delightful
home in the midst of charming grounds, an indulgent, devoted husband,
three lovely children, with wealth enough to command the desirable and
good things of this world. We had corresponded for a time, but since my
great affliction I had written no letters.

Without delay came Mrs. Bell's reply. In my selfish grief I had not
thought that upon others also might be falling showers of the self-same
woe. The thought of Mrs. Bell, with her happy surroundings, had formed
a pleasant picture, comforting to dwell upon. Ah! how my eyes filled
and my heart throbbed as I read her letter!

The beautiful home, with its pictures, books, its nameless household
gods, was in ashes; the husband, really the handsomest, most elegant
gentleman I have ever met, full of health, vigor, and cheerfulness, a
year after the fatal fire had died suddenly, leaving his large property
in an involved and unavailable condition; and my friend was living in
a small cottage amidst the ashes and blackened trunks of trees--which
stood like weird spectres about her former home. The letter, half read,
fell from my nerveless grasp, and I clasped tightly my trembling hands,
bowing down upon them my throbbing head, murmuring:

"Doth _all_ of beauty fade to blight, and all of joy to gloom? Are
_all_ human loves so vain and transient? Are all hopes and dreams
fleeting and unsubstantial as the goodly shadow of a summer cloud? Is
it true of _all_ beneath the sun, 'ashes to ashes, dust to dust'?"
Gathering courage to finish the letter, another surprise awaited me. My
friend had become a Roman Catholic. After giving brief details of her
conversion, she thus addressed me:

"At this moment I feel more sorrow for you than for myself. My dearest
earthly loves and hopes lie, like yours, in ashes. But out of _my_
desolation hath sprung the green branches of heavenly peace. I weep not
unavailing tears at the loss of what so charmed my heart as to separate
my soul from God. Arise out of the ashes watered with your tears. Go
to the nearest Catholic priest; ask him for books, counsel, and prayer
that shall lead you upward and onward toward the kingdom of rest. Make
the effort, I entreat you, in the name of God. If you find no peace to
your soul, what will you have lost? If you find comfort and rest, will
not all have been gained?"

Had I learned, in the midst of my happiness, that Miriam Bell had
become a Catholic, I might have wondered, thought strange of it, but
set it down as one of the unaccountable things, and not puzzled my
brain by studying into it. But now it was different. Her afflictions,
so similar to my own, brought her very near to me in sympathy. I would
have as soon thought of myself becoming deluded by the snares of Popery
as my friend, Mrs. Bell. Yea, sooner; she was more matter-of-fact,
calm, philosophical, more highly educated, with a mind more thoroughly
disciplined, and naturally more inquiring and comprehensive than my
own. And she had heartily embraced this religious faith which, without
ever having bestowed much thought upon, I had naturally regarded as one
of superstitions and lies.

The sun went down, the twilight fell. Charlotte and Cora helped
themselves to a slice of bread, and lay down to rest. The
sewing-machine had for hours been idle, and the unfinished white shirt,
suspended by the needle, looked like a ghost in the gathering gloom;
and still I held my hands and deeply thought, or walked the floor with
stilly tread.

And so Miriam Bell had found a balm for her sorrow, a light amid her
darkness. How? By becoming a Catholic. And what was it to become a
Catholic? To believe impossibilities, and to worship idols; to behold,
in a tiny wafer of human manufacture, the body and blood, soul and
divinity, of an incarnate God? Does Miriam Bell believe this? If she
can believe it with all her heart and soul, then might she well be
comforted! To fall upon one's knees before the relics of a saint, and
beg his prayers, as if he could see and hear? To implore the Blessed
Virgin to succor and defend, as if she were not a creature, but
omnipotent and divine? To reverence the priest as a being immaculate,
an angel with hidden wings walking upon earth, unto whose feet you
must kneel, and unveil, as unto God, all the thoughts and interests
of your heart? I pondered over this last suggestion. Standing in the
white moonlight that silvered a space of the floor, I lifted up both
weary heart and waiting hands, and, with eyes toward the unknown and
infinite, I cried:

"Unto God would I pour forth the sins and sorrows of my soul; but I am
all unworthy. He whom I have disregarded and failed to acknowledge is
shut out from my vision and approach. Between him and me is the thick
wall of my offences. Oh! if, in his infinite mercy, he could send forth
one little less than an angel--who should have something of the human,
that he might compassionate and pity; of the divine, that he might
comprehend, guide, and assist--to that one I might yield in reverence.
All the sins, and follies, and rebellions of my life should be poured
into his ear; perhaps, oh! perhaps the hand of such an one might lift
me into the light, if light there be indeed for soul so dyed as mine."

How this fancied being, uniting the human and angelic, became
gradually, and by slow degrees, associated in my mind with the Catholic
priest, I know not. Certain only I am that, after a few days of
mental struggle, of resolve and counter-resolution, I complied with
my friend's entreaty, and, accompanied by my little girls, sought the
nearest priest.

I took this step not with faith, nor yet altogether with doubt. I
went, not willingly, but as if irresistibly impelled. I was like one
shipwrecked--floating in maddened waters, threatened death below, an
angry sky above, and darkness everywhere. A friend in whom I trusted
had pointed out to me a life-preserver.

"Stretch forth thy hand, hold it fast; it will save thee," she had said.

"It is but a straw," I murmured, clutching at it, drowning.

The priest entered the parlor a few moments after our admission by a
domestic.

I scanned him narrowly as he walked straight up to us, rubbing one
hand against the other, slightly elevating his shoulders. He was a
middle-aged man, whose benevolent countenance wore the reflection of a
happy, cheerful soul at peace with God and man.

My first thought on viewing him was of the woman who wished but to
"touch the hem of our Saviour's garment"; and, when he uttered his
first salutation: "And what can I do for you, my child?" I said
involuntarily: "Oh! that I may be made whole."

"Ah! you would go to confession. Go into the church, and pray before
the altar; I will be there presently." And he turned to leave the room.

I did not speak nor move. At the door he said:

"You are a stranger in the city?"

"No--yes--that is, I have lived here several years, but I have no
friends; I am indeed a stranger."

"You understand and attend to your religious duties?"

"I have no religious duties; I have no particular religion. I am
beginning to think myself a heathen."

"And have you not been brought up a Catholic?" he questioned in
surprise, returning to where I still sat.

"The furthest from it. If you have time to listen, I will tell you what
has brought me to you." And I went on to tell him of the advice of my
friend, received in the depth of my afflictions and despair. If my
conversion to the Catholic faith, entire, absolute, blessed, thanks be
to God! was not instantaneous; if, being blind, I received not sight,
being deaf, I received not hearing, in a moment, in the twinkling of
an eye, as did those whom Christ himself touched and healed, still do
I believe it to have been the work of Almighty God, and marvellous
unto my own eyes. If God commissioned Miriam Bell, instead of his own
holy angel, to direct me to the priest of his own anointing, I believe
myself no less to have been sent to pious F. Corrigan than was Paul
sent to Annanias, or Cornelius to Simon.

From regrets and lamentations, from dulness and despair, my heart bowed
low unto God in rejoicing and thanksgiving.

Aside from this, the Catholic religion and the history of the church
became to me an attractive, fascinating study. I seemed philosophizing
with sages, praying with religious, meditating with saints. The whole
world seemed newly peopled, unnumbered voices joining in that grand
chant that the church for almost nineteen centuries hath sung: "Glory
be unto God, and on earth peace to men of good-will."

F. Corrigan had sent a young priest to a new town in the interior, made
by the opening up of new railroads. Here F. McDevitt had built a small
church, and, in his report to his superior, spoke of having need of a
teacher for a parish school. F. Corrigan offered me the situation, and
in one week I was at Dillon's Station.

On the first day of our arrival, F. McDevitt asked my eldest little
girl her name.

"Charlotte Griffeth Hallam," she replied promptly.

"Charlotte Griffeth?" he repeated; then turning to me:

"And for whom was she named?"

"For my mother," I replied.

"And is your mother living?"

"She died in my infancy."

"She must have been the person advertised." And taking a slip of paper
from his memorandum-book, handed it me.

It was an advertisement for Charlotte Griffeth or her heirs in America,
to whom an estate in Wales had descended, valued at one hundred
thousand pounds! And what interest had this possessed for F. McDevitt?
His brother had a short time previously married a Miss Griffeth, and it
was to send in a letter to his brother that he had extracted from the
paper this brief paragraph. Was not this too much? I closed my eyes to
keep back the tears, and pressed my hand against my side, to still the
tumultuous throbbings of my heart.

God! my God! so long time from me hidden, giving me now the true faith,
and then this unexpected fortune! What should I do with it? A few
months before, I would have purchased a splendid house, perfect in all
its appointments. I would have gathered about me all that would have
pleased the taste and gratified the senses.

Now was it thrown in my way as a temptation? Before the sun had set
upon this wondrous change of fortune, my decision was formed. I would
go on in the way I had intended. It had evidently been God's way chosen
for me, and I would follow in it. I would go into a temporary cabin,
and teach the children of the Irish laborers.

The fortune should be divided into three shares. My children should
have two; the third, which was mine, should go to build a home for
widows and orphans.

And I? Every morning, with my troop of little girls and boys, I go to
the holy sacrifice of the Mass, where adoration is perpetually blended
with thanksgiving--the latter one of the deepest emotions of my heart.
I never expected to be so content and happy in this world.

Through thee I have found, O God! that "thou art the fountain of all
good, the height of life, and the depth of wisdom. Unto thee do I lift
up mine eyes; in thee, O my God! Father of mercies, do I put my trust.

"Bless and sanctify my soul with heavenly benediction, that it may be
made thy holy habitation and the seat of thy eternal glory; and let
nothing be found in the temple of thy divinity that may offend the eyes
of thy majesty!"




AN ENGLISH CHRISTMAS STORY.


I.

The winter wind is howling over the bleak moor, and Christmas is
ushered in with a sore famine that has already made many a hearth
desolate. The stout-hearted folk of Yorkshire have borne it well up
to this, but the recurrence of the especial festival of good cheer
makes their lot seem harder in December than it did two months
before. On these Northern moors are scattered many Catholics, whose
family traditions point to unknown martyrs as their ancestors, and
whose honest pride in their forefathers is as strong as that of
the descendants of the cavalier families. But though there may be
famine and wretchedness on the moor, there is a worse squalor in the
town. There no helping hand comes from the "Hall," bearing relief
and consolation; the hovels and tall, crazy tenements are full to
the brim of unknown human misery; and, for the poor, Christmas
this year means little less than starvation. Those were not the
days of subscription-lists, benefit societies, soup-kitchens, and
clothing-clubs; spiritual and temporal relief were both scarcer than
they are now, and the wars of the previous twenty years had made people
button their pockets tight and repeat the axiom that "charity begins at
home."

Through the manufacturing town of Weston, on a chill Christmas eve in
the early part of this century, walked a thoughtful, almost middle-aged
man, wrapped in a rich furred cloak, and preceded by a youth bearing
a lantern. He had first left the town-hall, where he had assisted at
a political meeting, and heard a few pompous speeches hung upon the
scantiest may-pole of facts. While these worthies had been declaiming,
thought he, how many poor men, out of employment, uncared for by their
pastors, must have been murmuring or swearing at their ill-luck and the
apathy of their superiors! How many might be driven to crime or suicide
by their wretched circumstances! He had heard that the Dissenters
helped their poor rather more effectually than the "church" people did;
and, luckily, in a manufacturing population there were always plenty
of Dissenters! The Catholics, too, about whose "emancipation" there
had been so much said lately in the Whig meetings, were generally a
charitable set, and there were more of them in the North than anywhere
else in the kingdom; but they were mostly country people, and the great
houses had enough to do to support their own village poor. Could not
something be done on a generous scale by the talkative municipality of
the town? Should he suggest something to that effect? But he was only a
visitor and traveller, and had but little interest with the magnates of
Weston. General knowledge there was none at that time; and it mattered
nothing to the local authorities here that he had travelled in the
East, was a professor of ancient history in a French university, and
corresponded with half the _savants_ of Europe. To the insular mind of
a trading community, he was a mere nameless atom of humanity, whose
doings only concerned Weston as far as the paying of his reckoning at
the inn, and his consumption of the most costly items that the scarcity
of the times rendered a fair source of profit to the landlord.

As he was sunk in these half-derisive thoughts, he was suddenly
accosted by a man, whose figure, as far as the light of the lantern
revealed it, was the very reverse of a highwayman. He had a pistol,
however, and held it threateningly to the gentleman's heart. In a
hollow, unsteady voice he quickly asked:

"Sir, hand me your money; you know what I can do, if you refuse, and I
see you are unarmed."

The man's manner contrasted strangely with his present occupation. He
was no experienced robber, that was evident; and his eyes rolled from
side to side like those of a hunted animal. Our friend, who called
himself Prof. John Stamyn, very quietly replied:

"My good friend, you have come to the wrong man. You will have no great
booty from me. I have only three guineas about me, which are not worth
a scuffle; so much good may you do with them. But you are in a bad way."

The man did not answer or recriminate. Hanging his head and lowering
his pistol (an useless weapon enough, since the trigger was broken off
and the barrel was cracked), he took the money offered him, and moved
quickly away. Mr. Stamyn stood looking thoughtfully after him, then he
said to the youth:

"Mind, James, and watch that man carefully, that he may not be aware
of you; but be careful to see him housed, and bring me word of
everything." And shaking his head, as if in pity, he walked back alone
to his hotel.

Meanwhile, the boy, proud of his mission, cautiously started on
his pursuit of the seeming robber. Many a time he had to darken his
lantern with his cloak, or flatten himself against doors, as the man he
pursued turned round, glancing fearfully behind, and then, mending his
pace, hurried on again with unsteady footsteps. Once he paused before
a large, brightly lighted shop. Loaves and cakes of all shapes were
piled in the window; but behind the counter sat two resolute-looking
men, whose expression, as they gazed on the hungry face outside, was
certainly the reverse of encouraging. The poor wayfarer turned away
with a sigh, and dived down a side street. Squalid little booths
alternated with equally squalid dwelling-houses along the sides of
the alley, and grim, fierce, animal faces gathered in evil-looking
clusters round the doors. The poor wretch hastened on; apparently
none knew him, as the boy, who followed him, noticed that no one paid
any attention to him. At last he stopped at a baker's shop--a dirty
place, very different from the respectable one he had looked into so
wistfully before. The boy waited at a convenient distance, and, by
skilfully shading his lantern, remained there unperceived. There was no
light, save what came from the shop--a dull flare at best. After a few
minutes, the man came out, carrying a large brown loaf of the cheapest
kind that was then sold in Weston. He now entered another street, and
turned various corners, so that it was like threading a labyrinth to
follow him. The youth then saw him disappear in the door-way of a tall,
dilapidated house. The door was open, and hung awry from one rusty
hinge; a nauseous smell greeted the nostrils, and shrill, disagreeable
voices were heard in some up-stairs roost. The man began to scale
the rickety steps, one or two of which were missing here and there,
and made a break-neck gap for the undoing of careless climbers. Each
landing-place seemed more disreputable than the last, until the fourth
was reached. It required a good deal of ingenuity in Mr. Stamyn's
messenger to creep unperceived up these dangerous ladders, never
startling the man he followed, and, above all, never helping himself
along by the tell-tale light, whose radiance might have betrayed him.
At last the poor "robber" entered a room, bare of any apology for
furniture, and unlighted, save by the frosty rays of the moon. The
wind whistled through it, crevices in the wall there were plenty, and
not one pane of glass in the grimy window was whole. The boy crouched
outside, and listened. A crevice allowed him to see a woman and four
children coiled up in a heap, trying to keep each other warm. The man
threw the loaf on the floor, and a sort of gurgle rose to welcome him.
Bursting into tears, he cried, in a voice half-defiant, half-choked
with grief:

"There, eat your fill; that's the dearest loaf I ever bought. I have
robbed a gentleman of three guineas; so let us husband them well, and
let me have no more teasings; for sooner or later these doings must
bring me to the gallows, and all to satisfy your clamors!"

Here the wife mingled her lamentations with his, and the hungry
children set up a howl of sympathy, all the while eying the loaf
impatiently. The poor woman, whimpering faintly, broke off four
large portions, and distributed them among the starving little ones,
reserving smaller pieces for herself and her wretched husband, who was
leaning despairingly on the window-sill.

When hunger was a little appeased, the group sat together as before,
trying to keep each other warm by the contact of their frozen limbs,
and drawing over their feet the few rags of clothing they possessed. At
last the man broke out into sobs:

"God forgive me! wife, this cannot go on. This money weighs like lead
in my pocket."

"Dear," said the woman timidly, "I heard a priest say once that a
starving man might take a loaf out of a baker's shop to stay his
hunger, and do no sin."

"Ay," said the man gloomily, "if the baker would let him take it. But
he would have put me in jail if I'd done it. I'd as lief go to jail as
not, if it wasn't for you here; but I thought that would not do, and I
know a gentleman is less likely to make a fuss, and Jim's pistol did
the business; but hang me if I'll do it again, if we do have to starve
for it."

The listener outside took up his lantern. "So the man's a Catholic," he
wondered. "I heard master say the Catholics helped each other; anyhow,
I'll go home, and report about what I've seen."

Cautiously he got down the dangerous stairs, and looked well about
him, that he might know the landmarks of the region again. He reached
the inn about an hour after Mr. Stamyn, who was sitting in his room,
waiting anxiously for him. He told his tale, not forgetting to make
much of his own dexterity in following the poor "robber." His master
listened attentively, then gave orders to the boy to call him at six
the next morning, when he would follow him to the man's dwelling. The
morning was clear, frosty, and bright. The dawn was just breaking, and,
if the town could look peaceful at any time, it did then. On the way,
or, rather, in the immediate neighborhood of the poor man's abode, Mr.
Stamyn stopped to inquire what the man was who lived in such a chamber
with a wife and four children. He was told that he was a shoemaker,
a very good kind of a man, very industrious, and a neat workman; but
being burdened with a family, and the times being so bad, he had fallen
out of work, and had a hard struggle to live.

The two then climbed the stairs, Which were hardly safer in the
morning's uncertain light than they had seemed in the dark the night
before, and stopped before the shoemaker's door.

They knocked, and the crazy door was opened by the unfortunate man
himself. He no sooner perceived who his visitor was, than he dreaded
to learn the motive of the visit, which must surely be the speedy
punishment of last night's robbery. He threw himself at the feet of Mr.
Stamyn, saying in a broken voice:

"O sir! indeed it was the first time, as it will be the last, that ever
I touch what does not belong to me; but I was drove to it by my poor
children here. Two days had they been without bread, sir, and they
cried that pitiful I couldn't stand it no longer. I was ashamed to beg,
sir, and folk mostly say no to a story as looks so like a ready-made
one. Surely, sir, you won't go to punish me, ... and these poor things
dependin' on me? I swear I'll die sooner than do such a thing again. It
was against the grain I did it, sir; indeed it was."

Mr. Stamyn had taken up the youngest child in his arms, and was hushing
its cries.

"No, my poor fellow, it was not to reproach or punish you I came. I
have not the least intention of doing you any harm. You have a good
character among your neighbors; but you must expect to be quickly
cut short in such freedoms as you took with me. Hold your hand;
here's thirty guineas for you to buy leather. Live close, and set
your children a commendable example; and to put you further out of
temptation with such unbecoming doings, as you are a neat workman (they
tell me) and I am not particularly hurried, make for me and this boy
two pairs of shoes each, which he shall call upon you for."

The poor man, dumfounded and almost in tears, stood before his
benefactor, gazing at him and at the shining coins in his own open
hand. The wife cried softly to herself, and the children, growing
accustomed to the stranger, began swarming about his legs. Mr. Stamyn's
servant then laid down a good-sized basket, and took off the lid. The
children rushed to this new attraction, and began diving into the
recesses of the basket with their poor, skinny little hands. The woman
went up to Mr. Stamyn:

"Oh! sir, we'll bless you to our dying day. And never fear; my husband
is a good workman, and he will work night and day with a will to make
you the finest pair of shoes that ever was.... And, oh! sir, the
children shall pray for you, that God may reward what you've done for
a poor, starving family. No; my husband, he never stole before in his
life, sir."

Here the husband, recovering his powers of speech, joined in, and
rained blessings on his kind patron, who left the miserable place in
a far more cheerful frame of mind than he had enjoyed at the great
meeting last night. Just before he left Weston, the shoes were brought
to him by the wife and her eldest child, who loaded him again with the
most grateful blessings, and promised to pray that, if he were not a
Catholic, still God would "grant him grace to save his soul."

Mr. Stamyn smiled sadly, and bade his new friends good-by, having
learnt their name, and promised in return never to forget it, should he
happen to be in Weston again. Christmas had been a happy season with
him this year; and though, by his present to the poor shoemaker, he
had curtailed his own pleasure-jaunt, he felt that, after all, he had
chosen the better part....


II.

It was Christmas once more. Forty years had come and gone, and
prosperity reigned in the North of England. A famine worse than that
early one had swept over the land--a famine of work and cotton--but
even the traces of that dire misfortune had gone now, and mills and
factories were as busy as they could be.

In the neighboring county of Cumberland, in a retired little town,
agricultural and pacific, stood a pretty, old-fashioned house,
half-mansion, half-cottage. One side, with its dignified portal of
granite, faced the street; but its garden, with bow-windows and porches
jutting out among the flowers, almost leaned on the mountain. The
family room looked into the snow-covered garden; the deep windows
were embowered in ivy, bearing a fringe of tiny icicles, while inside
wreaths of holly hung festooned over the dark curtains. Over the large
and very high mantel-piece, where a fox's brush and head mingled with
the branching antlers of the red deer, there hung a framed device,
illuminated in mediæval letters: "Peace on earth to men of good will";
above the door was a large bunch of mistletoe.

The window was partly open, the huge fire warming the room quite
enough to allow of this; on the sill was scattered a feast of
bread-crumbs steeped in milk, at which two or three robins were pecking
industriously.

This was the mayor's house. He was an old man of seventy-five,
universally respected for his incorruptible honesty and his steady,
reliable character. He had been born in the town, but had left it
while yet a baby in arms, had then returned a grown man and father of
a family, gone into trade, become a successful business man, and seven
years ago retired honorably into private life. Of his sons, one was a
mill-owner near Manchester, one had succeeded to his father's local
business and factory, and one, his youngest, had died at sea, leaving a
little girl, his only child, to the care of its grandparents. The old
man's only daughter was a nun in a Carmelite convent in the South of
France.

No one but the mayor, his wife, and grandchild lived in this cosey
house, and a very happy household it was. The girl had been partly
brought up abroad, and had acquired many graceful foreign traits as a
set-off to her English complexion and somewhat hoidenish manners. She
was the apple of their eye to the old couple, who let her rule them
and the house like a young empress. The mayor was nothing but a great
baby in her hands, and people knew that the surest way to his heart
or his purse was through that saucy little beauty, Philippa Mason.
Strangers passing through the town used to marvel how it was that a
Catholic had been elected mayor; but they were assailed by such a
torrent of eulogies on "the best, most generous, most public-spirited,
most conscientious of our citizens" that they were glad to take all for
granted, and applaud the choice of the freemen of Carthwaite without
further explanation.

One other inmate of the mayor's house will be found worthy of
notice--old Armstrong, or Uncle Jim, as he was mostly called. Verging
upon sixty, he was still tall, slight, and erect in stature; his
manners had some degree of refinement, and he was wont at times to hint
mysteriously at his former connection with the gentlefolk of the land.
Everybody liked him and laughed at him. He was the most good-humored
and the most unlucky of mortals. He spoke loftily of the fortune he
lost in his youth through cards and wine; and every one knew that
when Mr. Mason, twenty years before, had kindly set him up in a small
business of his own, he had not waited six months before he owned
himself a bankrupt. Not a stain was on his character, but everything
he touched seemed doomed. Money oozed through his fingers like water,
while there was no visible cause for it; and the poorer he became, the
merrier he was. At last, he had taken refuge with Mr. Mason, and become
a part of his establishment. No one knew or inquired about his origin;
people were glad enough to let the character of his patron vouch for
the respectability of the harmless, amusing, kind-hearted old oddity.

As these four sat in the study (for so Philippa would have her favorite
room called), they discussed their plans for the ensuing festival week.

"Uncle Jim has been invaluable," said the girl; "he has been my
head-carpenter for the stage in the school, and has made such a grotto
for the crib, and, above all, he has carved two wonderful alms-dishes
for the collection to-morrow morning."

"Thank God! the church is to be opened to-morrow, wife," said the
mayor, seeking his wife's hand. "I may not live to see another
Christmas nor hear another midnight Mass. In our young days, we little
thought we should see such things--when priests would ride forty
miles to a dying bed, booted and spurred, with pistols to fight the
highwaymen. Why, even in town, it was as much as we could do to get to
our duty at Easter every year."

"Grandpapa," said Philippa, "by next summer the spire will be finished,
and we can have the banner of the cross floating there, as of old the
city standard used to fly over the cathedrals."

"Child," answered Mr. Mason, "by next summer your bridal train may set
the bells of the church a-ringing; and if I live to see that, I'll ask
no more of Heaven."

"Nobody knows where to look for the bridegroom yet," said Philippa
saucily.

"Hush!" put in the grandmother. "On the day when God gave his own
Son to the world, and gave to your grandfather and me such a great
blessing--years ago--no one must speak lightly of the gifts he may yet
please to send or no." After a pause, Uncle Jim said hesitatingly:

"The good Lord certainly feeds the sparrows, as the Bible says, and
I suppose that's why Miss Mason, _she_ must feed the robins, just to
follow the path we're told to; but it seems to me, if I'd waited for
Him to feed _me_ one day that I well remember, I'd have gone hungrier
than you ever did, master, in the days of your trouble."

Philippa looked up with an expectant smile; she always anticipated fun
when the old man adopted the mock-serious tone.

"Yes," continued the narrator, pleased to have at least the
encouragement of an indulgent silence extended to him; "and I was
prancing in the best blue broadcloth and the most shining buttons you
ever saw, and had on beautiful new boots that I never paid for ..."

"You rascal!" softly said the mayor.

"And a hat with such a curly brim," continued Jim imperturbably. "Well,
it was in the summer, the only time I really _was_ hungry--I don't mean
the summer, but that _that_ occasion was the only one when I was nigh
starving--and I and two friends, who had helped me to empty my purse,
were at Bath. None of us had any money left; in fact, _they_ never
had of their own, but were of those whose tongue is their fortune;
but hungry we all were, and must have something to eat. 'I have it!'
I cried, for I was not a bad hand at imagination, 'Follow me to the
White Hart;' and on the way I explained my plan. You will hear later
what it was. Now, you will say, Mr. Mayor, that I had better have laid
myself down by a haystack, and slept there on an empty stomach; and
indeed, after a good supper, such as we had to-night, it would be easy
enough for _me_ to say so; but just then it wasn't likely to be my
opinion. So we walked into the hotel, as bold as kings, and ordered a
private room and dinner for three--French soups and oyster patties,
fish and game, and foreign sauces and ale, just as _I_ knew it should
be, and Madeira and champagne, of course. When we had done (and, in the
intervals when the waiter had gone for the next course, we pocketed
as much as our pockets would stand of anything that was solid), we
called for the bill, and the waiter brought it, as pompous as you will,
on a silver salver. I put my hand in my pocket, whereupon one of my
friends, _he_ says: 'Come, come, I'll stand this; it was I who proposed
it and chose the wines.' And he puts his hand in his pocket. 'Bless
me!' cries the other. 'Gentlemen, I protest; it was I who ordered the
dinner, and I request, as a favor, you let me pay; the cost is but a
trifle." And _he_ put his hand in his pocket. The waiter stood grinning
and smirking, and thinking this great fun. "'An idea strikes me,' I
then said. 'Waiter, we'll blindfold you and shut the door, and whoever
you catch first will settle the bill.' At this my friends clapped their
hands, and the waiter, as proud as a peacock at the condescension of
such fine young gentlemen, gives us a napkin to tie over his eyes,
and lets us spin him round two or three times, that he may begin
fair. 'Now!' I cried, and he began feeling about, afraid to upset the
table; but he knew the room well, and went first to a closet beside
the further door. While he made a noise opening it and feeling inside,
I slid to another door, and gently pushed it ajar. In a twinkling we
were all three walking leisurely out of the White Hart, looking like
independent gentlemen, who did the host the great honor of approving of
his cook! That afternoon, we drew lots which should sell his fine suit
to pay travelling expenses, and it fell on me; so good-by to my gay
plumage, says I, and never dropt a tear, but got the money and played
valet to the other two till we got to London, where I made them pay
me what they owed through a lucky stroke at cards. And then we parted
company, nothing loath on my side. So that is how I read the saying,
'The Lord helps them as helps themselves.'"

Every one smiled at the privileged old man, though Philippa held up a
warning forefinger and whispered: "Grandpapa told me once that you were
not half so bad as you make yourself out to be. Why did you not put on
ladies' clothes, and go and beg for a dinner? They could not have said
no to a pretty face, and it would have been better than stealing."

"Hark at that!" said Uncle Jim aloud. "You women are born to fool
us. If I had my life to begin again, I should take advantage of that
suggestion. The truth was, high society ruined me; and here I am, a
destitute waif without a home. It is the first chapter of the Prodigal
Son; but I shall never get into the second."

He looked with comical gravity at Mr. Mason, whose glance of
affectionate amusement perfectly satisfied him in return; and then the
old man, drawing Philippa towards him, said gently to her:

"On your next birthday, as you know, child, you will become entitled
to all my fortune, and with this present will enter, too, into great
responsibilities. Now, to give you an idea of what wealth is, what it
can do, and how grave a trust it is, I will tell you a story too, but
more humbly than good Uncle Jim, because my fault was more reckless,
and because God has been more merciful to me in making it bring forth
real good. Your father and your uncles were all little things then, and
do not remember it, except very dimly; and since that Christmas, forty
years ago, I have never repeated the tale."

And in simple, forcible language the Mayor of Carthwaite told his
grandchild the story of the distress in Weston in the year 18--, the
famine and the wretchedness, the temptations of starving men, and
finally the incident in which Mr. Stamyn and the poor shoemaker had
figured side by side forty years ago. "And your grandmother and I have
prayed for that good man every night without ever missing," added the
old man, "and taught your father to do so; you yourself, child, have
prayed for the kind friend, whose conversion to the true faith was our
greatest wish. But his name and what his kindness was I never told a
soul till now."

Philippa was silent. Uncle Jim hid his face, and sobbed. The old couple
clasped hands by the fireside, and looked into each other's faces, as
they remembered the bare attic where they had shivered and starved, and
been nearly driven to become criminals by the sheer force of hunger.
Nearly two generations had passed, and they were still together,
thanking God that he had put it into the heart of man to relieve his
fellow-man that night, when a life of crime and disgrace had so nearly
begun to drag them down to the level of a "jail-bird." Philippa crept
up to them softly, and kissed them both.

"I understand your life and your charities so much better now," she
said; "and when I have the same responsibility thrust upon me, believe
me, I will do as you have done."

The bells began to chime, and the party bestirred themselves to go over
to the chapel, where the midnight Mass was to be said for the last
time. To-morrow the church was to be opened, and dedicated to "Our Lady
and S. Crispin," and the chapel was to become a school. Uncle Jim was
Philippa's special escort, for the old couple would never separate.

"Did you know that story?" she whispered to him as they crossed the
silent streets.

"Ay, but he told me never to speak of it till he gave me leave. He did
not tell you who the lad was that spied upon him that night; it was
poor Uncle Jim."

Philippa looked aghast.

"Yes," he went on, "and I left Mr. Stamyn some years after, and tried
to live as a gentleman on my earnings; but, as I told you in jest, a
heap of rascals helped me to empty my purse, and it was soon drained
of all. I remembered your grandfather, had taken a fancy to him in
Weston, went back, and found him. He took me in, and was very good to
me, useless as I was. I was always a shiftless fellow, and never could
keep what money I got. So he thought it better just to keep me at home,
and I tried to be useful, and could be, too, when there was no question
of money; and so it has been for nigh a score of years. Here we are at
the chapel. That's one thing I never saw--your religion; but then, Mr.
Mason is the best man I ever saw, and he's a Catholic. Anyways, there's
no other religion I like better."

And Uncle Jim went in and decorously assisted at the service, just as
if it was quite familiar to him and he liked it. I suspect he did, as
far as he understood it. What the Masons believed could not be very far
wrong.

The next morning there was a grand ceremony at the new church, and an
unlimited amount of beef and pudding distributed by tickets among the
poorer inhabitants of Carthwaite. After service, a carriage drove up to
Mr. Mason's door.

A very old gentleman, followed by a much younger one, stepped out, and
inquired for the mayor. They were shown into the study, where all the
Masons--cousins, uncles, etc.--had now assembled. The servant announced
"Mr. Stamyn."

Uncle Jim, recovering the instincts of his youth, suddenly stood up
respectfully before his former master, who, however, did not seem to
have the slightest recollection of him.

Mr. Stamyn went up to Mrs. Mason. "My dear friends," he said, "you both
told me not to forget your name; it was five years ago that I returned
to Weston, and I did not fail to make inquiries, but hardly hoping that
I should find you. They told me you had left, and I was lucky enough to
find a clue to your subsequent career. I need not say how happy I am to
redeem my promise to visit you again; I should certainly have been so,
had I found you still in smoky old Weston, but here doubly."

Every one, especially Philippa, was struck by the old-time courtesy,
precise, formal, yet most cordial, with which Mr. Stamyn spoke;
his young companion glanced admiringly at the girl, instinctively
distinguishing her from the more buxom damsels assembled round the
family hearth--her cousins of Manchester and Carthwaite. Mr. Mason
asked his friend and patron to stay with them, and sit at his board
as the chief Christmas guest; he gladly complied, and said laughingly
that he had expected to be asked. It was not until after the family
meal that Uncle Jim revealed himself to his former master. His awkward
self-consciousness and hurried glances had amused Mr. Stamyn in secret
all the time, though his own perfectly controlled manner had given no
sign of surprise or amusement; but when Jim, mysteriously bending over
Mr. Stamyn's chair, feelingly asked what had become of the boy James,
the old gentleman's eyes began to twinkle with premonitory signal-fire.

"He left me a few years after our Weston adventure, and, I very much
fear, went to the devil!" was the answer.

"No, sir; Mr. Stamyn," said Jim, shaking with excitement, "he went to
Mason."

"James," said his master seriously, "you could not possibly have done
better; I congratulate you."

Uncle Jim looked triumphantly at Philippa, who was talking to the young
man, Mr. Stamyn's companion. By her next birthday she was married to
him--he was Mr. Stamyn's great-nephew and heir--but the two old men did
not live to see another Christmas. Mrs. Mason and Uncle Jim remain yet,
and tell the story to the rising generation.




THE SONG OF ROLAND.


                               CONCLUDED.

The night flies away, and the white dawn appears. Charles, the majestic
emperor, mounts his charger, and casts his eye over the army. "My lords
barons," he says, "behold these dark defiles, these narrow gorges. To
whom do you counsel me to give the command of the rear-guard?"

"To whom?" replies Ganelon. "To whom but to my son-in-law Roland? Is he
not a baron of great valor?"

At these words the emperor looks at him, saying, "You are a very devil!
What deadly rage has entered into you?"

Roland approaches; he has heard the words of Ganelon. "Sire
father-in-law," he says, "what thanks do I not owe you for having asked
for me the command of the rear-guard! Our emperor, be assured, shall
lose nothing; neither steed nor palfrey, cart-horse nor sumpter-mule,
shall be taken, or our swords shall make more than the price."

"I believe it well," rejoins Ganelon.

"Ah! son of an accursed race!" cries Roland, who can no longer contain
his anger, "thou thoughtest that the glove would fall from my hands as
it did from thine." Then, turning to the emperor, he prays him to give
into his hand the bow which he grasps with his own.

The emperor's countenance darkens; he hesitates to place his nephew in
the rear-guard. But the Duke de Naymes says to him, "Give the bow to
Count Roland; the rear-guard belongs to him of right, since none other
could conduct it so well as he."

And the emperor gives Roland the bow, saying, "My fair nephew, know you
what I desire? I would leave with you the half of my army. Take it, I
pray you; it shall be for your safety."

"Nay," cries Roland, "I will have no such thing. God forbid that I
should belie my race! Leave me twenty thousand valiant Frenchmen, and
set out with all the rest. Pass at ease through the defiles, and, while
I am alive, fear no man in the world."

Roland mounts his charger. He is joined by his faithful Oliver, then
Gérer, then Berenger, and the aged Anséis, Gérard of Roussillon, and
the Duke Gaifier. "I, too, will be there," says the Archbishop Turpin,
"for I ought in duty to follow my chief."

"And I also," says Count Gauthier. "Roland is my liege-lord, and I
must not fail him."

The vanguard begins its march.

How lofty are these peaks! What sombre valleys! How black the rocks;
the defiles how profound! The French, in these dark gorges, seem
oppressed with sadness. The sound of their footsteps may be heard full
fifteen leagues away.

When they draw near to their mother-country, within sight of the land
of Gascony, they call to mind their fiefs and their possessions, their
tender children and their noble wives. The tears start into their
eyes--those of Charles most of all; for his heart is heavy at the
thought that he has left Roland among the mountains of Spain.

He hides his face with his mantle. "What ails you, sire?" asks the Duke
Naymes, riding by his side.

"Is there any need to ask?" he answers. "In the grief that I am in, how
can I refrain from groaning? France will be undone by Ganelon. In a
dream this night an angel has made this known to me. He broke my lance
in my hands--he who caused me to give the rear-guard to Roland, leaving
him in this ungentle land. Heavens! were I to lose Roland, I should
never see his like again!"

Charles wept; and a hundred thousand Frenchmen, touched by his tears,
shuddered as they thought upon Roland. Ganelon, the felon, has sold him
for gold and silver, and shining stuffs; for horses, and camels, and
lions.

King Marsilion has sent for all the barons of Spain: dukes, counts, and
viscounts, emirs and sons of the senators. He assembles four thousand
of them in three days.

The drums beat in Saragossa; the image of Mahomet is set on its highest
tower; and there is no pagan who does not feel himself inflamed at the
sight. Then, behold, all the Saracens set forth, riding at double speed
into the depths of these long valleys. By dint of haste, they have come
in sight of the gonfalons of France and of the rear-guard of the twelve
brave peers. By evening they lie in ambush in a wood of fir-trees on
the sides of the rocks. Four hundred thousand men are hidden there,
awaiting the return of the sun. O heavens! what woe! for the French
knew naught of this.

The day appears. Now it is the question in the Saracen army who shall
strike the first blow. The nephew of Marsilion caracoles before his
uncle. "Fair my lord the king," he says, with a joyful countenance, "in
severe and numerous combats I have served you so greatly that I ask as
a reward the honor of conquering Roland."

Twenty others follow in turn to boast before Marsilion. One says: "At
Roncevaux I am going to play the man. If I find Roland, all is over
with him. What shame and sorrow for the French! Their emperor is so old
that he is imbecile. He will not pass another day without weeping."
"Never fear," says another. "Mahomet is stronger than S. Peter! I will
meet Roland at Roncevaux; he cannot escape death. Look at my sword; I
will measure it against his Durandal, and you will then soon hear which
is the longest." "Come, sire," says a third, "come and see all these
Frenchmen slain. We will take Charlemagne, and make a present of him to
you, and will give you the lands of the rest. Before a year is over, we
shall have fixed ourselves in the town of St. Denis."

While they thus excite each other to the combat, they contrive, behind
the fir-wood, to put on their Saracen coats of mail, lace on their
Saragossa helmets, gird on their swords of Viennese steel, seize their
shields and their Valencian lances, surmounted by white, blue, and
scarlet gonfalons. They mount neither mules nor palfreys, but strong
steeds, and ride in close ranks. The sun shines; the gold of their
vestments sparkles and gleams; a thousand clarions begin to sound.

The French listen. "Sire companion," says Oliver, "we may soon have
battle with the Saracens."

"God grant it!" replies Roland. "Let us think of our king. We ought
to know how to suffer for our lord, bear heat and cold, let our skin
be slashed, and risk our heads. Let every one be ready to strike hard
blows. We must take heed to what sort of songs may be sung of us. You
have the right, Christians, and the pagans the wrong. Never shall bad
example be given you by me."

Oliver climbs a tall pine-tree, looks to the right in the wooded
valley, and beholds the Saracen horde approaching. "Comrade," he
cries to Roland, "what a din and tumult is there on the Spanish side!
Heavens! how many white halberds and gleaming helmets! What a rough
meeting for our French! Ganelon knew it--the felon! the traitor!"

"Peace, Oliver," answers Roland. "He is my father-in-law; speak not of
him."

Oliver dismounts. "Lords barons," he says, "I have seen even now so
great a multitude of these pagans that no man here below has ever
beheld the like. We shall have a battle such as there has never been
before. Ask God for courage!" And the French reply: "Woe to him that
flees! To die for you, not one of us all will be found wanting."

"Roland, my comrade," says the prudent Oliver, "these pagans are a
multitude, and we are very few. Heed me, and sound your horn; the
emperor will hear, and will lead back the army."

"Do you take me for a madman?" answers Roland. "Would you have me lose
my honor in sweet France? Let Durandal do its work--strike its heavy
blows, and steep itself in blood to the haft; all these pagans are as
good as dead, I warrant you!"

"Roland, my comrade, sound your _olifant_, that the emperor may hear
and come to your aid."

"Heaven keep me from such cowardice! Count upon Durandal; you will see
how it will slay the pagans."

"Roland, my comrade, sound your _olifant_, that the emperor may hear it
and return."

"Please God, then, no!" replies Roland once more. "No man here below
shall ever say I sounded my horn because of the pagans. Never shall
like reproach be brought against my race!"

"What reproach? What would you have people say? These Saracens cover
the valleys, the mountain, the high-lands, and the plains. I have just
beheld it, this innumerable host; and we are but a feeble company."

"My courage grows at the thought," says Roland. "Neither God nor his
angels will suffer it that by me our France shall lose her renown.
Sire comrade, and my friend, speak no more to me thus. We will stand
our ground. For us will be the blows; our emperor wills it. Among the
soldiers he has confided to us there is not a single coward; he knows
it. Our emperor loves us because we strike well. Strike, then, thou
with thy lance, and I with my good sword Durandal--Charles' gift to me.
If I die, he who gets it shall be able to say, this was a brave man's
sword!"

At this moment, the Archbishop Turpin put spurs to his horse, gained
an eminence, and, calling the French around him, said to them, "Lords
barons, our emperor has left us here, and for him we ought to die well.
Remember that you are Christians. The battle draws on; you see it. The
Saracens are there. Call to mind your sins; cry God's mercy. I will
absolve you for the health of your souls. If you die, you will all be
martyrs, and will find good place in the heights of Paradise!" The
French dismount from their horses, and kneel on the ground, while the
archbishop blesses them on the part of God, and for their penance bids
them strike hard blows. Absolved and rid of their sins, they rise and
remount their horses.

Roland, in his shining armor, is beautiful to behold, mounted on his
good charger, Vaillantif. The golden reins ring in his hand, and on
the top of his lance, which he holds with its point to heaven, floats
a white gonfalon. The brave knight advances with a clear and serene
countenance, followed by his companion, and then by all these noble
French, whose courage he makes strong. He casts his lofty glance upon
the Saracens, and, gently turning his head to those about him, says,
"March, my lords barons, without haste. These pagans are hastening to
their destruction." While he speaks, the two armies approach, and are
about to accost each other.

"No more words," cries Oliver. "You have not deigned to sound your
_olifant_. There is nothing to expect from the emperor; nothing for
which to reproach him. The brave one, he knows not a word of that which
is befalling us; the fault is none of his. Now, my lords barons, hold
firm, and for the love of God, I pray you, let us not fear blows; let
us know how to give and take. Above all, let us not forget the cry of
Charlemagne." Whereupon the French all shouted, _Montjoie!_ Whoso had
heard them would never all his life lose the remembrance of that shout.

Then they advance--heavens! with what boldness. To be brief, the
horsemen have charged. What better could they do?

The pagans do not draw back; the _mêlée_ begins. They provoke each
other by word and gesture. The nephew of Marsilion, with insult in his
mouth, flies upon Roland. Roland with one stroke of his lance lays him
dead at his feet. The king's brother, Falsaron, desires to revenge his
nephew's death; but Oliver forestalls him by planting his lance in his
body. A certain Corsablix, one of these barbarian kings, vomits forth
slanders and bravadoes. Abp. Turpin hearing him, bears down upon him in
full force, and with his lance stretches him dead upon the ground. Each
time that a Saracen falls the French cry, _Montjoie!_--the shout of
Charlemagne.

Defiances and combats succeed each other fast on every side; everywhere
the French are the conquerors; there is not a pagan who is not
overthrown. Roland advances, thrusting with his lance as long as there
remains a fragment of its wood in his hand. But at the fifteenth
stroke the lance breaks; then he draws his good sword Durandal, which
carves and slices the Saracens right valiantly, so that the dead lie
heaped around him. Blood flows in torrents around the spot, and over
his horse and his arms. He perceives in the _mêlée_ his faithful
Oliver breaking with the but-end of his lance the skull of the pagan
Fauseron. "Comrade," cries Roland, "what do you? Of what use is a stick
in such a fight? Iron and steel are what you need. Where is your
Hauteclaire--your sword hafted with crystal and gold?"

"I cannot draw it," said the other. "I have to strike the blows so
thick and fast, they give me too much to do."

Nevertheless, with knightly skill he snatches it from its scabbard, and
holds it up to Roland, the next moment striking with it a pagan, who
falls dead, and cutting also through his gold-enamelled saddle and his
horse to the chine. "I hold you for my brother," cries Roland. "Such
are the blows which our emperor loves so much." And on all sides they
cry, _Montjoie!_

How the fight rages! What blows fall on every side! How many broken
lances covered with blood! How many gonfalons torn to shreds! And, ah!
how many brave Frenchmen there lose their youth! Never more will they
see again their mothers, their wives, or their friends in France, who
wait for them beyond the mountains!

During this time, Charles groans and laments: to what purpose? Can he
succor them by weeping? Woe worth the day that Ganelon did him the
sorry service of journeying to Saragossa! The traitor will pay the
penalty; the scaffold awaits him. But death, meanwhile, spares not our
French. The Saracens fall by thousands, and so, also, do our own; they
fall, and of the best!

In France, at this very hour, arise tremendous storms. The winds are
unchained, the thunder roars, the lightning glares; hail and rain
fall in torrents, and the earth trembles. From S. Michael of Paris to
Sens, from Besançon to the port of Wissant, not a place of shelter
whose walls do not crack. At mid-day there is a black darkness, lit up
only by the fire of the lightnings; there is not a man who does not
tremble; and some say that, with the end of the century, the end of the
world is coming. They are mistaken; it is the great mourning for the
death of Roland.

Marsilion, who until then had kept himself apart, has beheld from afar
the slaughter of his men; he commands the horns and clarions to sound,
and puts in motion the main body of his army.

When the French behold on every side fresh floods of the enemy let
loose upon them, they look to see where is Roland, where is Oliver,
where are the twelve peers? Every one would seek shelter behind them.
The archbishop encourages them all. "For God's sake, barons, fly not!
Better a thousand times die fighting! All is over with us. When this
day closes, not one of us will be left in this world; but paradise, I
promise you, is yours." At these words their ardor rekindles, and again
they raise the cry, _Montjoie!_

But, see there Climorin, the Saracen who at Marsilion's palace embraced
Ganelon and gave him his sword. He is mounted on a horse more swift
than the swallow, and has even now driven his lance into the body of
Angélier de Bordeaux. This is the first Frenchman of mark that has
fallen in the _mêlée_, and quickly has Oliver avenged him; with one
blow of his Hauteclaire the Saracen is struck down, and the demons bear
away his ugly soul. Then this other pagan, Valdabron, strikes to the
heart the noble Duke Sanche, who falls dead from the saddle. What grief
for Roland! He rushes on Valdabron, dealing him a blow which cleaves
his skull, in sight of the terrified pagans. In his turn, Abp. Turpin
rolls in the dust the African Mancuidant, who has just slain Anséis.
Roland overthrows and kills the son of the King of Cappadocia; but
what mischief has not this pagan done us before he died? Gérin and
Gérer, his comrade, Berenger, Austore, and Guy de Saint Antoine, all
died by his hand.

How thin our ranks are growing! The battle is stormy and terrible.
Never saw you such heaps of dead, so many wounds, and so much blood
flowing in streams on the green grass. Our men strike desperate blows.
Four times they sustain the shock, but at the fifth they fall, saving
sixty only, whom may God spare! for dearly they will sell their lives.

When Roland sees this disaster, "Dear comrade," he says to Oliver, "how
many brave hearts lying on the ground! What grievous loss for our sweet
France! Charles, our emperor, why are you not here? Oliver, my brother,
what shall be done, and how shall we give him of our tidings?"

"There is no means," answers Oliver; "it is better to die than
shamefully to flee."

"I will sound my _olifant_," says Roland. "Charles will hear it in the
depths of the defiles, and, be assured, he will return."

"Ah! but what shame! And of your race, my friend, do you then think no
more? When I spoke of this anon, nothing would you do, nor will you
now, at least not by my counsel. Your arms are bleeding; you have not
now the strength to sound it well."

"Sooth, but what hard blows I have been giving! Nevertheless, we have
to do with too strong a force. I will blow my _olifant_, and Charles
will hear."

"Nay, then, by no means shall you do this thing, and by my beard I
swear it. Should I ever see again my noble sister, my dear Aude, never
shall you be in her arms!"

"Wherefore this anger?" Roland asks.

"Comrade," the other answers, "you have lost us! Rashness is not
courage. These French are dead through your imprudence. Had you
believed me, the emperor would have been here, the battle would be
gained, and we should have taken Marsilion, alive or dead. Roland, your
prowess has cost us this mishap. Charles, our great Charles, we never
shall serve more."

The Archbishop Turpin hears the two friends, and runs to them,
exclaiming, "For God's sake, let alone your quarrels! True, there
is no longer time for you to sound your horn; but it is good,
notwithstanding, that the emperor should return. Charles will avenge
us, and these pagans shall not return into their Spain. Our French
will find us here, dead and cut to pieces, but they will put us into
coffins, and with tears and mourning carry us to be laid in the
burial-grounds of our monasteries; at least, we shall not be devoured
by dogs, or wolves, or wild boars."

"It is well spoken," answers Roland; and forthwith he puts the
_olifant_ to his lips, and blows with all the strength of his lungs.
The sound penetrates and prolongs itself in the depths of these
far-reaching valleys. Thirty long leagues away the echo is repeating
itself still!

Charles hears it; the army hears it also. "They are giving battle to
our people," cries the emperor. "Never does Roland sound his _olifant_
but in the heart of a battle."

"A battle, indeed!" says Ganelon. "In another mouth one would have
called it a lie! Know you not Roland? For a single hare he goes horning
a whole day. Come, let us march on. Why should we delay? The lands of
our France are still far away."

But Roland continues to blow his _olifant_. He makes such great efforts
that the blood leaps from his mouth and from the veins of his forehead.

"This horn has a long breath," says the emperor; and the Duke de Naymes
replies, "It is a brave man who blows it; there is battle around him.
By my faith, he who has betrayed him so well seeks to deceive you
likewise. Believe me; march to the succor of your noble nephew. Do you
not hear him? Roland is at bay."

The emperor gives the signal. Before setting out, he causes Ganelon to
be seized, abandoning the traitor to his scullions. Hair by hair they
pull out his moustache and beard, striking him with stick and fist, and
passing a chain round his neck, as they would round that of a bear, and
then, for the extreme of ignominy, setting him on a beast of burden.

On a signal from the emperor, all the French have turned their horses'
heads, and throw themselves eagerly back into the dark defiles and by
the rapid streams. Charles rides on in haste. There is not one who, as
he runs, does not sigh and say to his neighbor, "If we could only find
Roland, and at least see him before he dies! How many blows have we not
struck together!"

Alas! to what purpose are these vain efforts! They are too far off, and
cannot reach him in time.

Yet Roland glances anxiously around him. On the heights, in the plain,
he sees nothing but Frenchmen slain. The noble knight weeps and prays
for them. "Lords barons, may God have you in his grace, and may he
open to your souls the gate of his paradise, making them lie down upon
its holy flowers! Better warriors than you I have never seen; you have
served us so long, you have conquered for us so many lands! O land of
France! my so sweet country, behold, thou art widowed of many brave
hearts! Barons of France, you died by my fault. I have not been able to
save you or guard you; may God be your helper--God, who is always true!
If the sword slay me not, yet shall I die of grief. Oliver, my brother,
let us return to the fight."

Roland appears again in the _mêlée_. As the stag before the hounds, so
do the pagans flee before Roland. Behold, however, Marsilion, coming
forth as a warrior, and overthrowing on his way Gérard de Roussillon
and other brave Frenchmen. "Perdition be your portion," cries Roland,
"for thus striking down my comrades!" And with one back-stroke of
Durandal he cuts off his hand, seizing at the same time the fair hair
of Jurfalen, the king's son. At this sight the Saracens cry out, "Save
us, Mahomet! Avenge us of these accursed ones: they will never give
way. Let us flee! let us flee!" So saying, a hundred thousand of them
took flight, nor is there fear that they will ever return.

But what avails it that Marsilion has fled? His uncle, Marganice,
remains in the field with his black-visaged Ethiopians. He steals
behind Oliver, and strikes him a mortal blow in the middle of the back.
"There is one," he cries, "whose destruction avenges us for all we have
lost!" Oliver, stricken to death, raises his arm, lets fall Hauteclaire
on the head of Marganice, makes the diamonds sparkling on it fly around
in shivers, and splits his head down to the teeth. "Accursed pagan," he
says, "neither to thy wife nor to any lady of thy land shalt thou boast
that thou hast slain me!" Then he calls Roland to his aid.

Roland sees Oliver livid and colorless, with the blood streaming down.
At this sight he feels himself fainting, and swoons upon his horse.
Oliver perceives it not; he has lost so much blood that his eyes fail;
he sees neither things far-off nor near. His arm, which goes on wishing
to strike, raises Hauteclaire, and it is on the helmet of Roland that
the blow falls, cutting it through down to the nasal, but without
touching his head. At this blow, Roland looks at him, and asks gently,
"My comrade, did you purpose to do this? It is I, Roland, your dearest
friend. I know not that you have defied me."

And Oliver answers, "I hear you; it is your voice, but I see you not at
all. If I have struck you, pardon me, my friend!"

"You have done me no hurt, my brother," answers Roland, "and I forgive
you here and before God." At these words they bend towards one another,
and are separated during this tender adieu!

Roland cannot tear himself away from the body of his friend, stretched
lifeless on the earth; he contemplates him, weeps over him, and aloud
reminds him of so many days passed together in perfect friendship.
Oliver being dead, what a burden to him is life!

During this time, without his having perceived it, all our French had
perished, excepting only the archbishop and Gauthier. Wounded, but
still standing, they call to Roland. He hears and joins them. The
pagans cry out, "These are terrible men; let us take heed not to leave
one of them alive." And from all sides they throw themselves upon them.
Gauthier falls; Turpin has his helmet cloven, his hauberk torn, four
wounds in his body, and his horse killed under him. Roland, thinking of
the emperor, again seizes his _olifant_, but he can only draw from it a
feeble and plaintive note.

Charles hears it notwithstanding. "Woe betide us!" he cries. "Roland,
my dear nephew, we come too late! I know it by the sound of his horn.
March! Sound clarions!" And all the clarions of the host sounded
together. The noise reached the ears of the pagans. "Alas!" they say
to each other, "it is Charles returning! It is the great emperor. O
fatal day for us! All our chiefs are in the dust. If Roland lives, the
war will begin again, and our Spain is lost to us. Never will he be
vanquished by any man of flesh and blood. Let us not go near, but from
afar off cast at him our darts." Thereupon they withdraw, and rain upon
him, from a distance, darts and arrows, lances and spears. Roland's
shield is pierced, his hauberk broken and unfastened; his body is
untouched, but Vaillantif, wounded in twenty places, falls dead beneath
his master. This blow given, all the pagans flee at full speed further
into Spain.

Roland, without horse, is unable to follow the fugitives. He goes
to the succor of the archbishop, unlaces his helmet, binds up his
gaping wounds, presses him to his heart, and gently lays him on the
grass. Then he says to him softly, "Shall we leave without prayers our
companions who lie dead around us, and whom we loved so well? I will
fetch their bodies, and bring them before you."

"Go," answers the archbishop, "we are masters of the field; go, and
return again."

Roland leaves him, and advances alone into the field of carnage,
seeking on the mountain, seeking in the valley. He finds them--his
brave comrades and the Duke Sanche, the aged Anséis, and Gérard, and
Berenger. One by one he brings them, laying them at the knees of the
priest, who weeps while he blesses them. But when it comes to the
turn of Oliver; when Roland would carry the body of this dear comrade,
closely pressed against his heart, his face grows pale, his strength
forsakes him, and he falls fainting on the ground.

The archbishop at this sight feels himself seized with a deathlike
grief. There is, in this valley of Roncevaux, a running stream; if
only he could give some water to Roland! He seizes the _olifant_, and
tries, with slow steps, to drag himself tremblingly along. But he is
too feeble to advance. His strength fails, and he falls, with his face
to the earth, in the pangs of death.

Roland revives, and sees the prostrate warrior. With his eyes raised
to heaven, and with joined hands, he makes his confession to God, and
prays him to open to the good soldier of Charlemagne the gate of his
paradise. Then he approaches the bleeding body of the holy prelate,
raises his beautiful white hands, and lays them crosswise on his
breast, bidding him a tender adieu.

But Roland in his turn now feels that the hand of death is upon him. He
prays to God for his peers, supplicating him to call them to himself,
and invokes the holy angel Gabriel. Taking in one hand the _olifant_,
and Durandal in the other, he climbs an eminence looking towards Spain,
and there, in the green corn, underneath a tree, he lets himself sink
upon the ground.

Near at hand, behind a marble rock, a Saracen, lying in the midst of
the corpses, his face stained with blood, the better to counterfeit
death, was watching him. He sees him fall, and, suddenly springing up,
he runs to him, trying out, "Conquered! the nephew of Charles! His
sword is mine; I will carry it to Arabia!" He tries to draw it, but
Roland has felt something, opens his eyes, and says, "You are not one
of our people, it seems to me;" and with a blow of his _olifant_ lays
him dead at his feet. "Miscreant," he says, "thou art very bold--some
would say very mad--thus to lay hands on me. However, I have split my
_olifant_; the gold and precious stones are shaken from it by the blow."

Little by little Roland finds that his sight is failing him. He raises
himself on his feet, trying to support himself as best he may; but his
countenance is colorless and livid. On a rock hard by he strikes ten
blows with Durandal. He would fain break it, his valiant sword. What
grief and mourning would it not be to leave it to the pagans! May this
shame be spared to France! But the steel cuts into the rock, and does
not break. Roland strikes anew upon a rock of sardonyx. Not the least
flaw in the steel! He strikes again. The rock flies in pieces, but the
steel resists. "Ah!" he cries, "Holy Mary help me! My Durandal, thou
who didst so brightly gleam in this resplendent sun; thou, so beautiful
and sacred, who wast given to me by Charles at the command of God
himself; thou by whom I have conquered Brittany and Normandy, Maine
and Poitou, Aquitaine and Romagna, Flanders, Bavaria, Germany, Poland,
Constantinople, Saxony, Iceland, and England, long hast thou been in
the hands of a valiant man; shalt thou fall now into a coward's power?
Ah! sacred Durandal, in thy golden guard how many precious relics are
enshrined!--a tooth of S. Peter, the blood of S. Basil, some hair of S.
Denis, a portion of Our Lady's robe--and shall ever any pagan possess
thee? A brave man and a Christian has alone the right to use thee."

Even as he utters these words, death is stealing over him, until it
reaches his heart. He stretches himself at length upon the green grass,
laying under him his sword and his dear _olifant_; then, turning his
face towards the Saracens, that Charles and his men should say, on
finding him thus, that he died victorious, he smites on his breast,
and cries to God for mercy. The memory of many things then comes back
to him--the memory of so many brave fights; of his sweet country; of
the people of his lineage; of Charles, his lord, who nourished him;
and then his thoughts turn also to himself: "My God, our true Father,
who never canst deceive, who didst bring Lazarus back from the dead,
and Daniel from the teeth of the lions, save my soul! Snatch it from
the peril of the sins which I have committed during my life!" And so
saying, with his head supported on his arm, with his right hand he
reaches out his gauntlet towards God. S. Gabriel takes it, and God
sends his angel cherubim and S. Michael, called "_du Péril_." By them
and by Gabriel the soul of the count is borne into paradise.

Charlemagne has returned into this valley of Roncevaux. Not a rood,
not an inch of earth, which is not covered by a corpse. With a loud
voice Charles calls the name of his nephew; he calls the archbishop,
and Gérin, and Berenger, and the Duke Sanche, and Angélier, and all
his peers. To what purpose? There are none to answer. "Wherefore was I
not in this fight?" he cries, tearing his long beard and fainting with
grief; and the whole army laments with him. These weep for their sons,
those for their brothers, their nephews, their friends, their lords.

In the midst of all this mourning, the Duke Naymes, a sagacious man,
approaches the emperor. "Look in front," he says. "See these dusty
roads. It is the pagan horde in flight. To horse! We must be avenged!"

Charles, before setting forth, commands four barons and a thousand
knights to guard the field of battle. "Leave the dead there as they
are," he says. "Keep away the wild beasts, and let no man touch them,
neither squires nor varlets, until the hour, please God, of our
return." Then he bade them sound the charge, and pursued the Saracens.

The sun is low in the heavens; the night is near, and the pagans are
on the point of escaping in the evening shadows; but an angel descends
from heaven. "March," he says to Charles. "Continue marching; the light
shall not fail you."

And the sun stays in the sky. The pagans flee, but the French overtake
and slay them. In the swift-flowing Ebro the fugitives are drowned.
Charles dismounts from his charger, and prostrates himself, giving
thanks to God. When he rises, the sun is set. It is too late to return
to Roncevaux; the army is exhausted with fatigue. Charles, with a
mourning heart, weeps for Roland and his companions until he sinks to
sleep. All his warriors sleep also, lying on the ground; and even the
horses cannot remain standing. Those which want to feed graze as they
lie upon the fresh grass.

In the night, Charles, guarded by his holy angel, who watches by his
side, sees the future in a vision; he sees the rude combat in which
shortly he will need to engage.

During this time, Marsilion, exhausted, mutilated, has managed to reach
Saragossa. The queen utters a cry at the sight of her husband, cursing
the evil gods who have betrayed him. One hope alone remains. The old
Baligant, Emir of Babylon, will not leave them without succor. He
will come to avenge them. Long ago Marsilion sent letters to him; but
Babylon is very far away, and the delay is great.

The emir, on receiving the letters, sends for the governors of his
forty kingdoms; he causes galleys to be equipped and assembled in his
port of Alexandria, and, when the month of May arrives, on the first
day of summer he launches them into the sea.

This fleet of the enemy is immense; and how obedient to the sail, to
the oar, to the helm! At the top of these masts and lofty yards how
many fires are lighted! The waves glitter afar off in the darkness of
the night, and, as they draw near the shores of Spain, the whole of the
coast is illuminated by them. The news soon flies to Saragossa.

Marsilion, in his distress, resigns himself to do homage for Spain to
the Emir Baligant. With his left hand, which alone remains to him, he
presents his glove, saying, "Prince Emir, I place all my possessions in
your hands; defend them, and, avenge me." The emir receives his glove,
and engages to bring him the head of the old Charles; then he throws
himself on his horse, as he cries out to the Saracens, "Come, let us
march; or the French will escape us."

At daybreak Charles sets out for Roncevaux. As they draw near, he says
to those about him, "Slacken your pace somewhat, my lords; I would
go on before alone to seek my nephew. I remember that, on a certain
festival at Aix, he said that, should it be his hap to die in a foreign
land, his body would be found in front of his men and of his peers,
with his face turned towards the land of the enemy, in token that he
died a conqueror--brave heart!" So saying, he advances alone, and
mounts the hill. He recognizes on three blocks of rock the strokes of
Durandal, and on the grass hard by the body of his nephew. "Friend
Roland," he cries out in extreme anguish, as he raises the corpse with
his own hands,-"friend Roland, may God place thy soul among the flowers
of his paradise, in the midst of his glorious saints! Alas! what hast
thou come to do in Spain! Not a day will there be henceforth in which
I shall not weep for thee. Relations still I have, but yet not one
like thee! Roland, my friend, I return to France; and when I shall
be in my palace at Laon, people will come to me from every quarter,
saying, Where is the captain? And I shall make answer, He is dead in
Spain! My nephew is dead, by whom I gained so many lands. And now, who
shall command my armies? Who shall sustain my empire? France, my sweet
country, they who have caused his death have destroyed thee!"

When he had thus given free course to his grief, his barons requested
that the last duties should be performed for their companions. They
collect the dead, and burn sweet perfumes around them; then are they
blessed and incensed, and buried with great pomp, excepting Roland,
Oliver, and Abp. Turpin, whose bodies are laid apart to be carried into
France.

They were preparing for departure when in the distance appeared the
Saracen vanguard. The emperor tears himself away from his grief, turns
his fiery glance upon his people, and cries aloud with his strong and
clear voice, "Barons and Frenchmen, to horse and to arms!"

The army is forthwith put in readiness for the combat. Charles disposes
the order of battle. He forms ten cohorts, giving to each a brave and
skilful chief, and placing himself at the head. By his side Geoffrey of
Anjou bears the oriflamme, and Guinenant the _olifant_.

Charles alights and prostrates himself, with an ardent prayer, before
God, then mounts his horse, seizes his spear and shield, and with a
serene countenance throws himself forward. The clarions sound, but
above the clarions there rings the clear note of the _olifant_. The
soldiers weep as they hear it, thinking upon Roland.

The emir, on his part, has passed his soldiers in review. He also
disposes his army in cohorts, of which there are thirty, as powerful as
they are brave; then calling on Mahomet, and displaying his standard,
he rushes with mad pride to meet the French.

Terrible is the shock. On both sides the blood flows in streams. The
fight and slaughter continue without ceasing until the day closes,
and then, in the twilight, Charles and the emir encounter each other.
They fight so fiercely that soon the girths of their horses break, the
saddles turn round, and both find themselves on the ground. Full of
rage, they draw their swords, and the deadly combat begins anew between
them.

Charles is well-nigh spent. Stunned by a blow which has cloven his
helmet, he staggers, and is on the point of falling; but he hears
passing by his ear the holy voice of the angel Gabriel, who cries
out to him, "Great king, what doest thou?" At this voice, his vigor
returns, and the emir falls beneath the sword of France.

The pagan host flees; our French pursue them into Saragossa; the town
is taken, and King Marsilion dies of despair. The conquerors make war
against the false gods, and with great blows of their battle-axes
break the idols in pieces. They baptize more than a hundred thousand
Saracens, and those who resist they hang or burn, except the Queen
Bramimonde, who is to be taken as a captive into France, Charles
desiring to convert her by gentle means.

Vengeance is satisfied. They put a garrison into the town, and return
to France. In passing through Bordeaux, Charles places upon the altar
of S. Severin his nephew's _olifant_; there pilgrims may see it even
to this day. Then in great barks they traverse the Gironde, and in S.
Romain-de-Blaye they bury the noble Roland, the faithful Oliver, and
the brave archbishop.

Charles will not again halt on his way, nor take any repose, until he
reaches his great city of Aix. Behold him arrived thither. He sends
messengers through all his kingdoms and provinces, commanding the
presence of the peers of his court of justice to take proceedings
against Ganelon.

On entering his palace, he sees coming to him the young and gentle
lady, the fair Aude. "Where," she asks, "is Roland--Roland the Captain,
who promised to take me for his wife?" Charles, upon hearing these
words, feels his deadly grief awaken, and weeps burning tears. "My
sister and dear friend, he of whom you speak is now no more! I will
give you in his place a spouse worthy of you--Louis, my son, who will
inherit all my kingdoms; more I cannot say."

"These are strange words," she answers; "God forbid, and the angels and
saints likewise, that, Roland being dead, Aude should live!" So saying,
she grew pale, and, falling at the feet of Charlemagne, she died. God
show to her his mercy!

The emperor will not believe but that she has fainted: he takes her
hands, lifts her up; but alas, her head falls down upon her shoulder;
her death is only too true. Four countesses are commanded to watch by
her all the night, and to cause her to be nobly buried in a convent of
nuns.

While they are weeping for the fair Aude, and Charlemagne renders to
her the last honors, Ganelon, beaten with rods and laden with chains,
awaits his sentence.

The peers are assembled. Ganelon appears before them, and defends
himself with subtlety. "I am avenged," he says, "but I have betrayed no
one." The judges look at each other, and are inclined to be lenient.
"Sire," they say to the emperor, "let him live; he is a good nobleman.
His death will not restore to you Roland, your nephew, whom we shall
never see more." And Charles exclaims: "You all betray me!"

Upon this, one of them, Thierry, brother to Geoffrey of Anjou, says to
the emperor: "Sire, be not disquieted; I condemn Ganelon. I say that he
is a perjurer and a traitor, and I condemn him to death. If he has any
kin who dares to say that I lie, I have this sword wherewith to answer
him."

Forthwith Pinabel, the friend of Ganelon, brave, alert, vigorous,
accepts the challenge. At the gates of Aix, in the meadow, the two
champions, well-confessed, well-absolved and blessed, their Mass heard,
and their swords drawn, prepare themselves for the combat. God only
knows how it will end.

Pinabel is vanquished, and all the barons bow before the decision of
God. All say to the emperor, "He ought to die."

Ganelon dies the death of a traitor--he is quartered.

Then the emperor assembles his bishops. "In my house," he says to them,
"a noble captive has learnt so much by sermons and examples that she
desires to believe in God. Let her be baptized; it is the Queen of
Spain." They baptize her, therefore, under the name of Julienne. She
has become a Christian from the depths of her heart.

The day departs; night covers the earth. The emperor sleeps in his
vaulted chamber. The angel known to Charles, S. Gabriel, descends to
his bedside, and says to him on the part of God: "To the city which
the pagans are besieging, Charles, it is needful that thou march. The
Christians cry aloud for thee."

"God!" cries the king, "how painful is my life." And, weeping, he tears
his long white beard.

Here ends the song which Turoldus has sung.

       *       *       *       *       *

We will conclude, as we began, with the words of the original, giving
the last stanza of the poem (ccxcvi)

    "Quant l'emperère ad faite sa justise,
    E esclargie est sue grant ire,
    En Bramidonie (Bramimonde) ad chrestientet mise,
    Passet li jurz, la nuit est ascrie,
    Culcez s'est li rei en sa cambre voltice.
    Seint Gabriel de part Deu li vint dire,
    'Carles, semun les oz de tun empire,
    Par force iras en tere de Bire;
    Reis Vivien si sucuras en Imphe
    A la citet que paien unt asize,
    Li chrestien te recleiment e crient.'
    Li emperère n'i volsist aler mie:
    'Deus!' dist li reis, 'si penuse est ma vie!
    Pluret des oilz, sa barbe blanche tiret.'
    --Ci falt la geste que Turoldus declinet.

                                          A O I."




VENITE, ADOREMUS.[159]


    God an infant--born to-day!
      Born to live, to die for me!
    Bow, my soul: adoring say,
      "Lord, I live, I die, for thee."
    Humble then, but fearless, rise:
    Seek the manger where he lies.

    Tread with awe the solemn ground;
      Though a stable, mean and rude,
    Wondering angels all around
      Throng the seeming solitude:
    Swelling anthems, as on high,
    Hail a second Trinity.[160]

    'Neath the cavern's[161] dim-lit shade
      Meekly sleeps a tender form:
    God on bed of straw is laid!
      Breaths of cattle keep him warm!
    King of glory, can it be
    Thou art thus for love of me?

    Hail, my Jesus, Lord of might--
      Here in tiny, helpless hand
    Thy creation's infinite
      Holding like a grain of sand!
    Hail, _my_ Jesus--all my own:
    Mine as if but mine alone!

    Hail, my Lady, full of grace!
      Maiden-Mother, hail to thee!
    Poring on the radiant face,
      Thine a voiceless ecstasy;
    Yet, sweet Mother, let me dare
    Join the homage of thy prayer.

    Mother of God, O wondrous name!
      Bending seraphs own thee Queen.
    Mother of God, yet still the same
      Mary thou hast ever been:
    Still so lowly, though so great;
    Mortal, yet immaculate!

    Joseph, hail--of gentlest power!
      Shadow of the Father[162] thou.
    Thine to shield in danger's hour
      Whom thy presence comforts now.
    Mary trusts to thee her child;
    He his Mother undefiled.

    Jesus, Mary, Joseph, hail!
      Saddest year its Christmas brings.
    Comes the faith that cannot fail,
      With the shepherds and the kings:
    Gold, and myrrh, and incense sweet
    Come to worship at your feet.

FOOTNOTES:

[159] This is a second edition of a lyric that appeared in THE CATHOLIC
WORLD four years ago. The alterations are so considerable as to make it
a new poem.

[160] Jesus, Mary, and Joseph are called "The Earthly Trinity."

[161] It was a cavern used for a stable.

[162] See Faber's _Bethlehem_.




THE FUR TRADER.

A TALE OF THE NORTHWEST.


                               CONCLUDED.

The next morning, at a very early hour, it was apparent that an
assemblage of Indians at the council lodge had been summoned, to
consider the proposal of the missionary. His hopes were encouraged when
he noted that many of the old men and earliest converts were mingling
with the fierce warriors and young men of the vicinity, on their way to
the place of meeting.

After some time, a delegation, with the brave who had borne the message
of the priest to his chief at their head, proceeded with measured and
stately steps from the council lodge to that of the missionary, where
they were received with the silent and ceremonious solemnity so dear to
Indians.

The result of the debate, which they communicated, was, that their foes
should be requested to meet them--under guaranty of the missionary
for their good faith, and the assurance that the injured party would
meet them unarmed, if they also would leave their arms behind--that
the proposed council should be solemnly held. Should its decision be
for peace, all should join in the pursuit and recapture of the maiden;
if otherwise, time should be allowed for the foe to regain their camps
before her people should take the war-path.

The trapper departed immediately to proclaim these decisions in the
nearest camps of the hostile party, and to secure their general
diffusion among those tribes. The missionary soon set out to notify
the residents of other missions, after seeing that the young chief had
despatched runners to summon a full attendance of his own people and
friends.

There is wonderful despatch in the simple machinery set in motion
by the aborigines of our country upon such occasions, executing
their purpose with a speed which proves their ignorance of the wise
"circumlocution offices" of civilization.

Immediate preparations were set on foot at the appointed rendezvous for
entertaining a multitude. Large parties were sent out in quest of game.
The women of the vicinity assembled to prepare the meats, the _camash_,
the _wappato_, and the bitter root, for a great feast.

During the three days succeeding the transactions related above,
multitudes were to be seen gathering from all quarters, and taking
their course to the village where they were to meet, in profound
silence, and with the grave composure befitting an assembly before
which the tremendous issues of life and death were to be discussed.

The trapper came with a large party of the fiercest warriors whom the
wiles of the "Northwester" had deceived. Several priests from scattered
missions, more or less remote, with their converted Indians, arrived.
Numerous savages of both sides advanced in parties by themselves,
caring for nothing but blood and plunder should war be the word, or
feasting and revelry should it be peace. French creoles, half-breeds,
Canadian _voyageurs_, _coureurs des bois_, and free trappers, completed
the list of this wild and miscellaneous assemblage.

Arrangements were made with great precision for the opening of the
council. When the council lodge was in readiness, notice for the
assembling of the various delegates was proclaimed from its roof by an
Indian crier.

The missionaries passed in first, followed by the chiefs, and seated
themselves on a semicircular platform slightly elevated from the
earthen floor at the further end of the lodge, the priests sitting in
the centre, between the two parties, as umpires. Then the elders, the
delegates, and the warriors took their seats upon the floor along each
side of the lodge.

The oldest chief of the injured confederates arose, and proceeded with
calm dignity to explain the relations which the two parties, although
ancient enemies even unto blood, had maintained with each other since
they had been mutually moved by the message of peace, delivered by the
holy Black Gowns, to bury the hatchet and live, as Christian brethren
should, in peace and amity. He showed how faithfully those of his
side, on their part, had kept the compact, depicting in vivid colors
their grief and horror at the perfidy of their brothers, and the cruel
slaughter of their innocent and unsuspecting friends. When he described
the ambush, the sudden attack, the death of the old chief, and the
murder of his followers; the plunder of their goods, the massacre of
the women and children, and the capture of the cherished daughter of
her race, it was fearful to see among the warriors the kindling passion
for revenge flashing from fiery eyes which glared like those of the
tiger thirsting for blood, though their manner remained otherwise cool,
collected, and subdued.

At the close of this harangue, he called upon his brother,[163] the
oldest chief of the opposite party, to reply, and state what he could
in justification of their conduct.

With the same lofty composure, the respondent recapitulated and
confirmed all that had been stated as to the former enmity and the
friendly relations promoted and established between them by the labors
and influence of the Black Gowns.

He then set forth in glowing language the dismay with which his people
and their allies had heard that these their pretended friends were
joining among themselves and with the new American companies--under the
sanction of the missionaries--for their destruction and the possession
of their hunting-grounds. That their good friends of the Northwest
Company had warned them of their impending ruin, and furnished arms
and ammunition, that they might avert the calamity by making the first
attack themselves. That this was their sole motive for the act, and
in self-defence, for self-preservation, they were ready to pursue
the war-path as long as a man was left of their tribes to fight. But
as to the massacre at the encampment, and abduction of the maiden,
he indignantly denied for himself, his people, and their allies, all
knowledge of any such place, or aid in its fulfilment, or of the
instruments by which it had been executed.

Convictions of the crafty fabrications by which the Northwest Company,
through its wily commander, had beguiled them, fastened gradually upon
the minds of both parties, as their history was thus opened.

The missionaries now proceeded to re-establish peace, in which they
were so successful that the calumet was duly passed from one to another
through the whole assembly. Before the close of the council the terms
of a new alliance were fully settled, and all parties pledged to
fidelity in maintaining it, and diligence in seeking the lost maiden.

Muttered threats were breathed against the Northwest Company, and
especially its false commander, and a determination to take his life
vehemently expressed. The missionaries reproved these threats so
sternly that they were accused of befriending him, and the trapper
was again obliged to exert all his influence in quelling the rising
distrust.

Meanwhile, preparations for a grand banquet, after the most approved
and bountiful mode of savage magnificence, had been going on, and the
village was redolent of savory odors from every variety of meat and
vegetables in process of cooking according to the Indian fashions.

The great assemblage regaled themselves plentifully, but with staid
decorum. The mirth, the dancing, and the songs, customary upon such
occasions, were omitted, out of respect for the memory of the departed
chief and the sorrows of his son.

At the close of the feast, the Rosary was recited by the missionaries
and their converts; after which the parties who were to set out in
quest of the maiden were duly organized and equipped with arms and
ammunition, procured for the purpose from the nearest American station.
These were so dispersed as to surround by a long circuit the principal
trading post of the Northwest Company--at which the commander made his
headquarters--and draw towards it by narrowing circles, to intercept
any party which might be sent to convey the object of their search to
some other place should news of their expedition reach the post before
their arrival. A runner accompanied each party to notify the next of
any important incident touching the interests of their expedition.

As they were patiently and gradually converging toward their
destination, one detachment met a party of traders from the Hudson's
Bay Company, who informed them that the "Northwester" whom they sought
was absent.

He had failed to meet them, as he had agreed, to arrange terms of
requital with them for plunder committed upon their territory by his
agents; and had departed a day or two before, with a fleet of canoes
and a large party of _voyageurs_, down the river to an American station
which was commanded by a former partner in his company, with whom he
was on terms of suspicious intimacy, considering their rival interests.

There were a number of women in the canoes, supposed to be the wives of
the _voyageurs_.

This intelligence changed the course of the expedition. The several
bands were notified, and united as speedily as possible, to make their
way to the station indicated.

When they reached its vicinity, they found a great carousal was on foot
there. The boisterous mirth and revelry that prevailed made it easy
to reconnoitre without detection. They soon discovered the quarters
where the women were assembled. It was a large tent or camp, guarded
from intruders by a detachment of _voyageurs_ and their wives. The
Connecticut trapper sauntered carelessly up to one of the sentinels,
and began playing off some rough jokes of the wilderness upon him, in
the mingled jargon of Indian dialects and Canadian _patois_ used among
that class.

He found the fellow sulky and silent; not too well pleased with the
duty assigned him, and impatient to join the revellers. He very kindly
offered--"bein' a man of sobriety and havin' no hankerin' for such
doin's"--to relieve the watcher, and take his place for a time. As he
was a Yankee, who, as the Canadian stranger supposed, might belong to
the station, he did not hesitate to accept the offer.

From this tent, on the west side, a patch of very high grass extended
to a dense clump of bushes at some distance. After the new guardian
had surveyed the premises for some time, with his habitual air of
careless indifference, he caught a glimpse through the door, over
which a buffalo robe had been hung to close it, of the woman who
attended the daughter of the chief. All doubt of the maiden's presence
vanished before that vision. But how to give notice that friends were
near? Pacing slowly back and forth close beside the tent, he uttered
distinctly, in a low voice, the sacred name given the maiden in
baptism, and known to none here but her attendant--"Josephine!" and was
delighted to receive a quick reply, "S. Joseph!" He continued pacing,
and humming carelessly, in her native dialect, a short of chant, as if
for his own amusement, the words of which conveyed a distinct idea of
the grass and the bushes west of the tent, and a hint that she could
creep through the one unobserved, and find friends concealed in the
covert of the other.

Another sentinel accosted him, in derision, as a "merry singer," when
he complained of this tedious business of watching the women, and
wished the fellow he had relieved would finish his frolic, and come
back.

"He will be in no haste to do that," his companion replied. "Gabriel
is a sad gossip, and too fond of the drinking-cup to quit it without
compulsion."

Our trapper, favoring the impression this man also had received that he
belonged to the station, said he must be released to meet an engagement
at this hour, or break the rules of the post; when Gabriel's daughter
was called to go and summon her father. An interval elapsed which
seemed an age to the trapper, whose wonted coolness almost forsook
him before the truant appeared, highly elated with liquor, and loth to
resume his irksome duty.

The relieved sentinel vanished to meet his "engagement," the result of
which was that the ground in the high grass was speedily filled on both
sides with armed and prostrate Indians, listening for the rustle which
would betray the presence of their coveted prize.

Nor did they wait long; and, when the maiden with her attendant crept
stealthily by them, she was informed that a swift-footed pony was
concealed in the covert of the bushes for her use. Her friends soon had
the satisfaction of seeing them mounted, and flying, with the speed of
the wind, in the direction of their distant home; for the trapper had
found a moment in which to direct her as to the course she was to take,
and the maiden was no stranger to the use of the noble animal, in the
management of which her people are trained from their infancy.

Scarcely were they out of sight over the vast plain before their escape
was discovered. A wild sortie of the revellers ensued.

The commander, with the friend whom he was visiting, and his favorite
clerk, who was always with him, mounted on swift horses, started in
pursuit of the fugitive, while his followers engaged in a bloody combat
with her friends. The "Northwester" was the first to descry her in the
distance, and his horse was gaining rapidly upon her frantic flight,
when she suddenly changed her course toward the river, which here
rushed through a gorge bounded by a precipice on each side. Putting
his horse to its utmost speed, and shouting his entreaties that she
would refrain from fulfilling the intention he too clearly divined,
he plunged madly on, reaching the bank only in time to see the pony
struggling in the wild waters; but the maiden had disappeared from his
sight for ever!

While he was still lamenting, with frenzied exclamations, his own
folly, and the dire calamity in which it had resulted, a pursuing party
of her friends arrived. It was terrific to mark the fierce flash of
eyes that fixed their blazing regard upon him from all sides, as his
savage foes encircled him!

He seemed too completely lost in the tumult of his own grief,
disappointment, and passion to heed their approach, or the imminent
peril in which he stood, as one after another of the band drew up his
rifle and prepared to fire upon him at a word from their leader, when
the tall form of the trapper stalked into the circle, and his ringing
voice gave the command that was instinctively obeyed.

"Down with your rifles, ye bloody-minded sarpints"--suiting a gesture
to the word, that was understood in a twinkling. Then, addressing them
in their own tongue: "Are the red men wolves, that they would drink
the blood of the pale chief without hearing what he has to say? How
will they answer to the holy Black Gown for the deed, or how will they
face the pestilence and famine which will surely follow every life-drop
that flows from the veins of the great medicine-man of the palefaces?"
he added, appealing to the faith of the converted Indians, and to the
superstitions of the unconverted, and whispering a brief sentence in
the ear of the young chief, who had been maddened at the loss of his
sister, but was subdued by the presence and words of the trapper. Then
resuming his own language, he said to himself as if musing--indulging
a habit formed during his long and lonely wanderings--"I'm willin'
to own the chap has many ways that a man of peace and justice like
myself can't approve by any manner of means, for they don't square
with my notions of what's right. But it may be more the misfortune of
the critter than his fault, seein' he comes of them Britishers, whose
blood, I conclude, carries its pesky pizin down from father to son to
the third and fourth generation, as the holy commandments say both
good and evil is carried. But there's two sides to every story, and I
an't agoin' to stand by and see the life of a feller-critter taken, if
he _is_ a son of Satan, without hearin' both. Them Injins an't sich
angils of innocence either as to have the right to cast the first stone
at the wicked. I'm not a prejudiced man, I hope, but 'cordin' to my
notion there an't a truer thing in natur 'cept the Holy Bible--which
I take to be the truest of all--than that they're a tarnal pack, take
'em by and large, and 'ud ruther drink blood than water any day, every
mother's son on' em, savin' and exceptin' always--as lawyer Smith used
to say--the Flat-heads and the Pendorays, who're 'bout the likeliest
folks I've met this side of the univarsal world, and have as nat'ral
a twist towards Gospil light as the sunflower has to the sun. But all
this is neither here nor there"--he said, rousing himself from his
soliloquy, which the natives had heard to a close with quiet gravity,
being accustomed to his manner; and, striding up to the "Northwester,"
who remained sitting motionless on his horse, with his back to his
pursuers and his eyes fixed upon the rushing flood, as if so petrified
by the shocking event he had witnessed as to have eyes or ears for
nothing else--"Are you crazy, or a fool?" exclaimed the trapper in a
low voice as he approached--"to sit here as unconsarned as if you was
in a lady's parlor, with a hundred rifles raised to draw your heart's
blood, and your long account with etarnity all unsettled! What on airth
is the critter thinkin' of! Speak quick! or I wouldn't give the glim
of a lightnin'-bug for all they'll leave of the vital spark in your
carkiss in less'n the twinklin' of its wings; they'll put daylight in
its place, and your scalp'll be danglin' from the belt of the young
chief in less time than it takes to speak the words--a sight I should
greatly mislike, bein' a man of peace, though no great admirator of
your race, any more'n I be of the Injuns."

Suddenly assuming the careless manner natural to him, and turning
towards the maddened throng with the scornful indifference which seldom
forsook him, and was the best weapon he could have opposed to the fury
of his savage foes at this critical juncture, the young man related in
a few words what had happened.

With a sneer of contempt, the Indian appointed to speak for the band
replied: "Did the Great Spirit give his bird wings that she might fly
from the white chief to the home where his falsehood has sent her
father? or is she a fish that she may cleave the waters of that flood
and escape from him? No, no, our daughter lives! When the white chief
says she went over the rock, his words are to deceive; and when he
bewails the fate of the maiden, he is making a false face. He sent the
horse over the rock to blind the eyes of her people. He has a long arm
and a strong voice, and can call his braves from every covert. He knows
where he has hidden our daughter. But we will follow him even unto the
homes of the palefaces, and lie in wait until more moons are counted
than the hairs on his scalp would number, to drink his blood at last.
Our feet will be swift to pursue and our knives to find his heart, even
to the piercing of stone walls!"

"Lord give us patience with their Injin nonsense!" the trapper
ejaculated. Then, speaking in their language: "Will my red brethren
waste time in idle words like prattling women? The white chief will go
with us to the lodge of the holy Black Gown, whose words are truth,
and whose counsels are wise and just. That's as true's you're alive,
Hezekiah," he proceeded, resuming his own tongue; and, as if moved
by an irresistible impulse--"Talk about your Methodist preachers,
your Presbyterers, your Baptists, and all sorts, who deny that these
missionaries hold to Gospel truth! But let 'em obsarve how they follow
out Gospel rules by layin' aside all critter comforts, forsakin'
father and mother, brother and sister, housen and lands, and, comin'
into these howlin' deserts, without scrip or staff, wives or children,
labor with their own hands for a livin', sharin' and puttin' up with
all the poverty and hardships of the shiftless critters they come to
teach--whose souls, I make no dispute, are of as much value for the
next world, and in the sight of their Maker, as if they belonged to
thoroughgoin', giniwine Yankees--though their works don't amount to
much in this, even in the line of their callin' in furs and sich, at
which a Connecticut trapper 'ill beat 'em all hollow any day." Then,
suddenly recollecting himself, he again addressed his wild companions:
"The Big Foot will pledge his own life to his red brothers, against
that of the white chief, that he prove not false in this matter; and
they will let the Black Gown say what his children shall do."

After some consultation the proposal was accepted, and without any
great delay they all departed in the direction of the mission.

When the missionary had examined the matter after their arrival,
he became convinced that the life of the young commander would be
in danger while he remained within reach of his exasperated foes,
and would hardly be safe in his Montreal home from their revengeful
pursuit. He therefore advised him to leave without delay.

The advice was scornfully rejected at first, but soon perceiving that
it would be folly to provoke a fate which flight only could evade, he
joined a party who were leaving for Lake Superior, to proceed thence by
the usual route to Montreal, and was seen no more in those Northwestern
regions.

       *       *       *       *       *

Many years had elapsed since these events took place. A dark and rainy
night had succeeded a tempestuous autumnal day, and settled down like a
wet mantle over Montreal, wrapping the city in its chilling folds.

The street-lamps with which it was dimly lighted in the early evenings
of yore--when oil furnished an obscure foreshadowing of this era of
gas, that served only to make "darkness visible"--had gone out one
by one, leaving the narrow streets, with their high stone houses
overhanging on either side, in utter gloom.

The twinkling of a lantern borne by an invisible pilgrim might be
seen--like the transient dancing gleam of a will-o'-the-wisp--revealing
occasional glimpses of a tall form by his side clad in the habit of the
Society of Jesus. They were threading the narrow course of old St. Paul
Street, which they followed until they reached a road that turned and
ascended a rising ground to the west, in the direction of a district
where there had formerly been a beaver meadow of considerable extent,
through which flowed a sluggish brook, but which was rapidly assuming
the features now presented by that part of the city lying in the
neighborhood of Beaver Hall Block.

Into this road they turned, and, passing the district mentioned, took a
path to the left, which led them to the base of the hill on the summit
of which the city water-works and reservoir are now situated.

In those days the ascent was by no means easy, and the aged father had
to pause frequently to take breath during the course of it. Having
reached the height, and rested for a brief space, they turned again to
the left into spacious, neglected grounds, surrounding a very large
stone mansion which stood unfinished on the side of the mountain, as
entirely isolated on that lonely height as if in the midst of vast
solitudes, instead of the suburb of a populous and thriving city. So
chilling, gloomy, and repulsive were all the features of the lofty
edifice and its bleak environs, which had been an open common for many
years, that even the reverend father, long accustomed to encounter
such varied forms of desolation as the missionary in savage regions
must continually meet, recoiled unconsciously as he passed the dismal
portal, which no door had ever closed, into the damp atmosphere within.
Here the mouldy walls appeared to give shelter only to a multitude of
owls and bats, whose wings flapped indignantly at the unwonted gleam
of light in their dark dominion, and equally rare intrusion of a guest
upon the silence of their retreat.

The man with the lantern passed on in advance, followed slowly
and cautiously by his venerable companion, over a narrow platform
constructed by laying planks on the timber of the framework, until
they came to a remote corner of the building, in which a small room had
been awkwardly prepared, and arranged in a manner to render it barely
habitable. A more comfortless abode could hardly be imagined. Before
the door of this rude apartment they paused, the guide inserted a key
in the huge lock, the bolt of which yielded slowly as if fearing to
betray its trust, the door creaked harshly on its rusty hinges and gave
admittance to the reverend guest.

Guided by the faint glimmer of a taper--standing on a rough block
beside a bed on which the form of a man tossing in restless agony was
dimly visible, the priest approached the sufferer, addressing some
soothing words to him.

"Ah, reverend father! is it you?" he faintly gasped. "It was kind of
you to come through the storm this dismal night, and, after your long
journey, to seek the lost sheep so utterly unworthy of your care! I
am near the close of a misspent and wasted life! Will the worthless
wreck offered at the eleventh hour in penitence and tears be accepted?
O father! how true were the words you uttered when reproving my sinful
course: 'Unless you repent the wrongs you have inflicted, making such
requital as remains within your power, a fearful retribution awaits
you in this world, and eternal despair in the next.' The first part
has been fulfilled--wife, children, family, and friends have fallen
from me one by one, and for long years the victim of his own folly and
iniquity has lingered on desolate and alone--haunted by visions of
retribution and despair. But I have tried to be contrite, and to offer
such contrition as I could gain, in anguish and tears at the foot of
my Redeemer's cross. May I not hope it will be accepted? How I have
longed, reverend father, for your return to Montreal! The first emotion
of joy my heart has known for years was imparted when I heard from
my attendant that you had at length arrived--just in time to hear my
last confession and console my dying hour, if there is indeed comfort
for such a sinner. The blood of that Indian chief--singled first of
all from his followers for death by my command (because he set his
authority against my designs)--and that of his innocent daughter and
her nurse, who perished by my means, have set a burning seal upon my
guilty soul; while the phantom of my injured wife, taken from me while
I was pursuing my unhallowed passion, joins with theirs to reproach
and haunt me. I am lost, lost in the horrors of remorse for the triple
murder, added to an endless list of misdeeds!

"Peace, my son!" the reverend father said tenderly and firmly--"though
your sins are as scarlet, their guilt has not surpassed the bounds of
Infinite mercy! Nor has it reached so far as you suppose. The Indian
maiden lives. A holy nun in an American convent, she has never ceased
her supplications for the salvation of your soul, and for the pardon of
her own weakness and disobedience to her father, in yielding her young
heart's affections to your importunities before she learned, as she did
on the voyage down the river, that you were already married, and sought
only to make her your dishonored dupe.

"She urged her horse over the precipice according to instructions from
the trapper, who told her to fly with all speed in that direction, and
at what point to turn to the river, if pursued and in danger of being
overtaken. He also warned her to make no resistance to the current,
only to avoid being drawn into whirlpools, but to let it carry her
through the gorge to a place where the waters spread into a small lake,
on the shore of which, near the foot of the gorge, she would find a
singular cave opening toward the water, and easily seen, where she
must secrete herself until he should bring her brother to her. In all
this she succeeded by the skill in swimming which seems to be part
of an Indian's nature. When the trapper and her brother sought the
hiding-place--with but faint hope indeed of finding her--so great was
her dread of your power and of her own weakness, that she entreated
them to keep the fact of her escape concealed, and arrange for her
departure with a company of traders belonging to the American stations,
who were intending to leave with their wives and pass the winter in
a distant city of the United States. They therefore left her, first
providing means by which her servant could obtain their food; and after
the return of the party to me, those arrangements were made. Upon her
arrival in that city, and delivery of a letter from me to the superior
of a convent there, she was received into the house, and soon after
entered upon her novitiate as one of its members."

"And now, my son," he continued, "it only remains for you to prepare
for the solemnities of the approaching hour, with deep humility and
contrition. I am sent by my Divine Master to call, 'not the just, but
sinners to repentance.'"

The holy man remained with his dying penitent through the night, and,
while the morning bells of the city were proclaiming the story of our
salvation on the wings of the _Angelus_, the spirit, so long perturbed
with agonizing throes of remorse, but at length reconciled and
refreshed by the healing dews of divine grace, passed to the tribunal
before which it had so dreaded to appear, trusting solely in the merits
of that Redeemer born of a Virgin for us, and who was now to be its
Judge.

He was the first and last occupant of the gloomy mansion that had been
designed for the abode of almost regal magnificence. The phantoms of
horror with which his distorted imagination had filled the vacant
spaces within those extensive walls, and even the surrounding premises,
led him to confine himself entirely to his room. And thus he lived
for years, a prisoner in that dimly lighted and cheerless apartment,
attended only by the faithful servant who provided his food, and
haunted by dark remembrances of the past.

The shadows of those visions still linger around the empty walls, and
pervade the silent precincts, nourishing a firm belief in the minds of
many that they are peopled by unearthly forms, and investing them with
a mysterious influence that keeps all intruders at a distance.

The Canadian driver, as he conveys the stranger in his cab or cariole
to different points of interest about the city, pauses a moment on the
height opposite the frowning mansion, and points it out--standing in
dismal grandeur among the brambles of its neglected grounds--with the
half-whispered explanation, "Yonder is the Haunted House of Montreal."

We questioned the narrator as to the fate of the Big Foot, and learned
that he made profession of the Catholic faith soon after the departure
of the "Northwester" for Montreal; and from that time until his death,
a few years later, attached himself to the service of the missionary
whom he so venerated.

"And the confidential clerk of the fur trader?" we inquired.

Rising to his feet, and drawing his tall form to its full height, our
narrator replied, with a proud self-assertion of which none but a
Scotch Highlander is fully capable, and which no pen can describe--"I
am myself that clerk. His grandfather was chief of the clan to which my
family belonged. When his father came to Canada, mine came with him.
I was but little younger than this oldest son, and we were brought up
together. When he was sent to the Northwest, I was permitted to go with
him, and never left him until the grave closed its inexorable door
between us."

He turned away to hide his emotion, and left us pondering upon the
strange things that happen in this world of ours!

FOOTNOTES:

[163] Indians always address their equals as "brothers."




ARCHBISHOP SPALDING.[164]


The late Archbishop of Baltimore was an admirable type of a class of
Catholics, hitherto containing but a small number of individuals,
though not without considerable influence and importance in the history
of the American Church. Those of our faith who have risen to the
highest distinction in this country, either in the sacred ministry or
in literature, have rarely been what we may call indigenous Catholics.
By birth or by race they have either not been Catholics or not been
Americans. Immigration and conquest are still the main dependence of
the young church of the United States. What sort of fruit its own
will be, when it comes into full bearing, the world has hardly had a
chance to judge. Abp. Spalding may be taken, however, as a specimen.
His ancestors for several generations were American, and, so far as
the record goes, they were never anything but Catholics. They came
from England to America in the early days of the Maryland colony, and
were possibly among the two hundred families brought over by Lord
Baltimore in 1634. They lived for nearly a century and a half in St.
Mary's County, and thence Benedict Spalding, the grandfather of the
Archbishop, moved to Kentucky in 1790. Benedict was the leader of a
little colony of Catholics who left their native state to seek their
fortunes together in the wilds of what was then the far West.

They settled in the valley of the Rolling Fork River, in Central
Kentucky, not far from Bardstown, where another offshoot from the
Maryland church had established itself a few years before. There Martin
John Spalding was born, May 23, 1810.

  "Kentucky," says his biographer, "was in that day covered with
  dense forests and tangled woods. There was scarcely a place in its
  whole territory that might be dignified with the name of village,
  and the only roads were the almost untrodden paths of the forest,
  on either side of which lines of blazed trees showed the traveller
  the route from point to point.

  "The forests were filled with a luxuriant undergrowth, thickly
  interspersed with cane and briers, which the intertwining wild
  pea-vine wove into an almost impenetrable network; so that, in
  certain parts, the only way of getting from place to place was
  to follow the paths worn by the migrating buffalo and other wild
  beasts. The Indian still hunted on the 'Dark and Bloody Ground,' or
  prowled about the new settlements, ready to attack them whenever an
  opportunity was offered. It has been stated on good authority that,
  from 1783 to 1790, fifteen hundred persons were killed or made
  captive by the Indians in Kentucky, or in migrating thither.

  "In 1794, the Indians appeared on the Rolling Fork, and killed
  a Catholic by the name of Buckman. This produced a panic in the
  little settlement, which caused many Catholics to move for a time
  to Bardstown, where the population was more dense. But Benedict
  Spalding remained at home, and the Indians disappeared without
  committing further outrage.

  "The early emigrants to Kentucky had to endure all the hardships
  incident to pioneer life. Even the ordinary comforts were not
  to be had in the wilderness in which they had taken up their
  abode, and they not unfrequently suffered the want of the most
  indispensable necessaries. To obtain salt, they had to go to the
  Licks, travelling often many miles through a country infested by
  savages. They dwelt in rudely constructed log-cabins, the windows
  of which were without glass, whilst the floors were of dirt, or,
  in the better sort of dwellings, of rough hewn boards. After the
  clothing which they had brought from Virginia and Maryland became
  unfit for use, the men, for the most part, wore buckskin and the
  women homespun gowns. The furniture of the cabins was of an equally
  simple kind. Stools did the office of chairs, the tables were made
  of rough boards, whilst wooden vessels served instead of plates and
  chinaware. A tin cup was an article of luxury. The chase supplied
  abundance of food. All kinds of game abounded, and, when the hunter
  had his rifle and a goodly supply of ammunition, he was rich as
  a prince. This was the school in which was trained the Kentucky
  rifleman, whose aim on the battle-field was certain death. The game
  was plainly dressed and served up on wooden platters, and, with
  cornbread and hominy, it made a feast which the keen appetite of
  honest labor and free-heartedness thought good enough for kings."

Martin was sent to a school kept by a Mr. Merrywether in a log-cabin
near the Rolling Fork, and soon distinguished himself by his
proficiency in mathematics. He learned the whole multiplication table
in a single day when he was eight years old. At the age of eleven,
he entered S. Mary's College, near Lebanon, Kentucky, being one of
the first students enrolled in that institution; and by the time he
was fourteen, he was acting as teacher of mathematics, and was famous
throughout the country as the boy-professor. From S. Mary's he went,
at the age of sixteen, to the theological seminary at Bardstown,
then under the personal direction of Bp. Flaget and his coadjutor,
Bp. David. Francis Patrick Kenrick was one of the professors in this
home of learning and piety, and soon became Mr. Spalding's intimate
friend. F. Reynolds, afterwards Bishop of Charleston, was there, and
the Rev. George Elder, founder of S. Joseph's College, was another of
the little company. Mr. Spalding remained at Bardstown four years,
dividing his time, according to the system pursued in several of our
American seminaries, between the study of theology and the instruction
of boys in the college which formed a part of the institution. He
paid no more attention to his favorite science of mathematics, and
never developed the extraordinary powers in that branch of learning
of which he had given such evidences in boyhood; but his aptitude for
theology was so marked, and his personal character so amiable, that Bp.
Flaget determined to send him to Rome to complete his studies at the
Propaganda. It was a long and rather difficult journey in those days.
He set out in April, 1830, and did not reach Rome until August. On the
way, he visited Washington and Baltimore, and made the acquaintance
of some notable persons, of whom he makes interesting mention in his
letters of travel. He seems to have been strongly impressed by the
Rev. John Hughes, afterward Archbishop of New York, whom he met in
Baltimore; and he writes with patriotic ardor of the venerable Charles
Carroll, of Carrollton, whose "good-will and benediction" it was his
fortune to receive on the eve of departure from his native land. Our
young Kentuckian, as might have been supposed from his ancestry and
education, was an enthusiastic lover of his country. "I am sure,"
he wrote some time afterwards from Rome, "that my attachment to the
institutions of my country has been increased by my absence from it."
Nothing could exceed the warmth of his enthusiasm for the sacred city
and all its religious associations; but he never forgot his home, and,
like most of his countrymen who have been educated under the shadow of
the Vatican, he came back as ardent an American as he went away.

After completing his studies with brilliant success, and sustaining a
public defence of two hundred and fifty-six propositions in theology,
church history, and canon law against the most formidable adversaries
Rome could send to the encounter (a highly interesting description
of which intellectual tilt is given by Bp. England), he returned
to Kentucky with the title of doctor, and was made pastor of the
Cathedral at Bardstown and professor of philosophy in the seminary.
His keen appreciation of the peculiar needs of the American Church is
illustrated by the zeal with which he immediately entered into the
scheme of his associates in the seminary for the establishment of a
Catholic periodical. The _S. Joseph's College Minerva_, to which he
became the principal contributor, was a monthly magazine, which lived
for about a year, and was then succeeded, in 1835, by the weekly
_Catholic Advocate_, of which Dr. Spalding was chief editor, with
Fathers Elder, Deluynes, and Clark for his assistants.

  "With Americans, Dr. Spalding used to say, newspaper reading
  is a passion which amounts to a national characteristic. In
  the Propaganda the American students were proverbial for their
  eagerness to get hold of journals, whether religious or secular.
  Now, he argued, this craving must be satisfied. If we do not
  furnish our people with wholesome food, they will devour that which
  is noxious. He believed the American people to be frank, honest,
  and open to conviction. Their dislike or hatred of the church
  he ascribed to misapprehension or ignorance of her history and
  teachings. Hence he believed that if the truth were placed before
  them plainly, simply, and fearlessly, it could not fail to make a
  favorable impression upon them. He therefore thought that to the
  Catholic press in the United States had been given a providential
  mission of the greatest importance.

  "Americans have not time, or will not take the trouble, as a
  general thing, to read heavy books of controversy. Comparatively
  few Protestants ever enter our churches, and, even when there,
  everything seems strange, and the sermon intended for Catholics
  most frequently fails to tell upon those who have not faith. And
  yet we must reach the non-Catholic mind. 'The charity of Christ
  urges us.' Apathy means want of faith, want of hope, want of love.
  Besides, the church must act intellectually as well as morally.
  If it is her duty to wrestle ever with the corrupt tendencies of
  the human heart, to point to heaven when men seek to see only this
  earth, to utter the indignant protest of the outraged soul when
  they would fain believe themselves only animals, it is not less a
  part of her divine mission to combat the intellectual errors of
  the world. We observe in the history of the church that periods of
  intellectual activity are almost invariably characterized by moral
  earnestness and religious zeal. On the other hand, when ignorance
  invades even the sanctuary, and priests forget to love knowledge,
  the blood of Christ flows sluggishly through the veins of his
  spouse, and to the eyes of men she seems to lose something of her
  divine comeliness. Indeed, there is an essential connection between
  the thoughts of a people and their actions, especially in an age
  like ours; and, if we suffer a sectarian and infidel press to
  control the intellect of the country, our words will fall dead and
  meaningless upon the hearts of our countrymen."

The Catholic press of America was then in its infancy, yet Catholic
controversies were assuming a great importance. The Hughes and
Breckinridge discussion was raging in Philadelphia. Protestantism,
alarmed apparently at the rapid progress of the American Church, was
everywhere assuming an attitude of aggression, and the country was
on the eve of one of those periodical outbursts of anti-Catholic
bigotry which seem fated to disturb every now and then the course of
national politics. Dr. Spalding was fully sensible of the wants of
the day. He wrote frequently to the Propaganda of the condition of
the American Catholic press and his efforts to extend its influence
and direct its attacks. His pen was incessantly busy. Though he was
personally one of the most amiable and peaceful of men, he allowed
no assault upon the faith to pass unnoticed; and his life for some
years was almost an incessant battle. The _Advocate_, the _United
States Catholic Magazine_, the _Catholic Cabinet_, the _Metropolitan_,
were all enriched by his contributions. He was one of the editors
of the _Metropolitan_ for several years, and, after the death of
the _Advocate_, he founded the Louisville _Guardian_, for which he
continued to write until it was suspended in consequence of the
troubles of the civil war. Dr. Spalding well knew that, next to a
newspaper, his countrymen loved a speech. He resolved that this passion
also should be turned to the advantage of the church. Bp. Flaget had
removed his cathedral from Bardstown to Louisville, and Dr. Spalding,
being called thither as vicar-general in 1844, began a series of
popular evening lectures with the co-operation of the Rev. John McGill,
afterward Bishop of Richmond. So great was the interest aroused by
these discourses, and so great the crowd of Protestants who flocked to
hear them, that the Presbyterian, Baptist, and Methodist preachers of
the city united in a "Protestant League," to counteract the influence
of the priests by a series of lectures on the abominations of Popery.
The result, of course, was exactly the reverse of what they expected.
The weekly throng at the cathedral became greater than ever. The
lectures assumed a more distinctly controversial character. The
Catholics were roused to greater ambition. For three years Dr. Spalding
continued his lectures every Sunday evening during the winter months,
composing thus the essays which he afterwards revised and published
under the title of _Evidences of Catholicity_. In a very short time
he was recognized as one of the foremost Catholic apologists of the
day, holding very nearly the same position which Bp. England had
occupied before him, and in which the late Abp. Hughes was so highly
distinguished in Philadelphia and during the earlier part of his career
in New York. Dr. Spalding, however, was less of a polemic than either
of those great men. His comprehension of the popular wants amounted
almost to an instinct, and he felt that the objections to the church
which were then commonest rested rather upon historical and political
than doctrinal prejudices, and that the great work of the Catholic
apologist was to dispel the ignorance of Protestants respecting the
faith of the middle ages, the alliance of church and state, the
influence of the Papacy upon civilization, and the harmony between
Catholicity and republicanism.

  "An American, he knew his countrymen, and admired them; a Catholic,
  he loved his religion, and was convinced of its truth. That, in
  his person, between faith and patriotism there was no conflict,
  was manifest. He loved his country all the more because he was a
  Catholic, and he was all the sincerer Catholic because no mere
  human authority was brought to influence the free offering of
  his soul to God's service. He accepted with cheerful courage the
  position in which God had placed his church in this young republic,
  and he asked for her, not privilege or protection, but justice,
  common rights under the common law; and such was his confidence in
  God, and in the truth of his cause, that he had no doubt as to the
  final issue of the struggle of religion, free and untrammelled,
  with the prejudices of a people who, however erroneous and mistaken
  their views might be, were still fair-minded and generous. Admiring
  much in the past, he still did not think that all was lost because
  that past was gone. Let the old, he thought, the feeble, the
  impotent complain; those to whom God gives youth and strength must
  act; and the church is ever young and ever strong. God is infinite
  strength, and of this attribute, as of his others, his spouse
  participates. If the latest word of philosophy, both in metaphysics
  and natural science, is force; if the old theory of inertia has
  been dropped, since the power of analysis has shown that everywhere
  there is action, motion, force, let it be so. The church, too, is
  strength. She has a force and an energy of her own. Daughter of
  heaven, she has brought on earth some of that divine efficacy by
  which all things were made. Christ is the strength of God, and from
  his cross he poured into the heart of his spouse, together with his
  life-blood, his godlike power....

  "Without entering into the complex and delicate question of the
  proper relations of the church and state, he accepted the actual
  position of the church in this country with thankfulness and
  without mental reservation. In this matter, he neither blamed
  the past nor sought to dictate to the future, but put his hand
  to the work which God had placed before him. He saw all that was
  to be done, and, without stopping to reflect how little he could
  do, he began at once to do what he could. Taking a moderate, and
  possibly a just, estimate of his own ability, he considered that
  his mission as a writer and public teacher demanded that he should
  be useful and practical rather than original or profound. Hence
  he neither wrote nor spoke for posterity, but for the generation
  in which he lived. His first aim was to remove the prejudices
  which false history and a perverted literature had created in the
  minds of his countrymen. The influence of the church on society,
  on civilization, and on civil liberty was wholly misunderstood;
  her services in the cause of learning, of art, and of commerce
  were ignored; her undying love for the poor and the oppressed were
  forgotten."

During the Know-Nothing excitement, which culminated after his
elevation to the episcopate (he had been consecrated coadjutor to the
Bishop of Louisville in 1848, and succeeded to the see in 1850), Bp.
Spalding's course was remarkable alike for prudence, charity, and
courage. He used all his influence during the riots in Louisville to
restrain the pardonable anger of the Catholic population; and it is
the testimony of one who knew him intimately that during those trying
days, when Catholics were murdered or driven from the city, and houses
were burned, and the mob was threatening to destroy the cathedral,
"he manifested a more than usual peace of mind. He spent the greater
part of his moments of leisure in the sanctuary in prayer, and seemed
through communion with God to grow unconscious of the trouble which
men were seeking to bring upon the church, and which he could not but
feel most keenly." His only great share in the published controversies
of the period was a discussion with the late Prof. Morse as to the
authenticity of an anti-Catholic phrase attributed to Lafayette--a
dispute which attracted a great deal of notice while it lasted,
although, of course, the subject was not of permanent interest. This,
we say, was his only direct share in the polemical literature of that
day; but his collection of _Miscellanea_, which appeared in 1855,
answered all the purposes of a formal discussion without assuming a
controversial tone. The essays and reviews comprised in this book were
written, says the biographer, in "a free, off-hand, straight-forward
style, peculiarly suited to the American taste. They covered the
whole ground of what was then the Catholic controversy in the United
States, and, by facts resting upon unexceptionable testimony, by
arguments which appeal at once to the good sense and fair-mindedness
of the reader, and by the whole spirit and temper in which they are
written, furnish a defence of the church, as against the attacks of
her accusers, the strength of which could not be easily broken." Bp.
Spalding had none of the ambition of a scholar or a man of letters. He
cared nothing for literary reputation. He set no store by the graces
of a polished style. He wrote for present effect, and not for future
fame; and if his essays could be read and discussed while they were
wet from the press, he had no particular desire that they should hold
a place on the library shelves of posterity. Whatever he wrote had an
occasional--we might almost say an evanescent--appearance, because
his sole impulse in writing was some immediate want of the American
church. His pen was powerful, because it was always employed on timely
themes, and he had a wonderfully happy art of suiting his style to
the tastes and capacities of his readers. With all his scholarship
and culture, he spent no great pains upon learned research, simply
because he knew that, under the circumstances in which he was placed,
such pains would be wasted. His books, however, will long survive
the generation for which they were written; and his _History of the
Protestant Reformation_ especially, though it is ostensibly nothing
more than a caustic review of D'Aubigné and other Protestant writers,
is universally esteemed as one of the most valuable works in American
Catholic literature.

If Dr. Spalding's single-hearted devotion to the church was conspicuous
in his literary labors, it was still more remarkable in the other
incidents of his busy career. The story of his life is one long record
of untiring effort to advance the glory of the church and extend
her conquests. The question of education always engrossed a great
deal of his care. Soon after his consecration, he went to Europe to
obtain the services of some teaching brotherhood, and succeeded in
securing a community of Xaverians; and in the pastoral address which,
as promoter of the First Provincial Council of Cincinnati, he was
deputed to write to the clergy and laity of the province (1855), he
spoke with great earnestness of the need of parochial schools; and
time after time he returned to the subject, denouncing the system of
godless education, and urging the faithful to fresh exertions and more
generous expenditure for the religious instruction of their children.
One result of his opposition to the common-school system was a vigorous
controversy with George D. Prentice, of the Louisville _Journal_, in
the course of which the bishop reviewed not only the Catholic position
on the school question, but the whole dispute as to the bearing of
Catholic principles upon the social and political conditions of the
country. The foundation of the American College at Louvain was almost
entirely his work. The American College at Rome found in him a firm
and active friend. In the Second Plenary Council of Baltimore he
proposed the establishment of a Catholic university in this country;
and we certainly can never forget the affectionate interest which
he manifested in the Catholic Publication Society, aiding it by his
advice, his encouragement, and his earnest recommendation to the
bishops and pastors of the country, and writing the first tract which
appeared from its press.

After what we have said of his devotion to the church, and the
enthusiasm with which he bent every energy to her service, it can
hardly be necessary to explain with what dispositions he took his place
in the Vatican Council. Strangely enough, however, his relations with
that venerable assemblage have been somewhat misunderstood, and his
biographer has been at commendable pains to remove all mistake and
obscurity.

  "Archbishop Spalding had always believed in the infallibility of
  the Pope. This belief was a tradition with the Maryland Catholics,
  fostered and rendered stronger by the Jesuit fathers, who for so
  many years were their only religious teachers. His fathers had
  taken this faith with them to Kentucky. It was the doctrine which
  he had received from Flaget and David. Neither the Catholics of
  Maryland nor their descendants in Kentucky were tainted with even
  a tinge of Gallicanism. Indeed, it may be affirmed that, as far as
  we have a tradition in this country, it is thoroughly orthodox. It
  is the special pride of the American Church that it has not only
  been faithful to the Vicar of Christ, but has ever had for him the
  tenderest devotion.

  "'Thank God,' wrote Archbishop Spalding to Cardinal Cullen in
  1866, just after the close of the Second Plenary Council of
  Baltimore--'thank God, we are Roman to the heart.' The confession
  of faith of both the Plenary Councils of Baltimore is as full and
  complete on this point as it was then possible to make it. When,
  after the convocation of the Vatican Council, the question, whether
  or not it would be opportune to define the infallibility of the
  Pope, first began to be discussed, Archbishop Spalding inclined
  to the opinion that a formal definition would be unnecessary and
  possibly inexpedient. He thought that Gallicanism was dead, and
  that Catholics everywhere believed in the infallibility of the Holy
  See. Hence, he argued, there could be no necessity for a formal
  definition. He believed, too, that much time would be consumed
  in conciliary debate, in case the question of fixing the precise
  limits of Papal infallibility should be submitted to the fathers.

  "These considerations led him to think that the most proper way of
  proclaiming the dogma of Papal infallibility would be to condemn
  all errors opposed to it; and this was his opinion when he went
  to the council. It was, however, merely an opinion, formed, as he
  himself felt, without a perfect knowledge of all the circumstances
  in the case, and one which, upon fuller information, he might see
  cause to change. He was not a partisan. He had in him none of the
  stuff out of which partisans are made. He was simply a Catholic
  bishop, who had never belonged to a party either in the church or
  out of it.

  "On the 27th of March, 1869, eight months before the assembling of
  the council, he wrote as follows to a distinguished theologian who
  was at that time in Rome:

  "'I believe _firmly_ the infallibility of the Pope, but incline to
  think its formal definition unnecessary and perhaps inexpedient,
  not only for the reasons which you allege, but also on account
  of the difficulty of fixing the precise limits of doctrinal
  decisions. Where they are formal, as in the case of the Immaculate
  Conception, there is no difficulty. But are all the declarations
  of encyclicals, allocutions, and similar documents to be received
  as doctrinal definitions? And what about the decisions of
  congregations, confirmed by the Pope?'

  "And again, in August, he wrote:

  "'While maintaining the high _Roman_ ground of orthodoxy, I caution
  much prudence in framing constitutions.'

  "In both these letters, Archbishop Spalding seems to take for
  granted that a definition will be made; and he simply indicates his
  preference for an implicit rather than a formal definition.

  "In August, 1869, two months before leaving for the council, he
  wrote to Cardinal Barnabo, giving his views on various subjects
  which he supposed would be brought before the fathers. One of
  these he designates as 'The Infallibility of the Sovereign Pontiff
  teaching _ex cathedra_.' 'I have not,' he says, 'the least doubt
  of this infallibility, and there are very few bishops who do
  doubt of it. The only question which may, perhaps, arise will
  relate to the utility, advisability, and necessity of making an
  _explicit_ definition in the council. It will have to be considered
  whether a definition of this kind would not be likely to excite
  controversies now slumbering and almost extinct; whether an
  _implicit_ definition--an amplification of that of the Council of
  Florence--which would define the dogma without using the word,
  would not be more opportune and of greater service to the cause of
  the church.

  "'Should the fathers deem it expedient to make a formal definition,
  its limits should be accurately marked, and, in the accompanying
  doctrinal exposition, statement should be made whether and how
  far, in the intention of the fathers, this infallibility should be
  extended to pontifical letters, allocutions, encyclicals, bulls,
  and other documents of this nature.'

  "This letter affords sufficient evidence that Archbishop Spalding
  had all along contemplated the contingency of an explicit
  definition, and that he did not look upon it with any alarm. In
  fact, he held that a definition, either implicit or explicit, was
  necessary. If he did not, in the beginning, advocate a formal
  definition, he was still less in favor of abstaining from the
  unmistakable affirmation of the faith of the church on this point."

He expressed his views more fully in a _postulatum_ drawn up after
his arrival in Rome--a document asserting the infallibility of the
Pope in the most unmistakable manner, but suggesting an implicit and
indirect instead of an explicit and direct definition, because such
a course would be likely to command "the approval of almost all the
fathers, and would be confirmed by their quasi-unanimous suffrage."
Soon after this memorial was drawn up, Abp. Spalding was made a member
of the committee of twelve cardinals and fourteen prelates appointed by
the Holy Father to consider all _postulata_ before they were brought
before the council, and he consequently refrained through delicacy from
pressing the consideration of his own scheme; but it was energetically
discussed in various quarters, and Abp. Spalding came to be looked
upon as a leader of the so-called "third party," which was supposed to
hold a position between the opportunists and the non-opportunists in
the council. Meanwhile, it became evident to the archbishop that, to
quote his own language, but two courses lay before the fathers--either
to place themselves openly on the side of the Pope, or on that of the
opposition; and he wrote a letter to Bp. Dupanloup, repudiating the
false construction which had been placed upon his _postulatum_, and
the false inferences drawn from it, and declaring himself emphatically
in favor of the plainest possible definition of the doctrine. "When
the history of the Vatican Council comes to be written," says an
English author, "not many names will be written with more honor than
that of the wise and prudent Archbishop of Baltimore; nor will any
extra-conciliary document be recorded in future generations with deeper
satisfaction or warmer gratitude than the letter in which Mgr. Spalding
vindicated himself and his colleagues from all complicity with Gallican
doctrines and intrigues." In a pastoral address to his flock, written
immediately after the definition, the archbishop made a very clear
statement of the doctrine, and pointed out some of its consequences. He
answered the objection that it was in conflict with civil and political
liberty, which he believed could flourish only under the shadow of the
altar and the cross, and he reminded his people that the same theories
of government upon which the American republic is founded were taught
by the Catholic schoolmen three hundred years before Washington was
born.

We have not attempted, in this brief survey of the character of
the late Archbishop of Baltimore, to sketch the incidents of his
episcopate--and, indeed, they were very few--or even to enumerate
the most important works which occupied his busy brain. Our purpose
has rather been to select from the valuable pages before us a few
indications of those peculiar qualities of mind which made him
pre-eminently a representative of the young and vigorous American
Church, so strong in the faith, so ardent in attachment to the Holy
See, so reverent of Catholic tradition, and withal so quick to adapt
itself to the special wants of a free and growing country. We would
gladly have paused for a little while over the attractive story of
Bp. Spalding's early pastoral peregrinations through the primitive
settlements of Kentucky, his charity, his gentleness, his love for
children, the touching scenes when he visited the orphan asylums, in
which he took such a tender interest, or the beautiful picture of the
great preacher and prelate sitting humbly in the school-room with the
little ones about his knees. All this would draw us too far away from
our proper subject; but we must allow ourselves one extract from the
few scattered passages in which the biographer has told us of his
private life:

  "I shall never forget the pleasant journeys which, when quite a
  small boy, I had the happiness to make with him. His merry laugh,
  that might have been that of a child who had never known a sorrow
  or a care, the simple and naïve way he had of listening to the
  prattle of children, the whole expression of the countenance
  showing a soul at rest and happy in the work which he was doing,
  are still present to my mind, like the remembrance of flowers and
  sunshine. And I remember, too, with what warmth, and reverence, and
  love he was received everywhere, and how his presence was never
  connected in my mind with anything morose or severe. Eyes that
  seemed to have looked for his coming grew brighter when he had
  come; and when he was gone, it was like the ceasing of sweet music
  which one would wish to hear always, but which, even when hushed,
  keeps playing on in the soul, attuning it to gentler moods and
  higher thoughts. He was full of human sympathies and human ways.
  The purple of the bishop never hid the man; nor did he, because
  he belonged to the supernatural order, cease to be natural. There
  was, indeed, a certain elegance and refinement about him which
  no one could fail to perceive, the true breeding of a gentleman;
  but withal he was as plain as the simplest Kentucky farmer. He
  rarely talked about learned things; and when he did, he did not
  talk in a learned way. He possessed naturally remarkable powers
  of adaptation, which enabled him to feel perfectly at ease in
  circumstances and companies the most dissimilar. There was not a
  poor <DW64> in his whole diocese with whom he was not willing to
  talk about anything that could be of advantage to him. I remember
  particularly how kindly he used to speak to the old servants of his
  father, who had known him as a child. He had a special sympathy
  with this whole race, and I have known him, whilst Archbishop of
  Baltimore, to take the trouble to write a long letter to an old
  <DW64> in Kentucky who had consulted him concerning his own little
  affairs.

  "He frequently wrote to children ten or twelve years old, from whom
  he had received letters. In company where there were children, he
  never failed to devote himself to their amusement, even to the
  forgetfulness of the claims of more important persons. When at
  home, he usually passed the forenoon in writing, or in receiving
  those who called to see him on matters of business. After dinner,
  he spent some time in conversation, which he always enjoyed, then
  withdrew to his room to say vespers, with matins and lauds for the
  following day. In summer, he kept up an old Roman habit of taking
  a short repose in the afternoon. He would then walk out, calling
  in here and there to visit some school or convent, or to spend a
  few moments with some Catholic family. On the street, he would stop
  to greet, with a few pleasant words, almost every acquaintance he
  chanced to meet. Frequently he would remain to tea at the house
  of a friend, after which he returned to his room to write or read
  until the hour for retiring for the night arrived. The rule in his
  house was, that every one should be in at ten o'clock, when the
  door was locked. Apart from this regulation, he never interfered
  with the tastes or hours of the priests of his household. In the
  cathedral, he had his own confessional, and, when at home, he was
  generally found there on Saturday afternoon; and it was his custom
  to preach at the late Mass on Sunday."

The Rev. F. Spalding, to whom the task of writing this biography was
committed by the archbishop's literary executor, had the advantage of
a somewhat intimate knowledge of his distinguished uncle, and of free
access to manuscript sources of information. He has done his work ably
and conscientiously, with an accurate judgment of the salient points
in the story, and no slight skill in the arrangement of his abundant
materials. His style is simple and unaffected, and his whole book,
from the first chapter to the last, is thoroughly readable; while, as
a contribution to the ecclesiastical history of the United States, its
value is of course very considerable.

As a biography of an able and successful prelate, whose career was
most honorable and useful--of a man who was virtuous and holy from his
childhood to his grave, and who has left a bright example of loyalty
to God and the holy faith of Christ in a corrupt age--it is of greater
value than any similar work which has hitherto been published in this
country. This great and holy prelate is worthy to be classed among
those noble and illustrious rulers of the church in past ages and the
present whose history is an ornament to ecclesiastical annals. Apart
from his career as a bishop in the administration of the important
churches committed to his care, his share in the successful issue of
the first session of the Vatican Council and in that most auspicious
event, the definition of the infallibility of the Pope, entitles him
to the perpetual remembrance, not only of the American Church, on
which he reflected so much lustre, but of the Catholics of the world.
The history of his pure and holy life, so highly marked by devotion,
integrity, fidelity, and singleness of high purpose, and closing with
a death so beautiful, ought to produce, as we hope it will, a powerful
and stimulating effect upon the studious Catholic youth of our country.

It is a great good fortune to a man whose life is worth writing to
find an affectionate, just, and skilful biographer. In this respect
Abp. Spalding has been more fortunate than those other great ornaments
of the American hierarchy, England and Kenrick; though we hope the
lack may yet be supplied in the case of these two prelates. We have
all along expected that this biography would become very soon one of
the most popular, widely circulated, and useful books which has ever
issued from the American Catholic press; and we feel confident that our
expectation will not be unfulfilled.

FOOTNOTES:

[164] _The Life of the Most Rev. M. J. Spalding, D.D., Archbishop
of Baltimore._ By J. L. Spalding, S.T.L. New York: The Catholic
Publication Society. 8vo, p. 468.




TRAVELS WITH A VALETUDINARIAN.


I.

The summer solstice again, and the metropolis an oven! Why should I
remain in it and be baked? There was just one reason that detained
me: I could not make up my mind to what point of the compass to
peregrinate. On my return from last year's ramble, I had determined
to join an Alpine club on my next holiday, and wander in search of
the grand in mountainous districts. It only wants lungs and muscle, I
thought, and I considered myself equal to the undertaking. The smaller
the quantity of luggage the better, was my next reflection. But I was
completely put out of conceit of Alpine climbing on visiting my friend
Mount. I saw Mount six weeks ago, and all my calculations of enjoyment
were upset. Mount was already in training for his journey, as if for
a boat-race; he was eating, drinking, taking exercise, gymnastic and
pedestrian, and sleeping just so many hours, to a minute, on the most
approved system. Then, he had such a collection of what he termed
indispensable companions for his travels--such optical instruments,
theodolites, grappling-irons and sharp-pointed staves, that I was
persuaded that his peace of mind would be endangered in looking after
them, to say nothing of wanting a dromedary to carry them. I, who never
make pleasure a toil, wished my friend an agreeable time of it, and
respectfully declined participating. I am fully aware that I shall be
told by-and-by that I have missed a great deal; and I am equally sure
that I shall uncomplainingly submit to my loss; but if ever I ascend
mountains in quest of the sublime, rather than prepare so laboriously,
I will charter a balloon.

I was still negativing suggestions that thronged upon me from many
estimable friends, and was still far from determining my particular
destination, when I stumbled on an agreeable, middle-aged bachelor
acquaintance, Mr. Stowell.

"I am rejoiced to see you looking so well," I began.

"Appearances are deceptive, my dear Lovejoy," he replied. "But I am
better, thank you. Ah! what a blessing is health."

"It is, indeed."

"And yet how men squander it away; yes, Mr. Lovejoy, squander it just
as they do money; and of the two it is the more precious! It should be
an object of unceasing care--to be husbanded with wise frugality."

"Well, it is, sir, as you instituted the comparison, to be treated like
money in certain respects. There is an old saying that, if we look to
the pence, the pounds will take care of themselves; and in like manner,
if a few simple regulations patent to every one are attended to, health
is to be attained by the bulk of mankind."

"There, sir, excuse me, you are wrong. I have made the subject my
study, and my conclusion is that the matter is much more complex than
the care of pence. Consider its conditions." And the worthy gentleman
told them off on his fingers very deliberately. "There is," said he,
"proper nourishment, temperance, exercise, repose, suitable raiment,
salubrious locality, cleanliness, ventilation. And where is the man
who is mindful of the harmonious working of all these agencies; for the
neglect of one of them is mostly fatal to the rest?"

"Then, there are such a number of complications in the constitution of
health, I think we must withdraw the charge of squandering; for the
mass of men could never be hemmed in by a series of sanitary rules only
partially understood and only partially practicable, though they might
be like children throwing away treasures without a knowledge of their
value. Squandering implies, to my mind, wilful waste."

"No, sir; I maintain that squander is the right word, and I accept your
meaning of it. I say it is every man's duty to study health, and, if
he does, he will find the complications I have spoken of exceedingly
easy of comprehension. But, sir, men will not learn; they will put
themselves to no trouble at all; and they squander their days away,
because they heed not the value of them. Their daily conviction makes
them conscious of that value, but they stifle it--yes, sir, they
squander!"

"I will not argue the question further. I perceive you have given it
more attention than I have."

"I own it, and I am proud of it. And now, if you will add a favor to
the concession you have just made, you will join me, be my _compagnon
de voyage_ out of this furnace, which, we shall both agree, is only
suited to the constitution of a salamander."

"You flatter me by your invitation; but I have not settled in my mind
what direction to take."

"Leave that to me, sir. If you will gratify me by giving me the
pleasure of your company, I would propose to change about from place to
place--now inland scenery, then seaside, different parts of the coast,
a last view of the country rich in autumnal tints, and then home before
Boreas is too rough for us."

"That will do admirably. You speak like one who had well considered his
plans."

"I have, sir; it all comes under the study of health."

"Really, you will make a convert of me."

"All in good time. We will get off first; let us start to-morrow, if
not too soon for you."

"With all my heart. I love promptitude in action. But by land or water?
And whither?"

"We will take the Great Slaughterton Railroad, in the first instance.
That's imperative!"

"My dear sir, there was a fearful accident on that line only
yesterday--a hundred and sixteen persons killed, besides loss of limbs,
dislocations, contusions innumerable!"

"The very thing for us! A nine days' wonder! That line will be
particularly careful for a whole week to come while the public eye
is on it. We shall be quite safe, sir; but the earlier, the better.
To-morrow, then?"

Assent was given, and I was booked for the Great Slaughterton. I was a
little startled at my friend's precipitation, which seemed at variance
with his usual deliberation; but he had given a reason for expedition
on the route he had selected, and, on accompanying him home, I found
that his preparations had been made. He showed me all the latest
contrivances for comfortable travelling, in a variety of valises,
portmanteaus, leather bags, satchels, baths, and a mahogany box which
reminded me of a liquor case or cabinet of choice revolvers.

"You see I am all but ready," he said.

"Indeed you are," I replied. "But I shall overtake you, though I
have not begun to pack; for I travel in a more primitive style. I
leave behind me all I can do without, and trust to civilization to
supply wants that may come upon me. A purse and the least possible
encumbrances are what I look to. You are not, I suppose, going to
burden yourself with that mahogany case, though I perceive it is
labelled."

"My life-preserver, sir!"

"Oh! I thought it might be a strong box for your valuables, and I
was about to suggest your entrusting it to your bankers. We are not,
however, going into any dangerous quarters where firearms...."

"No dangers, sir, while I have the honor to be your guide! It is my
medicine-chest--an indispensable part of my equipment!"

"Ha! You cannot trust country apothecaries; and you, of course,
understand something of physic."

"A person at my time of life, sir, is usually said to be a fool or a
physician. Not that I despise the faculty--we may have to call in their
aid before we return."

"I hope not, Mr. Stowell; and present appearances are not in their
favor, I am happy to say."

"You have not, I see, made health a study."

"You have the advantage of me there," I rejoined, as speedily as I
could relieve myself of the sentiment, fearing another dissertation;
and the occurrence of the topic impressed my mind with some alarm that
our difference of mental organism might compromise our good-fellowship
before we came to the end of our journey. Dwelling for a moment on this
idea, I thought I would venture to insinuate terms of concord; so I
followed up my hasty remark by a suggestion of mutual forbearance while
we were birds of passage.

"It may not be thought out of place," I said, "if I take this early
opportunity of pointing out that our minds do not work in the same
groove; and that we may find it necessary to give and take, as the
saying is, while we shall be together. For my part, I may claim a
little indulgence for some hobby of my own, possibly; and I trust
you will bear in mind how completely I give in to you on all that
appertains to the laws of health."

Mr. Stowell fidgetted about in his chair, and seemed scarcely to take
in the scope of my observation.

"All I would recommend," I added, "is that we should endeavor to 'play
fair'--in our intellectual conflicts, I mean. Let 'Put yourself in his
Place' be a lesson to each of us, and I have no doubt that nothing will
occur to ruffle our temper or lessen our enjoyment."

"Temper, sir!" replied my friend. "I am glad you spoke of it. You will
only find me too much of a lamb. I detest bickerings and disagreements.
No, sir, you will have an easy time of it with me. A little humoring
of some whim of mine might be judicious, not to say friendly; but,
beyond that, you will not find anywhere a less quarrelsome and more
conciliatory being than Benjamin Stowell."

"Then there is every prospect, I rejoice to say for both our sakes, of
a lasting understanding between us."

"As firm and durable as adamant!" exclaimed Mr. Stowell energetically,
emphasizing the remark by a smart blow on the arm of his chair.


II.

We started on the Great Slaughterton Railroad next day, and it duly
consigned us to our destination--a romantically situated town on a fine
table-land. The main street in the town, at its extremity, commanded
an extensive view of a beautiful country, which promised us some
refreshing breezes as they swept over the expansive plains, and many
shady retreats from the fiery sun under the umbrageous arms of lofty
trees that relieved the prospect from monotony. We took lodgings, Mr.
Stowell undertaking to suit our tastes and pockets in this important
matter, and claiming from the landlord several extra indulgences
without additional cost, on the score of infirm health. Our journey
had been very enjoyable, and it had sharpened our appetites; for the
prospect of a repast after a good bath in a capacious washstand, which
seemed to cool the atmosphere of each of our bed-chambers, put us both
in good humor. Everything was well arranged, and, in an incredibly
short space of time, we sat down to an excellent table tempting us with
its burnished silver and its covering of whitest damask. We both, as it
seemed to me, did justice to our meal, and I was a little surprised,
therefore, when my friend exclaimed:

"Very provoking, is it not? Travelling has a most peculiar effect on
me: it creates the semblance of an appetite; but the moment I sit down
to eat, I have no relish for anything."

"Then have I made all this havoc?" I inquired, with something, perhaps,
of a dubious air, pointing to the reduced state of the viands.

"I don't wish to be rude, sir, but I have been envying your enjoyment."

"I was sharp-set, I confess; and I must have been too busy to observe
your inactivity," I replied, feeling sure that Mr. Stowell's incisors
had been no more idle than my own, and wondering what they would go
through when their owner gave them their allotted amount of work on a
more favorable occasion.

"Always a small eater, sir!" remarked my friend, speaking of himself in
a tone of regret.

"Little and often, perhaps?" I asked.

"Not at all, sir; loss of appetite is one of my troubles. Weak
digestion! If you should be afflicted in that way, I possess an
excellent specific, and I have with me one or two valuable treatises on
the stomachic functions."

"But have they not failed in your own case?"

"They have lost some of their efficacy, I allow; but they had a
marvellous effect at first. I take it, all remedies wear themselves
out, so that we need continual change."

"Of diet?"

"Of regimen, sir! You will find it so, if you will make health your
study."

"I won't dispute your conclusions, but I am in the habit of leaving
matters to nature, and she has served me hitherto excellently well."

"Very true; but she wants renovating perpetually. It is fatal to rely
upon her unassisted efforts. The artificial life we lead is too much
for her. Cooks have done for nature, and doctors are called in to
restore her powers."

"But you would not physic a man in health merely because he lives, as
is contended, artificially?"

"Certainly, most certainly! Prevention is better than cure."

"I prefer to wait until a cure is needed."

"Contrary to all sound system when prevention is possible!"

"Your theory will make the fortune of the doctors."

"A noble profession!"

Mr. Stowell now suggested a walk, which had my advocacy, and we sallied
out.

"We will allow ourselves exactly one hour," said my friend, taking out
his watch. "I go on system, as you will see. Now, which way is the
wind? Westerly. Ay, that will do!"

"A very fine evening! We shall be able to proceed down the chief
thoroughfare, and go a little distance on the high-road beyond."

"No, sir, we shall have the wind in our teeth!"

"It is too balmy to hurt us!"

"I am not sure of that. I never face the wind if I can help it. I have
known numberless evils result from a little want of attention to such
an apparently insignificant point."

Accordingly, we took a northerly direction, and we were rewarded with a
sight of some beautiful scenery on that side of the town, so that the
caprices of my friend caused me no disappointment.

We returned to our lodgings after a most delightful stroll of an hour
and a quarter. Mr. Stowell looked at his watch with a dissatisfied air.

"I must be aware of you," he said, "a second time; you have beguiled me
into a transgression. I am not angry, sir, not angry, but I shall feel
the effect of it."

"Pray, what have I done?"

"Sir, you have talked me into at least fifteen minutes' excess beyond
my regular exercise. I shall suffer for it."

"Do not blame me. Say, rather, that the freshness and novelty of the
scenery have led us astray. You are not tired?"

"Not at all. But I ought to be!"

"Then I will prophesy that you will not come to harm."

"Were you not to give in to me in all matters appertaining to health?
Don't contradict me again, I beg. I know my own constitution so
thoroughly. I shall not be able to sleep without an opiate!"

"I am sorry to hear that; but let me suggest your first trying the
effect of the change of air?"

"Really, sir, you are ignorantly striving to undermine the study of my
life. Don't suppose for an instant that any scenery would keep me on
my legs five minutes past my time, or that air has anything to do with
provoking sleep. In primitive times, such might have been the case,
and it may be so even now with juveniles; but too much artificiality
surrounds adults. I shall be obliged to have recourse to my chest,
and I shall give you a treat when I open it for inspection. It _is_ a
_multum in parvo_! Make your mind quite easy that, come what will, I
have almost every remedy, not merely within call, but within reach.
There's consolation for you!"

I bowed my acknowledgment, which I could not find words, I own, to
express.

Presently my friend proposed that we should have half an hour's
reading; and, on his asking me if I had any skill in elocution, I
replied that, having some taste for it, I should be happy to read aloud
to him, if it would afford him any pleasure.

"Well, you won't be offended," he said, "if I ask you to stop, should I
not like your style?"

"Certainly not--the moment I fatigue you," I replied.

"And on no account exceed half an hour. Never mind breaking off in a
fine passage--we can have that another time; but I could not endure
a book more than thirty minutes, not even a newspaper, which, for
diversity of contents, perhaps is the best kind of reading."

I accepted the conditions, and, finding a volume of _Montaigne's
Essays_ on a shelf, I took it down, and raised the question whether
the old Gascon would be to my companion's taste. He replied in the
affirmative, and declared his conviction that the art of essay-writing
was lost, and that no essayist was comparable to Montaigne. So lively
an author he could hear, he continued, with a good deal of enthusiasm,
for the allotted time, with the greatest pleasure and without a yawn.

Fortunate in the selection of my author, I opened the volume without
looking for any particular subject--for we both agreed that it was
impossible to alight on a dull place--and commenced reading.

"Capital!" exclaimed my friend, in less than five minutes. "Capital!
What a marvellous digestion that man must have had! You can see
it in the clearness of his ideas! Let's see, he was before Galen,
wasn't he? Go on, don't let me interrupt you; we will settle these
points afterwards. Don't forget what just occurred to me about his
digestion--it's important. You may not think so, ha! ha! but I know.
Don't stop." And he composed himself as if for attentive listening,
with his head thrown back in his chair, and his arms folded across his
broad chest.

I had paused during this slight interruption, but, at the bidding
of my companion, resumed our essay. Mr. Stowell seemed deep in
thought as I occasionally caught sight of him, but, becoming more
and more interested in my author, I glanced at him less frequently.
Mr. Stowell's watch lay on the table before me, probably with a
view of confining the lecture within the stipulated limits. My eye
noted the hour as I progressed. I had been reading exactly twenty
minutes--two-thirds of my prescribed time. I proceeded a few minutes
longer, forgetful of everything but the book, which was enchaining my
attention. A hoarse noise came from my friend's chair on the opposite
side of the table. I was too busy to look up, and the noise grew
louder and thicker. Was it possible? Was that the heavy breathing of
my friend, yielding to the influence of the air and our lively Gascon?
Another volume, not of print, but of sound, and it was an unmistakable
snore! I raised my eyes, and there was my friend fast asleep.

I read on until my time was up, lest the cessation of my voice should
disturb his slumbers. When my half-hour had fairly expired, I satisfied
myself that neither the stoppage of any accustomed sound nor the
raising of an uncommon one had any effect on the sleeper, so securely
was he locked in the arms of Morpheus.


III.

For the next two hours I read to myself, but there was no change in the
attitude of my friend, unless he had become more musical in the double
bass of his nasal intonations. A reflection crossed my mind. Was I not
in a dilemma? Mr. Stowell had fallen to sleep without his opiate! He
would be very testy at finding his theory at fault, and an ignoramus
like myself right! It was dangerous to awake him; and, if I allowed him
to sleep on, he would be angry when he awoke to discover that he was
not in bed.

Twelve o'clock struck. I continued reading. One o'clock struck, two,
three--no change! Four o'clock! Montaigne had deeply interested me,
but at last I was tired and inclined to rest. Should I retire? Was my
freedom of action gone? I did not wish to be thought inconsiderate, but
was I shackled by the companionship of a middle-aged bore? Again I took
refuge in my book. Five o'clock--broad daylight again! Seven hours'
sleep for Mr. Stowell, and not a wink for me! I could put up with it
no longer. I called to him by name, shouted, whistled, walked about,
treading heavily on the floor. To no purpose. I opened the window,
and let in the streaming sun and the refreshing morning breeze. An
extra snort from Mr. Stowell, nothing more! At length I repaired to my
chamber, which adjoined our sitting apartment. I had just undressed,
when my friend was evidently on his legs.

"What a bore!" I overheard him exclaim. "I told him not to read more
than half an hour, and he must have prosed on till dawn. I must be rid
of him!"

"Thank heaven!" was on my lips, when he slammed the door of his chamber
with great violence. Here is a recompense, I thought, for obliging a
friend.

We were late at breakfast. I was taking my seat at the breakfast-table,
when Mr. Stowell savagely accosted me.

"I am a lamb in temper, but I can't stand this, Mr. Lovejoy! I will
thank you to read to yourself another evening. A pretty thing to keep
me up, and then leave me exposed to the chill dews!"

I restrained myself as a man does with right on his side.

"I read at your request," I calmly replied, "and not a moment longer
than you desired. I remained up with you until five, not liking to
disturb you. It is I, sir, who have reason to complain."

"I don't care. I won't have it. If there is one thing I detest, it is
being up all night! Young men can do without sleep; my constitution
requires full seven--"

"Hours' sleep, and, to my positive knowledge, it had it; while I have
not had three."

"A dog sleep, sir--an unnatural sleep, sir--no sleep at all, sir.
I shall feel the want of rest for days to come. Ha! I know why it
was: you thought to deprive me of my opiate! But I understand my
constitution. I will have my opiate in spite of you. You compel me
to have recourse to my chest. I should but for you have made up my
morning's prescription overnight. It must be taken fasting."

Patiently I listened to this tirade, and did not condescend to answer.
Mr. Stowell brought out his medicine-chest, and busied himself for
some time in weighing and pounding. At length he gulped down some kind
of mixture. I occupied myself meanwhile with the morning paper. The
mixture or its preparation had one good effect--it restored my friend's
good humor.

"There, I will not be angry; I never am; I cannot be. I wish you would
let me recommend you a dose. I will mix it directly; I will, indeed. It
will do you a wonderful amount of good."

The offer I politely declined.

"I see," he continued, "you have lost your temper. Now, what can I do
to recover it?" His eye then caught a programme of a morning concert on
the table. "The very thing!" he added. "This very day! We'll go! Let me
persuade you. 'Music hath charms, etc.' Say yes, and oblige me."

Not wishing to appear churlish, I assented, simply pointing out that
the thermometer would range high in a concert-room. My objection was
overruled, and we both sat down to breakfast. I was glad to see my
friend enjoy his meal with what I thought a decided relish, for he had
been very actively employed; and I was on the point of asking whether
his mixture had not produced an excellent appetite, when he amused me
by saying:

"Positively, I never _can_ take a breakfast! Everything very tempting,
though. But then, want of sleep! Ah! I can't get over that."

By this time, I knew better than to contradict my friend, and I
suffered his remarks, therefore, to pass unchallenged. In due time, we
went to the concert. Several songs by distinguished artists were sung,
the chief burden of them being the pleasures of summer, bright, sunny
days, golden dawns, and glorious eves. These appropriate subjects and
the heat of the room made me sigh for some shady retreat under a leafy
canopy, such as had charmed my eye during our saunter of the previous
evening. The concert came to an end.

"Do you know," said my friend, when we found ourselves in the open air,
"I don't much care for music?"

"Not on a hot day, perhaps," I replied.

"No, sir, it is not that; but I have turned the occasion to some
profit."

"I am glad of it."

"Yes, sir; I shall write an article for the _Medico-Chirurgical
Observer_. I am convinced that vocalization injures the larynx. I can
prove it. The demonstration became quite painful at last, but I sat it
out."

"Then we may bless our stars that we are not singers?"

"We may, indeed! A fatal gift."

"I will wait to see you in type," I remarked, in the expectation of
closing a discussion which began to appal me.

On our return, we encountered a strange-looking individual habited in a
very long coat, and wearing a hat with a brim of extraordinary breadth.
Mr. Stowell let this oddity pass, then stopped and looked after him. A
youth approached us as we tarried. Mr. Stowell beckoned to him.

"Pray, who is that gentleman?" he asked the boy.

"Dr. Brambleton, if he be a doctor," said the boy.

"Thank you," said my friend to his informant; then, turning to me, he
added, "A most remarkable man, I am sure!"

"An empiric," I suggested. "I saw his gout specifics, and a column
of his testimonials in to-day's paper." I laughed slightly, then
exclaimed, "Only one more infallible cure for gout!"

Mr. Stowell looked very grave, and the boy, who lingered to hear our
remarks, ran off, cackling a good imitation of "quack, quack" as he
went along.

"That's all prejudice," said Stowell. "He, Dr. B., may be a benefactor
of his race. I say he _may_ be; but I am certain of this--I felt some
singular twinges in my big toe while we were on the Great Slaughterton,
and I have not been entirely free from them since."

"You are not a gouty subject?"

"I can't say what I may come to. I should very much like some talk with
Dr. Brambleton."

"Nonsense, my dear sir."

"I am only curious to hear what he would say. I could tell in a minute
whether he was a pretender."

Mr. Stowell now labored under an itching desire to call in Dr.
Brambleton, and I continued to combat his folly, as I conceived it.
Nothing else for the remainder of the day was talked about except
various human ailments, their propagation, and the means of their
eradication. It was impossible to turn the conversation into any other
channel. I was so worn out at last that my replies became shorter and
less courteous. I grew dogmatic in my turn, and backed my objections
with more force as I plunged into topics out of my depth. Mr. Stowell
was now frantic, and abused my ignorance. I retorted by ridiculing
his credulity. We got so personal in our remarks that it was a relief
when bedtime came; and we retired to our respective chambers in no very
pleasant mood.

That night, a thunder-storm broke over the town. The storm was
succeeded by a sudden fall in the temperature, and the air became as
cold as it is sometimes in the early spring. A sharp easterly wind was
blowing when I arose the following morning. Before I left my chamber, I
heard Mr. Stowell in altercation with our landlord.

"I told you I was in infirm health," said Stowell.

"You did, sir," replied the landlord.

"Then, how could you put me in a room with an easterly aspect?"

"Why did you not choose the other room?"

"Because some people know how to take care of themselves."

At this I opened my door, and rushed into our sitting-room.

"Mr. Stowell," I exclaimed, "I am not accustomed to have ungenerous
reflections cast upon me. The choice was your own; but you have before
expressed a wish to be rid of me, and I reciprocate the sentiment. My
room is at your service; I shall not inflict my society on you any
longer, and I shall seek more genial companionship than I have found in
a confirmed valetudinarian."

Without waiting for an answer, I hurried out of the house, breakfasted
at a hotel, conned the newspaper, and proceeded to the railroad depot,
partly for a walk, and partly to make sure of the time of arrival of
the "up" train. I did not return to my lodgings until just in time to
take away my luggage.

In the sitting-room, I found Mr. Stowell and Dr. Brambleton. Mr.
Stowell was sitting on a chair, with his bare feet on what I took to be
an electric battery, but which resembled a coal-scuttle. He held a wire
in his hands, and on his head he wore a cap encircled, as I supposed,
with magnets.

"Good-day," I said, in a conciliating tone, as I was on the wing, and
my fancy was tickled at the ridiculous appearance of my friend.

"Don't think any more of it," replied Mr. Stowell. "My temper emanated
from gout! My first attack, I assure you."

"A most decided case!" chimed in Dr. Brambleton. "But he bears it like
a Job."

"A speedy recovery!" I answered. "You are in good hands, I hope?"

"Excellent," said Mr. Stowell. "I have the fullest confidence."

"He knows where he is, sir," put in the doctor slyly. "But I will stake
my reputation on a cure."

And wishing the patient and doctor a final adieu, I departed, rejoicing
in my deliverance from both quacks and quacked. I should distinguish
myself in Alpine climbing while under the stimulus imparted by freedom
regained; but experience will make me wary of a travelling companion
until I have tested his congeniality of disposition.




THE CHILD RESTORED.


                    FROM THE FRENCH OF MARIE JENNA.

    So long had wept this mother, so implored,
    So pressed against her heart the head adored,
      The livid forehead of her dying child,
    That to the frozen breast the marble brow,
    As by a miracle, returned the glow
    Of life and light; and, with a fervent joy,
    She thanked the God who gave her back her boy;
      But from that hour the infant never smiled!

    Three months had passed since then, and still the gloom
    That seemed to linger from his unfilled tomb
    Remained unbroken; one might almost think
    That, when the spirit trembled on the brink
    Of death, some pitying angel made a change
    To soothe maternal grief. So sad and strange
    Was the young, drooping head, the silent mood,
    His mother dared not, in her gratitude,
    Missing his joyous laugh, his happy voice
    And glance, even in embracing him, rejoice.

    From open casements song and laughter ring,
    From turrets high the chimes their carols fling.
    "Listen, my Louis. 'Tis the happy day
    When the New Year bids little children play
    With their new gifts, all merry for his sake!
    What playthings will my little Louis take?
    Wilt have this snow-white sheep, with silken string,
    That thou canst lead to pasture in the spring?
    Not this? Well, then, these paints, these brushes, made
    To color paper flowers that will not fade?
    Or, see! this gay, rebounding woollen ball,
    That falls and springs from earth, again to fall?
    Thou dost not love to play? Thou canst not run?
    What shall I give thee, then, my cherished son?

    "Tell me thy secret in one little word;
    Thy mother fails to guess thy baby need.
    Say, wilt thou have this pretty, gilded sword
    To make thee a great captain? No, indeed!
    Then this thatched cottage, with its drooping eaves,
    This open book, with all its pictured leaves?
    No! still the little, mournful, waving hand.
    _Would_ that thy mother had a fairy wand
    To bear thee something that would make thee smile!
    Might not these singing birds thy thoughts beguile,
    These blooming flowers? Whisper me, tell me, love,
    While I embrace thee--I who love thee so--
    Louis, what wantest thou? My darling, say!"
    He murmured--"Only wings to flee away."




MADAME DE STAËL.


Anne Louise Germaine Necker, Baronne de Holstein-Staël, the most
remarkable female writer of our century, was born at Paris on the 22d
April, 1766. At that time her father was very far removed from the high
position he was one day to occupy, being simply a clerk in Thelluson's
bank. Mme. Necker herself undertook the education of her daughter--a
task for which she was singularly unfitted, being cold and stern by
nature, and a pedant to boot.

M. Necker was much more loved by his child, and he understood her
disposition better. He liked to draw her out and make her talk, and
for that purpose he used playfully to tease her: she invariably met
him with that mixture of gaiety and tenderness which characterized
their intercourse. Deeply grateful for his affection, Anne put the
utmost good-will in the execution of his slightest wish. When only ten
years old, she was so struck by the admiration he showed for Gibbon
the historian, that the idea occurred to her to marry him, and thereby
secure to her father the constant presence of one whose conversation
he so much appreciated. Undismayed by Gibbon's repulsive ugliness,
the child actually made the proposal to him herself. What makes the
comical incident more curious is the fact that her mother had been,
when little more than a child, Gibbon's first love. It was said of Anne
Necker that she had always been young, and yet had never been a child.
Her favorite pastime was fashioning doll kings and queens, and making
them act tragedies of which she improvised the various parts. This
innocent amusement was at last forbidden by her Calvinistic mother, but
Anne used to hide herself and carry on her dramatic little games in
secret.

In her mother's _salon_, Anne early made the acquaintance of some of
the clever men of the day--amongst others, Grimm, Marmontel, and the
Abbé Raynal. At the age of nineteen her intellectual faculties had
become developed in the highest degree, but so much to the detriment of
her health as to cause the greatest alarm to her parents. The famous
Dr. Tronchin was called in, and ordered the young invalid to be taken
to the country, where the mind should lie fallow, and the time hitherto
devoted to study be spent in the open air. No prescription could have
been more unwelcome to Mme. Necker, for it involved a relaxation, or
rather a complete abandonment, of the severe _régime_ she had adopted
for her daughter. As it turned out, this was the best thing that could
have happened. Instead of hardening into a learned prodigy, Anne's
moral nature was allowed to put forth its full luxuriance. Her father
came constantly to St. Ouen, and in the charms of his daughter's
society he sought rest from the cares of the ministry. In this pleasant
retreat he and Anne learned, if possible, to love each other better.
M. Necker was not, however, a foolishly fond parent; his tenderness
never obscured his judgment; and Anne declared herself that his eye, so
far from being blinded by affection, was quicker to detect her faults
than her merits. "He unmasked all affectation in me," she writes; "from
living with him, I came to believe that people could see clearly into
my heart."

Anne made her _entrée_ into society at an early age, and immediately
assumed there the position her talents merited. As the daughter of a
powerful minister, and a future heiress, it was supposed she would
marry at once, but it was not so. Mlle. Necker attained the in those
days comparatively mature age of twenty before she gave her hand to the
Baron de Staël-Holstein, ambassador from the court of Sweden.

Immediately after her marriage, the Baronne de Staël was presented at
court. On this occasion she acquired a character for eccentricity by
omitting one of the innumerable court courtesies; but what stamped her
irrevocably as an oddity was that, going a few days later to visit the
Duchesse de Polignac, the young baroness walked into the room without
her head-dress--she had dropped it in the carriage. Those who were
inclined to laugh at her, however, soon desisted, seeing that she was
herself the first to relate her misdemeanors, and to laugh at them.

But a great event was at hand which was to turn the current of Mme.
de Staël's thoughts into other channels: the French Revolution broke
out. The daughter of the minister who was the immediate cause of that
volcanic eruption was not likely to remain a cool spectator of the
national upheaving. Misled by her own enthusiasm for the laws and
constitution of England, and still more by the ephemeral homage paid
to Necker, who had made his cause triumphant in the king's cabinet,
Mme. de Staël honestly believed that the dawn of true political liberty
was at hand; but this short-lived chimera was changed to horror when
she realized the true motives, the aim and object, of the demagogues.
The arrest of Louis XVI. and the queen at Varennes filled her with
regret, the sincerity of which it is impossible to doubt when we read
her account of this event in the _Considérations sur la Révolution
Française_.

Her knowledge of the men who were the prime motors of these momentous
changes enabled her to foresee the terrible catastrophe of the 10th of
August. With great courage and clear-sightedness, Mme. de Staël drew
up a plan of escape for the royal captives. M. Bertrand de Moleville,
one of the king's ministers, gives the details of this scheme, which
its author forwarded with a letter to M. de Montmorin, one of his
colleagues in the ministry. Her idea was to convey the royal family to
the coast of Normandy, whence they were to sail for England. Whether
the plan was practicable or not, was never tested; M. de Montmorin knew
too well that it was utterly useless to place it before the king.

The murder of the king and queen filled the heart of Mme. de Staël
with indignation and dismay. Such was the effect that this crime had
upon her, that for a long time she was quite broken-hearted, all
her faculties were absorbed and, as it were, paralyzed by the deeds
of blood that were being perpetrated around her. When at last she
roused herself to resume her pen, it was on behalf of the unfortunate
Marie-Antoinette; she addressed to the monsters who then ruled France
an article entitled "Défense de la Reine." We can easily imagine what
consummate skill and prudence were necessary at such a moment in
dealing with the tigers she was striving to disarm. But not even at
this crisis would Mme. de Staël descend to flattery; her talent and her
spirit were alike above such arts. While scorning to propitiate them by
insulting the queen, or using any of those invectives against royalty
then in vogue, she tried to merge the sovereign in the woman, the
mother, and the devoted and courageous wife. Strong and deep reverence,
joined to a delicate and ingenuous pity, breathe throughout this noble
appeal.

If Mme. de Staël had written nothing else, this article alone would
have sufficed to ensure her fame.

Shortly after the fall of Robespierre, she published two pamphlets,
one entitled _Reflections on Peace at Home_, the other _Reflections
on Peace_, _addressed to Pitt and to the French_. This latter work
received a tribute of praise from Fox in the House of Commons.

Mme. de Staël took a deep interest in the government formed under
the new constitution of 1795, but in her desire to become acquainted
with the men who were likely to be chosen members of it, she formed
intimacies with some who were unworthy of her; even her literary
reputation suffered from these so-called friendships. The public
rarely discriminates wisely between the character of an author and that
of his or her surroundings.

Just at this time Mme. de Staël became the centre of a circle of
politicians, who used to meet at the Hôtel de Salm under the title of
the Constitutional Club: this society had been formed to counterbalance
the doctrines of the Clichy Club, which were ultra-revolutionary.
Benjamin Constant was one of the principal speakers at the
"Constitutional."

Thibaudeau, in his memoirs, lately published, declares that Mme. de
Staël secretly favored the Directory, and even attributes to her
influence the reappearance on the political stage of one who had long
forfeited the position he formerly held there. "M. de Talleyrand,"
says Thibaudeau, "had just returned from the United States without any
money, when, through the influence of a woman famous for her wit and
her spirit of intrigue, he was introduced into the intimacy of Barras."

But enthusiastic as this famous woman was for glory and talent, she was
far too shrewd to be deceived by the fine talk of the young conqueror,
who came with the spoils of Egypt in his knapsack to dictate to France,
promising to replace the "ignoble Directory by a splendid and solid
government." Her knowledge of human nature enabled her to foresee
with certainty what the result would be when the despot was raised to
power; it would be war to the knife against liberty in every shape and
form, and against all its supporters. One of Bonaparte's panegyrists
has attempted by a base and monstrous calumny to exonerate his petty
persecution of a woman by attributing to her a woman's vindictive spite
as the motive of her resistance to him and his policy. This worthy
servant of his master declares, on the word of the latter, that Mme. de
Staël was in love with Bonaparte, and that his coldness to the _femme
savante_ was the real motive of her opposition. The story is as worthy
of the husband of the loving and divorced Josephine as it is unworthy
of Mme. de Staël. Her real crime in his eyes was her unyielding
integrity of principle, and the preternatural insight of her genius,
which made it impossible for him to dupe her. He verified all her
previsions to the full. No sooner had he seized the reins of power than
he used it to paralyze liberty in every form; most, above all, when it
was handled by talent. Mme. de Staël was imprudent enough to boast of
her prophetic instinct on this score to Joseph Bonaparte, who was her
friend, but who was also the brother of the First Consul. He entreated
her to be more guarded in her words, and soon after warned her that the
conversations of her _salon_ found their echo in the Tuileries. When
she laughed at his friendly information, he tried to convince her by a
more powerful argument. Necker had deposited two millions in the royal
treasury, and this sum should be restored to his daughter if she would
so far condescend to recognize the First Consul as to ask him for it.
Mme. de Staël replied that she would never sue where she had a right to
exact, and instead of conciliating the great man, she urged Benjamin
Constant to pronounce immediately his famous speech denouncing the
covert tyranny of the First Consul, which so roused the wrath of the
latter against him and her that from this time forth Mme. de Staël was
to know no peace. The daring act sealed her doom. Friends, terrified at
her boldness and its consequences, deserted her _salon_. Fouché, the
minister of police, summoned her to his presence, and informed her in
his master's name what she already knew, that no one might brave his
anger with impunity.

A few days after this official interview she went to a _fête_ given
by Gen. Berthier, having accepted the invitation in hopes that some
violent outburst from Bonaparte would give her the opportunity of
taking a woman's vengeance, and sharpening her wit on him. She actually
tells us that she rehearsed an imaginary scene between them, and wrote
down her own answers, polishing them off till they were sharp as steel.
It was time and wit wasted, however; Bonaparte only accosted her with
some vulgar platitude that afforded no opening for pert reprisals. Not
long after this disappointment she met the enemy again, this time by
chance, and fortune served her better. Mme. de Staël was discussing
some political question with great animation when the First Consul came
up to the group of admiring listeners, and said brusquely:

"Madame, I hate women who talk politics."

"So do I, General," replied his adversary, looking him coolly in the
face; "but in a country where men persecute them and cut their heads
off, it is well to know why." On another occasion, when he accosted
her in a gracious mood, she made bold to ask him what woman in France
he was proudest of. "The woman who has most children," was the coarse
rejoinder.

Mme. de Staël made frequent journeys to Coppet, her father's residence.
This was another crime in the eyes of the First Consul, as Necker was
supposed to have been helped by his talented daughter in his work,
_Politics and Finance_--a book which Bonaparte resented furiously as an
attack on his own policy and system of finance.

On Mme. de Staël's return to Paris after the appearance of the work,
she was warned that her personal liberty was in danger. Regnault
de Saint-Jean d'Angély, who was her friend though in Napoleon's
service, got her safe out of Paris, and secured her the hospitality
of a relative of his in the country, where, she tells us, she used
often to sit at her window of a night watching for the arrival of the
_gendarmes_ to seize her. She soon left this kindly shelter for the
home of her friend Mme. Récamier, at Saint Brice. In the security of
this quiet retreat the fugitive fancied herself forgotten by Napoleon,
and decided to settle down at a small country-house about ten leagues
from Paris. Scarcely had she done so when the happy illusion was
dispelled. A commandant of _gendarmerie_ presented himself at her door
with an order signed by the First Consul, bidding her withdraw forty
leagues from the capital within twenty-four hours.

Joseph Bonaparte and General Tunat had interceded for her, but in
vain. Mme. de Staël, exasperated, refused the privilege of remaining
in France on such conditions, and decided to seek refuge in Germany,
where she could "confront the courtesy of the ancient dynasty with the
impertinence of the new one that was striving to crush France."

Her first resting-place was Weimar, the German Athens of that day.
Here she learned German under such professors as Goethe, Schiller, and
Wieland. In 1804, she visited Berlin, where she met with the kindest
reception from the king and queen; but her stay there was short; she
was summoned hence to her father's death-bed, and arrived too late to
embrace him. This was a fearful blow; she strove to assuage her grief
by collecting his MSS., with a view to publishing them, but her health,
shaken by so many vicissitudes, gave way, and she was obliged to seek
change and rest in Italy. The sight of Rome and of Naples awoke a new
life within her, and restored to her the power of writing, which for a
time she had lost.

But nothing could long console her for her absence from her own
beloved country. The longing to see France at last so far subdued her
proud spirit that she determined to avail herself of the privilege of
approaching within forty leagues of Paris; she returned accordingly,
and settled at Rouen. This was indeed a violation of the permitted
limits, but Fouché shut his eyes to it, and the exile remained
undisturbed at the residence of her friend M. de Castellane, where
she finished _Corinne_, and corrected the proof-sheets. The work
appeared in 1807, and awoke a very trumpet-blast of applause all over
Europe. But fame was a crime in one who had incurred the tyrant's
displeasure, and the author received a peremptory order to quit France.
Broken-hearted and despairing, she returned to Coppet, where she was
accompanied by a few faithful friends, who braved all to share her
solitude. Here she continued to occupy herself with her great work,
_Germany_. Feeling, however, that a more perfect knowledge of the
country was necessary before completing it, she resolved to spend the
winter of 1807 at Vienna. She met with a flattering reception there
from the Prince de Ligne, the Princesse Lubomirska, and most of the
distinguished personages of the court, and returned in the spring to
Coppet.

As soon as her book on Germany was ready for the press, Mme. de
Staël set out for France, and placed herself at the distance
prescribed--forty leagues. She took up her abode at the old castle of
Chaumont, formerly the residence of the Cardinal d'Amboise, Diana of
Poitiers, and Catherine de' Medicis.

While passing a few days with her dear and valiant friend, M. de
Montmorency, the persecuted author received the terrible tidings that
10,000 copies of her new work just issued had been seized by the
minister, although she had taken the precaution of submitting the
proofs for approval to the censorship. This tyrannical measure was
followed by an order to leave France within three days. She begged
for a short delay, hoping, by means of a German passport, to land in
England; but to this request the Duc de Rovigo sent a positive refusal.
Mme. de Staël revenged herself later by placing the duke's letter in
her second edition of _Germany_.

From Fossé she fled to Coppet. Here she found that the prefect of
Geneva had received orders to destroy any proofs or copies of her
work that he could discover. At the same time, he hinted to Mme. de
Staël that she might soften the tyrant by seizing the opportunity to
write an ode on the new-born "King of Rome." "My best wish for his
infant majesty," she replied, "is, that he may have a good nurse."
This impertinence came to Napoleon's ears, and Mme. de Staël expiated
it by a prohibition to move two leagues from Coppet. Her friends were
finally included in her disgrace. M. Schlegel, her son's tutor, was
ordered to resign his position in her family, and M. de Montmorency
was exiled for daring to give her the protection of his presence in
return for the courageous hospitality he had received from her during
the Terror. Mme. Récamier was similarly punished for her boldness in
befriending the woman who defied Bonaparte. Hunted to earth while she
remained on French soil, Mme. de Staël felt that nothing remained to
her but to seek peace and security in flight. But whither should she
fly? Bonaparte's spies were spread like a network over the Continent.
They would vie with each other in setting traps for her. Russia alone
offered some chance of rest; so, one bright spring morning, Mme. de
Staël went out for a drive, and, instead of returning home, posted on
through Switzerland and the Tyrol to Vienna. She quickly discovered
that it was not possible for her to tarry here; the tyrant's tools were
on her track. "March! march!" was still the cry of fate; and, like the
Wandering Jew, she sallied forth once more on her wanderings. Moscow
seemed like a promised land where she might rest awhile; but, scarcely
had she drawn breath amidst the unmelted snows of the northern city,
when the hunter was down upon her. The _Grande Armée_ was advancing
rapidly on the Russian capital. "March! march!" And again the fugitive
was on the road, flying to St. Petersburg. Here at last came a respite.
The emperor and empress received her like a dethroned sovereign; the
nobility followed suit, partly out of admiration for the gifted exile,
partly in hatred to her foe, who was theirs also. She was entertained
at public banquets, and became the lion of the hour. At one of these
magnificent _fêtes_ given in her honor, the toast, "Success to the
Russian arms against France!" was proposed. Mme. de Staël seized her
glass, and, with a sudden inspiration of patriotism, cried out: "No,
not against France! against her oppressor!" The amendment was adopted
with applause. But St. Petersburg was no safe retreat for the baroness
while the French legions were at Moscow. She was advised by friends to
fly, and, once more folding her tent, she carried it to Stockholm. Here
she was allowed to recruit her wearied limbs and more wearied spirit
for some months. She employed the interval of quiet in writing the
recollections called _Ten Years in Exile_. On leaving Sweden she set
sail for England, with a view to publishing her famous _Allemagne_--the
work which had been the immediate cause of her recent persecutions,
having exasperated Bonaparte beyond all powers of endurance. It was
not until the fall of her enemy that Mme. de Staël ventured to return
to France. Her joy, however, at this twofold event was of short
duration. The despot who knew no mercy to the weak was not to be bound
by the chains of honor. He broke his plighted word, fled from Elba,
and landed one morning on the shores of France. It was the signal
for Mme. de Staël to fly from them. Filled with patriotic grief and
personal dismay, she started immediately for Coppet. She had barely
arrived there when a letter followed her with the unexpected order to
return to Paris, "where the emperor considered her presence would be
useful in establishing constitutional ideas." But she, whom threats and
exile had not daunted, was not to be beguiled by flattery. "Tell your
master," she replied to the writer of the singular invitation,--"tell
your master that since he has got on for twelve years without me or the
constitution, he can do without us a little longer, and that at this
moment he hates one about as much as the other."

What wonder if the health of this intrepid woman gave way, in spite of
her indomitable spirit, under this long spell of mental and physical
fatigue, and ceaseless vexation and disappointment. Her declining years
were consumed in intense suffering, borne with the utmost courage and
resignation. She returned finally to France after the Restoration, and
was treated with every mark of esteem by Louis XVIII. He delighted in
her conversation, and gave her a more substantial proof of good-will
by restoring to her the two millions that her father had deposited in
the treasury before his fall. This act of justice bound her by ties of
enduring gratitude to the king and his dynasty.

But she was not spared long to enjoy the honors that now surrounded
her. Sorrow, and the despondency consequent on great bodily exhaustion,
had tempted Mme. de Staël into the deadly habit of using opium, and
when once contracted she had not strength to relinquish it, even after
the cause that made the stimulant a necessity of existence to her had
disappeared. Her friends used every argument and every stratagem to
cure her, but in vain. She fell into a state of lethargy, or rather
into a succession of lethargic slumbers, broken by sudden gleams of
her old brightness. Her patience was very touching, and many evidences
are preserved to show that she drew it from her unshaken faith in
Christianity, however imperfect the form in which she had been reared,
and to which she was outwardly attached. Once, on awaking from her
slumbrous state, she exclaimed to those who surrounded her bed: "It
seems to me that I know now what the passage from life to death is; and
I feel how God in his mercy softens it to us." She expired on the 14th
of July, 1817, the anniversary of the very day on which her father's
false theories and blind self-confidence had put the match to the
powder and kindled that terrific conflagration which enveloped France
in flames. Her remains were deposited at Coppet, in the tomb she had
raised to the memory of the great financier.

Those who were present at the reading of her will, heard for the first
time of her marriage with M. de Rocca. In that document she bade her
children proclaim the fact, as also the birth of a boy by this union. A
relative and intimate friend of Mme. de Staël's gives us an account of
her first meeting with her second husband:

"A young man of good birth excited much interest at Geneva by the
stories current about his bravery, and by the contrast between his age
and his fragile appearance and shattered health; the result of wounds
received in Spain, where he had served in a French hussar regiment.
A few words of sympathy addressed to him by Mme. de Staël produced a
most wonderful effect; his head and heart took fire. 'I will love her
so well,' he vowed, 'that she will end by marrying me!' and he was
right. Their affection for each other was of the deepest and tenderest
kind. She lived in perpetual fear of losing him, owing to his delicate
health; and yet it was he who survived her, but only a year; he died at
Hyères, more from grief than from his infirmities, in his thirty-first
year."

We have said nothing of the person of this singularly gifted woman.
"She was," to quote the words of a contemporary, "graceful in all
her movements; her face, without being handsome, attracted your
attention, and then fixed it; a sort of intellectual beauty radiated
from her countenance, which seemed the reflex of her soul. Genius was
visible in her eyes, which were of a rare splendor; her glance had
a fire and strength that resembled the flash of the lightning, and
was the forerunner of the thunder-roll of her language; her large
and well-proportioned figure gave a kind of energy and weight to her
discourse. To this was added a certain dramatic effect. Though free
from all exaggeration in her dress, she studied what was picturesque
more than what was the fashion. Her arms and hands were beautiful, and
singularly white."

This picture is an attractive one, and paints Mme. de Staël in very
different colors from those generally used by her portrayers. It is
only natural that a woman who had all her life been before the world,
should be variously judged by various people. A celebrated writer of
her own day, who knew the author of _Corinne_ both as an author and a
woman, said that she would not be impartially judged until a century
had gone by. Napoleon raised her to a pedestal of martyrdom by his
unmanly and cruel persecution, and the _éclat_ of her genius hid her
individual faults and errors in a haze of glory. She was hated by
the flatterers who fawned on the tyrant because she dared to defy
him. Some considered her a cold, masculine woman, who had none of the
charm of womanhood about her; while others, dazzled by her talent,
idealized her as a sort of demigod. Distance enables us to estimate
her more justly. She was a woman of unrivalled energy of character,
of incomparably brilliant parts, and endowed with a heart equal in
tenderness to the power of her genius. Her written style gives but a
faint idea of the lustre of her conversation. She was, perhaps, quite
unparalleled in this last sphere. The play of wit, logic, and grace
never flagged for an instant, but kept her hearers spellbound as long
as her voice was heard. Once, at a _soirée_ at Mme. Récamier's, she got
into a discussion with the Archbishop of Sens, as to whether it was an
advantage or a misfortune for a nation to be in debt; the archbishop
took the latter view of the question, and they kept up the ball for
two hours, until the excitement among the guests became so great that
they stood upon chairs in the adjoining _salon_ to enjoy the brilliancy
of the intellectual combat. She was, as her death attests, a devout
believer in Christianity. On one occasion, after listening to some
metaphysicians crossing lances over their pet theories, she remarked:
"The Lord's prayer says more to me than all that."

From the repetition of this divine prayer during her long nights of
sleeplessness she drew patience and resignation. By birth and education
a Protestant, she never allowed her lofty mind to be prejudiced against
Catholics, and often spoke with enthusiasm of the heroic courage of
the martyred priests and bishops of the memorable 2d of September,
1792. _The Imitation of Christ_ was her constant companion and solace
during her long illness. This woman of genius was a devoted mother.
Her literary pursuits did not interfere with her maternal duties:
she superintended the education of her children herself, and often
impressed upon them that, "if they fell away from the path of honor and
duty it would be not alone an irreparable sorrow, but a remorse" to
her, as she would accuse herself of being the cause of it.

She was not happy in her first marriage, which was purely one of
"arrangement." There was no sympathy of taste or ideas between her and
the Baron de Staël; her separation from him was nevertheless a deep
source of pain to her, and she never would have consented to it but for
the ruinous state into which his imprudence and extravagance had thrown
her financial affairs, and which must have led to the utter ruin of his
family if they had been left longer in his hands. When his increasing
years and illness demanded the consolation of her companionship, she
returned to her husband with affectionate alacrity, and devoted herself
to him until his death.

The multiplicity of Mme. de Staël's writings earned for her the
_sobriquet_ of "the female Voltaire." She began to write when most
girls of her age are still in pinafores; her early works are like the
flights of a young eagle, betraying the fearless temerity of conscious
power, combined with the inexperience of youth--she plunges into
depths, and soars to heights of metaphysics and philosophy with all
the audacity of untaught genius. _The Influence of the Passions on
the Happiness of Nations and Individuals_ is one of the most striking
of those juvenile feats, and was quickly followed by others in the
same field. Her novels are undoubtedly the first of her claims on
enduring fame. _Delphine_ is supposed to be Mme. de Staël as she was,
and _Corinne_ as she wished to be. They are both masterpieces of the
romantic school prevalent in that day, and they both inaugurated a new
reign in fiction. The closing years of the author's agitated life were
devoted to the compilation of the volumes entitled _Considerations
on the French Revolution_--a work of great magnitude, and which was
intended to embrace the full exposition and justification of her
father's policy and life, and a philosophical analysis of the theories
of all known forms of government, as well as an elaborate history
of the causes and effects of the Revolutionary crisis. The plan was
colossal in scope, and almost infinite in the variety of subjects it
included; but death did not wait for her to finish it. Amongst her
earliest literary productions we must not refuse a passing mention to
her dramatic efforts. She was not twenty when _Sophie_ and _Jane Grey_
earned for her a place amongst the most mature and brilliant writers of
the period. There is no doubt, if she had had leisure to pursue this
vein, Mme. de Staël would have enriched the French language with some
remarkable comedies and tragedies. Her works were collected after her
death by the Baron de Staël, her son, and form a series of eighteen
large volumes.

The interest of the subject has led us into a somewhat lengthy sketch
of the life of this distinguished lady. French annals furnish a study,
almost unique, of women who were models of all womanly virtues, and
yet by their brilliancy, wit, and conversance with public affairs were
fitted to be the advisers of rulers and statesmen. We are very far
from wishing to see the sex drawn out of their proper sphere, but when
by natural and acquired talents they evince a vocation for affairs of
state, we think that governments may wisely accept their counsel, and
that their services are worthy of permanent record.




FATHER SEBASTIAN RALE, S.J.


The rivalries of the French and English for dominion in the
northwestern corner of our republic have deeply impressed themselves
upon the pages of our history. The element of religious controversy was
not the least of the exciting causes which made that frontier the scene
of angry strife. The French carried the Catholic faith wherever they
erected the arms of their kings, and the natives flocked with ardor
and conviction around the standard of the cross. Whatever may have
been the merits of the respective parties in the contest for dominion,
it is now the settled voice of history that the Catholic missionaries
were actuated by motives far above all earthly considerations, and that
their cause was that of no earthly king, but was the sacred cause of
the King of Heaven.

Sebastian Rale was born of a good family in Franche-Comté, in the year
1658. At an early age he entered the Society of Jesus. After passing
through the novitiate, he was engaged in teaching at the College of
Nismes. To fine natural abilities he added great industry, and thus
became an accomplished scholar. A foreign mission was the object of his
holy aspirations; and, after his ordination, he received directions
from his superior to embark for Canada. He sailed from Rochelle on the
23d of July, 1689, and, after a voyage without accidents, arrived at
Quebec on the 13th of October following. As his destination was the
mission among the Abnakis, the Men-of-the-East, he employed his time at
Quebec in studying their language.

It was not long, however, before he was sent on the mission to St.
Francis, an Abnaki village, containing about two hundred inhabitants,
most of whom were Catholics. Among these, the gentlest of the Indian
tribes in the North, his first essays at his favorite vocation were
made by this illustrious missionary.

He had commenced the study of the Abnaki dialect at Quebec; surrounded,
as he now was, by the Abnakis themselves, he prosecuted that study with
great industry. While acquiring their language, he was also engaged in
writing his Abnaki catechism and dictionary. Every day he spent some
time in their wigwams, in order to catch from the lips of the Indians
the idioms of their language; and he often subjected himself to their
merry laugh by uttering some sentence for the proposed catechism in his
broken Abnaki, which, as they rendered in the pure idiom, the patient
student copied in his book. After two years' labor at St. Francis, he
was selected by the superior to succeed the missionary of the Illinois,
who had recently died, because that mission required a father who had
already acquired some one of the Algonquin dialects.

Before setting out for his Illinois missions, he spent three months at
Quebec, studying the Algonquin language. On the 13th of August, 1691,
he launched his little bark canoe, for his long and arduous voyage to
the West. Slowly they moved onward; he and his companions landed night
after night to build their fire and erect their tent, which consisted
of their little canoe turned up, as their only shelter from the storms.
After those long days of labor and fasting, their slender meals were
made upon a vegetable, called by the French _tripe de roche_.[165] His
companions were so exhausted on reaching Michilimackinac that he was
obliged to stop and winter there. Well may the historian remark of
these expeditions of the Catholic missionaries to the West that "all
must feel that their fearless devotedness, their severe labors, their
meek but heroic self-sacrifice, have thrown a peculiar charm over the
early history of a region in which the restless spirit of American
enterprise is going forth to such majestic results."[166]

F. Rale wintered at Michilimackinac with the two missionaries stationed
there, one of them having the care of the Hurons, and the other of
the Ottawas. Here, with the aid of F. Chaumonot's grammar, he learned
sufficient of the Huron tongue--the key to most of those spoken in
Canada--to assist the Huron missionary. Scarcely had the spring
opened, when F. Rale was urging his canoe along the western coast of
Lake Michigan. He passed by the villages of the Mascoutens, Sacs,
Outagamis or Winnebagoes, Foxes, and others, till he came to the bottom
of the lake. Having reached the Illinois partly by river and partly
by portage, he launched his canoe on that river, and glided down its
stream one hundred and fifty miles, till he came to the great town
of the Illinois Indians. This town contained about two thousand five
hundred families, and the rest of the nation were scattered through
eleven other villages. F. Rale was welcomed to their country by the
greatest of Illinois feasts, "the Feast of the Chiefs," at which the
appetite was penanced by feeding on dogs, which were esteemed the
greatest of delicacies among the Indians, and of which a large number
had been served up on this occasion in honor of their distinguished
guest. To every two persons an entire dish was allotted. The father
manifests no great relish for the food he received, but he expresses
the greatest admiration and astonishment at the powerful eloquence and
wild beauty of the oration with which he was regaled on this occasion.

F. Rale devoted himself with zeal to the care of his new flock. His
principal difficulty consisted in overcoming in them the practice of
polygamy. "There would have been," he writes, "less difficulty in
converting the Illinois did the Prayer permit polygamy among them. They
acknowledged that the Prayer was good, and were delighted to have their
wives and children instructed; but when we spoke on the subject to the
braves, we found how hard it was to fix their natural fickleness, and
induce them to take but one wife, and her for life." Again, the father
writes: "When the hour arrives for morning and evening prayers, all
repair to the chapel. Not one, even the great medicine-men--that is to
say, our worst enemies--but sends his children to be instructed, and,
if possible, baptized." The good missionary had the consolation of
baptizing numbers of sick infants before death carried them off, and
there were among the adults many devout Christians, to whom the faith
was dearer than their lives.

After two years thus spent among the Illinois, his superior recalled
F. Rale for other duties about the year 1695. During the return to
Quebec, he instructed fully in the faith, and baptized, a young Indian
girl, whose edifying death afterwards this zealous father esteemed an
ample consolation and recompense for all the trials and hardships of
his life. On arriving at Quebec, he was assigned to the mission in the
heart of the Abnaki country, which F. Bigot had re-established.

But this field, which F. Rale now entered as a minister of the gospel
of peace, had become, during his absence, the scene of war. While he
had been laboring on the distant banks of the Illinois, the Abnakis
had sustained injuries from their English neighbors which provoked
them to take up the hatchet in defence and retaliation. Maj. Waldron,
of Dover, had, in 1675, seized four hundred Indians of their tribe,
and sold them into slavery in the West Indies. Though deeply incensed
at this revolting crime, the Indians remained quiet till 1688, when,
upon a breach of the peace of 1678 on the part of the English, they
could no longer restrain their fury. The war-cry was sounded through
the land, bands of infuriated and injured braves rushed upon the
English frontier, Dover was taken, and Waldron himself fell a captive
into their hands, and suffered a death most shocking, it is true, but
one which all must admit he had deserved as many times over, if that
were possible, as there had been victims of his rapacious inhumanity.
Pemaquid was next taken, and destruction was visited upon the entire
line of frontier settlements. The colonists now proposed a peace,
but the Indians had already suffered too much from the violation of
treaties. They exclaimed: "Nor we, nor our children, nor our children's
children will ever make a peace or truce with a nation that kills us in
their halls."

But the Abnakis, unsupported in the war by the French, were finally
constrained to accept the offer of peace--a peace as deceptive as
former ones had proved.

The following year the great and brave chief Taxus went to Pemaquid,
with some others, to propose an exchange of prisoners: admitted into
the fort for this purpose, they were treacherously fired upon, two of
them were killed, and Taxus killed two of the garrison in cutting his
way through to make his escape.

This being the condition of the country at the time that F. Rale was
sent there by his superior as missionary to the Catholic Abnakis,
it may be easily judged how far that state of things is justly
attributable to what Mather calls "the charms of the French friar."
From what has already been related, it is quite certain that there
existed sufficient causes for war on the part of the Indians without
any influence from F. Rale, had he been there to exert it.

So far from instigating or countenancing acts of cruelty or blood on
the part of his flock, his office and his labors were those of peace
and charity. His mission was to announce the glad tidings of the
Gospel: "Glory to God on high, and peace on earth to men of good-will."
And we have authority, not prejudiced in favor of his cause, for the
assertion that he was not faithless to his sacred duty. Thus Gov.
Lincoln says: "His followers were not only the bravest, but _the most
sparing_, of the fierce race to which they belonged; and though spoil
and havoc were their element, they could sometimes be generous and
forbearing. But when the old man expired by the side of the altar he
had reared, the barbarism he had only in a measure controlled, broke
loose with a ferocity not softened by the dogmas he had taught."[167]

The village of Narrantsouac, on the Kennebec, still called Indian Old
Point, became the residence of F. Rale. Here he found, on his arrival,
a little church and a flock of converted Indians remarkable for their
devotion and sincerity. They entertained a profound attachment to the
Prayer, and great veneration for him who was its minister. Besides
this, they soon learned to love and esteem F. Rale as their best
friend; he was their arbitrator in all disputes, their physician in
sickness, and their consoler in all their distresses. Religion was the
reigning sentiment in this truly Christian community, and the little
chapel, erected by the hands of the neophytes, became at once the
object of their love and the scene of their unalloyed devotion.

As game was scarce, the Abnakis bestowed much care and labor in the
cultivation of their fields. After planting the seed in the spring,
they sallied forth on fishing parties to the sea-shore, accompanied
by F. Rale. In these expeditions, a rustic altar, covered with an
ornamental cloth, was carried along, and the chapel-tent was pitched
every evening for prayer, and struck in the morning after Mass. On
reaching the sea-shore a large bark cabin was erected for the church,
and the wigwams of the Indians were arranged around it. Thus arose,
as by the magic power of religion, a beautiful village on the distant
sea-shore, with its chapel, priest, and flock, and there were heard
the pious chant and fervent prayer, there the mysteries of the faith
were taught to docile hearers, there devout confessions heard, and
there the bread of life distributed. The priest was truly the father
of the faithful. He was also their companion and sympathetic friend.
Hunger, thirst, and fatigue he bore with them, and their sorrows, as
their joys, were common. Yet in this rude and simple mode of life the
faithful Jesuit conformed himself to the strictest rules of his order.
His hours of rising and retiring, his Office, meditations, and all his
spiritual exercises were as regular as those of his brethren in the
colleges of Europe. In order to avoid interruptions while saying his
Office or performing his other devotions, he would refrain from all
conversation, except in cases of necessity, from evening prayers till
after Mass. His annual retreat was observed at the beginning of Lent
with the same scrupulous exactness. The pension which he was allowed
by the French government he distributed among the more needy of his
spiritual children.

In 1697, F. Rale heard, with solicitude for his flock, that a strange
and unconverted tribe--the Amalingans--were coming to settle near to
Narrantsouac. He feared for the faith and morals of his neophytes
when exposed to the tricks of the medicine-men and the seductive
games and dances of such superstitious neighbors. He was engaged in
the confessional all the evening before Corpus Christi and during the
morning of the festival till near noon. In the meantime, deputies from
the newly arrived Amalingans came, bearing presents, according to the
Indian custom, for the relatives of some Abnakis recently destroyed
by the English. Towards noon the procession of the blessed sacrament
began to move with a degree of magnificence that astonished those
natives of the wilderness. Struck as were the Amalingan deputies with
the solemnity, the earnestness, and the majesty of the scene, they
listened with conviction to the fervent and eloquent words of the
father, who seized upon so favorable an occasion to acquaint them with
the existence and attributes of the Deity, whose worship they then
beheld. How sublime and beautiful must have been the appeal which the
zealous missionary made to those astonished warriors! The deputies
were convinced, but they could not accept the prayer before laying
the words of the Black Gown before the assembled sachems of their
tribe, who were expected to arrive in the autumn. During the summer,
the father sent them a message, reminding them of his words and their
promise. In due time the answer was returned, that they desired to
embrace the Prayer, and they invited the Black Gown chief to come
among them, and bring the wampum of the faith. It happened that
Narrantsouac was then deserted by its inhabitants, who were on one of
their excursions; and F. Rale set out in his canoe for the village of
the Amalingans, who received him with every honor, and welcomed him
with a salute of musketry. Soon a cross was raised in the centre of
the village and a bark chapel was erected. The missionary visited the
cabins and instructed the catechumens. After Mass every day, three
public instructions were given; between these they received private
instructions in their cabins. Four chiefs and two matrons were first
baptized; then followed two bands of twenty each, and finally the
entire tribe publicly received the Prayer and were baptized. A public
assembly was then held, and the missionary received the simple but
touching tokens of their gratitude and love, and then he returned in
his canoe to Narrantsouac, while the Christian Amalingans departed for
the sea-shore. F. Rale found no difficulty afterwards in uniting in one
nation the two tribes that were now members of the one fold of Christ.

In 1698, F. Rale, by the aid of means and skilful labor sent from
Quebec, succeeded in erecting a neat but simple chapel at his village
of Narrantsouac, or Norridgewock. In this their new chapel the Abnaki
Christians assembled to unite with the universal church in the solemn
rites of the Catholic worship. It was there in their own native
wilderness that those Men-of-the-East were contented to worship God
in security and peace. But, strange as it may appear, the New England
settlers, themselves professing Christianity, saw with jealousy and
dislike a Christian temple erected by the Abnakis for Christian
worship, while all the heathen tribes of New England were left free
and uncared for in their horrid superstitions and brutal sacrifices.
This feeling on their part appears the more extraordinary, since at
that time Acadia had been restored to France by the treaty of Ryswick,
in 1697; that the Catholic faith had been professed by the Abnakis for
half a century; and the Jesuit missionaries had been their pastors
during all that period.

The interval of peace now enjoyed seems not to have resulted in
strengthening the friendship nor in conciliating the good-will and
confidence of the Indians. Fresh aggressions were from time to time
committed upon them by their white neighbors. But a blow was struck at
their chosen and beloved pastors which exhibits the true sentiments
entertained on the one side and the grievances endured on the other.
On the 15th of June, 1700, a law was passed, which recited: "Whereas,
divers Jesuit priests and Popish missionaries, by their subtile
insinuations, industriously labor to debauch, seduce, and withdraw
the Indians from their due obedience unto his majesty, and to excite
and stir them up to sedition, rebellion, and open hostility against
his majesty's government," and then proceeded to enact, in reference
to the same priests and missionaries, that "they shall depart from
and out of the same province on or before the 10th day of September,
1700." In case any one of them should be found in the province after
that time, it was provided that he "shall be deemed and accounted an
incendiary and disturber of the public peace and safety, and an enemy
to the Christian religion, and shall be adjudged to suffer perpetual
imprisonment. And if any person, being so sentenced and actually
imprisoned, shall break prison and actually escape, and be afterwards
retaken, he shall be punished with death."[168] Gov. Bellamont, by his
influence, secured in New York also the passage of a law "for hanging
every Popish priest that came voluntarily into the province, which was
occasioned by the great number of French Jesuits who were continually
practising upon our Indians."[169]

Upon the accession of Gov. Dudley to office, in 1692, he solicited a
conference with the Abnakis, and accordingly a conference was held
on an island in Casco Bay. The object of the governor was to secure
the neutrality of the Indians, in case the French and English went
to war. Penhallow and such as follow him contend that the governor
succeeded in his purpose, and secured a promise from the Indians not to
join their allies, the French, in case of war. But treaties had been
imposed upon those unlettered warriors which they never understood,
and, consequently, never entered into. Besides, F. Rale, who had the
advantage over Penhallow of having been present at the conference,
gives quite a different statement of the affair. F. Rale, at the
request of the Indians, accompanied them to the conference. "Thus,"
he relates himself, "I found myself where neither I nor the governor
wished me to be." The governor and the missionary exchanged the usual
civilities, and then the former, stepping back among his people, made
his propositions to the Indians in an address, which he concluded
with an offer to supply their wants, take their furs, and supply them
with merchandise in return "at a moderate price." An English minister
accompanied the governor, whose presence could have had no other object
in view than a tender of his services to the Abnakis in lieu of those
of F. Rale; but the latter supposes that his own presence disconcerted
that portion of the plan. When the Indians retired to consult together,
Gov. Dudley approached F. Rale, and said: "I beg you, sir, not to
induce your Indians to make war upon us." "No, sir, my religion and my
sacred calling require me to give them only counsels of peace," was the
prompt and appropriate reply. The Indians soon returned and gave the
following answer through their orator: "Great chief, you have told us
not to unite with the Frenchman if you declare war against him. Know
that the Frenchman is my brother; we have but the same Prayer, we dwell
in the same cabin--he at one fire, I at the other. If I see you enter
towards the fire where my brother, the Frenchman, is seated, I watch
you from my mat at the other. If I see a tomahawk in your hand, I say,
What will the Englishman do with that hatchet? and I would rise to see.
If he raise it to strike my brother, I grasp mine, and rush upon him.
Could I sit still and see my brother struck? No! no! I love my brother,
the Frenchman, too well not to defend him. I therefore tell thee, great
chief, do no harm to my brother, and I will do none to thee. Remain
quiet on thy mat; I will remain so on mine." "Thus," says F. Rale, "the
conference ended."

Peace was soon interrupted. War broke out between England and France
in 1703, and involved their respective colonies on this continent in
the contest. The Abnakis of Maine joined their French allies, and both
sides felt the ravages of war to a fearful degree. The Indians, who
had long been impatient under the encroaching policy of their white
neighbors, carried on the war with destructive fury. Casco was taken,
the New England villages, forts, and farms were pillaged, and six
hundred of the inhabitants led away captives. As a minister of peace
and mercy, F. Rale endeavored to subdue the wild passions of his
injured and infuriated Indians, as has been seen above by the testimony
of Gov. Lincoln; but the people of New England visited upon him all the
blame for the calamities which their own wrong policy had occasioned.

Among the hostile movements of the English during the war was an
expedition against Norridgewock, the residence of F. Rale. In the
winter of 1705, "when the snow lay four feet deep," and "the country
looked like a frozen field," Col. Hilton led an expedition of two
hundred and seventy men against Norridgewock. The village, all deserted
as it was by its inhabitants, was easily taken. The intended victim,
however, was not there; for the missionary was absent with the tribe,
as it was his habit to accompany them to the sea-shore. But the cabins
and the chapel were there; the torch was applied, and soon one blaze
enveloped the church and the village. When the missionary returned, he
shuddered at the sacrilege he saw, and wept over the calamities of his
people. A bark chapel soon rose from the ashes of the church which had
been destroyed, and in it he dispensed the consolations of religion to
his flock for several years.

During this year, F. Rale had the misfortune to sustain a fall of
such violence as to break his right thigh and left leg, and in this
condition he was compelled to make the painful journey to Quebec for
surgical aid. The fractured parts were so imperfectly cemented together
that he had to submit to the severe operation of having his leg broken
again and reset. During his sufferings, not a groan escaped him; and
the surgeon who attended him has expressed his wonder at such an
exhibition of Christian patience and love of suffering. As soon as his
wounds permitted him to return, he was again at his post in his little
sanctuary in the wilderness, where, amid personal dangers the most
appalling, he continued calmly and without fear the discharge of his
sacred duties.

In the meantime, the English were determined to get rid of him, and the
General Court of Massachusetts, in November, 1720, passed a resolution
for that purpose. John Leighton, Sheriff of York, was commissioned to
arrest him. If not found, he was to demand him of the Indians; upon
their refusal, the Indians themselves were to be taken and carried to
Boston. Every effort was made to induce the Indians to betray their
pastor into the hands of his enemies, or at least to send him away from
the country. They made many attempts to seize him by force or take
him by surprise, and an offer of £1,000 was made for his head. Such
was their horror of Jesuit sorcery! "I should be too happy," says the
object of their hatred, "were I to become their victim, or did God deem
me worthy to be loaded with chains, and shed my blood for the salvation
of my dear Indians." This was said in no spirit of bravado or vain
display; for the sequel will show how firmly, yet how meekly, he laid
down his life for his altar and his flock.

In the midst of the wars that desolated the country, it was his mild
spirit and humane counsels that served to moderate the natural ferocity
of the Indian character. Instead of urging the infliction of cruelty
upon those who had so long sought his life, he endeavored to secure
for his enemies every mildness consistent with the laws of war. "I
exhorted them," says F. Rale, "to maintain the same interest in their
religion as if they were at home; to observe carefully the laws of
war; to practise no cruelty; to kill no one except in the heat of
battle; and to treat the prisoners humanely." His solicitude for peace
during the period of which we have been speaking, at the very moment
that his enemies accused him as an instigator of mischief, and his
kind sentiments towards them, may be seen from the following letter
addressed to the authorities at Boston:

                                             NARRANTSOAK, Nov. 18, 1712.

  SIR: The Governor-General of Canada advises me by a letter, which
  reached here some days ago, that the last royal vessel, arrived at
  Quebec Sept. 30, announces that peace is not yet concluded between
  the two crowns of France and England; that, however, it was much
  talked of. Such are his words.

  Other letters, which I have received, inform me that the Intendant,
  just come out in that vessel, says that when on the point of
  embarking at Rochelle, a letter was received from M. de Tallard,
  assuring them that peace was made, and would be published in the
  latter part of October.

  Now, this cannot be known in Canada, but you may know it at Boston,
  where vessels come at all seasons. If you know anything, I beseech
  you to let me know, that I may send instantly to Quebec, over the
  ice, to inform the Governor-General, so that he may prevent the
  Indians from any act of hostility. I am, sir, perfectly your very
  humble and obedient servant,

                                                    SEB. RALE, S.J.[170]


At length the tidings of the peace of Utrecht, 30th March, 1713,
arrived, and restored quiet to New France and New England. Gov. Dudley
called the Indians together in conference at Portsmouth in July,
1713, and announced to them that peace had been made, and proposed to
them: "If you are willing, you and we will live in peace." He then
informed them that the French had ceded Placentia and Port Royal to
the English. The Indians, through their orator, replied that they had
taken up the hatchet because their allies, the French, had taken it
up, and they were willing now to cast it away, since the French had
laid it down, and to live in peace. Then the orator added: "But you
say that the Frenchman has given you Placentia and Port Royal, which
is in my neighborhood, with all the land adjacent. He may give you
what he pleases. As for me, I have my land, which the Great Spirit has
given me to live upon. While there shall be one child of my nation upon
it, he will fight to keep it." Penhallow gives a somewhat different
account of this conference; but that of F. Rale is more in keeping with
the previous history of the Indians, and more consonant with their
character. If they acknowledged themselves subjects of Great Britain,
they knew no better in this than in previous similar instances what
they were doing, for they understood not the language attributed to
them.

It may be judged how welcome peace must have been to F. Rale from the
alacrity with which he availed himself of it to attend to the religious
interests of his people. To rebuild his church was the first object
of his solicitude. As Boston was so much nearer than Quebec, the
chiefs sent deputies to the former place, in order to procure workmen
for rebuilding the church, for whose services they offered to pay
liberally. The governor gave them a most friendly reception, and, to
their astonishment, offered to rebuild their church at his own expense,
"since the French governor had abandoned them." Their astonishment,
however, was soon changed into indignation when they heard the
condition annexed to this apparently generous offer, which was that
they should dismiss their own pastor, and receive in his place an
English minister. "When you first came here," replied the indignant
deputies by their orator, "you saw me a long time before the French
governors, but neither your predecessors nor your ministers ever spoke
to me of Prayer or of the Great Spirit. They saw my furs, my beaver and
moose skins, and of these alone they thought; these alone they sought,
and so eagerly that I have not been able to supply them enough. When I
had much, they were my friends; but only then. One day my canoe missed
the route; I lost my way, and wandered a long time at random, until at
last I landed near Quebec, in a great village of the Algonquins,[171]
where the Black Gowns were teaching. Scarcely had I arrived, when one
of them came to see me. I was loaded with furs, but the Black Gown of
France disdained to look at them. He spoke to me of the Great Spirit,
of heaven, of hell, of the Prayer, which is the only way to reach
heaven. I heard him with joy, and was so pleased with his words that
I remained in the village to hear him. At last the Prayer pleased me,
and I asked to be instructed. I solicited baptism, and received it.
Then I returned to the lodges of my tribe, and related all that had
happened. All envied my happiness, and wished to partake of it. They,
too, went to the Black Gown to be baptized. Thus have the French acted.
Had you spoken to me of the Prayer as soon as we met, I should now be
so unhappy as to pray like you; for I could not have told whether your
Prayer was good or bad. Now I hold to the Prayer of the French; I agree
to it; I shall be faithful to it, even until the earth is burnt and
destroyed. Keep your men, your gold, and your minister. I will go to
my French father."

The required aid was obtained from the French governor; workmen were
sent from Quebec, and the church was built soon after the peace. "It
possesses a beauty," says the missionary, "which would cause it to
be admired even in Europe, and nothing has been spared to adorn it."
Subsequently two little chapels were erected, about three hundred paces
from the chapel, by workmen obtained probably from Boston; and these
chapels are probably what Hutchinson in 1724 alludes to as having been
"built a few years before by carpenters from New England." One of
them was dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, the other to their guardian
angel. There, in his new church and chapels, with the aid of rich
vestments and sacred vessels given by some of his friends, and with the
seraphic music of forty innocent Indian boys, all dressed in cassocks
and surplices, F. Rale conducted the solemn offices of the church
in the wilderness with a splendor and beauty not unworthy of more
favored lands. The processions on Corpus Christi were quite unique and
beautiful. On these occasions the church and chapels were ornamented
with the trinkets and fine work of the squaws, and burning tapers
made by the Indians from the wax berries growing on their own native
shores, and were thronged with ardent and sincere worshippers--the
simple children of the forest gathering around the Holy of Holies, and
presenting a scene in which angels themselves might love to mingle.

The following account of F. Rale's daily life cannot but prove
interesting: "He rose at four, and, after meditation, said Mass at
daybreak, which all the Indians heard, and during it chanted their
prayers aloud; at its close he generally, on week-days, made a short
exhortation, to inspire them with good thoughts, then dismissing them
to the labors of the day. He then began to catechise the children
and the young; the aged, too, were there, all answering with the
docility of children. Then, after a slight meal, he sat in his chamber
to despatch the various matters laid before him--their plans, their
troubles, domestic disquiets, or intended marriages--in a word, to
direct them all. Towards noon he would go to work in his garden, and
then split his wood to cook his little mess of hominy; for this may be
said to have been his only food. Wine he never tasted, even when among
the French.

"After this frugal repast, he visited the sick, and went to particular
cabins to give instruction where it was more needed; and if a public
council or feast was to take place, he must be present; for they never
proceeded to the one without first hearing his advice, nor to the other
without his blessing on the food, which was ready to be placed on the
bark plates, which each one brought, and with which he immediately
retired to his cabin.

"The evening was left him to say his Breviary and give some time to
prayer and reading; but this was so often intrenched upon that at last
he made it a rule never to speak from before evening prayer till after
Mass on the following day, unless he was called to a sick-bed."[172]

In the course of a few years, the free spirit of the Indians began
to grow impatient under the encroachments of the whites. Not only
their hunting-grounds, but even their fields for cultivation, were
circumscribed. A conference with Gov. Shute was held at Georgetown in
August, 1717, but it was evident that redress for the Indians formed no
part of the governor's designs. He refused to treat with them otherwise
than as subjects; he would not acknowledge their natural liberty nor
their hereditary title to their hunting-grounds; nor would he fix a
boundary beyond which the encroachments of the white men should not
extend. They were told, however, that the English wished them to become
of one religion with themselves; an English Bible was given to them,
and the governor told them that the Rev. Mr. Baxter, who accompanied
him, would become their teacher and pastor. Thus it seems that the
governor with one hand presented them a Bible, and with the other
grasped their lands. When a letter from F. Rale, pleading in behalf
of his children, was handed to the governor, he treated it with great
contempt. "He let them know," says Hutchinson, "that he highly resented
the insolence of the Jesuit."[173] Another mock treaty was now entered
into by the aid of interpreters. F. Rale always protested against it as
fraudulent, and announced to the New Englanders that the Norridgewocks
did not recognize it. He never ceased his paternal efforts in behalf of
his Indians, and repeatedly addressed letters to the governor and other
leading men of New England, demanding justice for them.[174]

Having tried every means of gaining over the Indians to their cause
in vain, the New Englanders next attacked them in the point which
seemed to attach them more than any other to the French; this was their
religion. The Rev. Mr. Baxter, a minister of ability and education,
as well as of an ardent zeal against Popery, undertook to evangelize
the Abnakis. "Thus," says Bancroft, "Calvin and Loyola met in the
woods of Maine." The Protestant minister established at Georgetown a
school, which was supported by the government, and, by means of every
attraction and inducement which he could present to them, endeavored
first to gain the children. But their hearts had already been too
deeply impressed with religion by the Catholic missionaries to
receive the Prayer from any person other than the Black Gown. He then
endeavored, but with the same result, to gain his point by addresses
and harangues to the parents, the chiefs, and braves of the tribe. "He
next assailed the religion of the Indians. He put various questions
concerning their faith, and, as they answered, he turned into ridicule
the sacraments, purgatory, the invocation of saints, beads, Masses,
images, and the other parts of the Catholic creed and ritual."[175]

F. Rale saw at once that he must meet the danger thus threatened to the
faith of his flock. He addressed a respectful letter to Mr. Baxter,
covering an essay of one hundred pages, in which he undertook to defend
and prove, "by Scripture, by tradition, and by theological arguments,"
those tenets and practices of the Catholic Church which the minister
had endeavored to ridicule. In the letter enclosing the essay he
remarked that the Indians knew how to believe, but not how to dispute,
and the missionary felt it to be his duty to take up the controversy in
behalf of his neophytes. Mr. Baxter's reply treated F. Rale's arguments
as puerile and ridiculous. Finding, however, that his mission was a
fruitless one, Mr. Baxter returned to Boston. The correspondence did
not cease here; but, after Mr. Baxter's return to Boston, the letters
turned upon the purity of their Latinity, rather than the theology of
the respective controversialists. F. Rale remained at his post, the
faithful guardian of his flock.

The grievances of which the Indians had been long complaining still
remained unredressed. In 1719 another conference was held, but with
no better result than the previous one at Georgetown. Fresh causes
of resentment were added. Some Indians entered an English house to
trade, when suddenly they found themselves surrounded by a force ten
times stronger than their own. When about to cut their way through,
their arms were arrested by a request on the part of the English for a
parley, and they were told that the English only wished to invite some
of their number to visit the governor at Boston. Four chiefs consented
to go, and, when they arrived, they were detained as hostages, to
secure the payment of a large ransom demanded by the English for
damages sustained by them from depredations committed by the tribe.
The prisoners appealed to their countrymen for relief, and the ransom
was accordingly paid; but even then the English refused to release
them. A conference was invited by the governor, but this was done
merely to prevent an immediate rupture. At the designated time, July,
1721, the chiefs, accompanied by F. Rale; La Chasse, the superior of
the missions; Croisel, and the young Castine, repaired to Georgetown,
but the governor did not meet them there. La Chasse then drew up a
letter in Indian, French, and English, setting forth the claims of the
Indians, and sent it to Gov. Shute. No notice was ever taken of it.

In December, 1721, the English seized the young Castine, son of the
Baron de Castine by an Indian wife, and a great favorite with the
Abnakis. "The ungenerous and unjust arrest of this young man," says Dr.
Francis, "incensed to the highest degree the countrymen of his mother,
among whom he had always lived."

Still, the Indians refrained from retaliation. Another act of
aggression soon followed; a detachment of two hundred and thirty men,
towards the end of 1721, or early in 1722, were sent to seize the
Catholic missionary. As this party entered the Kennebec, two young
braves, hunting near the shore, saw them, and, after following them for
some distance unobserved, struck into the woods and gave the alarm at
Norridgewock, which was then nearly deserted. Scarcely had F. Rale time
to consume the consecrated host on the altar to save it from sacrilege,
and secure the sacred vessels. He fled precipitately to the woods,
impeded as he was by the painful condition of the wounds received
in the severe fall he had received as related above. The English
arrived in the evening, and, having waited till morning, pursued him
to the woods. They carefully scoured every place, and at one time
came within eight steps of their intended victim, and yet passed away
without seeing him, though only half concealed behind a small tree.
The pursuers then returned disappointed to Norridgewock, where they
pillaged the house of God and the missionary's residence, and then
retired, carrying away with them everything belonging to F. Rale--his
desk, papers, inkstand, and the Abnaki _Dictionary_, which he had
commenced at St. Francis in 1691. He suffered the extremes of hunger
while thus in the woods, flying from the pursuit of his enemies; yet
his courage and resolution remained firm and cheerful. So great were
the dangers that threatened him at every moment that his affectionate
neophytes, and even his superior, advised him to retire for the present
to Quebec. He always answered: "God has committed this flock to my
care, and I will share its lot, being too happy, if permitted, to
sacrifice my life for it." In a letter to his nephew he asks: "What
will become of the flock, if it be deprived of its shepherd? I do not
in the least fear the threats of those who hate me without cause. 'I
count not my life dear unto myself, so that I may finish my course with
joy,' and the ministry I have received of the Lord Jesus."

While thus the object of deadly pursuit on the part of the English
colonists, F. Rale enjoyed the purest consolation in the love and
affection of his devoted flock. On one occasion, while he was
accompanying them on a hunting party, they suddenly perceived that he
was missing, and the report was started that the English had broken
into his cabin and carried him off. Their grief was only equalled by
their fury, and at once the braves began to prepare for an effort to
rescue their pastor at the hazard of their lives. Two of their number,
however, afterwards went to his cabin, and there they found him,
writing the life of a saint in their own language. Transported with
joy, they exclaimed: "We were told that the English had carried you
off, and our warriors were going to attack the fort, where we thought
they had doubtlessly imprisoned you!" "You see, my children," replied
the father, "that your fears were unfounded; but your affectionate care
of me fills my heart with joy; it shows you love the Prayer." But as
some of the warriors were starting, he added: "Set out, immediately
after Mass, to overtake the others, and undeceive them."

On another occasion he was with them at a great distance from home,
when the alarm was given that the English were within a few hours'
march of the encampment. All insisted on his flying back to the
village. At daybreak he started with two Indians as his escort. The
journey was long, the provisions were out, and the father had for his
only food a species of wood, which he softened by boiling. In crossing
a lake, which had begun to thaw, he narrowly escaped being drowned
himself in his effort to assist another. Saved from this danger, he
was not the less exposed to death from cold. On the following day
they crossed the river on broken pieces of ice, and were soon at the
village. He was welcomed back by a sumptuous feast, consisting of corn
and bear's meat; and when he expressed his astonishment and thanks
for such a banquet, the Indians replied: "What, father! you have been
fasting for two days; can we do less? Oh! would to God we could always
regale you so!" But while he was thus feasting, his children elsewhere
were mourning over his supposed death. His deserted cabin on the shore
led some, who knew nothing of his flight, to believe that he had been
killed. One of these erected a stake on the banks of a river, and to
it attached a piece of paper-birch bark, on which he had drawn with
charcoal a picture of some English surrounding F. Rale, and one was
represented cutting off the Black Gown's head. When the main body of
the Indians came that way, and saw the pictorial writing, its meaning
sank deep into their hearts, and they were overwhelmed with grief. They
tore out the long scalp-locks from their heads, and then sat on the
ground around the stake, where they remained motionless and without
uttering a word till the next day. Such was their mode of manifesting
the most intense grief. But what must have been their joy, when, on
returning to the village, they saw their beloved father reciting his
Office on the banks of the river!

It would appear, from a letter in the _Massachusetts Historical
Collections_, attributed to F. Rale, that he accompanied the expedition
that destroyed Berwick. It is quite evident, from what has been related
of the determination of the English to destroy him, and of the repeated
efforts they made to accomplish that deadly purpose, that F. Rale would
not have been safe at Norridgewock or anywhere apart from the main
body of his people. It is not likely that his devoted children, who
saw his danger, and were solicitous for his safety, would permit him
to remain behind, exposed to the constant attempts of his enemies upon
his life. His presence in the expedition against Berwick was enough,
with his enemies, to confirm their charge that he led them on to war
against the English. The truth is, their own pursuit of him rendered
his presence there justifiable, as necessary for his own safety, if it
were not justifiable on the ground that he was their chaplain in war
as in peace, and that his presence among them was more necessary for
the religious consolation of the dying, as well as for moderating, by
the counsels we have already seen him giving them, the usual cruelties
of war. It does not become his accusers, however, to dwell upon this
charge, who themselves have boasted of the warlike feats of the Rev.
Mr. Fry, who scalped and killed his Indian in Lovell's expedition, and
was killed fighting in the thickest of the engagement.

It has already been seen how the Indians were, by repeated injuries,
driven at last to take up the hatchet. When once at war, they
prosecuted it with terrible energy and destructive fury. And though
their humanity on several occasions contrasted with the cruelty of
their civilized antagonists, the young settlements of New England
suffered much at their hands during this contest.

In the summer of 1724, hostilities on the part of the Indians had begun
to moderate, and peace was already spoken of between the respective
parties. But this did not restrain the fury of the English. On the
23d of August an expedition of little over two hundred, consisting of
English and their Mohawk allies, rushed suddenly from the thickets
upon the unconscious village of Norridgewock. The first notice the
Indians received was the rattling of the volleys of their assailants
among their bark cabins. Consternation seized upon the inhabitants;
the women and children fled, but the few braves who were then at the
village rushed to arms to defend their altar and their homes. The
struggle was indeed a desperate one. F. Rale, when he perceived the
cause of the excitement in the village, knew that himself was the chief
object of the enemy's pursuit. Hoping, too, to draw off the fury of the
assailants from his neophytes upon himself, he went forth. No sooner
had he reached the Mission Cross, where the fight was raging, than a
shout of exultation arose from two hundred hostile voices, and, though
a non-combatant, a discharge of musketry was immediately levelled at
his venerable form. Pierced with balls, he fell lifeless at the foot
of the cross. Seven principal chiefs lay dead around their saintly
pastor and devoted father. The battle was now over, but the victory
seemed too easy for the victors; they approached to wreak further
vengeance upon the lifeless form of F. Rale. They hacked and mutilated
the corpse, split open the head, broke the legs, and otherwise brutally
disfigured it. Then proceeding to the house of God, the assailants
rifled the altar, desecrated the sacred vessels and the adorable
Host, and then committed the church to the devouring flames. After
the English had retired, some of the orphaned flock of Norridgewock
returned to their desolated home; they first sought for the body of
their good father, and, having found it, they piously interred it
beneath the spot where the altar stood.

After reading the incidents of the life of F. Rale, the reader would
be astonished to peruse the accounts given by New England writers. But
the latter bear on their face the evidence that they were the result,
not of candid investigation, but of the bitterest partisan prejudice.
There may be some explanation of their tone, though no voucher for
their accuracy, in the fact that Penhallow derived his accounts from
interpreters, who were known not to be faithful. Charlevoix and De
la Chasse knew F. Rale personally, and they give us the strongest
assurances of his innocence, his sanctity, and his many heroic virtues.
M. de Bellemont, Superior of the Sulpician Seminary at Montreal,
entertained so exalted an opinion of his merits that he did not
hesitate to apply to him the words of S. Augustine: "Injuriam facit
martyri, qui orat pro eo."

The accounts hostile to F. Rale have been derived chiefly from
Penhallow, who was actuated by the strongest party feeling. A single
specimen from his pen will show how he felt towards the person, as
well as the religion, of F. Rale; it contains a repetition of the
old calumny about the merit of destroying heretics, which no educated
person would in our day repeat: "We scalped twenty-six besides M. Rale,
the Jesuit, a most bloody incendiary, and instrumental to most of the
mischiefs done us by preaching up the doctrine of meriting salvation by
the destruction of heretics. He even made the offices of devotion serve
as incentives to their ferocity, and kept a flag on which was depicted
a cross surrounded by bows and arrows, which he used to hoist on a pole
at the door of his church when he gave them absolution previous to
their engaging in any warlike enterprise." Now, the flag that awakened
so much horror in the breast of the New England chronicler was a simple
Indian Sunday-school banner, than which nothing could have been more
innocent. F. Rale, artist as well as priest, had decorated his Indian
church with pious paintings executed by himself, to excite the piety
and zeal of his neophytes. Amongst other similar representations,
suitable for pleasing the simple tastes of the natives, was the flag in
question, ornamented with the cross and the arrow, emblems of the faith
and of the country. A glance would have convinced any passer-by that it
was the banner of an Indian church, and no sensible person in our day
could object to see such an one used by the Indians of Florida, Oregon,
or other hostile Indian country within our territory or bordering on
our frontier.

Dr. Francis, who in his life of Rale follows by preference the New
England accounts, sums up his estimate of our missionary's character as
follows: "But whatever abatements from indiscriminate praise his faults
or frailties may require, I cannot review his history without receiving
a deep impression that he was a pious, devoted, and extraordinary man.
Here was a scholar, nurtured amid European learning, and accustomed
to the refinements of one of the most intellectual nations of the Old
World, who banished himself from the pleasures of home and from the
attractions of his native land, and passed thirty-five years of his
life in the forests of an unbroken wilderness, on a distant shore,
amidst the squalid rudeness of savage life, and with no companions
during those long years but the wild men of the woods. With them he
lived as a friend, as a benefactor, as a brother; sharing their coarse
fare, their disgusting modes of life, their perils, their exposures
under the stern inclemency of a hard climate; always holding his life
cheap in the toil of duty, and at last yielding himself a victim to
dangers which he disdained to escape. And all this that he might gather
these rude men, as he believed, into the fold of the church; that he
might bring them to what he sincerely held to be the truth of God and
the light of heaven."

Mr. Bancroft thus describes the life and character of the subject
of this memoir: "At Norridgewock, on the banks of the Kennebec, the
venerable Sebastian Rale, for more than a quarter of a century the
companion and instructor of savages, had gathered a flourishing village
round a church, which, rising in the desert, made some pretensions to
magnificence. Severely ascetic--using no wine, and little food except
pounded maize, a rigorous observer of the days of Lent--he built his
own cabin, tilled his own garden, drew for himself wood and water,
prepared his own hominy, and, distributing all that he received, gave
an example of religious poverty. And yet he was laborious in garnishing
up his forest sanctuary, believing the faith of the savage must be
quickened by striking appeals to the senses. Himself a painter, he
adorned the humble walls of his church with pictures. There he gave
instruction almost daily. Following his pupils to their wigwams,
he tempered the spirit of devotion with familiar conversation and
innocent gaiety, winning the mastery over their souls by his powers
of persuasion. He had trained a little band of forty young savages,
arrayed in cassock and surplice, to assist in the service and chant the
hymns of the church; and their public processions attracted a great
concourse of red men. Two chapels were built near the village, one
dedicated to the Virgin and adorned with her statue in relief, another
to the guardian angel; and before them the hunter muttered his prayer
on his way to the river or the woods. When the tribe descended to the
seaside in the season of wild fowl, they were followed by Rale; and on
some islet a little chapel of bark was quickly consecrated."

The scene so peaceful, so happy, so beautiful, in the days of F.
Rale, that it has been appropriately called one of "nature's sweet
retirements," is described by the poet Whittier after the rude hand of
war had blasted its beauty and destroyed its altar and its priest, as
it appeared to some Indian warriors who revisited the field after the
battle, in the following lines:

    "No wigwam smoke is curling there,
    The very earth is scorched and bare;
    And they pause and listen to catch a sound
      Of breathing life, but there comes not one,
    Save the fox's bark and the rabbit's bound;
    And here and there on the blackened ground
      White bones are glistening in the sun.
    And where the house of prayer arose,
    And the holy hymn at daylight's close,
    And the aged priest stood up to bless
    The children of the wilderness,
    There is naught but ashes sodden and dank,
      And the birchen boats of the Norridgewock,
      Tethered to tree, and stump, and rock,
    Rotting along the river-bank!"

FOOTNOTES:

[165] Indian name Kanghéssanak; botanical, Umbilicaria Muhlenbergii.

[166] Francis' _Life of Rale_, in Sparks.

[167] _Maine Hist. Soc. Collections_, v. i. p. 339, and _Shea_.

[168] Francis' _Life of Father Rale_.

[169] Smith's _History of New York_.

[170] _Mass. Hist. Soc. Collections_, v. viii. p. 258.

[171] _Sillery._

[172] _Shea._

[173] Francis's _Life of Rale_.

[174] _Chalmers._

[175] Francis's _Life of Rale_.




FROM EGYPT TO CHANAAN.


    My God, while journeying to Chanaan's land,
          For peace I do not pray;
    Nor seek beneath thy sheltering sweetness, Lord,
          To rest each circling day.
    I cry to thee for strength to struggle on,
      But do not ask that smooth the way may be;
    Sufficient for thy servant 'tis to know
      That earth's bleak desert ends at last with thee.

    When heavenly sweetness floods my heart, dear Lord,
          I magnify thy name;
    When desolations weigh my spirit down,
          I bless thee still the same.
    Keep me, O God! I cry with streaming eyes,
      From love of earth and creatures ever free:
    Far sweeter are than Eden's fairest blooms
      The blood-stained blossoms of Gethsemani.

    I do not ask of thee that loving friends
          Should wander by my side,
    Or that my hand should feel an angel's touch,
          A guardian and a guide.
    But, Israel's God, do thou go on before,
      An ever-present beacon in the way;
    A fiery pillar in dark sorrow's night,
      A cloudy column in my prosperous day.

    I do not ask, O Master dear! to lean
          My head upon thy breast;
    Nor seek within thy circling arms to find
          An ever-present rest.
    I beg from thee that crown of prickly thorn
      That once thy sacred forehead rudely tore;
    And I will press those crimsoned brambles close
      To my poor heart, and ask from thee no more.

    But when, at length, my scorched and weary feet
          Shall reach their journey's end,
    And I have gained the longed-for promised land
          Where milk and honey blend;
    Then give me rest, and food, and drink, dear Lord;
      For then another pilgrim will have past,
    As thou didst, o'er the wastes of barren sand
      From Egypt into Chanaan, safe at last.




THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1873.


Will a new year ever dawn? is the question that must present itself
in some shape or form to the one who glances at the records of the
years as they go by. Eighteen hundred and seventy-three of them have
passed since that song was heard at midnight on the mountains of Judea,
"Glory in the highest, and on earth peace"; yet to-day the chant is
as new and strange as it then was. There is no pagan Rome, but there
is a Christian Germany; the dead ashes of the divine Emperor Tiberius
were long ago blown about the world, but the divine Emperor William
lives; there is no Herod, but there is an Emanuel, whose name is as
characteristic of the man as the word _Eumenides_ of what it was
intended to represent. Who shall say that there are no Pilates still,
who would fain wash their minds of conviction and their hands of the
blood of Christ with a little water? Are none living who cast lots for
his seamless garment? Every person, everything existing at the birth
and death of Christ, has its living counterpart to-day; which is to
say that human nature is still human nature; that the last chapter of
the world's history has not yet been written; and that, beautiful and
sublime as parts of it may be, "the trail of the serpent is over it
all."

The year now closing is bigger with portent than event, as far, at
least, as events touch humanity at large. A glance at the principal
states of the world, east as well as west, though with a drowsier
movement in the Orient, will bring before the eye many of the same
symptoms throughout; more or less of transition, of rapid and
often violent national change, which naturally shows itself among
peoples of a thousand creeds in the relation of the governed to the
governing, of the individual to the state. On this subject there are
two extremes--personal absolutism, on the one hand, and communism, on
the other. Both are equally disastrous to humanity, both are opposed
to the law of Christ; hence the believer in the law of Christ, the
individual who founds and builds his life and that of his family on the
law of Christ--the Christian, the Catholic--is equally objectionable to
both, and alike an object of hatred to Prussian imperialism and French
liberalism. We are living in dangerous times; the world seems at the
crisis of a fever. God in his mercy grant that it pass safely, and that
the patient awake from the long delirium to its senses and the road to
recovery, however slow and toilsome!

In American history the year of our Lord 1873 will probably be known
as, thus far at least, pre-eminently the year of scandals. Early in
this year, the Congress of the United States, as if in emulation
of the example set by some of our state legislatures and municipal
corporations, did, in the now famous Crédit Mobilier transaction,
furnish a chapter apart in the annals of political malfeasance and
corruption. It shocked and shook the confidence of the nation. The
out-going Vice-President escaped impeachment by a vote so narrow as to
imply a conviction of his guilt; his successor entered with the shadow
of the same offence on his character. The rank-and-file were worthy
of their leaders. Men stared blankly in each other's faces, and asked
whether such a thing as honor existed in political life. The result
showed itself in general apathy at the elections, while the tide, such
as it was, turned again to the opposite party.

Corruption, fraud, embezzlement--embezzlement, corruption, fraud!
Such are the chief headlines which the future historian will find in
the national annals during this year of grace. The same story is as
true of private individuals as of our public and representative men.
The fashionable crimes of the year--always after murder and suicide,
of course--have been embezzlement and defalcation on the part of
gentlemanly and well-educated bank and insurance officers. A batch of
American citizens gave us a world-wide celebrity by their long trial,
ending in conviction and severe punishment, for astounding forgeries on
the Bank of England; so that it is doubtful, as matters stand, which
epithet would convey the severest imputation on character--"As honest
as a cashier," or "As honest as a member of Congress."

The early spring was signalized by, perhaps, one of the last efforts
of the Indians against the whites. A small band of Modocs, under the
leadership of their chieftain, "Captain Jack," who seemed to have
had serious causes of complaint, after considerable negotiation,
resolved to die in harness rather than wait for what, to them, was a
lingering death on a narrow reservation. They commenced operations
by treacherously murdering Gen. Canby, a brave officer, and a peace
commissioner, during a peace parley. Retiring to their caves, which
afforded them an admirable shelter, they for a long time maintained a
successful resistance to the United States forces despatched to destroy
them, inflicting severe loss on the troops. So successful was Captain
Jack's battle that at one time it was feared the other tribes would
rise and join him. Run to earth at last, he surrendered with one or two
companions who remained faithful. After due trial, they were taken and
hanged. A poor issue for a Christian government!

Troubles loomed in Louisiana. Faction contended with faction for the
government at a sacrifice of many lives. When blood once flows in
civil strife, it is hard to tell where or when it will stop. As civil
war threatened, and as Congress was not sitting, President Grant was
compelled to resort to the expedient of ordering in the United States
troops, not only to preserve the peace, but to sustain one of the
parties in power. The country looked with a natural jealousy on this,
at the time, apparently necessary movement; for if all civil quarrels
are to be decided by federal bayonets, centralization and consequent
personal government must sooner or later ensue. At the same time, it
is impossible to allow local contests to be fought out _vi et armis_.
If the states cannot conduct their internal affairs in a civil fashion
and in the spirit of the constitution, there is apparently no medium
between centralization and disruption.

The South was making rapid strides towards commercial recovery; the
cotton crop for the year was excellent, as, indeed, were the crops
generally; but the recent financial disasters have crippled trade as
well as commerce. People will neither buy nor sell. Stock lies idle
in the market; large business firms close or suspend, and the farmers
cannot forward their products; so that the country is faced by a long
winter with nothing to do, aggravated by a bad business season, for
which the strikers of the preceding year have themselves partially to
blame; and all ostensibly because one large banking firm suspended
payment!

The only remedy for everything is a restoration of confidence among
all; but that is the precise thing that is slow to come. The money
market has been in the hands of commercial gamblers and tricksters
so long that, with our paper money, which in itself is demoralizing,
commercial gambling seems to be the acknowledged and legitimate line of
business. Honest men cannot contend with a world of rogues. American
credit has suffered terribly. If in political affairs it be true,
as Prince Bismarck assured the world no later than last March, that
"confidence is a tender plant, which, once destroyed, comes never
more," it is doubly true in matters affecting a man's pocket.

There is something ominous as well as startling in this sudden collapse
of all business, all commercial transactions, in a young, wealthy,
powerful country such as this, in consequence of the failure of one
or two men. It could not be unless the roots of the evil that wrought
their failure had taken wide and deep hold of the national heart. There
are dangers more immediate and more fatal than Cæsars or centralization
threatening our republic. There is something like a rotting away of
the national virtue, purity, and honor which in themselves constitute
the life of a nation. When we find dishonesty accepted as a fact, or a
state of affairs rather, against which it is hopeless to contend; when
we find money accepted as the lever which Archimedes sought in vain,
and that money itself based on nothing--paper--taken on trust, which
does not exist, we have arrived at a state very nearly approaching
to national decay, and it is high time to look to our salvation.
This can be brought about only by an adherence to the doctrines of
Christianity, an education of our children in the laws of Christianity,
so as to save at least the coming generation. Only one thought will
save a nation from dishonesty: the consciousness that a dishonest
action is a sin and a crime against Almighty God. When that doctrine
is taught and enforced in our public schools, and impressed indelibly
on the plastic mind of innocence, the generation will grow up honest,
true, and manly. While perfectly aware that reasoning of this kind
will scarcely be appreciated "on the street," nay, would not even be
understood, that is no reason why prominence should not be given it by
those who have the future of their country at heart. The generation
that grows up without a Christian education will not know the meaning
of such words as private or commercial morality.

The history of the year in Europe is told in a sentence written long
before Rome was founded: "The kings of the earth stood up, and the
princes met together, against the Lord and against his Christ." In
Germany, the work of the construction and consolidation of the new
empire is advancing bravely. The new German Empire is founded on a
military code strengthened by penal statutes, executed with all the
promptness, vigor, and rigor of military law. The great feature of
the year has been the passing of the ecclesiastical bills, into the
particulars of which question it is unnecessary to enter now, as it
has already been dealt with at length in THE CATHOLIC WORLD.[176] The
present aspect of affairs may be summed up in a sentence: To be a
Catholic is to be a criminal in the eyes of the state.

Every Catholic society of men, and women even, living in community
together, have been expelled from Prussian territory within the year,
for the simple reason that they were Catholics. As an excuse in the
eyes of this keen, honest, liberal world of the XIXth century for such
an outrage on human liberty, the government which boasts as its head
Prince Bismarck, whose very name has become a byword for sagacity
and foresight, contents itself with no better reason than that these
quiet men and women, whose lives are passed out of the world, are a
danger to the nation that conquered Austria and France; and the keen,
honest, liberal world finds that reasoning sufficient. To be logical,
the government should expel all the 8,000,000 Catholics in Prussia, or
the 14,000,000 in the Empire, who are left behind; for there is not
one shade of difference in the Catholicity of the societies expelled
and that of the vast body remaining. But as it would be a difficult
undertaking bodily to expel 14,000,000 of human beings from an empire,
and as it would be a costly proceeding in the end, the half a dozen or
more men who legislate for this vast empire of 40,000,000 do the best
they can under the circumstances, and strain their ingenuity to devise
means for purging Catholicity out of the souls of this vast body, as
though the religion of Jesus Christ were a fatal disease and a poison.

Consequently, the first thing to do was to change the Prussian
constitution, which guaranteed religious freedom independent of state
control. By an alteration in Articles XV. and XVIII., religion was
brought under complete subjection to the state: Prince Bismarck being
compelled to pack the Upper House with his creatures in order to secure
a majority for the measure. It passed, and its result, as far as the
Catholic Church is concerned, is easily told.

Catholic bishops, the successors of the apostles, may no longer
exercise apostolic jurisdiction without permission from a Protestant
government. A Catholic bishop may not excommunicate a rebellious
Catholic without permission from a Protestant government, under the
severest penalties.

A Catholic bishop must, under pain of the severest penalties,
acknowledge a schismatic as a priest; retain him in his parish, pay him
a salary, and allow him to say Mass and preach false doctrine to his
Catholic congregation.

A Catholic bishop may not, under the severest penalties, ordain a
Catholic priest, unless the candidate for holy orders receive the
approval of Protestant government officials.

Catholic seminaries, where students for the Catholic priesthood are
trained, must accept the supervision of a Protestant official and the
programme of education prescribed by a Protestant government, which
has declared war against their religion. If the bishop does not accept
these conditions, the seminary is closed.

Catholic candidates for holy orders cannot be exempted from military
service; the term of military service embraces a period of twelve years.

Catholic candidates for orders may not be admitted to holy orders
before passing three years at a state university under the lectures of
Protestant or infidel professors. On their entrance to the university
they must matriculate to the satisfaction of those professors, and
on leaving it they must pass a rigorous examination, also to the
satisfaction of those professors.

A Catholic bishop may not appoint to or remove a Catholic priest from
any parish without the permission of the Protestant government. If he
does so, the marriages celebrated by such a priest are not recognized
by law, and the children are consequently illegitimate in the eyes of
the law! This too under a government which recognizes and encourages
by every means in its power civil marriages, without the form of any
religious ceremony whatsoever. Surely this is an _Evangelical_ power!

Such, in brief, is a sketch of what these ecclesiastical bills mean.
The sketch, hasty and incomplete as it is, requires no comment.
A running comment is kept up every day, as readers may see for
themselves, by cable despatches announcing penalties inflicted upon
this bishop and that for refusing to obey laws that not only the Gospel
of our Lord Jesus Christ and the apostolic writings forbid him, under
pain of losing his soul, to obey, but against which the heart of any
man with an ounce of freedom and honesty in his nature must revolt as
from a foul offence. But the cable tells not a tithe of the story.
Every penalty of the law in all the cases mentioned above has been
and is being rigorously, nay bitterly, enforced; and a milder mode of
treatment is scarcely to be looked for from the recent return of Prince
Bismarck to the Prussian premiership, with full control this time over
the cabinet.

It is difficult, in these days and in this country of all others,
to write or speak with calmness of this cool assumption of absolute
power over soul and body--the souls and bodies of 40,000,000 of human
beings whom God created--by one or two men, and of its hypocritical
justification by appeals to the Deity himself.[177] It is still more
difficult to speak or write with calmness of the undisguised or ill
disguised approval which such barbarous enactments have evoked in free
America in the columns of Protestant religious or quasi-religious
journals. Is religious freedom one thing here and another thing in
Germany? Or is this country indeed, as some allege, ripe for absolutism?

The spirit that would wipe out the church of Christ if it could, that
stifles every breath of religious freedom, naturally and as a matter
of course laughs at such a thing as pretensions to political freedom
in any sense. Consequently, it was no surprise to see, in the face of
the protest of the majority, the civil as well as foreign polity of
the states that compose this German Empire, scarce yet two years old,
transferred to the bureau that sits at Berlin. These states were free
three years ago, governing themselves by their own laws. They must now
be ruled internally as well as externally by the laws of the empire,
that is to say, by Prussia; for the imperial chancellor is the Prussian
premier, with full control over the cabinet. In a word, Germany is to
be Prussianized. Prince Bismarck is no lover of half-measures. Already
it was decreed, in spite of opposition, that the Prussian military code
should serve for the whole empire. The bill for the organization of the
imperial army retains the main features of the former organization.
The term of military service is fixed at twelve years, and, as
already seen, not even the orders which indelibly stamp a man as the
consecrated priest of God, can save him from becoming a man of war.

Now, this one item of itself is sufficient to condemn this government
in the eyes of humanity. What is the meaning of the words, "twelve
years of military service"? Prussian military service is no playing
at soldiers, be it remembered, like our militia here or in England.
The average life of a man in these days probably does not much
exceed thirty-six years. Yet in this new German empire the men who
go to compose its 40,000,000 of human souls are compelled to devote
one-third--the best twelve years of their lives--to what?

To serve in the armies of a tyrannical despot, who styles himself
"William, by the grace of God"--to spend those best twelve years of
their lives in learning the most expeditious method of killing their
fellow-Christians! And that is what the glorious German Empire means.

What wonder that Germans should already fly in such numbers from this
glorious and consolidated empire as to cause the same government that
forbids freedom of religion to prohibit freedom of emigration? As all
the world has seen, the German government is compelled to throw every
obstacle in the way of its subjects to prevent their flying to this
country. Does that betoken soundness, and a government grateful to
the people? In the face of that one fact, it is needless to call to
mind the riots that have continued at intervals throughout the year
in various parts of the country, and the cruelty with which they were
put down. What wonder that, even in the face of a military power, the
Catholic party, persecuted as it is, should have gained, on Protestant
concession, a small but decided increase on the vote of last year?
What wonder that the liberty of the press should be attacked, and the
journals that dared to publish the Papal Allocution confiscated?

It has been alleged all along that Catholics have been the foes of the
unity of Germany. The allegation is utterly false. It is alleged by the
Prussian government that they conspire against the empire, from the
bishops down. Give us the proofs, say the Catholics; lay your finger
on the words or the acts of conspiracy. The government refuses to take
up the open, manly challenge. It knew that its charge was false. But
had it, by any chance, been true, who shall say that a government that
enforces such barbarous laws as those above given, which is compelled
to resort to force in order to keep its subjects in the country, which
compels every man to devote the best part of his life to preparation
for war, whose revenues go only to swell vast armaments and fortify
frontiers, which denies not only all religious but all political
freedom--practically one and the same thing--is not a curse rather
than a blessing to mankind? The German Empire, as it stands to-day, is
nothing else than a rampant, military Prussian despotism--a danger not
only to its sister nations in Europe, but to the world.

In Italy the story is much the same; and the wonder is the sufferance,
in these days of vaunted enlightenment and freedom, of the utter
violation and disregard on the part of governments of every human
right, even to the seizure of private property. The bill for the
appropriation by the state of church property passed through the
Italian parliament. These fine words, "appropriation," "parliament,"
"debates," in this "house" and in that, seem to throw dust in the
eyes of men who, when their own property is touched, are particularly
keen-sighted, though the "appropriation" go not beyond a single dollar.
This high-sounding measure simply means that the Italian parliament
has forcibly taken possession of three millions' worth and upwards of
property to which, in the face of earth and heaven, it had not one jot,
one tittle, one shade of claim in any form.

Three years ago, the present Italian parliament--Italian by
courtesy--was not known in Rome. The Pope was as much a sovereign as
Victor Emanuel. The withdrawal of the French troops left the Sovereign
Pontiff defenceless, and let in the King of Sardinia. Unprovoked
and uninvited, he took violent possession of the slender remnant of
the Papal States left to the Pope, and proclaimed himself King of
Italy--the Pope still remaining on the soil which his predecessors
owned and governed before the race of Victor Emanuel existed. Under the
Papal rule, certain religious corporations--the religious orders and
societies--rented, purchased, or owned certain property. The property
belonged to those corporations as surely and as sacredly as property
can belong to any man or body of men. Of course, when this Italian
government laid its sacrilegious hand on the domain of the Vicar of
Jesus Christ, it was scarcely to be expected that, with the example
of Henry VIII. of England and, more recently, of William of Prussia
before its eyes, it would stop short at the property of religious
corporations. Consequently, we hear of a bill for the appropriation of
this private property by the state. It is debated, and, after the usual
objections to what is already a foregone conclusion, the property is
seized by the state, and the owners turned adrift over the world.

When men, and by no means admirable men, calling themselves
governments, play thus fast and loose with every vested right,
Catholics are told, because they are so bold as to defend their own,
that they are and, cannot be other than disloyal to that nowadays
obscure thing, a state! The Vicar of Jesus Christ lifts up his voice,
and, after his many warnings, pronounces the solemn sentence of
major excommunication on all who have had hand, act, or part in these
sacrilegious transactions, which the science of jurisprudence itself
condemns utterly--and free men, with sound ideas on the rights of
property, whatever may be their opinion on the rights of religion, find
in his utterances insolence or ravings.

Treasures of art, libraries that are historical relics, relics of the
sainted dead, all that the monasteries and convents held, flood the
Italian market, and are bought up "for a song"; while the property
itself is up at auction to the highest bidder. And what has this
government done for the country? Has it, in a manner, justified its
seizure by improving the condition of the people?

It only needs to read any of the Roman correspondents of the English
or American press to know that never did brigandage exist in a more
flourishing condition in Italy than since the entry of Victor Emanuel
into Rome. Many Protestant correspondents, be it remembered, intimate
plainly enough that the authorities wink at the brigands. Capture, of
course, is made once in a while; but so occasionally as only to serve
"_pour encourager les autres_." But, after all, there is no barometer
like a man's pocket; and the rise and fall of taxation is a very safe
indicator of the state of the political mart. On this point a little
comparison will be found instructive.

The _New York Herald_, in the spring of this year, in an article
entitled "The Debts of the State--Important Questions for Taxpayers,"
mentions, as the revelation of "a startling fact," that "the aggregate
debt of the several counties, cities, towns, and villages of the
State of New York, for which the taxpayers are responsible, exceeds
two hundred and fourteen million dollars. This is more than ten and
a half per cent. upon the assessed valuation of all property in the
State.... If to this total debt of the subdivisions of the State be
added that of the State itself, ... we have as the entire corporate
debt of the State $239,685,902--almost twelve per cent. of the whole
assessment of property." "This is a heavy encumbrance upon every
man's and every woman's estate. It has grown out of a long course of
reckless abuse of power, too lightly confided to legislative and the
various representative bodies which control the State in its several
divisions. Lavish extravagance has been too often authorized in
expenditures for the public account, by men who carefully guard their
private interests and credit, and it is no secret that many of the
burdens imposed upon the taxpayers have enriched those who made the
appropriations. How are these onerous obligations to be met? Or are
they to be paid at all?"

It is doubtful whether many of the taxpayers in New York State will
feel inclined to call in question the strictures here involved. At
all events, the ex-Tammany chieftain has recently been consigned
to the penitentiary. Turn we now to the taxation in Rome since the
commencement of the Emanuel _régime_. A _Herald_ correspondent, who was
despatched to describe the death of our Holy Father, and the election
of his successor, and, finding his time heavy on his hands--as the
Pope, in the face of an outraged world, refused to die before his
Master called him--collected and sent back the following little items:

  _Comparative Table of Taxes on an Annual Income of 70,000 Lire
    (Francs) paid in 1869 to the Pontifical Government, and in 1873
    to the Italian Government._


TAXES PAID TO THE PONTIFICAL GOVERNMENT.

                                   Francs.   Per Cent.
  State taxes on property in
    Rome,                          467.20
  State taxes on property in the
    country,                       248.75
                                   ------
    Total,                         715.95 or 1.02279
  Communal taxes on property
    in Rome,                       864.95
  Communal taxes on property
    in the country,                613.70
                                 --------
    Total,                       1,478.65 or 2.11236
  Total of all taxes paid under
    the Pontifical Government,   2,194.60 or 3.13515


TAXES PAID TO THE ITALIAN GOVERNMENT.

  State taxes on property in
    Rome,                        6,250
  State taxes on property in
    the country,                   940
                                 -----
    Total,                       7,190 or 10.62857
  Communal taxes on property
    in Rome,                     4,650
  Communal taxes on property
    in the country,                651
                                 -----
    Total,                       5,301 or 7.57286
  Income taxes on 59,497 francs  7,854 or 11.22
  Mortmain taxes on total of
    70,000 francs,               2,800 or 4.00
  Mortmain on buildings which
    give no rent, but are taxed, 1,500 or 2.14286
                                 -----    -----
  Total of all taxes paid under
    the Italian Government,     24,645 or 35.56429

                            SUMMARY.

                                                      Increase
                                                      of Taxes
                            Pontifical    Italian      under
                            Government.  Government.  Italian
                                                       Gov't.
                             Per Cent.    Per Cent.   Per Cent.
  State tax--real estate,     1.02         10.63       9.61
  Communal and
    provincial taxes          2.11          7.57       5.46
  Income tax,                   --         11.22      11.22
  Mortmain,                     --          4.00       4.00
  Mortmain on buildings
    not paying rent,            --          2.14       2.14
                              ----          ----       ----
    Total,                    3.13         35.56      32.43

This schedule refers only to clerical property.

This is an increase of 32½ percent., or, not including the extra tax on
mortmain property, 28½ per cent., within, at the time of writing, about
two years.[178] Would the taxpayers of New York, who are presumably
more wealthy than those of Rome, consider such an increase of taxation
as that in two or three years "a startling fact"? And what is there
to show for it? Absolutely nothing. All sorts of fine schemes for
improvement of the city and such like are in existence--upon paper;
unfortunately, they remain there. There is a grand new opera-house
to be built, however. That is something. And then those royal visits
to Austria and Germany must have cost something. And Victor Emanuel
himself and his worthy son Humbert lead rather expensive lives. In
the account of New Year's Day at Rome, a twelve-month since, we find
the president of the chamber requesting his majesty to take more care
of his health. And his majesty in response acknowledges the necessity
of so doing, while he assured the president that arrangements existed
which would ensure that the unity and liberty of Italy would in no case
be endangered.

And here the Roman correspondent of the London _Times_, who, like most
special correspondents of that journal, hates the Pope and the Papacy
with a solid Saxon hatred that not even what is passing under his own
eyes can remove, furnishes us with a little further information on the
same point:

"The rigorous exaction of the taxes, referred to in former letters, has
been a great element of discontent, especially in the south, which has
suffered in many respects from the formation of the Italian kingdom.
The only chance of rescuing the country [What country?--The exchequer
of Victor Emanuel.] from its severe financial difficulties and probably
from bankruptcy, was in such an exaction, but it has not the less
pressed very cruelly on many needy classes. And it must be owned that,
instead of seeking to soothe the sufferings of the taxpayers, Signor
Sella has rather increased them by his cynical mode of treatment.
People think it bad enough to be mulcted until they have scarcely
enough left to live upon, and are not in a mood to be made game of
also"--and much more in the same strain.[179]

Of the banishment of the religious orders and societies from Italy,
which recently came into effect, the same only can be said as of the
German expulsion. Our Holy Father, in receiving the generals of the
various religious orders on January 2, said in reply to their address:
"It is the third time during my life that religious orders have been
suppressed. These corporations have always been the support of the
church, and it is a dispensation of God that they should from time to
time undergo such vicissitudes. This is a secret of Providence which I
may not unravel, but I strive to see whether an angel may not be coming
to aid the church. I do not say that I desire the destroying angel who
visited the host of Sennacherib in order to save the chosen people of
God. No, I have not that thought. I wish for an angel who might convert
all hearts. We are in exile; we must come before God with the powerful
arm of prayer, in order to obtain, if not what we wish, at least some
assuagement of our misfortunes."

At the beginning of summer the world was excited by a rumor of the
Pope's sickness unto death, and it was curious to observe the effect
of the rumor upon the non-Catholic world. Pius IX. has already seen
more than "the years of Peter." He has sustained in his own person
the trials of Peter. But whatever the end may be which Jesus Christ
has reserved for the close of the glorious career of his true Vicar,
Pius IX. will leave this world, his soul borne up on the prayers and
blessings of two hundred million hearts, while his name will for ever
shine resplendent on the glittering scroll of the successors of Peter.

"On his return from Versailles, M. Thiers was greeted at the railway
station by a crowd which was awaiting him there with loud cries of
_Vive M. Thiers! Vive le Président!_" So runs a despatch from Paris on
New Year's Day, 1873. How oddly it reads now! _Le Président est mort:
Vive le Président!_ M. Thiers is politically as dead as he that was
laid in his quiet grave at Chiselhurst in the first month of the year.
It almost requires a strained effort of the mind to recall the fact
that a short year ago M. Thiers was the master of the situation in
France, receiving deputations and congratulations on New Year's, and
talking of his presidential visit to the Vienna exhibition. A quiet but
significant little despatch of the same date may partly explain the
rapid collapse of M. Thiers: "Many persons of political distinction
left their names at the residence of the Orleans princes." THE CATHOLIC
WORLD for last January, in its review of the year 1872, said on the
French question: "But Thiers cannot last, and what is to follow? The
country would not bear the rule of the man of Sedan.... The speech of
the Duc d'Audiffret-Pasquier, on the army contracts, killed Napoleonism
for the nonce. We can only hope for the best in France from some other
and nobler sprout of former dynasties; we cannot foresee it."

It is needless to tell here the story of how M. Thiers was overthrown,
or to comment on it, beyond the timeworn illustration that as a
rule it is a radical mistake for any one man to set himself up as a
necessity for a nation; yet such a mistake is the commonest indulged
in by rulers (_in esse_ or _in posse_, as may be). In the midst of
intense excitement in that most excitable of capitals, Paris, Marshal
MacMahon was summoned by the majority of the Assembly to succeed M.
Thiers. He placed himself as an impersonal instrument in the hands of
the government, promising by the aid of "God and the army" to guarantee
peace. He chose a conservative government. Order has been kept. The
last farthing of the indemnity to Germany has been paid, and the last
German soldier has quitted France.

A volume might be written on those few words--the indemnity has been
paid: the last German soldier has quitted France. There is nothing but
silent wonder for this marvellous feat, which in its way casts into the
shade even the German conquest of France. A nation whose armies were
one after the other shattered in a few months, an empire destroyed,
an emperor led into captivity; its great fortresses beaten down, its
capital besieged and taken twice over, first by the foe, after by its
own soldiers from the hands of its suicidal children; two provinces,
rich and fair, with their cities and peoples, amounting to a million
and a half, taken away; its raw levies scattered into mist at a ruinous
waste of life and money; its government overthrown and the entire
national system overturned, so that men turned this way and that, and
nowhere found a ruler. Men, money, provinces, cities, emperor, empire,
rulers--all gone; commerce destroyed, the heart of the nation sore
with resentment and stricken with sorrow: and all this crowded into
a few months! Yet within less than three years this fickle, false,
degenerate French nation--for such was the general character attributed
to it after the late war--has restored its armies, has maintained
peace, although even yet it can scarcely be said to have a permanent
government, has set its commerce again afloat, and has rid itself of
the foe at a cost that, when proposed, the whole world deemed fabulous.

One cannot help wondering now whether Prince Bismarck was prescient
enough to foresee that France could afford to pay the fabulous sum
for which he stipulated--more than a billion dollars. The figures are
easily written down on paper, the words slip glibly from the lips, yet
they signify a sum of money whose immensity, and the power that it
contains for good or for evil, it is well-nigh impossible for the mind
of man to conceive. When first bruited, the whole world looked aghast
and refused to consider the idea that Prince Bismarck, especially
after what the nation had suffered, could stipulate for the payment
of so vast a sum--one that simply implied national bankruptcy. The
world misjudged Prince Bismarck, and possibly he misjudged the power
and vitality of the nation that lay quivering under his iron heel, or
he might have demanded more. Yet here two years afterwards the almost
impossible sum is told out to the last farthing, and the Germans are
over the border again, with their gripe still on two French provinces,
hastening fast to fortify and defend them from attack.

With what France has accomplished in these short months before our
eyes, how irresistibly the thought comes to one--would it not have been
wiser, truer patriotism, a loftier statesmanship, to have left those
two provinces to France, and not hold them up for ever before her eyes
as the fairest prize pitilessly wrung from her in her hour of anguish?
Has not Prince Bismarck, or the Emperor, or Von Moltke, or whomsoever's
doing it was, left the germ of future wars as a legacy to be fought by
those yet unborn, when they shall be rotting in their graves?

A month or two ago, and the crown that once belonged to his race seemed
to offer itself to the grasp of the Count of Chambord. Our readers
know the story too well to repeat it here. All that need be said is,
he refused it. Henri Cinq is very unlike Henri Quatre, the founder of
his race. That Protestant gentleman deemed a throne worth a Mass; his
Catholic descendant deems a throne insufficient to compensate him for
a broken word or a wavering in principle. It is a lesson to kings;
and if there be such a thing as royalty in these days--royalty as men
once knew, or thought they knew, it--surely it belongs to the man who
could quietly turn aside from a crown within his reach when he could
not wear, as the brightest jewels therein, truth and honor untarnished.
Verily Henri Cinq is the most royal of the Bourbons, and the line of
crowned heads is redeemed in the person of their crown-less descendant.
_Vive la France! Vive Henri Cinq!_

The crown which all felt to be virtually offered to him being refused,
the conservative government, with MacMahon at its head, still remains
in office, and a provisional government is voted for seven years. It
is doubtful whether it will live that time. France is still open to
eruption. Yet the present government deserves well of the country. It
has shown itself wise, calm, and moderate. The debt was paid off, and
the nation scarcely seemed to recognize the fact. How that vast sum of
money was collected so rapidly and transferred to Berlin, where it came
from, and how it was brought together at so short a notice, without any
one apparently feeling the worse for it, is, and will probably remain,
one of the mysteries of finance.

It is as impossible this year as it was last to forecast the French
horoscope. The nation has accomplished wonders, and shown itself
capable of everything save choosing a government which could
satisfy the whole body. Probably such a government is impossible.
Republicanism, in our sense of the word, is as far off from France as
ever. Sooner or later some man will again possess himself of the power
in France, unless, as is still not improbable, _the nation_ invite the
Count of Chambord. The Duc d'Aumale has "won golden opinions from all
sorts of men," and continues to win them. He is conducting the trial of
Marshal Bazaine with great keenness and discretion.

"The man of Sedan" went to sleep at last as the year opened. He is
reported to have died a Christian death, though the evidence of
adequate reparation for his past crimes is wanting. Whatever he may
have been, he left many close personal friends behind him. He did more
than this: he left a party, or the germ of one, in that fatal legacy of
the "Napoleonic idea," to his young son, who, if his life be spared,
will probably guard it well, and follow closely in the footsteps of his
father, if he have the chance to do so, which God forefend! His English
education will not harm him; and he has seen too much of France and
imperialism to relinquish an empire which, unless God give him grace to
learn a better wisdom than that which his father bequeathed, he cannot
fail to consider his by right. For the present he is harmless enough
personally; but if France continues in its unsettled state, and if the
son inherit any of the power and scheming of the race, he is as likely
as any other to be the coming man. We trust, however, that neither of
these conditions will be verified.

The death of the Emperor Napoleon undoubtedly lightened France. This
is not the time to examine his actions or his policy. He is now part,
and a very large part, of history; and history will paint him as it has
painted better and greater men--in light and shade.

The pilgrimages to the various French shrines were a feature of the
year, drawing the eyes of the world to France, and the blessing of
heaven on France. Millions of pilgrims of all classes, ages, and cast
of politics visited La Salette, Paray-le-Monial, Our Lady of Lourdes,
and a multitude of other shrines. The whole world looked on with
wonder. There was abundance of ridicule among a class of writers
from whose pens commendation would be an insult. One pilgrimage went
from Protestant England under the leadership of the Duke of Norfolk,
hereditary Earl Marshal of England. The leading secular newspapers,
as a rule, gave very fair and respectful accounts. If it were not
invidious to select from many, the letters of the correspondents of
the London _Times_ in England, and of the New York _Herald_ in this
country--particularly the latter--were admirable in tone, spirit,
and style. Pilgrimages were prohibited in Italy and Germany, on the
ground that they were political assemblages. They seem rather likely to
increase than to diminish in the coming year, and undoubtedly they have
imparted a fresh impetus to faith, and returned a solemn answer to the
"men of the time," the philosophers of the age, who find it so easy to
disbelieve in God.

1873 will be memorable in Spanish annals. The heart sickens and shrinks
from going over the dismal record. It is almost startling to read of
"the king" receiving deputations on New Year's, and that king Amadeus.
His abdication can scarcely have caused surprise to persons who had the
slightest inkling of the real state of affairs in Spain. THE CATHOLIC
WORLD, in its review of last year, although matters smiled on Amadeus
at the time, said: "We do not expect to find Amadeus' name at the
head of the Spanish government this day twelve-month." It said also,
"A good regent, not Montpensier, might bring about the restoration
of Don Alfonso; but where is such a regent? Don Carlos possesses the
greatest amount of genuine loyalty to his name and cause, and he would
be the winning man, could he only manage his rising in a more efficient
manner." How far those predictions have been verified by events our
readers may satisfy themselves. They required, indeed, no very keen
insight to make.

Previous to the abdication of Amadeus, the Carlist insurrection, under
the leadership of Prince Alfonso, the brother of Don Carlos, Saballs,
and a number of other chieftains of greater or less note, again broke
forth with renewed vigor. After his abdication, the government was all
at sea; and from that time to the present date there has been nothing
but a succession of changes of government, one as incapable as another,
until the country no longer presents the appearance of a nation. Don
Carlos appeared at the head of his forces early in the year. Frequent
reports of Carlist annihilation have kept the telegraph wires busily
employed ever since; yet, singular to relate, Don Carlos at present
is actual king in the north of Spain. The forces sent against him
have been defeated in every important engagement, and he only needs
artillery to advance into the heart of the country. How it will go with
him during the coming winter, which is rigorous in the north, remains
to be seen. Insurrections broke out in various parts of the country,
resulting, in some places, in scenes of horror and inhumanity, compared
with which the horrors of the Commune in Paris were humane. Men seemed
possessed by fiends, and the Spanish idea of a federal republic
took the form of every petty town its own absolute sovereign. There
was serious danger more than once of such insignificant governments
embroiling themselves with foreign powers. Part of the fleet revolted,
and is still in revolt. Part of the army endeavored to do so more than
once. They cannot but despise wild theorists of the Castelar type, who
would heal a bleeding nation with windy speeches. The future looks
dark for Spain; and its only hope now lies in Don Carlos gaining the
throne as speedily as he may. The country is overwhelmed with financial
dangers, and it will take a cycle of peace and sound government to
atone for the untold evils of these few years of excess. As matters
now stand, victory sits on the helm of Don Carlos, and the coming year
will probably find him King of Spain. We hope and believe that he will
prove himself worthy of the vast sacrifices which have been made in his
favor, and show as a wise, temperate, and truly Catholic sovereign over
a noble race run mad with riot. As for a Spanish republic, Alcoy and
Cartagena indicate what that means.

In this connection it would seem that we should take some notice of
the case of the _Virginius_; but, at the time of sending this to press
(Nov. 29), the question is too incomplete and unsettled to enable us
to announce the final solution, which will have become a fact when
these lines are read. To pronounce our own judgment on the merits of
the case, in the brief and superficial manner to which our limits
would restrict us, we are unwilling. We merely say one thing, which
is obvious on the face of things, that there was no sufficient reason
to justify the hurried and summary massacre of the prisoners captured
on the _Virginius_. Filibustering we detest as a crime. Nevertheless,
Cuba has been frightfully misgoverned. The reconciliation of Cuba to
Spanish rule is impossible. If it can be rightfully made a free state,
or annexed to the United States, we think it will be a benefit to the
Cubans to be set free from Spanish rule.

The great feature of the English year has been the educational
question--a question that at present is agitating the world, and is
debated alike throughout all Europe, in our own country, in the states
of South America, in India even, and in Australia. It is summed up in
this: Shall education be Christian or not? If Christian, it tends to
make the coming race bad citizens, inasmuch as it teaches children that
there is a God, whose laws even governments must obey. There are side
issues, but that constitutes the main point, however governments may
seek to disguise the fact. If unchristian, the children learn that they
are only graduating to become capable citizens of the state, and that
that is their highest duty. This is paganism, and to this doctrine of
education Christians cannot consent.

Mr. Gladstone, finding his party shaking, once more strove to
consolidate and make it a unit on an Irish question. He took up
the Irish educational grievance--and undoubtedly a sore grievance
it is--and tried to construct a university which should be equally
acceptable to all creeds and no creeds. As might have been expected,
it proved acceptable to none. Mr. Gladstone's model university was to
exclude chairs of theology, philosophy, and history. The very proposal
is sufficient to show how impossible it was for Catholics to support
such a measure. The Irish vote very rightly turned the scale against
him, and Mr. Disraeli was credited with a victory. After a threatened
dissolution, the Gladstone government resumed, and the conservative
gains have gone on steadily increasing, so that it is not at all
improbable that Mr. Disraeli will find himself and the conservative
party in power after the next general elections.

The British government paid to the United States the amount of the
Geneva award--£3,500,000.

A war is being waged against the Ashantees, successfully so far. The
Australian colonies are advancing in wealth and independence. From
Bengal, at the close of the year, comes a dread rumor of famine that
seems to be only too well founded. There was an increase in the price
of coal, resulting, apparently, from a report of its scarcity.

In the early part of the year, a strike of the miners and iron-workers
of South Wales, by which 60,000 men were thrown out of employment,
extended over two months. It was finally settled by mutual concessions
on the part of masters and men. It evinced the growing power of
trades-unions; but, at the same time, a few figures, furnished by the
correspondent of the London _Times_, give sad evidence of what a losing
game strikes really are when they can possibly be avoided.

The correspondent writes from Merthyr, February 9, while the strike
was still in progress: "A few figures, showing the cost of the present
struggle, are instructive. To-day the strikers enter upon the seventh
week of its duration. Not a stroke of work has been done by over 60,000
persons since the 28th December last. In giving that figure, the number
is under-estimated rather than exaggerated. The average weekly earnings
of this industrial host was £60,000, while at the monthly pays or
settlements it would not be going beyond the truth to say the payment
exceeded the ordinary weekly draws by from 50 to 60 per cent. In the
six weeks of idleness, therefore, the workmen have lost, in round
figures, £400,000. The withdrawal of this vast sum from the circulation
of the district has created such a dearth of money as no tradesman has
ever experienced before. The strike payment of the Miners' Union has
amounted at the utmost to only £15,000--a miserable pittance compared
with the sum which would have been distributed through the various
channels of trade had the works continued in operation." The past
almost unprecedentedly dull business year in New York was owing, in
great measure, to the strikes in the busiest season of 1872.

In Ireland, and among the Irish in England and Scotland, the agitation
for home rule has spread with a vigor that promises success. Recently
the Irish prelates have given in their adherence to the programme,
and thus sanctioned the movement by the voice of the church. A cable
message informs us that Mr. Disraeli has seized upon this fact to warn
the world generally, and Mr. Disraeli's proverbially slow-witted party
particularly, that the contest between the Catholic Church and the
world is rapidly coming to a head, and will probably soon be fought
out by ordeal of battle. Mr. Disraeli inherits a keen scent for what
is likely to take in the market, whether of politics or a more vulgar
kind of commodity. He is at a loss for a party-cry, and has happily
seized upon one that of all others is likely to commend itself to the
British bucolic intellect. In the meantime, the Irish at home may
remember that in all their struggles, while they very wisely look to
themselves to right themselves, they may count on fast friends, chiefly
of their own race, scattered through every English-speaking people,
whose voices, at least, will be lifted up in their favor. Let them
continue to show such clean calendars as in the past year's assizes--in
itself a very strong proof for the right, since it involves the power
of self-government--and self-government cannot tarry much longer. The
solemn consecration of the whole country to the Sacred Heart, and of
Armagh Cathedral, are two events that will live in Irish history. The
general wonder evoked by the revolt of an Irish priest against his
bishop furnished a striking testimony to the unity of the church.

Russia has advanced a step farther into Asia and closer upon the
British possessions. Khiva was captured, after a show of resistance
by the forces of the khan. The collision between these two powers in
the East is not far distant. Russia has not yet forgotten Sebastopol;
and England showed a restive spirit at the advance of its great rival
into the East that at one time threatened to burst forth into open
opposition to the expedition. The contest is only delayed for a time.
Russia internally is not as calm as it might be. We hear from time
to time of the eruptions of strange secret societies. Undoubtedly
socialism is at work; and in these days, not despotism, but rational
freedom, is the only bulwark against its advance. The year opened with
the illness of the czarowitz. He recovered sufficiently to absent
himself from St. Petersburg just before the kaiser entered to greet
the czar. The love of the czarowitz for the Prussians is too well known
not to give a significance to his hurried departure on the arrival of
their emperor in his father's capital.

Austria opened a universal exposition at Vienna with a financial panic.
The country has under consideration the legislation of the period--a
bill for the regulation of the affairs of church and state. Austria
is not too strong as it stands; it will gain little if it join in the
universal attack upon the church of Christ and his Vicar.

Switzerland has essayed the _rôle_ of Bismarck admirably. It has turned
everybody in and everybody out, and church and chapel topsy-turvy, in
right royal fashion. All the ecclesiastical laws of Prussia have been
introduced there, with the addition that the _curés_ were elective. Of
course, Catholics could not vote for the election of their _curés_;
consequently, they did not appear at the polls in this matter. But
there are Catholics enough in Switzerland, and Italy also, to make
themselves felt at the polls in other matters, and it seems that the
chief remedy for their evils rests in their own hands. In Germany, as
was seen, the Catholics have gained a decisive increase on their vote
of last year, however small; and, to judge of the future by the past,
those German delegates will fight the battle of God and freedom nobly.
In England Catholics are active at the polls, and, small a minority as
they are, their vote tells.

Turning now to the East, every year seems to bring it nearer to the
West, and possibly to the fulfilment of the promise that F. Thebaud
brings out so strongly in his powerful work on _The Irish Race_--to
the time when the sons of Japheth shall "take possession of the tents
of Sem." During the past year, the Emperor of China made a concession
unprecedented in Chinese history, and doubtless many an old political
head shakes over the headlong rate at which the Chinese constitution is
being driven to destruction. The Brother of the Sun--we believe that is
the relationship--has allowed foreign potentates to present themselves
at court after the fashion of the outer barbarians. This, however, is
really an important concession, inasmuch as when the representatives
of civilized governments have access directly to the person of the
emperor, European and American subjects resident in China stand a
better chance of having the many annoyances and grievances put in their
way redressed; and the moral effect of the imperial concession on the
narrow-minded Chinese nation cannot fail to be of benefit.

Japan seems earnest in its endeavor to become Europeanized as rapidly
as possible. But it was as near, or nearer, centuries ago, when S.
Francis Xavier confuted the Bonzes. The narrowness and selfishness of
European traders alone prevented the nation from becoming Christian,
probably, at that time. Much depends, therefore, on the representatives
of foreign governments. If they are wise and large-hearted Christian
men, they may prove apostles to this nation, which seems to possess so
many admirable elements; but if, as so often seems the case, they are
only second-hand agents of Bible societies and narrow-minded bigots,
we may as well resign all hope of Japan. Some outrage is sure to recur
sooner or later with lamentable results. Certainly, as a rule, our own
foreign diplomats are not a class of men who reflect too much credit
on the American nation. They appear to have been chosen blindly or at
hap-hazard, in return for some electioneering service. Such is not
the spirit that should move the government of a nation like ours,
or any nation, to select representative men. They should be truly
representative men of this great people, large and liberal-minded, with
no bias whatever, but an eye single as that of justice.

Persia has also opened her gates and let forth her king to see the
world. What impression the "civilized" world made on Nasr-ed-Deen[180]
would be something worth knowing. He traversed Europe. He went to
Russia, and the czar showed him armies; he visited Berlin, and the
kaiser showed him other armies; he went to Austria--armies again;
England--armies, a navy this time, and a lord mayor; France--more
armies; Italy--armies still; and the king of kings went back again to
Persia to open his kingdom to civilized governments. Belgium showed him
the inside of a Christian temple for the first time, as he assured the
Papal Nuncio, when expressing his regret at not being able to visit
the Sovereign Pontiff. Can we wonder that the shah was soon weary of
his journey? Civilization could show him no grander sight than millions
of men drawn up in battle array and all the paraphernalia of war. It
exhausted itself in that--armies and nothing more. Yes, there was
something more--ballets.

The shah seems to have pawned his kingdom for a period of twenty years
to Baron Reuter, who is to do what he pleases with it in the interim
in the construction of railways, canals, and other means of internal
development, he paying the monarch £20,000 annually and a tithe of
the income resulting from the improvements. It seems a hazardous
undertaking in such a country; but the man who undertook it doubtless
"counted the costs" beforehand.

The mission of Sir Bartle Frere from the British government to
the interior of Africa, with a view to the putting a stop to the
barbarities of the slave-trade, promises, in connection with the
expedition under Sir Samuel Baker, to open up a road to European
intercourse with the natives of the interior. Some German scientists
in Berlin also set on foot during the past year an association for the
promotion of the exploration of Africa.

In the states of South America the same strife that we have witnessed
in Europe is being waged, which, under the name of church and state,
really means the absolutism of the state. The members of the Society
of Jesus and of other societies and orders have been expelled from
Mexico and several other states. Mexico has decreed civil marriage,
as has also Brazil, whose Masonic premier and cabinet are entering on
a persecution of the bishops for excommunicating members of secret
societies. During the year, the city of San Salvador was utterly
destroyed by an earthquake. The political order in these South American
states corresponds very closely with their natural order. They exist in
a chronic state of revolution and eruption.

In the natural order there have been furious storms, fraught with
disaster to life and property; although lives lost in this manner
have been insignificant in number compared with loss resulting from
wrecks owing mainly to neglect, as in the case of the _Northfleet_
and the _Atlantic_, and several railroad disasters on a large scale.
Boston was again visited by fire, but escaped with a loss less severe
than before. The flooding of the Po once more brought disaster upon
Italy, as did our own annual freshets upon us in the spring. With the
exception of the threatened famine in Bengal, the seasons have been
propitious, and the want which threatens the United States particularly
during the coming year is due mainly to financial panics and strikes.

Within the past year, Berlin, Vienna, and New York have known panics,
all seemingly resulting from the same immediate cause--the failure
of one or two great houses; while the markets of the world have been
threatened in consequence. Failures of one or two great houses could
not possibly affect in so terrible a manner all kinds of business were
it not that there was something radically wrong at the bottom--an
evil leaven that has spread to the whole commercial mass. It would
probably be a puzzle, even to a financier, to lay before the world
the secrets of these periodical panics, resulting in ruin to so many
outside of the comparative few immediately concerned. It looks as
though, in this money-getting age, and among our own money-getting
people particularly--on which subject the Holy Father this year
addressed to us a special warning--the mass of men were animated by
the principle, "Get money at all costs; never mind the means." Even
the greatest houses live on a system of puff. In private life the man
who lives beyond his means must sooner or later come to grief, and
face ruin or roguery. In business the same rule must hold good. Vast
establishments are conducted on a system vitally unsound. Probably
there exists scarcely a house to-day that, if called on at any one
moment to pay all its outstanding debts, could do so. But when the
majority of houses are conducted on principles that on a limited
capital base a business involving an outlay of perhaps twenty times its
amount, we must be prepared for these periodical disasters. The evil is
that this essentially dishonest system has become the only recognized
style of conducting business in these days; so that commerce has come
to be a game of speculation, where the cleverest and most daring rogue
generally wins--a game fostered by the excessive issue of paper money.

Among events that attracted some attention during the year was the
still lingering trial of the Tichborne claimant, which was not thrown
into the shade by the trial of Marshal Bazaine. There have been
meetings of the internationalists and other societies. New York was
entertained or bored, as may be, for a week, by a meeting of Protestant
gentlemen, mostly clericals, of all shades of belief, who called
themselves an Evangelical Alliance. They were not quite agreed as to
the particular object of their meeting, from which nothing resulted.

Several Catholic nations and numerous dioceses have been solemnly
dedicated to the Sacred Heart of Our Lord Jesus Christ during the past
year, the province of New York among the number, on the feast of the
Immaculate Conception, December 8. Dr. Corrigan was consecrated Bishop
of Newark, and F. Gross of Savannah.

The last point has come: the mention of the dead. The Emperor Napoleon
was the first of note to go; his empire went with him, for from first
to last it was essentially a personal government. As his will, drawn
up in his still palmy days, said, "Power is a heavy burden." He forced
himself upon a nation of 30,000,000 of human souls; he voluntarily
assumed the responsibility of the absolute guidance of that mighty
multitude. He never had a fixed principle to guide him. He never dared
honestly say, "This is right," "This is wrong." The power which he
voluntarily assumed and kept to himself so long--one solitary man the
ruler of 30,000,000--ended in disaster for that mighty multitude and
himself.

This death dwarfs all the others. Nevertheless, many a man was laid
in his grave last year whose name will live after him. The church
has lost Mgr. Losanna, Bishop of Biela, the oldest Italian bishop;
F. de Smet, the apostolic missionary among the Indians; and here, in
New York, Vicar-General Starrs. Literature has suffered in Manzoni,
whose death the Italians rightly viewed as a national calamity. Edward
Bulwer, Lord Lytton, a man of many and great gifts, has at last gone
to tell "what could he do with them." History will not soon find again
an Amedée Thierry. Col. James F. Meline, a frequent and very able
contributor to THE CATHOLIC WORLD, is a loss to American Catholic
literature. The Anglican Bishop of Winchester, a gifted orator, but
a churchman of no very fixed opinions, was killed by a fall from his
horse. On the same day died Lord Westbury, a man of a singularly acute
and powerful intellect, who has left his mark on English legislation.
Our Chief-Justice Chase is gone, and it will be difficult to find his
equal. Rattazzi, the Italian minister, is gone to his place. John
Stuart Mill, who could not well be dismissed in a sentence, is dead. He
was a singular mixture of philosophical acumen and practical stupidity.
Art has lost Landseer; science, Maury and Liebig, the chemist; while
medicine laments Nelaton. The American, French, and English stage
mourns respectively Forrest and Macready, the once rival tragedians,
and Lafont, a prince of comedians. Royalty has lost the Empress Dowager
of Austria, a very holy woman; the Empress Dowager of Brazil; the King
of Saxony, a scholar and a Christian, and the Duke of Brunswick, who
was famed for anything but holiness. General Paez, who once was famous,
is dead. The death of Captain Hall adds another to the list of brave,
adventurous spirits who so far have wasted their lives in the endeavor
to discover the North Pole. His death involved the failure of the
_Polaris_ expedition, which was fitted out by the American government.
The story of the rescue of the _Polaris_ crew belongs to the romance of
history.

Bernstorff and Olozaga, the ambassadors respectively of Germany and
Spain, have dropped from diplomatic circles into that circle where the
finest diplomacy cannot cover the slightest delinquency.

There is little to add. Another year has happily passed over our
heads without a serious war, but the future threatens to make ample
and speedy atonement for this lamentable deficiency. Last year THE
CATHOLIC WORLD closed its review by saying that "Europe was arming."
This year it may say Europe is armed. Prussia, Russia, France, Austria,
Italy--what are they? Nations of warriors. Had the Persian king asked
the meaning of these armed nations, he would probably have been
answered, with a grim jocularity, that civilized powers found such
the only method of keeping the peace and preserving that imaginary
thing--equilibrium. The Russian expedition into and capture of Khiva,
the defeat of the Dutch by the Atchinese in the Island of Sumatra, the
English war with Ashantee, make the three ruptures of international
peace during the year. England seems particularly choice in her
selection of foes: Abyssinia, the Looshai tribes, and now--Ashantee.
She is jealous of her turbulent neighbors, and must vindicate her
ancient prestige.

The main events which have moved the world during the past year have
now been touched upon hastily and crudely enough, but sufficiently, it
may be hoped, to give the reader some idea of the mainsprings which
move this busy world, of which we form a part, and in which each one
is set to play a part and render an account of it. What was said at
the beginning may be more readily appreciated now, or denied--that the
year of our Lord 1873 is bigger with portent than event, and a portent
that bodes ill, as far as human eye can see, for the church of Christ,
built upon Peter. Mr. Disraeli's party-cry may contain more truth than
the crier, wise man though he be, dreamed: there is such an intense,
bitter, determined, and general hostility, on the part of "the kings
and the princes of the world, against the Lord and against his Christ";
the opposition is fast becoming so intolerant and absolutely unbearable
to Catholics; while protest and opposition in words alone seem vain and
idle when addressed to ears that are deaf.

In the meanwhile, Catholics must not budge an inch. They are not only
fighting for their religion, but for human freedom. To yield the
smallest point of principle is to be false to their conscience. The
more persistent is the non-Catholic world in false theories of human
rights and human wrongs, the more persistent must they be in adhering,
at any sacrifice, to what they know to be right, and what was right
when modern nations were unborn. Catholics must remember that all are
fighting the same battle, and all are bound to take a hand in the
struggle. What the Pope fights for, that all Catholics fight for--from
the bishop to the priest, from the priest to the one whose voice is
heard in the halls of legislation, to the editor in his office, to the
merchant in his counting-house, to the very beggar in the street. There
is no difference, no line to be drawn. We must be one, and, if right
must win, then victory is ours.

For, for what do we contend? To be Christian; to be free to obey the
church which our Lord Jesus Christ founded. Allegiance to a foreign
power? What folly! Allegiance to Pius IX. is allegiance to Jesus
Christ. Nothing more, nothing less. Are Catholics not Americans, or
Germans, or Irishmen, or Englishmen, for being Catholics? How, when,
where, was it ever shown that they were not? Why, when Protestantism
was not known, were Catholics not nationalists--when Christendom was
one?

A new year is opening before us--a year of trial, not so much in
this country, but to the universal church. Where freedom is left to
Catholics, as in this country, they must never cease, by prayer, by
the pen, by the voice, by every means that the occasion calls forth,
to help their persecuted brethren; not looking to this government or
to that to help them, but basing their cause on their natural rights.
There is not a civil, religious, or political right anywhere existing
on this earth, belonging to non-Catholics, which does not also belong
to Catholics. They must get that idea fast in their minds, and fight
on that which is a lawful and just issue. No Protestant can claim a
right which does not belong equally to a Catholic. No Protestant, be he
individual or government, can say to a Catholic: You must not believe
this doctrine or that; you must not take the Pope for an infallible
guide in religion, but yourself; you must not educate your children in
your religion, and so on. This is the language, open or secret, of the
day which is addressed to Catholics. It must be met with no hesitation,
but with the response: Our freedom is your freedom; our rights are your
rights; our interest is your interest; nay, after all, our God is your
God. Let us fight our battles of opinion civilly. But when you issue
paper constitutions every day, and tell us that we must obey such and
such an iniquitous law--a law revolting to our conscience, our reason,
and every aspiration of freedom--we throw your paper constitution to
the winds, and refuse to obey it. _It is necessary to obey God rather
than man!_ We conclude by wishing to all our readers a happy New Year,
to our Holy Father a speedy triumph, and to ourselves the pleasure of
recording, at the end of 1874, the history of the confusion and rout of
the enemies of the church.

Of events accidentally omitted in the preceding record of the year,
were the ravages of the yellow fever in the South, particularly at
Memphis and Shreveport, where many Catholic priests and religious
sacrificed their lives in the service of the sick. To the list of
disasters at sea resulting from carelessness must be added the recent
wreck of the _Ville du Havre_, with a loss of upwards of 200 lives. The
festival of the Catholic Union at Boston also deserved mention, as it
evoked a demonstration of Catholic strength and Catholic feeling that
was an honest source of pride. Among names omitted in the death-roll
were those of Dr. H. S. Hewit, a noble man who sacrificed much for his
country and his faith; Hiram Powers, the sculptor; Laura Keene, the
actress, an estimable woman and a good Catholic; Sir Henry Holland,
Henry W. Wilberforce, brother of the Anglican bishop, and for a long
time editor of the London _Weekly Register_ (Catholic); General Hardee,
and a name once very famous, Abdel-Kader. A new Atlantic cable was this
year laid by the _Great Eastern_ between Valentia and Heart's Content,
N. F.

FOOTNOTES:

[176] "Church and State in Germany," _Catholic World_, July, 1872.

[177] See the response of the German Emperor to the Pope, in the
correspondence recently published.

[178] The New York _Tablet_, July 19, 1873--"A Truly Liberal
Government."

[179] The London _Times_, January, 1873.

[180] Possibly the spelling of the name is incorrect; but there is such
a variety to choose from that the correct form is a nice question.




NEW PUBLICATIONS.


  THE ARK OF THE PEOPLE. By Plato Punchinello. Translated from the
    French by a Friend of Christian Civilization. Philadelphia: P. F.
    Cunningham. 1873.

A very timely book, whose publication is very welcome. It is one of a
class very numerous at present in France, which we hope to see becoming
common in our own country. That is to say, it treats of the horrible
consequences in the social order flowing from the prevalent infidel,
heretical, anti-Catholic theories, maxims, errors, and illusions of the
age, vamped up by sophists and charlatans, and palmed off upon their
dupes and victims as philosophy, science, advanced ideas, principles of
progress and improvement in civilization. It treats also of Catholic
principles as the principles of true social and political order and
well-being. It is lively and brilliant, and we recommend it most
earnestly as a book most useful and entertaining, specially fitted
to counteract the false notions which are but too current even among
Catholics.

  LASCINE. By an Oxford Man. New York: Appletons. 1873.

  SEVEN STORIES. By Lady Georgiana Fullerton. London: Burns & Oates.
    1873. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

  MARIE AND PAUL. By "Our Little Woman." Same publishers.

  THE BARON OF HERTZ. A Tale of the Anabaptists. From the French of
    Albert De Labadye. New York: O'Shea. 1873.

  GORDON LODGE. By Miss M. Agnes White. Baltimore: Kelly & Piet. 1873.

Here is quite a supply of works of fiction by Catholic writers to
help while away the dreary winter months. _Lascine_ is a story whose
incidents are taken from the experience of an Oxford convert. A
number of very good stories of this kind have appeared since the
great movement began; and the movement itself, besides its serious
importance, is certainly very fertile in romantic incidents, and
furnishes abundant stuff for a skilful novelist. _Lascine_ is a book
which can be read with great interest, and is by no means lacking in
cleverness. Its principal fault is an excess of sentimentality. We
think it promises a great deal for the future success of its young
author.

Anything written by Lady Georgiana Fullerton must of course be
excellent. The first and last of these stories are particularly good,
and the last one ought to be read by all our young people, especially
young ladies who aspire to become literary stars.

_Marie and Paul_ is a very pretty and pathetic tale.

_The Baron of Hertz_ has a great deal of historical instruction about
the crimes and horrors of the German Reformation, couched in the form
of a stirring and most tragic story.

Miss White's _début_ is very creditable to her. She has originality of
conception and power of delineation and description. There are certain
inaccuracies in respect to the English titles of nobility, and some
other minor faults of style which indicate the need of a more careful
attention to details and a more accurate revision. As a whole, the
story is a very successful effort.

  THE REAL PRESENCE. By Rev. P. Tissot, S.J. New York: P. O'Shea.
    1873.

An excellent little book, solid, simple, and pious, good alike for
old and young. The doctrinal gravity of the treatise is relieved in
an agreeable and edifying manner by some interesting narrations of
miraculous events relating to the Blessed Eucharist. F. Tissot has
chosen these incidents with great judgment, selecting those which are
both extremely wonderful and at the same time very well authenticated,
and taking care to give the proof as well as the history. There
cannot be anything more stupid or more provoking than the ignorant,
supercilious, and flippant manner in which the writers for the secular
and _soi-disant_ religious press, sneer at these Catholic miracles,
without pretending to reason about the evidence on which the truth
rests. There are some who think it the best policy to keep silent about
them; but it is our opinion that we ought to bring them constantly
before the face and eyes of the unbelieving world, although the light
which flashes from them may be disagreeable to many who do not wish to
be disturbed in their fatal slumber.

  SAXE HOLM'S STORIES. New York: Scribner. 1874.

A most peculiar school of fiction, which we may call the
"transcendental," has grown up among the New Englanders and their
_semblables_ within our own remembrance. Some of its productions are of
fine quality, and it oscillates in morality between the two extremes of
Catholicity and pantheism. Nevertheless, as a dear friend, who lived
and died a Unitarian minister, once remarked to us, the prevailing
tendency of this entire transcendental movement is a very circuitous
return to the religion of our Catholic forefathers. The stories of this
volume, written, we conjecture, by a lady, are a sample of the kind of
literature referred to. The first story, "Draxy Miller," is a _chef
d'œuvre_. It may seem odd that we should perceive a Catholic undertone
in a story the heroine of which, after marrying a minister in a wild
country hamlet of New Hampshire, takes charge of the preaching for a
year after her husband's death. Female preaching, and the whole set
of strong-minded female notions, we abominate, of course. But Draxy
Miller's last epoch of life, as the passing _umbra_ of her husband,
is so described that the repulsive aspect of the pastoral office in
petticoats is hidden. And as an ideal character Draxy is exquisite.
"Reuben Miller's Daughter" wins the heart of the reader, as she did the
hearts of the old captain, the stage-driver, the elder, and the elder's
parishioners.

"The One-Legged Dancers" is capital also, and the other stories are
written with skill and effect. There is rather too strong an infusion
of transcendental notions about love, yet the moral tone is much higher
than is usually found in novels, and the author appears to recognize
the stringent obligation of wedlock. We rank this volume of stories
decidedly in the first class.

In the advertisements at the end of the volume we perceive the
announcement of a translation of Jules Verne's _De la Terre à la Lune_,
together with another similar book, describing a journey to the centre
of the earth. The first of these extraordinary _jeux d'esprit_ has
given us so much pleasure in the original, overflowing, as it is, with
humor, poetry, and scientific knowledge, that we call the attention of
our readers, in a spirit of purely disinterested philanthropy, to the
fact that they can get this book and its fellow in English. They will
help very materially the effort to pass a merry Christmas.

  THE ARENA AND THE THRONE. By L. T. Townsend, D.D., author of
    _Credo_, etc. Boston: Lee & Shepard. 1873.

The principal object of this book is one in which we heartily
sympathize, being the refutation of the ordinary shallow arguments
which some persons consider as conclusive in favor of what is known as
the "plurality of worlds" and the maintenance of the dignity of man
as a worthy possessor of the universe of God. The material universe
is insignificant compared with a single soul. We need not take so
much pains to try to utilize it. The convenience of one man would be a
sufficient reason for its existence. The physical arguments, drawn from
actual observation, in favor of the uninhabitability of the worlds with
which we have become in any degree acquainted, are well put.

  RHODA THORNTON'S GIRLHOOD. By Mary E. Pratt. Boston: Lee & Shepard.
    1873.

A pretty, simple story of New England life; a good book for a school
prize. The usual hearty country pleasures--husking and quilting
parties, Thanksgiving, etc., are well and truly described; a healthy
tone runs through the story, which is a natural and probable one. The
little heroine, Rhoda, a thoughtful, womanly child, begins her life in
an alms-house, and then spends a few years on an old-fashioned farm.
She turns out to be the great-granddaughter of a lost member of an old
family, whose heirs and representatives she and her brother become.
The incidents are not violently improbable, and the disintegration
naturally arising in such a family through imprudent marriages and
removals to distant and unreclaimed territories very adequately
accounts for the mystery. The style is free and simple; studied
ornament or any silly rhetorical flourish is avoided.

  RITUALE ROMANUM PAULI V. PONTIFICIS MAXIMI JUSSU EDITUM ET A
    BENEDICTO XIV. AUCTUM ET CASTIGATUM: CUI NOVISSIMA ACCEDIT
    BENEDICTIONUM ET INSTRUCTIONUM APPENDIX. Baltimori: Excudebat
    Joannes Murphy. 1873. 12mo, pp. 546.

This is the first entire edition of the _Rituale_ published in this
country, and we take pleasure in commending it as one very creditable
to the publisher. The type is large, the paper white and clear, and
very excellent register is observed in printing the rubrics. If there
is any suggestion we would offer, it is that the next edition be
printed on thinner paper, so that the volume may be reduced to a more
portable size without any diminution in legibility. The _imprimatur_ of
the archbishop of Baltimore obviates any necessity for comment on the
text.

  THE ACTS OF THE EARLY MARTYRS. By J. A. M. Fastré, S.J. Third
    series. Philadelphia: P. Cunningham & Son. 1873.

The first and second series of this valuable and suggestive work have
received due notice in these pages at the time of their publication. We
have before us now the third series, chiefly treating of the martyrs
of the IVth century, under the tenth general persecution--that of
Diocletian. The contents are most interesting, the more so as some of
the saints here mentioned are less known than those whose acts filled
the first two volumes. The great and foremost reason why we rejoice
to see the sufferings and constancy of the early martyrs brought
before the remembrance of our people is that these sufferings have
some analogy with the present condition of the church in many lands.
Although the physical tortures of early days are out of fashion, the
moral persecution is not less ingeniously spread over the whole life
of a Catholic than it was in former times. The same kind of constancy
is required to conquer the latter as was needed by the martyrs to
overcome bodily pain. In those early times social ostracism, exile from
honorable professions, and confiscation of property, were as frequently
as now the guerdon of him who embraced the unpopular religion, as we
see in the case of S. Tarachus and his companions. In every instance
the bribe held out by Satan to the confessors of the faith was the
favor of the emperor, the honors and emoluments of the magistracy,
great riches, and high position, as we see specially in the case of S.
Clement of Ancyra. His is the most wonderful life recounted in this
little book. Eighteen years of incessant martyrdom; the most heroic
constancy and patience; the most singular and miraculous Providence
watching over him; the powers of persuasion which converted his
jailers, his executioners, and thousands of pagans in the various
places where he was tortured and confined; the manner in which it
pleased God to make him whole no less than six times after the devil
had done his best to render his body unrecognizable--all contribute to
make of his life a tissue of a more wonderful and awful romance than
any imaginary tale of mediæval marvel. To S. Blasius of Sebaste we
would also call attention, as having forestalled S. Francis of Assisi
in his god-given power over the lower creation. In the story of S.
Polyeuctus the reader will recognize the foundation of Corneille's
sublime Christian drama of _Polyeucte_, written at the instance of
Mme. de Maintenon. The style of this book is flowing and correct;
simple, as befits the subject, which cannot be raised higher by any
flight of human fancy or adornment of human fashion; is accessible to
the understanding of the unlearned, and cannot fail involuntarily to
touch the hearts of all. Is it not a strange thought to dwell upon,
that, among all the conversions wrought on the spot by the supernatural
courage of the martyrs, there should be hardly one instance on record
of it having converted their judge? The sudden judgment executed on
some governors and prætors is indeed mentioned in a few cases. Are we
to suppose that they were really beyond persuasion, being possessed by
a devil who had complete control over their faculties? It is a very
awful thing whereon to meditate, but these stories of our forerunners
in the good fight certainly strongly suggest the idea.

       *       *       *       *       *

ANNOUNCEMENT.--We shall begin in our next number the publication of a
new story by Mrs. Craven, author of _A Sister's Story_, _Fleurange_,
etc. The work will be issued simultaneously with its appearance in _Le
Correspondant_, the translation being made from the original MS. with
the special sanction of the author from whom the exclusive right of
publication in this country has been purchased.

The continuation of _Grapes and Thorns_, which has been delayed by the
departure of the author on an European tour, will be resumed in the
February number.




THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XVIII., No. 107.--FEBRUARY, 1874.[181]




THE PRINCIPLES OF REAL BEING.


II.

EXTRINSIC PRINCIPLES OF BEING.

As in chemistry, so also in metaphysics, the labor and difficulty
attending the analysis of complex things is proportional to the degree
of their complexity. Hence in the search after the principles of real
being, which we are about to make, we judge it expedient, for the
greater convenience and satisfaction of our philosophical readers, to
start from the principles of the most simple among the subjects of
metaphysical analysis--that is, from the principles of primitive beings.

By "primitive" being we mean a being not made up of other beings, but
"strictly one in its entity"--_unum per se in ratione entis_--and
therefore having nothing of which it can be deprived without ceasing to
be altogether.

It is to be observed that a primitive being may be conceived to exist
either contingently or through the necessity of its own nature. Of
course, a being which exists through the necessity of its own nature is
perfectly independent of all extrinsic things, as it contains in its
own nature the adequate reason of its being, and therefore admits of no
extrinsic principles of any kind. But a being which exists contingently
is a being which has not within itself the adequate reason of its
existence; whence it follows that its existence cannot be accounted
for but by recourse to some extrinsic principle or principles. As the
knowledge of extrinsic principles is calculated to throw much light
also on the intrinsic constitution of primitive contingent beings, let
us make such principles the subject of our first investigation.

We affirm that the extrinsic principles of every primitive contingent
being are three; for to the question, "Whence any such being proceeds,"
three different answers can be given, and three only.

First, we can assign the reason why, or the end _for the sake of
which_, a being has been made to exist.

Secondly, we can point out the agency _through which_ a being has been
made to exist.

Thirdly, and lastly, we can mention the term _out of which_ a being has
been brought into existence.

These three principles virtually contain the whole theory of creation.
If we were now writing for unbelievers, we would be obliged to commence
by establishing some preliminary truths, such as God's existence,
the contingency of the world, and the philosophical impossibility of
accounting for its origin without recourse to the dogma of creation.
But as our habitual readers are presumed to be sufficiently instructed
about these fundamental truths, we think we may here dispense with a
direct demonstration of the same, and avoid a digression which would
lead us too far from the subject now under examination. As, however,
this article may possibly fall into the hands of some dupe of modern
infidelity, we propose to make a few incidental remarks on their usual
objections, and to lay down, before we conclude, some of the arguments
by which unbelievers can be convinced of the absolute truth of what we
now assume as the ground of our explanations.

We assume, then, that there is a Creator, a God, a being infinitely
intelligent and infinitely powerful, eternal, and independent. Such a
being, as infinitely perfect, is infinitely happy, and experiences no
need whatever of anything outside of himself. He therefore does not
create anything, unless he freely wills; nor wills he anything, unless
it is for some good which he freely intends; for nothing but good
can be the object of volition. Now, the only good which God in his
infinite wisdom can freely intend is the exterior manifestation of his
divine perfections. It is, therefore, for this end that creatures were
brought into existence.

Our first answer to the question above proposed points out this _final
principle_ of creation--that is, the manifestation of God's perfections
in such a degree and manner as he himself was pleased freely to
determine. To attain this end, it is obvious that God was obliged to
bestow upon his creatures such a degree of reality as would enable
them to show in themselves and in their finite perfections a finite
image, and, so to say, a reflex of the perfections of their Creator.
Hence the final principle, on which the existence of contingent beings
originally depends, comprises not only the manifestation of God's
perfections in a determinate degree, but also, and more immediately,
the bestowal of a proportionate degree of entity upon creatures, that
they may carry on such a manifestation according to the design of their
Creator. Thus the _ultimate_ end of creation is indeed God's glory,
or the manifestation of his perfections; but the _proximate_ end of
creation, and that which is immediately obtained in the very act of
creation, is the existence of the created things with that degree of
reality and with those endowments which make them fit instruments for
the aforesaid manifestation. Accordingly, when asked whence a primitive
contingent being proceeds, our first answer must be that it proceeds
from God's design of showing his existence and infinite perfection by
communicating contingent existence and finite perfections outside of
himself.

Let us here take notice that "modern thought" ignores final principles
altogether, and pretends that arguments from design have no value in
science. In this pretension we unmistakably recognize the materialistic
propensities and the lack of philosophical reasoning by which our age
is afflicted. When our modern sages will prove that creation does not
proceed from a will, or that a will can act without an object, then
they will be entitled to the honor of a serious refutation. As it is,
their negative position is sufficiently refuted by a simple appeal to
common sense.

To those who, without denying final causes, maintain that we cannot
ascertain them, nor make them an object of science, we reply that,
although we do not know _all_ the particular ends which each creature
may be destined to fulfil, we nevertheless know perfectly well the
general end of creation. Now, nothing more is needed for establishing
the reality of the first extrinsic principle on which the existence of
every contingent being depends.

Our second answer points out the _efficient principle_ of
creation--that is, God's omnipotent power. Rationalists and
materialists have tried to do away with this most necessary principle.
Besides the old pagan assumption of self-existent matter, which many
of them adopted in order to supersede the necessity of a creator, they
have tried to popularize other inventions of more recent thinkers,
who for the God of the Bible have substituted what they style the
_Absolute_, and pretend that what we call "contingent beings" are mere
apparitions of the _Absolute_--that is, the _Absolute_ manifesting
itself. Without stopping here to refute such a strange theory, we shall
content ourselves with observing that what is altogether _absolute_ is
intrinsically _unmodifiable_--a truth which needs no demonstration, as
it immediately results from the comparison of the two terms; whence it
follows that, if the _Absolute_ wishes to manifest itself, it cannot do
so by assuming any new form, but only by means of something extraneous
to its own nature, and consequently through the instrumentality of
some being _produced_ by it, perfectly _distinct_ from it, and which
may admit of such modifications as we witness everywhere around us,
and as we know to be irreconcilable with the nature of the _Absolute_.
This suffices to show that no apparition or manifestation of the
_Absolute_ can be conceived without implying an exertion of efficient
power.[182] We say, then, in our second answer, that it is through
divine omnipotence that contingent beings were actually brought into
existence by such a communication of reality as was proportionate to
the design of their Creator. In other terms, God's omnipotent power is
the _efficient_ principle of all primitive contingent being.

Our third answer points out the _terminus ex quo_ of creation--that
is, the term out of which every contingent being is primarily educed.
Such a term is mere nothingness; for whatever primarily begins to
exist must come out of absolute non-existence. It is against this that
our modern pseudo-philosophers most loudly protest, as they stoutly
proclaim that "nothing comes out of nothing"--_ex nihilo nihil fit_.
We may well smile at their useless protestation; for the fact is that
nothing is ever brought into existence but from its contrary--that
is, from its non-existence. It would be vain to object that, to build
a house or a ship, materials are needed. Of course they are needed,
but a house is a compound, not a primitive, being; and to build a
house is not _to produce_ the house, but only to effect _the artistic
arrangement_ of its materials. Now, undoubtedly, before the house is
built, such an arrangement has no existence. The only thing, therefore,
that the builder efficiently produces springs out of non-existence.
We fully admit that a physical compound cannot be made up without
materials--viz., without pre-existent components--but, to be sure, the
first components do not themselves depend on other components, because
the first components are _primitive_ beings, and, as such, cannot
be made of any pre-existing material. Yet they must have been made,
since they exist and are contingent; and, if made of no pre-existing
material, certainly brought out of nothing.

But as our readers need none of our arguments to be convinced of a
truth of which they are already in possession, we will set aside all
further discussion on this subject, and conclude, from the preceding
remarks, that when we are asked whence a contingent being originally
comes, our last answer must be that it comes out of nothing as the
_term_ of its eduction. Nothingness, in this case, holds the place of
the _material_ principle, which is wanting.

It is clear, then, that all primitive contingent beings can, and
must, be traced to three extrinsic principles. This doctrine contains
nothing difficult, far-fetched, or mysterious, and its great simplicity
proves that metaphysics, after all, may be less frightfully abstruse
than some people are apt to believe. This same doctrine is also the
universal doctrine of all philosophers who did not lose themselves in
the dreams of visionary systems. It is true that they do not always
mention, as formally as we do, the final object of creation as a
distinct principle; but they do not deny it. In treating of the origin
of things, they usually consider the final and the efficient principle
of creation as a single adequate principle, on the ground that finality
and efficiency, viewed absolutely as they are in God, are but one and
the same thing. They also omit very frequently the mention of the term
out of which things are educed, not because they do not acknowledge it,
but because they know that it has no positive causality. Nevertheless,
a little reflection will show that such a course is not the best
calculated to give a distinct idea of the principiation of things; on
the contrary, the very nature of the metaphysical process demands that
each of the three extrinsic principles be kept in view very distinctly
and explicitly.

We admit, of course, that the final and the efficient principle
of creation, viewed absolutely as they are in God, are really and
entitatively the same thing; but we consider that the intention, or
volition of the end, has its connection with created beings, not on
account of its absolute entity, which is necessary, but on account
of its extrinsic termination, which is contingent; for, evidently,
no act can be conceived as the principle of a being, except inasmuch
as it is connected with the same being. Accordingly, God's volition
is the principle of things, not inasmuch as it is an absolute act,
entitatively necessary, but inasmuch as it is an act having a
contingent termination. On the other hand, God's infinite power must
indeed be conceived as connoting an infinity of beings that _can_
be created, but is not conceivable as connoting determinate beings
that _will_ be created, unless something be found that connects it
especially with the same determinate beings. Now, what is it that
connects God's omnipotence with any determinate being which is to be
created but his volition of a contingent determinate object--that
is, his volition as having a contingent termination? Omnipotence,
therefore, acquires a special connection with a determinate contingent
being only on account of the extrinsic termination of divine volition;
and thus divine omnipotence and divine volition have, under this
consideration, a kind of relative opposition, on account of which the
one that induces the special connection is to be distinguished from the
other that acquires it.

Moreover, in the investigation of first principles we must continue our
analysis as far as we can--that is, until we reach the ultimate terms
into which the subject of our investigation can be resolved. Now, it is
evident that omnipotence, as freely connected with the production of
a determinate being, is not the ultimate term of analysis; for we can
go further, and assign the reason of that free connection--viz., the
actual volition of an end. Hence the final and the efficient principle
of creation, though not really distinct in God, afford a real ground
for two distinct concepts, and are to be considered as two distinct
extrinsic principles with respect to all created things.

The third extrinsic principle--that is, the term out of which
contingent beings are originally educed--is very frequently overlooked
as irrelevant, because it has no reality. We are of opinion that it
should be kept in view by all means, and prominently too, for many
reasons which will be hereafter explained, and especially for the
easier refutation of pantheism. Such a term has, indeed, no reality;
but it is not necessary that all the extrinsic principles of being
should be realities. Common sense teaches, on the contrary, that when
a thing is to be first brought into existence, it is necessary that it
should pass from its non-being into being; whence it is manifest that
_its non-being_ is the proper term out of which it has to be educed.
Now, the non-being of a thing is its nothingness; and, therefore, its
nothingness is the proper term out of which it must be educed. For
the same reason, the schoolmen uniformly taught with Aristotle that
_privation_ also was to be ranked among the principles of things,
although privations are not positive beings;[183] and therefore the
nothingness of the term from which creatures are educed is no objection
to its being placed among the extrinsic principles of contingent beings.

As, however, that which is looked upon as a principle is always
conceived to connote the thing principiated, and, on the other hand,
_absolute_ nothingness has no such connotation (for connotation is
virtual relativity, and cannot spring from nothing), it follows that
_nothingness_, when conceived as a term out of which a being is educed,
is to be looked upon, not as an absolute negation of being, but as _a
negation out of which divine omnipotence, by the production of an act,
brings the creature into being_. In other terms, nothingness is to be
considered, under God's hand, as _a negative potency of something
real_, which can be actuated; and, with regard to any individual
reality, as the potency of that individual reality. When viewed in
this manner, nothingness assumes a relative aspect, in opposition
to that reality of which it is the potency, and thus becomes apt to
connote that same reality, in the same way as silence connotes talk,
darkness light, absence presence, informity form. Hence we took care
to say that a thing is brought into being out of _its_ non-being;
because, as the fool only by divesting himself of _his_ foolishness
can grow wise, so a reality which is to come out of nothing--say, a
point of matter--cannot be educed out of the non-being of an angel or
of any other thing, but only out of _its own_ non-being. Consequently,
non-being, or nothingness, as the term out of which a point of matter
is to be educed, means nothing but _the potency of that real point_;
and thus nothingness, under the hand of the Omnipotent, acquires, in
regard to that which is educed out of it, that relativity which is
sufficient to make it a principle, according to the nature and manner
of its principiation.

Some may ask why, among the extrinsic principles of things, we did
not mention God's _archetypal ideas_; for it seems that, when we are
asked whence a contingent being primarily proceeds, we might answer
by pointing out God's ideas as the patterns to which creatures must
conform, and by saying that things primarily proceed _from the divine
ideas_ as from their archetypal principle; and if this answer--which is
by no means absurd--be admitted, the extrinsic principles of contingent
beings will be four, and not three.

But it is to be observed that God's ideas precede all decrees
concerning creation, and are the archetypes not only of all the
things that are created, but of all the things also which will never
be created; and, therefore, God's ideas have, of themselves, no
connection with the _existence_ of contingent beings, but only with
their _intelligibility_. Hence we may argue in the following manner:
The extrinsic principiation of a contingent being cannot be traced
back to any _special_ principle prior to that which is the first
reason of their creation. But God's ideas are prior to God's volition,
which is the first reason of creation; therefore, the principiation of
contingent beings cannot be traced back to divine ideas as a _special_
extrinsic principle.

Nevertheless, since God cannot intend to create anything but according
to his own idea of it, we must own that the divine ideas share in the
causality of things, inasmuch as such ideas are implied in the volition
of producing the objects they represent; and though, of themselves,
they are not a distinct and special principle of creation, yet, as
included in the Creator's volition, they make up the whole plan of
creation, and thus they have a bearing on the nature, number, and order
of all created things.

Such is the doctrine which we find in S. Thomas' _Theological Summa_,
where he explains how God's ideas are the cause of things. "God's
ideas," says he, "are to all created things what the artist's ideas
are to the works of art. The artist's ideas are the cause of a work
of art, inasmuch as the artist acts through his understanding; hence
the form or idea which is in his understanding must be the principle
of his operation, in the same manner as heat is the principle of the
heating. But it must be remarked that a natural form is a principle of
operation, not inasmuch as it is the permanent form of the thing to
which it gives existence, but inasmuch as it has a leaning towards an
effect. And in a similar manner the form which is in the understanding
is a principle of action, not inasmuch as it is in the understanding
simply, but inasmuch as it acquires, through the will, a leaning
towards an effect; for an intellectual form is not more connected with
the existence than with the non-existence of the thing of which it is
the form (since one and the same is the science of contraries); and,
therefore, such a form cannot produce a determinate effect, unless it
be brought into connection with one of the two contraries; which is
done by the will. Now, God, as we know, causes all things through his
understanding, for his understanding is his being; and, therefore,
his science, _as united with his will_, must be the cause of all
things."[184]

It might be here objected that if, for the reason just alleged,
archetypal ideas are not to be considered a distinct principle of
creation, then neither can omnipotence be considered as a distinct
principle; for as archetypal ideas do not principiate anything unless
through free volition, so, also, omnipotence principiates nothing but
in consequence of the same volition; and, therefore, if archetypal
ideas on this account are not a distinct principle of things, on the
same account omnipotence cannot be taken as a distinct principle.

To this we answer that the assumed parity has no legs to stand on.
That archetypal ideas are not a distinct principle of creation was
proved above, not simply by arguing that they cannot principiate
anything independently of free volition, but by showing that it is not
from them, but from the volition alone, that the real principiation
of things begins. Now, this proof applies to ideas, but not to
omnipotence. In fact, ideas, even in God, must be conceived as having
a certain priority with respect to volitions; for it is true, even in
God, that nothing is willed which is not foreknown--_nihil est volitum,
quin præcognitum_. If, therefore, God's ideas were a _distinct_
principle of creation, there would be something in God, prior to
his will, which would entail the existence of created beings; which
is impossible to admit so long as we maintain that God's will must
remain free in its extrinsic operations. We cannot, therefore, admit,
without absurdity, that the archetypal ideas constitute a _distinct_
principle of things. But, as to divine omnipotence, no such absurdity
is to be feared; for God's omnipotence has no priority with respect to
God's will; and thus the above argument cannot be used to prove that
omnipotence is not a distinct principle of creation.

We conclude that the extrinsic principles, to which the first origin
of contingent beings is to be traced, are not fewer, and not more,
than three. Our Catholic readers will be satisfied, we hope, that
this conclusion has been fairly established on what they know to be
secure foundations. Infidels, of course, will object; for they will
think that the whole of our discussion has been based on hypothetical
grounds. In fact, we have supposed that there are "primitive" beings,
that they are "contingent," that they need "a creator," and that
the creator must be an "infinite being," a god. If a Comtist or a
materialist happens to read the preceding pages, he will surely say
that we have built nothing but a cob-house. But we do not care much
what may be objected by such a class of frivolous and unreasonable
philosophers. We know that their favorite theories have been a hundred
times exploded, and their futile objections a hundred times answered.
When a foe is defeated, what is the use of prolonging the contest?
And when noonday light is dazzling the world, what need is there of
lighting candles? Let them, therefore, only open their eyes, if they
really want light. There is no scarcity of good philosophical works,
which, if consulted by them in a spirit of candor, will afford them all
the light that a man can reasonably desire for the full attainment of
truth.

Yet the solidity of the ground on which we have taken our stand may be
established in a very few words.

That there are _contingent_ beings is quite certain; for nothing
which necessarily exists is liable to change or modification. But all
that surrounds us in this world is liable to change and modification;
therefore, nothing that surrounds us in this world necessarily exists.
Accordingly, all that we see in this world exists contingently.

That contingent beings are either _primitive_ or made up of _primitive_
beings is, again, a well-known fact; for all being which is not
primitive is a compound, and can be traced to its first physical
components--that is, to the first elements of its composition. But
the _first_ elements of composition cannot possibly be made up of
other elements, and accordingly must be primitive beings. Therefore,
primitive beings exist everywhere, at least (if nowhere else) in all
the compounds of which they are the first physical components.

That every primitive contingent being must have had its _origin from
without_ is a plain truth; for that which has no origin from without
must have the adequate reason of its existence from within; and,
therefore, it carries in its essence the necessity of its existence.
But evidently contingent and changeable beings do not carry within
their essence the necessity of their existence; therefore, contingent
beings must have had their origin from without.

That every such being must have come _out of nothing_ is not less
evident; for a primitive being cannot possibly come out of pre-existent
beings as its material principles. It must, therefore, be _produced_
either out of God's substance or out of nothing. But not out of God's
substance, for divine substance is not susceptible of contingent forms;
therefore, out of nothing--that is, by creation properly.

Lastly, that the Creator is _an eternal, infinite being_ can be easily
proved, independently of many other arguments, by the following
general theorem, to which modern philosophers are invited to pay close
attention. The theorem is this: _All efficient cause is infinitely more
perfect, and of an infinitely better nature, than any of its effects_.
If this proposition be true, it immediately follows that the Creator of
the universe is infinitely more perfect than the whole universe, and
has a nature infinitely better, nobler, and higher than that of any
contingent being, and therefore is a necessary and independent being,
the supreme being--God. Let us, then, demonstrate our theorem.

It is a known and incontrovertible truth that every efficient cause
eminently contains in itself (that is, possesses in an eminent degree)
all the perfection which it can efficiently communicate to any number
of effects; and it can be proved, moreover, that the efficiency of a
cause is never exhausted, and not even weakened, by its exertions,
however long continued and indefinitely multiplied. The earth, after
having for centuries exerted its attractive power and caused the fall
of innumerable bodies, has preserved to this day the same power whole
and undiminished, and is still acting, with its primitive energy, on
any number of bodies, just as it did at the time of its creation.
Our soul is not exhausted or weakened by its operations; but, after
having made any number of judgments, reasonings, or any other mental
actions, still retains the whole energy and perfection of its faculties
without waste, effeteness, or decay. A molecule of oxygen, after having
for ages, either free in the air or confined in water or in other
compounds, produced such a number of effects as bewilders and beats all
power of imagination, retains yet its efficient causality as entire and
unimpaired as if it were of quite recent creation. These facts show
that the efficient cause suffers no loss whatever by the exertion of
its power, and therefore is fully equal to the production of an endless
multitude of effects.

Some may say that this conclusion cannot be universal, as we see that
natural forces are very often exhausted by exertion. We answer that,
when _natural forces_ are said to be exhausted, the _efficient powers_
from which those forces result remain as intact and as active as
before. We say, indeed, that a man or a horse is exhausted by fatigue;
that our brain, after hours of mental work, needs rest to recover its
lost energy, and many other such things; but, in all such cases, what
we call _exhaustion_ is not a diminution of efficient power in the
agents from the concurrence of which the natural forces result, but
either the actual disappearance (by respiration, perspiration, etc.)
of a number of those agents, or a perturbance of the arrangements
and conditions necessary for their united conspiration towards the
production of a determinate effect. _Natural force_, in the sense of
the objection, is a combination of agents and of efficient powers,
which produce their effect by many concurrent actions giving a
different resultant under different conditions; and as any given effect
proximately depends on the resultant of such actions, the same powers,
though unaltered in themselves, must, under different conditions, give
rise to different effects. Take a car and four horses. If the horses
act all in the same direction, the car will move easily enough; but
if two of the horses act in one direction, and two in the other, the
result will be very different. Yet the powers applied to the car are in
both cases the same. Again, take an army of fifty thousand men facing
the enemy. If the men are well arranged so as to present a good line
of battle, the action of the army will be strong; but if the men are
disorderly scattered, the action will be weak, though the men are the
same and their powers and exertions undiminished. Now, all bodies and
all complex causes are in the same case; which is evident from the
fact that with all of them a favorable change of conditions, all other
things remaining the same, is always attended by an increase of the
effect. Therefore, the so-called _exhaustion_ of natural forces is not
a diminution of the efficient powers of which they are the result, but
a state of things in which _the same_ active powers are exerted in a
different manner, or have to perform a different work, according to the
different conditions to which they are actually subjected. We therefore
repeat that efficient causes suffer no loss whatever by the exertion
of their efficient powers, and that consequently they are fully equal
to the production of an infinite multitude of effects; and since every
efficient cause, as we have premised, must contain within itself, in an
eminent manner, the whole perfection which it can communicate to its
effects, we are forced to conclude that the nature of every efficient
cause _infinitely transcends_ in perfection the nature of its effects.

The theorem could be further confirmed by considering that all the acts
produced by efficient causes of the natural order, either spiritual
or material, are mere accidents, whereas the causes themselves are
substances; and it is manifest that the nature of substance infinitely
transcends the nature of accident.

It might be confirmed, again, by another very simple consideration.
The efficient cause does not communicate any portion of itself to
its effect.[185] In fact, efficient causation is production; and
production is not a transfusion, translocation, or emanation of a
pre-existing thing, but the origination of a _new_ entity which had no
previous formal existence. It follows that the efficient cause, while
producing an effect, retains its _entire_ entity, and therefore is
never exhausted. Thus a syllogism is not a portion of the mind that
makes it; and the making of it leaves intact the substance and the
faculty from which it proceeds. Thus, also, the actual momentum of a
falling body is not a portion of the terrestrial power by which it is
produced; the power remains whole and undiminished in the substance of
the earth, as already remarked, always ready to produce any number of
changes, and always unchanged in itself. This is the reason why every
efficient cause infinitely transcends the nature of its effects.

Our theorem is, then, demonstrated both by facts and by intrinsic
reasons. We are confident that all honest philosophers, no matter
how much their intellectual vision may have been distorted by false
doctrines, will see their way to the right conclusion, and confess the
absolute necessity of an independent, self-existent, infinite Creator,
from whom all beauty, goodness, and perfection proceed, and to whom all
creatures--philosophers not excepted--owe allegiance, honor, and glory.


                            TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[181] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
Rev. I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
Washington, D. C.

[182] This argument could be employed against all other forms of
pantheism; but we must abstain at present from the discussion of
particular systems, as we cannot deal fairly with them within the
narrow compass of a single article.

As for _self-existent_ matter, we need only say that nothing which
can receive new determinations is self-existent; and since matter
receives new determinations, therefore matter is not self-existent.
Hence the conception of eternal and uncreated matter cannot be styled a
philosophical opinion, but only a dream of unreflecting or uneducated
minds.

[183] The Aristotelic meaning of the word _privation_ will be easily
understood from the following example: If a cylindrical piece of wax
be made to assume a spherical form, the sphericity will be educed,
as the schools say, from the cylindrical wax, not inasmuch as it is
cylindrical, but inasmuch as it is non-spherical. Such a non-sphericity
is a _privation_, which is more than a _negation_, as it implies
not only the absence of sphericity, but also the presence of its
contrary--that is, of the cylindrical form. Privation is usually
defined _carentia formæ in subjecto apto_. It is a principle _per
accidens_.

[184] We give the original text: _Sic enim scientia Dei se habet ad
omnes res creatas, sicut scientia artificis se habet ad artificiata.
Scientia autem artificis est causa artificiatorum, eo quod artifex
operatur per suum intellectum. Unde oportet quod forma intellectus sit
principium operationis, sicut calor est principium calefactionis. Sed
considerandum est, quod forma naturalis, in quantum est forma manens
in eo cui dat esse, non nominat principium actionis, sed secundum quod
habet inclinationem ad effectum. Et similiter forma intelligibilis non
nominat principium actionis secundum quod est tantum in intelligente,
nisi adjungatur ei inclinatio ad effectum, quæ est per voluntatem.
Quum enim forma intelligibilis ad opposita se habeat (quum eadem
sit scientia oppositorum) non produceret determinatum effectum,
nisi determinaretur ad unum per appetitum, ut dicitur in 9. Metaph.
Manifestum est autem quod Deus per intellectum suum causat res, quum
suum esse sit suum intelligere; unde necesse est quod sua scientia sit
causa rerum secundum quod habet voluntatem conjunctam_ (p. 1, q. 14, a.
8).

[185] Parents, however, communicate a portion of their substance
to their offspring. The reason is that parents are not only the
_efficient_, but also the _material_, cause of their offspring. As
material causes, they supply the matter of which the fœtus will
be formed; but, as efficient causes, they only put the conditions
required by nature for the organization of this matter. The position
of such conditions is an accidental action as well as the subsequent
organization. Therefore, parents, as efficient causes, produce nothing
but accidental acts. The matter of which the fœtus is formed is, of
course, all pre-existing.




DANTE'S PURGATORIO.

CANTO TWELFTH.


      Paired, like two oxen treading under yoke,
    That burdened soul and I as far had gone
      As the loved Tutor let. But when he spoke
    These words: "Now leave him! We must travel on,
      For here 'tis good with spread of sail and stroke
    Of oar, to push his boat as each best may;"
      I made myself, as walking needs, erect,
    But only in body; just it is to say
      My thoughts were bowed, my spirit was deject.
    Still I was moving, and with willing feet
      Followed my Master; both began to show
    How light we were, when thus he said: "'Tis meet
      That, walking here, thou bend thine eyes below,
    So to observe, and make the moments fleet,
      Over what kind of bed thy footsteps go."

    Even as, that so their memory may survive,
      Our earthly tombs, above the buried, bear
    The graven form of what they were alive;
      Whence oft one weeps afresh the image there,
    Pricked by remembrance,--which doth only give
      To souls compassionate a sting of pain--
    So I saw figured o'er, but with more skill
      In the resemblance, all the narrow plain
    Which formed our pathway, jutting from the hill.

      Him[186] there I marked, on one side, noblest made
    Of all God's creatures, stricken down from heaven
      Like lightning! Opposite, there was displayed
    Briareus, cast from where he late had striven,
      Smit by celestial thunderbolts, and laid
    Heavy on earth and in the frost of death.
      I saw Thymbræus, Pallas too, and Mars,
    Still armed, around their sire, with bated breath
      Viewing the giants, their torn limbs and scars!
    Nimrod I saw, at foot of his great tower,
      As if bewildered, gazing on the tribes
    That showed with him such haughtiness of power
      In Shinar's plain, as Genesis describes.

    O Niobe! with what eyes, full of woe,
      Mid thy slain children, upon each hand seven,
    I saw thee carved upon the road! And, O
      Saul! in Gilboa, that no more from heaven
    Felt rain or dew, how dead on thine own sword
      Didst thou appear! Thee, mad Arachne, there
    I saw, half spider! fumbling the deplored
      Shreds of that work which wrought for thee despair
    O Rehoboam! there no more in threat
      Stands thy fierce figure; smit with fear he flies,
    Whirled in a chariot, none pursuing yet:
      Showed also that hard pavement to mine eyes
    How young Alcmæon made his mother sell
      With life the luckless ornament she wore
    How, in the temple, on Sennacherib fell
      The sons, and left his corpse there on the floor.
    The cruel carnage and the wreck it showed
      Which Tomyris made, when she to Cyrus cried:
    _Blood thou didst thirst for! now I give thee blood_;
      And showed th' Assyrians flying far and wide
    In utter rout, with Holofernes dead,
      And all the slaughter that befell beside,
    And the grim carcase by the bloody bed.
      Troy next I saw, an ashy, caverned waste:
    O Ilion! how vile the work showed thee
      Which there is graven,--how utterly abased!
    What master of pencil or of stile[187] was he
      Who so those traits and figures could have traced
    That subtlest wit had been amazed thereby?
      Alive the living seemed, and dead the dead!
    Who saw the truth no better saw than I,
      While bowed I went, all underneath my tread.

    Now swell with pride, and on with lofty stalk,
      Children of Eve! nor bend your visage aught
    So to behold the sinful way ye walk.
      More of the mountain than my busied thought
    Had been aware of we had rounded now,
      And much more of his course the sun had spent;
    When he, who still went first with watchful brow,
      Exclaimed: "Look up!--to accomplish our ascent
    Time no more suffers to proceed so slow.
      See yonder angel hastening on his way
    To come towards us! and from her service, lo!
      The sixth returning handmaid of the day.
    Give to thy mien the grace of reverence, then,
      That he may joy to marshal us above.
    Think thus: _this day will never dawn again_."
      I had so often felt his words reprove
    My slowness, warning me to lose no time,
      That on this point I read his dark words right.
    With sparkling face, as glows at rosy prime
      The tremulous morning star, and robed in white,
    That being of beauty moved towards us, and said,
      Opening his arms and then his pinions wide,
    "Come, here the steps are!--easy to the tread
      And close at hand: now upward ye may glide."
    But very few obey this Angel's call:
      O human race! born high on wings to soar,
    Why at a little breath do ye so fall?
      He brought us where the rock a pass revealed
    Hewn out, his pinions on my forehead beat
      And with his promise my safe-going sealed.

    As, to the right, in climbing to the seat
      Of the fair church[188] that looketh lordly down
    Over the bridge that bears the name this day
      Of Rubaconte, on the well-ruled town,[189]
    The sharp ascent is broken by a way
      Of stairs constructed in the old time, ere
    Fraud was in measure and in ledger found;
      Thus the steep bank is graduated there
    Which falls abruptly from the other round:
      On either side the tall rock grazes though.
    As we turned thitherward, were voices heard,
      _Beati pauperes spiritu!_ singing so
    As might not be exprest by any word.
      Ah! these approaches--how unlike to Hell's!
    With chant of anthems one makes entrance here;
      Down there with agony's ferocious yells.

    Now, as we climb, the sacred stairs appear
      More easy than the plain had seemed before:
    Wherefore I thus began: "O Master! say,
     What heavy load is tak'n from me? No more
    I feel that weariness upon my way."
      "When every P, upon thy temples traced,
    Almost obliterate now," he answered me,
      "Shall be, like this one, totally erased,
    So by right will thy feet shall vanquished be,
      That they not only no fatigue shall know,
    But ev'n with pleasure shall be forward sped."
      Then did I like as men do when they go
    Unweeting what they carry on their head,
      Till signs from some one their suspicion waking,
    The assistant hand its own assurance tries,
      And seeks and findeth, such discovery making
    As may not be afforded by the eyes.
      Spreading my right-hand fingers, I could find
    Six[190] letters only of the seven which he
      Who bore the keys had on my forehead signed:
    Observing which, my Master smiled on me.

FOOTNOTES:

[186] Lucifer.

[187] _Stile_ here means a sculptor's tool, and not a writer's _style_.

[188] This is the well-known church of S. Miniato, which every boy who
has been to Florence must well remember.

[189] Florence, in irony.

[190] The Angel, sitting at the gate of Purgatory, had described (as
the readers of the Ninth Canto may remember, v. 112) the letter P seven
times with the point of his sword on the forehead of Dante, in sign of
the seven deadly sins,--Peccata--one of which, and Dante's worst, the
sin of pride, now vanishes from his soul as the letter fades from his
forehead.




THE EPIPHANY.


Let us, then, also follow the Magi; let us separate ourselves from
our barbarian customs, and make our distance therefrom great, that we
may see Christ, since they too, had they not been far from their own
country, would have missed seeing him. Let us depart from the things
of earth. For so the wise men, while they were in Persia, saw but the
star; but after they had departed from Persia, they beheld the Sun of
Righteousness. Or rather, they would not have seen so much as the star,
unless they had readily risen up from thence. Let us, then, also rise
up; though all men be troubled, let us run to the house of the young
Child; though kings, though nations, though tyrants, interrupt this our
path, let not our desire pass away; for so shall we thoroughly repel
all the dangers that beset us; since these too, except they had seen
the young Child, would not have escaped their danger from the king.
Before seeing the young Child, fears and dangers and troubles pressed
upon them from every side; but after the adoration, it is calm and
security; and no longer a star, but an angel, receives them, having
become priests from the act of adoration; for we see that they offered
gifts also.

Do thou, therefore, likewise leave the Jewish people, the troubled
city, the blood-thirsty tyrant, the pomps of the world, and hasten to
Bethlehem, where is the house of the Spiritual Bread;[191] for though
thou be a shepherd, and come hither, thou wilt behold the young Child
in an inn; though thou be a king, and approach not here, thy purple
robe will profit thee nothing; though thou be one of the wise men,
this will be no hindrance to thee; only let thy coming be to honor and
adore, not to spurn, the Son of God; only do this with trembling and
with joy, for it is possible for both of these to concur in one.

But take heed that thou be not like Herod, and say, _That I may come
and worship him_, and, when thou art come, be minded to slay him.
For him do they resemble who partake of the mysteries unworthily; it
being said that such an one _shall be guilty of the Body and Blood of
the Lord_. Yes; for they have in themselves the tyrant who is grieved
at Christ's Kingdom--him that is more wicked than Herod of old--even
Mammon. For he would fain have the dominion, and sends them that are
his own to worship in appearance, but slaying while they worship.
Let us fear, then, lest at any time, while we have the appearance
of suppliants and worshippers, we should indeed show forth the
contrary.--_S. John Chrysostom._

FOOTNOTES:

[191] Bethlehem signifies in Hebrew "the house of bread."




GRAPES AND THORNS.


                BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF YORKE."


CHAPTER VIII.

SUMMER FRIENDS.

F. Chevreuse did not allow himself a long indulgence in his own
sorrows. Before half an hour had elapsed, he was stepping through the
portal of the city jail, all private grief set aside and lost sight of
in the errand that had brought him.

Sensitive as he was, the gloom and dampness inseparable from a prison
would have chilled him, but that pity for him who was suffering from
them so unjustly, as he believed, startled his heart into intenser
action, and sent an antagonistic glow through his frame, as though by
force of love alone he would have warmed the stones and chased away
those depressing shadows.

A few swift steps along the stone corridor brought him to the cell
assigned to Mr. Schöninger. Looking with eagerness, yet shrinkingly
too, through the grating, while the jailer unlocked the door, he saw
the prisoner standing there with folded arms and head erect, regarding
him coldly and without the faintest sign of recognition. The place was
not so dim but he must have seen perfectly who his visitor was; yet a
man of stone could not have stood more unmoved.

The jailer was not long unlocking the door, yet, brief as the time was,
it sufficed to work a change in the priest. It was with him as with
the fountain which tosses its warm waters into a chilly atmosphere:
the spray retains its form, but not its temperature. "I am shocked at
this, Mr. Schöninger!" he exclaimed, hastening into the cell. "I will
do anything to relieve you! Only tell me what to do."

The words, the gesture, the emphasis, all were as he had meant; but a
something in the whole manner, which tells when the heart outleaps the
word and the gesture, was lost. It was possible to think the cordiality
of his address affected.

Mr. Schöninger bowed lowly, without unfolding his arms or softening the
expression of his face. "I thank you for your offers of service," he
said; "but they are unnecessary. I have employed counsel, and what the
law can do for me will be done. Meantime, it is not for you and me to
clasp hands."

His look conveyed not only pride, but disdain. He seemed less the
accused than the accuser.

"Whose hand, then, will you clasp?" the priest exclaimed, impatient at
what seemed to him an unreasonable scruple. "You are a stranger here,
and can be sure of no one. I am the very person whose good-will will be
most valuable to you."

It was only the embarrassment resulting from an unexpected rebuff which
could have made F. Chevreuse appeal to the motive of self-interest. To
tell a proud and bitter, perhaps a guilty, man that he stands in his
own light, is only to make him blacken yet more his immovable shadow.
But as a man sometimes relaxes the severity of his manner at the same
time that he increases the firmness of his resolution, Mr. Schöninger
unbent so far as to offer his visitor a seat.

"Please excuse the roughness," he said, indicating a rude bench. "The
furniture is not of my choosing." And seated himself on the bed, there
being no other place.

F. Chevreuse remained standing. The mocking courtesy was more chilling
than coldness.

"I followed an impulse of kindness in coming to you," he said, looking
down to hide how much he was hurt. "I did not stop to ask myself what
was conventional, or wise, or politic. My heart prompted me to fly to
the rescue, and I took no other counsel."

There was no reply. Mr. Schöninger's eyes were fixed with an intent
and searching gaze on the priest, and a faint color began to creep up
over his cold face. As F. Chevreuse raised his eyes and met that gaze,
the faint color deepened to a sudden red; for the priest's glance was
dimmed by tears of wounded feeling he had striven to hide.

"You distrust me!" he said reproachfully; "and I do not deserve it. I
would serve you, if I could. I would be your friend, if you would let
me."

It was Mr. Schöninger's turn to drop his eyes. To look in that face
unmoved was impossible. The reproach, the pain, the tenderness of it
had shot like an arrow through his heart, steeled as it was. But his
habit of self-control was proof against surprise. After the blush had
left his face, there was no sign visible of the struggle that was going
on within. He seemed to be merely considering a question. After a
moment, he looked up.

"You seem to think me innocent of this charge?" he remarked calmly.

F. Chevreuse was silent with astonishment.

"You probably do think so," Mr. Schöninger went on, in the same
tone. "But whatever your opinion may be, you do not know. Crimes are
committed from various motives and under various circumstances. Some
are almost accidental. Neither is crime committed by the low and
rude alone, nor by the bad alone. There is nothing in the character
or circumstances of any man which would render it impossible that
he should ever be guilty of a crime. I repeat, then, that you
cannot be sure of my innocence; and, till it is proved, there can
be no intercourse between us. I am willing to give you credit for a
charitable impulse; but I do not want charity. I want justice!" His
eyes flashed out, and his face began to redden again. Mr. Schöninger
had not become cool by spending a night in jail.

F. Chevreuse did not stir, though he was in fact dismissed. Mr.
Schöninger, seeing that his visitor did not sit, rose, and stood
waiting to bow him out.

"I cannot go away and leave you so, in such a place!" the priest
exclaimed after a moment, during which he seemed to have made an inner
effort to go. "It is monstrous! Cannot you see that it is so? Why, last
night we were like friends; and I insist that there is no reason why we
should not be friends to-day."

"What! Even if I should be guilty?" asked the prisoner in a low voice.

F. Chevreuse made a gesture of impatience, and was about to utter
a still more impatient protest, when he met a look so cold, yet so
thrilling with a significance he could not interpret, that he drew back
involuntarily.

The Jew's face darkened. "Your convictions are, apparently, not so deep
as you had supposed, sir," he said freezingly. "I am afraid you would
find yourself disappointed as to the extent of confidence you would be
able to repose in me. The sober second thought is best. Our paths are
separate."

For the first time something like anger showed momentarily in the
priest's face, and gave a certain sternness to the first words he
spoke; but it was over in an instant. "You are quite right, sir!"
he said. "It is impossible for me to go with you, unless I am met
with entire frankness and confidence. If you choose that our paths
shall be separate, I will not force myself on you; but we need not be
antagonistic. Farewell!"

He turned and groped in the door-way for the passage-step, his own
shadow being added to those which already wrapped the place in an
obscurity almost like night. He saw the jailer in the long corridor
before him, waiting to lock the door, and he had just found where to
set his foot, when he felt a warm touch on his hand that still held by
the stone door-way inside the cell. The touch was slight, but it was
a caress, either a kiss or the quick pressure of a soft palm. He had
hardly time to be fully aware of it before he stood in the corridor,
and the jailer was locking the door behind him.

He stopped, and looked through the grating, but could not see the
prisoner. Only a narrow line of black, like the sleeve of a coat,
seemed to show that Mr. Schöninger had thrown himself on to his bed.
The priest put his face close to the bars, and whispered, "God bless
you!"

The line of black moved quickly with a start, but there was no reply.

Pale and dispirited, F. Chevreuse left the prison, and took his way
slowly to Mrs. Gerald's. He would rather not have gone then, but he
had promised. He wondered a little within himself, indeed, why he
felt such reluctance to see persons who had always been faithful and
sympathizing friends to him, and why he would rather, were the choice
left to him, have gone to Mrs. Ferrier, or, still better, to Annette.

As soon as the true reason occurred to him, he put it aside, and
refused to think on the subject.

Mrs. Gerald was evidently on the watch for him; for as soon as he
approached the house, she came to the door to meet him. The color was
wavering in her face, her blue eyes were suffused with tears, and
looked the sympathy her lips did not speak. But the sympathy was all
for him--for the terrible wound torn open again, for the new wound
added, perhaps, of a misplaced confidence. No look seemed to glance
past him and inquire for the one he had left behind.

Honora sat by a fire in the sitting-room, leaning close to the blaze,
with a shawl drawn about her shoulders, and seemed to shiver even
then. There was a frosty paleness in her face as she rose to meet
their visitor, as though the blood had all flowed back to her heart,
and stopped there, and the hand she gave him was cold. But an eager,
questioning glance slipped from her eyes, swift and shrinking, that
went beyond him and asked for news of the prisoner.

"Well," said F. Chevreuse, glancing from one to the other, "there is
nothing to tell."

Honora sank into her chair again, and waited mutely, looking into the
fire.

"Nothing of any consequence, that is," he continued, folding his hands
together on the back of a chair, and looking down at them. "I went to
the jail; but Mr. Schöninger has so quixotic a sense of propriety that
he will not allow me to do anything for him. It was in vain for me to
urge the matter; he absolutely sent me away."

"He was quite right in that," Mrs. Gerald remarked coldly.

Honora's eyes were again eagerly searching the priest's face, but Mrs.
Gerald was in turn looking away from him.

"And why was he right, madam?" demanded F. Chevreuse.

She did not look up to answer, and her expression was of that stubborn
reserve which some good people assume when they cannot say anything
friendly, and are determined not to be uncharitable. "I may be wrong,"
she said, carefully choosing her words, "but it does not seem to me
that you are the person of whom he should take advice now. Pardon me,
F. Chevreuse! I do not mean to criticise you nor dictate to you, of
course. But I am glad that you are to have nothing to do with this. You
should be spared the pain."

He was too sore-hearted to argue the point; and he knew, moreover, that
argument would be thrown away. He was well aware that the most of his
friends thought his generosity sometimes exaggerated, and were more
likely to check than to encourage him. When he went out of the beaten
track, he had never found sympathy anywhere but with the one whose
loss he felt more and more every day, unless it might be with Annette
Ferrier and her mother.

"It seems that I am not to have anything to do with it," he said;
"though I fail to see why I should not. Let that pass, however. I pity
the poor fellow from my heart, though his detention will be a short
one, since the trial, they tell me, is to come on immediately. It is
a miserable condition, being shut up in that place, and loaded with
such an outrageous accusation. I do not wonder it made him bitter and
distrustful of me."

Mrs. Gerald lifted her eyes quickly, and gave F. Chevreuse a glance
that recalled to his mind that look from which he had shrunk in the
prison. He could not understand it, but it made him shiver. Not that
it expressed any suspicion or accusation; it seemed only to ask
searchingly if there were no suspicion in his own mind.

"Well, good-by!" he said hastily. "Let us all beware of
uncharitableness in thought, word, and deed."

When he had reached the street-door he heard Miss Pembroke's step
following him.

"You have really nothing to tell me?" she asked, trembling as she
held her shawl about her. "Recollect that I and this man have spoken
together as friends. Am I still to believe in him?"

"Oh! fie, Honora Pembroke!" the priest exclaimed sorrowfully. "Is that
the kind of friendship you give, that you doubt a person at the first
wild charge made against him?"

"It is not so much that I doubt, father," she said faintly. "But
nothing so terrible has ever come near me before, and it is
confounding. I want to be reassured."

"Cast all doubt out of your mind, then," he said emphatically. "And
if you should send some little message to Mr. Schöninger by a proper
messenger, saying that you hope he will soon be delivered from his
trouble, it would be a kind and Christian act."

She drew back a little, and made no reply.

"You are not willing to do it?" he asked.

"I would rather not, father," she answered deprecatingly. "I really
hope and pray that he may soon be delivered, and I am willing he
should know it--he must be sure of it, if he gives the subject a
thought--but I would not like to send him a message. There will be men
to go and speak kindly to him; he has many friends. If Lawrence were
here, he would go. I would not like to take any step in the matter."

F. Chevreuse sighed. "You must be guided by your own feeling and sense
of right in this," he said. "I did not mean to advise, but only to
suggest."

He knew, as he went away, that she lingered in the door, looking after
him in painful uncertainty, and he almost expected to hear himself
called back and begged to be her messenger. But no call came; and
he went away from his second visit, as from the first, chilled and
disappointed.

For one moment the thought which he had thrust aside on coming started
out again, and made itself felt. It seemed to him, in that brief glance
at it, that there is nothing on earth which can be more cruel than a
strict and scrupulous respectability. Then instantly he began to make
excuses, and to find reasons why people, women especially, should be
less demonstrative than he might have wished.

"What! you will not recognize me?" said a voice at his elbow.

It was a voice to arrest attention--deep, musical, and penetrating;
and the speaker was not one to be passed with only a glance. He was of
medium height, broad-shouldered, and had an exceedingly handsome face,
with brilliant blue eyes, and wavy, dark hair just beginning to be
threaded with white. This was F. O'Donovan, whose parish, a small one,
lay two miles, or more, from that of F. Chevreuse. Besides these two,
there was no other priest resident within a radius of forty miles.

"Brother!" exclaimed F. Chevreuse, and grasped the hand the other
extended to him, and for a moment seemed to be on the point of yielding
to an emotion natural to one who, having long borne without human help
his own burdens and the burdens of others, sees at length a friend on
whom he can lean in turn, and to whom he can venture to confess his
human weakness. "I thought you were at home, swathed in flannels," he
added, recovering himself.

F. O'Donovan shrugged his shoulders. He had been a good deal in France,
and had, moreover, as all graceful and vivacious persons have, a
natural inclination to use a good deal of gesture. "Rheumatism, my
friend, is not invincible. Yesterday I was helpless; this morning at
seven o'clock I was helpless. At ten minutes past seven I heard news
which made me wish to see you; and here I am--sound, too. It was only
to say, Get thee behind me, Satan! and I could walk as well as you.
From which I conclude that my rheumatism, if it had existence outside
my own imagination, was Satan in disguise."

F. Chevreuse pressed the arm he had taken, and they walked on together
a little way in silence. The news his brother priest had heard need not
be spoken of. His silent sympathy and companionship were enough.

"Has it ever occurred to you that the saints must have been considered
in their day rather disreputable people?" the elder priest asked
presently. "Leaving violent persecution out of the question, what
a raising of eyebrows, and shrugging of shoulders, and how many
indulgent smiles, and looks of mild surprise, and cold surprise, and
gentle dismay, and polite disapprobation, and all that they must have
occasioned!"

"By which I understand," remarked the other, "that somebody has refused
to fly in the face of society at your request."

"Taken with the usual allowance required by your interpretations of me,
that is true," F. Chevreuse admitted.

His friend smiled. There was always this little pretence of feud
between them, and each admired the other heartily, though the Frenchman
was unconventional to a fault, and the Irishman scrupulously polished.
A fastidious taste and a cautious self-control, learned in a large and
varied experience of life, stood in constant ward over F. O'Donovan's
warm heart and high spirit. F. Chevreuse, in his trustful ardor, was
constantly bruising himself on the rocks; his friend looked out for and
steered clear of them, yet not with a selfish nor ungenerous caution.

"Brother Chevreuse," he said in a voice to which he could impart an
almost irresistible persuasiveness, "you are older and wiser than I am,
and I only remind you of what you know when I say that conventionality
is not to be reprobated. It is on the side of law and order. It is the
friend of propriety and decency. It is the rule, to which, indeed,
exceptions are allowed, but not too readily. You speak of the saints
as though they were all persons who have lived before the world
peculiar and exceptional lives. Of course, even while I speak, you
remember that the church does not pretend to have canonized all her
holy children, and that she has appointed a day to commemorate those
who have won the heavenly crown without drawing upon themselves the
attention of mankind. I do not believe that any breath of slander or
of injurious criticism ever touched Our Blessed Lady. She used every
care to preserve herself from them. Why should not women be as careful
now, even at the risk of seeming to be selfishly cautious? Is the high
reputation which they have labored to acquire to be lightly perilled,
even for an apparently good end? Besides, in performing that one good
act, they may, by drawing criticism on themselves, have lost the power
to perform another effectually. You defend an accused person, never
having done so before, and you may save him. Do it a second time, and
people will say, 'Oh! he is always defending criminals'; and your power
is gone."

"It is hard to see a person wrongly accused, and not protest against
the wrong," F. Chevreuse said gravely.

"It is more than hard, it is wicked," the other replied with
earnestness. "But first be sure that the person is innocent; and
then, having ascertained that, try to recollect, my dear friend, that
you alone are not to right all the wrongs of earth. Some must be
endured, some must be rectified by others than you. And, after all,
I am inclined to believe that, as a rule, no innocent person falls
into serious difficulty without having been faulty in some way, as
regards prudence, at least. Now, how is such a person to learn wisdom
by experience, if there is always somebody at his elbow to save him
from the consequences of his own act. It is not pleasant to be obliged
to check a generous impulse in ourselves or in others; and it is not
pleasant, when we are in trouble, to be left to fight our way out of
it alone. But if we are always performing works of supererogation, we
may unfit ourselves for performing duties. And as to finding our track,
unassisted, through difficult ways, and learning by sharp experience
how to avoid them, it develops our inward resources, and is good for
us, though bitter."

The last words were delivered with an incisive emphasis so delicate
as to be observable only in one who seldom spoke with emphasis, and
it touched the listener deeply. F. O'Donovan never complained, and he
had never made any special revelations to his friend; but one who knew
his life could not doubt that he had learned to take his very sleep in
armor. He had risen from poverty and obscurity, as the sparks rise; had
borne the jealousy of those whom he left behind, and of those he had
eclipsed in his higher estate; had been obliged to control in himself
a haughty spirit and a tender heart; yet had never made a misstep of
any consequence, nor given his most jealous detractor an angry word to
remember.

His place was in a metropolitan church; but, at his own request, he
had been sent for a time to a quiet country parish, that he might have
leisure to complete a literary work for which city life and the demands
of a host of admirers were too distracting.

He had followed F. Chevreuse from his own house to the prison, and from
the prison to Mrs. Gerald's, and he understood perfectly what he would
wish to do and where he had been disappointed. Honora had, indeed, told
him, half weeping, of the request she had refused, and had proposed to
make him the bearer of her retraction.

"To think I should have set up my sense of right against his!" she
exclaimed. "To think that I should have refused him anything!"

And yet, though she was sincere in her regret, she was greatly
relieved when F. O'Donovan declined to carry her message, assuring
her that F. Chevreuse would doubtless, on second thought, approve of
her refusal. To have sent a direct message to a man who stood before
the world charged with a horrible crime, and, perhaps, to have
received a message in return from him--to have placed herself thus in
communication with one of the most darkly accused inmates of that jail
which she had passed frequently during her whole life without ever
dreaming of crossing the threshold, even for a work of mercy--the very
possibility plunged Miss Pembroke into confusion and distress. The
regions of crime were as far removed from her experience as the regions
that lie outside of human life; and, of herself, she would as soon have
thought of following any one to purgatory as to prison.

That scrupulous correctness and propriety which we admire in these
fair women, whose whole lives are passed in the delicately screened
cloisters of the world, shows sometimes a reverse not so admirable.
They are seldom the friends in need; and when a fearless heroism is
wanted, they do not come forward. They draw back instinctively those
garments they have been at pains to preserve so white from contact with
the blood-stained, dusty One who goes staggering by with the thorns on
his head and the cross on his shoulders. A look of pity and horror may
follow him from the safe place where they stand; but it is not they who
pierce their way through the rabble, with Veronica, to take the imprint
of his misery on to their stainlessness, nor they who weep around
his tomb through dews and darkness, careless of the world in their
unspeakable sorrow, and floating above the world in the unspeakable
ecstasy to which that sorrow gives place. No, the charity of the human
angel is limited. Only the angels of God, and those generous souls
whose anguish of pity for the suffering is a constantly purifying fire,
can go down into the darker paths of life and receive no stain.

"I am glad F. O'Donovan came," Mrs. Gerald remarked when their second
visitor left them. "I feel better for being reassured by him. Of
course, we all know that we cannot throw ourselves away for everybody,
as dear F. Chevreuse's impulse is; yet he is so good, so much better
than any one else, one feels almost guilty in not following him every
step he wishes. His utter unselfishness and generosity are very
disturbing to one sometimes; for we must think of ourselves."

"It is well for the world that there are those who see no such
necessity," Miss Pembroke replied briefly.

Her companion said nothing more for a moment. She had been conscious
that Honora was not satisfied, but had preferred to take no notice of
it, and to quiet her without seeming aware that she needed quieting.

"Poor Mr. Schöninger!" she said presently. "I pity him with all my
heart. It is, of course, impossible to believe that this arrest is
anything but a mistake which will soon be corrected. Still, the affair
must be very painful to him. How indignant Lawrence will be! I wish
he might hear nothing of it till he comes home, for I really think he
would come sooner if he knew what has happened. He thought a good deal
of Mr. Schöninger."

"Yes, it must soon be corrected," repeated Honora, passing over the
rest. "I cannot imagine on what grounds the arrest was made; but some
are ready to believe of a stranger what they would never listen to
if said of one they knew. One might parody that proverb about the
absent, and say that the foreigner is always wrong. Only imagine what
it must be, Mrs. Gerald"--Honora's brown eyes dilated with a sort of
terror,--"imagine what it must be to find one's self in trouble and
disgrace alone in a foreign land. No person has any special interest
in the stranger; no one knows him well enough to defend him; his
reputation is a bubble that the first breath may break; and if he is
wrong, no one understands what excuses may be made for him. Fancy
Lawrence alone in some European country, and arrested for a great
crime."

Mrs. Gerald had listened at first with sympathy; but at the name of
Lawrence her face changed.

"My dear Honora," she said with decision, "I cannot possibly imagine my
son, no matter how far away, nor how friendless he might be--I cannot
imagine him being arrested on a charge of robbery and murder! It is too
great a flight of fancy, and too unjust. But that does not prevent my
pitying Mr. Schöninger."

Mrs. Gerald would not have shown such asperity, probably, had her son
never given people anything to forgive in him. Tremblingly alive to his
faults, she gladly seized on any charge which it was possible to cast
indignantly aside.

Honora perceived too well her feelings and the mistake that she herself
had made to be in the least annoyed at the reply. It may be that she
understood better than ever before what might be the pain of one whose
affections are engaged by an object which has not her entire approval.
Not that she loved Mr. Schöninger, or for a moment fancied that she
did; it was only that he had come near enough to excite her imagination
on the subject of love.

"Fortunately," she said, after a thoughtful pause, "the people of
Crichton are liberal."

It was such an opinion as might have been expected from her character
and experience. Life had shown her but little of those deeper causes
which underlie so much of the apparent inconsistency of mankind. She
had not learned to distinguish between that firm liberality which is
founded on principle, and is but another name for justice, and its
unstable namesake, which floats on the surface of a soul that has no
convictions. The former can be relied on; the latter may at any time
give place to a violent bigotry. It has an immense vanity beneath, and
fiercely resents on others its own mistakes.

The gradations of the change might have been precisely calculated
beforehand. At first, an astonishment which was unanimous; followed,
after the natural pause, by individual voices in various tones, the
loud ones harmless, the whispering ones poisonous. Crichton was a
city where there could be but one sensation at a time. Whatever of
moment happened there, everybody knew it and everybody talked about
it. The loud voices grew lower, the whispers increased. We have heard
orchestra music like that, where, after the first crash and pause,
the instruments start their several ways, and one scarcely hears the
whisper of violins that runs through the heavy brass, till presently
that whisper becomes an audible hiss, then a sharp cry, and finally its
shrieks overtop trumpet and organ.

People could not imagine on what grounds Mr. Schöninger had been
accused, but considered it a matter of course that there must have
been some proof against him; and they immediately set themselves to
recollecting everything they had observed in him, to magnifying every
peculiarity and perverting every circumstance connected with his
life. Some had always said that strangers whom nobody knew anything
about were received altogether too readily in Crichton. It was only
necessary that a man should be good-looking, or clever, or have a
romantic appearance, or be enveloped in a mystery, for him to be made
the hero of the hour. And here the men bethought themselves, like
true sons of Adam, to lay the blame on the women. Another class, made
up of both Catholics and Protestants, reminded the public that they
had from the first protested against Christians mingling in friendly
intercourse with Jews. It was a treason against their Lord to do so,
these Christians said, and he had shown his displeasure by allowing
this wolf, whom they had admitted into the fold, to destroy one of the
chosen ones. Others there were, microscopic critics, who had always
found something peculiarly sinister in certain expressions of the Jew's
face, and who recollected perfectly having shivered with fear when they
had encountered these peculiar glances.

The sound grew up and gathered, and at the end of a fortnight public
opinion in Crichton had half condemned the man without having heard a
word of testimony against him.

Doubtless his own scornful silence had not predisposed any one in his
favor; and, besides, he was reported to have spoken slightingly of an
institution which it is not safe to attack. Rumor accused him of having
said that a jury hinder more than they help the cause of justice;
and that if public sentiment is not high enough to educate and elect
a proper judge, it is folly to call in from the street to his aid
twelve men who are probably still more incompetent, and certainly less
responsible.

The judges may have been not ill-pleased at this; but few others heard
the story without indignation.

The newspapers also soon became either cold or unfriendly; for though
they had all expressed the most courteous surprise and regret at his
arrest, he had not allowed one of their reporters so much as a glimpse
of him.

One after another the friendly voices grew faint or fell into silence,
till only three or four were left. F. Chevreuse had written Mr.
Schöninger a line, "Whenever you want me, I shall be ready to come,"
and had refrained from all other approach. But he did not cease to
insist on his belief in the prisoner's innocence. Mrs. Ferrier, also,
was loud and warm in her championship. She visited Mr. Schöninger in
prison, and stood at the grate, the jailer by her side, with tears
running down her cheeks, while she poured forth her incoherent but most
sincere indignation and grief; and she scraped the skin from her fat
hand pushing it through the bars to take that of the prisoner.

She also made arrangements for a larger and lighter cell to be given
him, and had begun to furnish it most luxuriously, when he found out
what she was doing, and absolutely refused to move.

"My dear Mrs. Ferrier," he said, "it is not the bare stones and the
hard bench that makes the place intolerable; and I will not consent to
any change. I should be no more at ease locked up in a palace. Let me
remain as I am while I stay here."

"But look at that bed!" she cried; and the diamond glittering on the
indignant finger she pointed through the bars was outshone by the tear
that welled up and hung on her eyelashes. "The idea of a man like you
sleeping on that sack of straw with a gray blanket over it! It's a sin
and a shame!"

"But, my friend, it is good enough for a criminal," he answered, with
something like a faint smile on his face.

"A criminal!" And we hope the reader will pardon the next two words
uttered by this dear, good soul in the heat of her generous trust and
pity. She said, "Shut up!"

"I know what nonsense you talked to F. Chevreuse," she went on; "but
I won't listen to it. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for driving
that man away. You can't serve me so. I shall come here, and I shall
take up for you; and--now, Mr. Schöninger, don't be silly, but let
me fix up that other room for you. The sun shines into it all the
afternoon; and I've got a nice carpet on the floor, and two arm-chairs,
and some wax candles, and a red curtain to draw over the grating, and
I'll make it as comfortable as if my own son was going to be in it. Do
give your consent, now!"

Still he was inflexible, though he softened his refusal with every
expression of gratitude. "There are reasons why it would be very
painful and embarrassing for me to consent," he said; "and since your
wish is to give me pleasure, I am sure you will not urge this when I
tell you that I should be more uncomfortable there than here. Your
kindness does me good; but I cannot receive your bounty."

Mrs. Ferrier was not to be so thwarted, however. She had to relinquish
her project of furnishing a room for him, but she made amends to
herself by supplying his table extravagantly. It was in vain for him
to protest. The waiter gravely assured him that the dishes were sent
in from the prison kitchen; the jailer as gravely added that his wife
overlooked that part of the establishment, and he knew nothing about
it; and Mrs. Ferrier, when the prisoner questioned her, declared, with
an air of the utmost innocence, that she did not send in his food,
and did not know what he had. The truth was that she had ordered the
keeper of a restaurant near by to send Mr. Schöninger the best that
he could supply; and she flattered herself that the waiter could with
truth obey her order to say that the dishes came from the jail kitchen.
"You're not obliged to tell him that they come in at one door of the
kitchen and out at another," she said.

Flowers lined the cell, fruit arrived there in profusion, and
illustrated papers and books, the text of which betrayed the simple
taste that had selected them, piled the one table and filled the
window-ledges--all sent anonymously. Mr. Schöninger found himself
obliged to capitulate to this persistent and most transparent incognita.

In a few weeks another friend, quite as decided, though less
demonstrative, was added. Lawrence Gerald, returning with his wife to
Crichton, went immediately to see Mr. Schöninger and offer any service
in his power to render him.

"It is folly to waste breath in abusing the detectives or whoever has
made this miserable blunder," he said calmly. "Of course, nobody is
safe from suspicion. I'm rather surprised they hadn't hit upon me, for
I was hard up at that time. The point is, however, can I do anything
for you? You will be out of this soon, of course; but, in the meantime,
I should be very glad if I can serve you in any way."

Mr. Schöninger assured his visitor that he needed no services; but his
manner of declining the assistance offered him was far more natural
and cheerful than it had been when F. Chevreuse or Mrs. Ferrier came.
Lawrence Gerald's friendship was, indeed, of more value to him in
this matter than theirs could have been; for as Lawrence was a man of
the world, and not too likely to have much faith in any one, men of
the world would respect his opinion, white they might laugh at the
championship of a woman and look upon the ideal charity of a priest as
a feeling which they could not be expected to sympathize with nor be
influenced by.

This friendly act of Lawrence's greatly pleased his mother-in-law; and,
since Annette looked quite contented and happy, she was still more
disposed to be complacent toward the young man.

"I wouldn't have believed he thought so much of Annette," she said
confidentially to F. Chevreuse. "But he follows her about like her
shadow. It's all the time, 'Ask Annette,' or, 'What does Annette say?'
or, 'How will Annette like it?' and he will hardly go down-town unless
she goes with him. I only hope it may last," sighed the mother, fearful
of being too sanguine.

It was quite true that Lawrence Gerald showed far more affection for
his wife after than he ever had before their marriage, and Mrs. Ferrier
scarcely exaggerated in saying that he followed her about like her
shadow. He perceived more and more every day how strong and reliable
she was, and how full of resources for every emergency. Besides, he
had a cause for gratitude toward her of which her mother was not
aware. During that time when they had been alone, undisturbed by
discordant interruptions, undisturbed also by any excessive happiness
in each other's society, she had perceived that something more than
indifference to herself preyed upon his spirits, and had at length
succeeded in drawing from him a confession of his difficulties. He
owned that the story her mother had heard of his debts was true, and
that he had been able to silence his persecutors only for a short
time. On the very day of his marriage one of them had demanded payment,
and a second letter had followed him to their bridal retreat.

"My dear Lawrence, why did you not tell me at once?" his wife
interrupted as soon as she caught the purport of his stammering
explanation. "It was not treating me with confidence; and surely I
deserve your confidence."

"It isn't pleasant for a man to own that he has been a fool, and a liar
besides," he replied bitterly. "You know I denied it to your mother. I
couldn't very well tell her that it was none of her business, though I
wanted to."

"It isn't pleasant for any one to own that he has failed to live quite
up to his own idea of what is right," she said quickly. "I often blush
at the recollection of some mistake or folly in my life. But where one
understands you, Lawrence, and is bound to you for life, for better or
for worse, you should not be too reserved. All that I have is yours. My
first wish is to spare you pain, and I could have no greater pleasure
than to have you confide in me. Do not be afraid of hearing any
lectures or of seeing me assume the right to criticise you. I only ask
to help you when I can."

This had been said with a haste that gave him no time to interpose or
reply; and before the last words were well spoken she had left his
side, and was opening a little writing-desk in another part of the
room. Her husband leaned on the window-ledge and looked out, appearing
to regard intently the mist that hung over the unseen cataract before
him, and to listen to the soft thunder of its fall; but the color
of his face, burning with a mortification inseparable from such an
avowal as he had made, and the faint lines of a frown that seemed
to be graven between his brows, showed that his mind was far from
being occupied with the beauties of nature. The only thought Niagara
suggested to him at that moment escaped his lips in a whisper as he
leaned out into the air: "If my foot had but slipped a little further
to-day!"

Annette came back and leaned out beside him. "How soft and sunny the
air is for September!" she said. "It is more like June."

He felt her small hand slip under his arm, and push a roll of paper
into his breast-pocket while she spoke.

"Do you not think, husband," she went on, "that we might like to go to
Montreal instead of South? It would be pleasanter to go to Washington
during the season."

And that was all that was said about the matter, except that, the day
after their return to Crichton, Lawrence told his wife that the debt
was paid.

"Oh! yes," she said lightly, as if such a debt were quite a matter of
course. "I'm glad that is off your mind." And would have changed the
subject.

But he, looking at her very gravely, knew well that the lightness was
assumed to spare him, and that the affair was only less painful to her
than to himself.

They were in their own sitting-room, and Annette was filling a vase
with late flowers that she had just brought in from the garden, while
he sat near the table by which she stood. He stretched his hand and
drew her to him, holding her slender fingers that held a cluster of
heart's-ease she had just taken from the basket.

"Let me speak of it once more, Ninon," he said. "You did not exact any
promise from me, dear; but I have one to make you. If my word or my
will are good for anything, I will never again play a game for pleasure
even, still less for money. I have no temptation to now; and if I had,
the recollection of what play has cost me would be enough to save me
from yielding."

His face and voice said more than the words, and the regret, the shame,
and the gratitude they expressed were almost more than she could bear.
It hurt her cruelly to see him whom she had exalted as an idol so
humbled and sorrowful before her. He looked weary; she had thought that
for some time; and though the outlines of his beautiful face were too
delicate to show readily a loss of flesh, she could see that he had
grown perceptibly thinner.

"I was sure of you, without needing any promise," she said, and tried
to smile on him, but with tremulous lips. "And now, do not let it
trouble your mind any longer. I'm going to give you a charm." She
smiled brightly this time, for he had kissed her hand. "With this
magical flower I bar all unrest from you, and assure you peace for the
future."

She fastened the cluster of heart's-ease in his button-hole, then
returned to her flowers.

Her husband could not but remember the time when a tender word or act
of his would bring the blush to her face and set her in a tremor of
delight. He would sometimes have been a little more demonstrative and
affectionate, if the effect had not been so annoyingly great on her.
But now, without the slightest appearance of coldness or anger, in
simple unconsciousness, it seemed, of having changed her manner, she
was altogether changed. She received him kindly, there was no sign of
an estranged heart, but she only received; she did not invite, nor
follow, nor linger about him. Quite naturally and calmly she attended
to whatever employment she might have in hand when he was present;
and though she undeniably liked to have him near her, it was possible
for her to forget his presence for a moment. Looking at her now, as
she began quietly arranging her flowers again, the thought glimmered
dimly in his mind that Honora Pembroke herself could not have behaved
with a sweeter or more dignified tranquillity. But the moment of this
consciousness was brief. Honora's image had too long been enthroned
by him as queen in all things womanly to be disturbed by this slight
figure with her glow-worm lamp.

Still, the development of his wife's character made its impression on
him; and, half needing her, and half curious about her, he felt himself
constantly attracted to her society.

They passed a good deal of time alone together, sometimes walking or
driving in the pleasant autumn days, sometimes shut up in their own
room, where Annette read, sang to, and otherwise amused her husband.
He was going into business; but the two or three months of necessary
preparation and delay were to him very much leisure time, and hung
rather heavily on his hands.

"I shall be glad to get to work," he said to her. "Idleness is
tolerable only in a pleasant atmosphere; and the atmosphere of Crichton
is anything but pleasant now. Sometimes I've half a mind to run away
till this ridiculous trial is over and people can talk of something
else."

"The same thought has occurred to me," his wife replied. "I am growing
nervous and low-spirited with these horrible images constantly before
my mind. I have begged mamma not to mention the subject again at the
table, nor anywhere else without necessity. Some people--I don't mean
mamma, of course--but some people seem to enjoy tragedies, and to be
quite angry if one doesn't put the most terrible construction on every
circumstance. I have no patience with them."

She looked, indeed, quite pale and irritated. Like all persons of a
lively imagination, she was nearly as much affected by the description
of a scene as she would have been on witnessing it; and the frequent
repetitions and amplifications with which others of duller natures
had found it necessary to revive their own impressions had been both
painful and annoying to her. Besides, she had a source of disquiet
which she confided to no one, not even to F. Chevreuse, since she
never alluded to his mother's death when in conversation with him.
While wondering, in spite of herself, what proof sufficient to
justify an indictment could have been found against Mr. Schöninger,
she had recollected the shawl he left in her garden the night Mother
Chevreuse was killed. It did not seem an important circumstance; yet
it constantly recurred to her in connection with other points not
so trivial. She did not for a moment believe him guilty; but her
imagination, seizing on this one fact, held it up suggestively, so
that it cast on her mind various and troublesome shadows that were out
of all proportion to itself. Why had he appeared startled when she
mentioned the shawl to him? And could it be possible he was sincere
in saying that he came for it in the morning, when she had plainly
seen some one remove it at night? She combated these disagreeable
thoughts with all her strength, and sought to atone to Mr. Schöninger
for the wrong she believed they did him by entering heartily into all
her mother's plans for his comfort; but she could not banish them so
entirely but they tormented her into wishing to fly to some place where
she might at least hope to forget the whole subject.

"If every one were like Mrs. Gerald and Honora," she said to her
mother, "how much smoother and deeper life would be! I am sure they
think of dear Mother Chevreuse very often, and always with bleeding
hearts; yet they never speak of her, except, in a pleasant way, to
recall some saying or some kind act of hers; and one would not know,
from what they say, that she had not been assumed bodily into heaven,
or, at least, died tranquilly and beautifully of old age. I have no
sympathy, mamma, with these noisy people who come here wringing their
hands and uttering maledictions on Mr. Schöninger."

Mrs. Ferrier felt a little touched at that part of the speech which
referred to the wringing of hands, for that was her most frequent
manner of expressing distress of mind, and she was not sure that her
daughter did not mean to give her an indirect reproof or warning. Her
reply, therefore, was a dissenting one; and the comparison she used,
though not elegant, was somewhat strong.

"It's all the same difference as there is between a wild horse and a
horse that's broke," she said. "And you can't deny that the creature
loses half its spirit before it bears the bit and the rein. And so I
believe that your fine, quiet people kill some of the life out of their
grief when they teach it to be so polite, and that they forget the
friend they have lost while they are thinking how they shall behave
themselves and cry in a genteel manner. When I die, Annette, may the
Lord give me just such mourners as Mother Chevreuse has in those poor
people!"

"Oh! don't, mamma!" the daughter said coaxingly; for Mrs. Ferrier had
ended by bursting into tears. "I didn't mean to vex you, only I am
nervous and distressed by all this excitement. There! don't cry any
more, and I will own that you are at least half right."

"Not but that they do provoke me when they talk about Mr. Schöninger,"
Mrs. Ferrier admitted, wiping her eyes. "But then, the poor things!
it's a relief to their sorrow to be mad with somebody about it."

It was undeniable that whatever relief could be found in lamentation
for their dear lost friend, and in invoking retribution on her
destroyer, very few hesitated to avail themselves of. Besides what the
law could do, it needed all the influence that F. Chevreuse had, both
with his own flock and with non-Catholics, to prevent the people who
were constantly gathering outside the jail from throwing missiles into
Mr. Schöninger's cell.

"How strong is accusation!" he exclaimed. "People appear to think
that man condemned already, though he is sure to be triumphantly
acquitted. It is astonishing how entirely a grave charge, no matter how
unproved, removes those we have loved and respected beyond the pale of
our sympathy. It is as though we had never heard of innocence being
accused, and believed it impossible that we could ever be calumniated
ourselves."

He was speaking to Mr. Sales, the editor of _The Aurora_, who received
his remarks rather uneasily. _The Aurora_ had of late been interesting
itself very much in the history of the Jews, both ancient and modern,
the items it scattered through its columns with apparent carelessness
not being always calculated to inspire the reader with an increased
affection for that ancient race; and "Fleur de Lis" had every week,
from her corner on the first page, bewailed in facile and dolorous
lines the sorrows and sufferings of that Mother and Son to whom, in the
prose of everyday life, she was far from conspicuous for devotion.

"I have observed, sir," Mr. Sales said, feeling obliged to say
something, "that people who have the reputation of being the most
correct and irreproachable are often the most unmerciful toward
wrong-doers. It gives one an unpleasant impression of religion."

"Not justly," the priest replied. "What you say of some good people is
quite true--they are moral skeletons since, after all, good principles
are only the vertebræ of a character. But there are many charitable
Christians in the world. I find fault with their imaginations chiefly;
they cannot fancy themselves accused without being guilty."

And thus, in the midst of an increasing excitement, Mr. Schöninger's
trial came on.




SPIRITUALISM.


CHAPTER III.

The spiritualists who protest against the attribution of spiritualistic
phenomena to the devil may be divided into two classes: 1st, Those who
believe there is no such being as the devil; 2d, Those who, believing
him to exist, think it unreasonable to attribute such phenomena as
those under consideration to such a being.

To these first I can but admit that there is no demonstrating the
devil; but, on the other hand, I would remind them that, in denying his
existence, they are opposing themselves, 1st, to the religious instinct
of the great mass of mankind, who are persuaded that life is a warfare,
that there is an enemy. 2d, To the unwavering, explicit tradition of
the Christian church. It is impossible to read the Gospels and the
other records of the early church without having the idea of a battle,
and an enemy against whom it is waged, brought prominently before you.
Our Lord came to break the power of Satan, and to take away "the armor
in which he trusted"; and the church was instituted for his detailed
discomfiture. Every soul that is saved is regarded as a spoil snatched
from the hand of the enemy; every one who is cast out of the church is
delivered over to Satan.

Some of the earliest words of the church's ritual are words of defiance
and adjuration of the enemy upon whom it was her mission to trample.
Her exorcisms, for instance, in the baptism service testify to a
consciousness of the devil's presence which is simply startling in its
realism. He is never forgotten from the moment when, gently breathing
on the child's face, she charges the unclean spirit to give place to
the Holy Ghost, to the moment when he is cast out headlong, followed by
the renunciations of his rescued victim.

The extreme antiquity of these exorcisms is sufficiently vindicated by
the poetic paraphrase of Prudentius in the IVth century:

    Intonat antistes Domini: fuge callide serpens
    Mancipium Christi, fur corruptissime vexas
    Desine, Christus adest humani corporis ultor
    Non licet ut spolium rapias cui Christus inhœsit
    Pulsus abi ventose liquor Christus jubet, exi.[192]

Moreover, though the devil is expelled in baptism, the church never
lets her children lose sight of him. She is ever warning them in the
words of S. Augustine: "Take care, afflicted mortals, take care that
the evil one defile not ever this house of the body; that, introduced
by the senses, he debauch not the soul's sanctity, nor cloud the
intellectual light. This evil thing winds through all the inlets of
the senses, moulds itself in forms, blends with colors, weds with
sounds, lurks in anger and guileful speech, clothes itself in scents,
transfuses itself in savors, and by a flood of troublous movement
obscures the mind with evil desires, and fills with vapor the channels
of the understanding, through which the soul's ray might shed the light
of reason."[193] Voltaire was quite in the right when he set down a
priest who would fain compromise with infidelity by throwing up the
devil, in this wise: "Belief in the devil is an essential point of
Christianity: no Satan, no Saviour."

Those who, admitting the devil to exist, deny that spiritualistic
phenomena are diabolical, urge various pleas which I purpose to examine
in detail. They insist upon, 1st, the innocent and friendly character
of the phenomena. 2d, The difficulty of believing that the devil
would be allowed to take so great a liberty with respectable persons
without some sort of understanding on their parts. 3d, The fact that
spiritualism is a great and most efficient exponent of the immortality
of the soul and the existence of God in a materialistic generation.

Now, as regards the first plea, I simply deny the fact of the
innocence. I submit that pantheism and the non-existence of eternal
punishment are immoral doctrines, the spread of which is calculated to
make the world worse; and that these are pre-eminently the doctrines
of spiritualism, taught always indirectly, and standing out more and
more clearly in proportion as the pious twaddle in which they are
incorporated for the sake of weak brethren is laid aside, and the
spiritualistic element can give itself free way.

Demoralizing, also, is the distaste which spiritualism creates for
all religion, inasmuch as religion lives by faith. An example of
this is given in _Experiences with D. D. Home_, p. 60. The party of
spiritualists had been conversing, as they imagined, with the spirit of
the child of one of them, lately dead, the body, in its coffin, being
in the room in which they were sitting. After the burial, we are told,
"On our way home, every one remarked that the burial-service, which
is, in general, so impressive, had that day, while in church, sounded
strangely flat and unprofitable. Mrs. Cox asked how it was that the
clergyman had not used the words, 'dust to dust, ashes to ashes, earth
to earth.' We assured her that he had; but she declared she had not
heard them, although standing as near to him as any of us."

In other respects spiritualism is by no means innocent. It is
impossible to set aside the strong testimony, not merely of medical
men, who might be supposed prejudiced, but of so many who have either
practised spiritualism themselves, or had spiritualist friends, as
to the gradual exhaustion of the vital powers which it produces
when persevered in to any extent. And, again, it is by far the most
efficacious destructive of the barriers of propriety, particularly
between the sexes. No one can read much even of the most respectable
séances without feeling that the worthy persons who take part in them,
whilst securing, may be, the perfect propriety of the particular
séance in which they are engaged, are lending the cloak of their
respectability to an institution especially marked out for the
dissemination of corruption. My contention is that the devil has in
spiritualism the prospect of an excellent harvest of evil, of which he
has received a very sufficient earnest.

With regard to the gentle behavior, which is supposed to be
inconsistent with the character of one who is spoken of as "a roaring
lion," I would observe that this gentleness on the part of the spirits
is by no means invariable; see the violent scene (_Experiences_, p.
154) in which Home is tormented and screams; or, again, where the
company is struck by the "disagreeable and fearful glowing" of his
eyes (_Rep._, p. 208). However, it must be confessed that the general
character of the manifestations is gentleness itself; but of this sort
of gentleness there are plenty of examples in accounts of mediæval
magic, when spirits have persevered for a considerable time in gentle,
not to say pious, behavior, and, indeed, only came out as devils when
worried by the church. The following is taken from the _Gloria Posthuma
S. Ignatii_.[194]

A little girl of nine, the daughter of an artilleryman at Malta,
was made quite a pet of by spirits, who were always bringing her
little presents of jewelry and fruit, at one time giving her fresh
figs in January. She was frightened just at first; but they talked
so charmingly of their being creatures of the good God as well as
she, and seemed to know so much about the inside of churches, that
the child could not but think well of them. They did her a wonderful
number of kind services of various sorts. For a long time the child's
parents, who never saw the spirits, but only the effects they produced,
acquiesced, and seemed to think it rather a good joke. There was only
one thing that troubled them, and which ultimately made them call
in the priest, and this was that the spirits, who showed themselves
amiably enough disposed towards the family in general, had an
exceptional spite against one little boy. They never saw him come into
the room without showing disgust and saying all sorts of unpleasant
things about him to their little _protégée_. There was nothing peculiar
about the boy, except that he served Mass every morning. When the
priest was sent for, and the house exorcised, the amiable spirits, as
is invariably the case under these circumstances, lost their temper,
and went off in ugly shapes, vomiting fire; in fact, to borrow the
spiritualist expression, showing themselves very unformed spirits
indeed.

With this account we may compare Mr. Fusedale's extraordinary letter
(_Rep._, p. 255), in which he says that the spirits habitually play
with his children and amuse them by showing them pretty scenes in a
polished globe. He tells us that he has himself seen one of these
scenes--a ship hemmed in by ice in an Arctic sea--and that he has
often witnessed his little boy shoved across the room in a chair, his
legs being too short to reach the ground, and "no human agency near."
The two accounts are not unlike, except that in the second story the
materials for playing out the last scene are wanting.

As regards the second plea, no doubt there is something odd, at first
sight, in so many respectable persons having got into such intimate
relations with the devil without knowing anything about it; and
though there are not wanting individual instances in the history of
_diablerie_, I must confess that I have met with nothing of the sort
on so large a scale. But then, we must remember that there never has
been a time when respectables as a body were so irreligious, and it is
religion that is the great obstacle to such unconscious intercourse
with Satan. No Christian who knows anything of the way in which the
ancient world was exorcised need be surprised at the devil's being able
considerably to enlarge his sphere, as the church has been compelled to
narrow hers.

At first, indeed, it seemed as if this was not to be the case. The
philosophy of the last century boasted, with some plausibility, that it
had done what the church, with all her exorcisms, had never succeeded
in doing--that it had swept away Satan altogether, along with his
great adversary. Church and devil had gone down together; and for a
time people persuaded themselves that the devil, anyhow, had gone. In
the solemn obsequies of the whole caste of superstition, as the world
fondly thought it, the devil was carried out first, dead, hopelessly
dead, free-thinking priests, such as Voltaire rebuked, bearing up the
pall. Though many a mocking _requiescat_ has been chanted over his
grave, like that of the church, it has proved to be a cenotaph; and now
that he appears again, we can hardly wonder if he finds himself more at
home than ever since Christianity came into the world.

Satan has ever been, as the schoolmen called him, God's ape (_simius
Dei_), reproducing in the mysteries of the "Sabbath" the rites, and
even the organization, of the church; but now, after the world's
reiterated rejection of Christ, it would seem that the enemy has been
permitted to carry the parody a step further. Not only wherever two
or three are gathered together in his name is he in their midst, but,
good shepherd-wise, he is allowed to seek the sheep that had been lost.
Uninvited he seeks them in the unromantic circle of XIXth-century life,
entrenched as this is amongst elements the least promising, one should
think, for mysticism of any sort. In bright, cheerful, modern rooms,
amongst the rustle of innocent commonplaces, he finds his opportunity
and his profit, and gently and genially weans his victims from what
fragments of dogmatic religion they may still retain to the liberty of
his children. At least, there is nothing unnatural in this view.

The third plea is, in the spiritualist's mind, irresistible, and it has
had, doubtless, considerable influence in preventing various religious
persons from condemning spiritualism. The great evil of the day is
materialism; now, then, it is asked, is it conceivable that the devil
should appear as the advocate of the two great spiritual doctrines
of the immortality of the soul and the existence of God; nay, should
actually convert numbers to a belief in these doctrines? I answer,
1st, that when the devil first came forward as the champion of human
liberty, he certainly did preach both the immortality of the soul
and the existence of God. "Ye shall not die." "Ye shall be as gods."
True, he was denying in one breath the death of the body and the death
of the soul; but this is quite in the fashion of spiritualism, which
invariably denounces any use of the word "death." 2d, That the doctrine
of the immortality of the soul loses all disciplinary force when
converted into that of endless, inevitable progression. The possibility
of a miserable finality has been accepted by the noblest philosophers
as a necessary phase in that melody of a future life which, to use the
expression of Socrates (_Phædo_, cap. 63), it is "so necessary for each
man to sing to himself." There are some, he had said (cap. 62), whom "a
befitting fate casts into Tartarus, whence they never come out." And in
the last book of the _Republic_, where human life is described as going
on in an indefinite series of metempsychosis, we are shown, as the
generations sweep round, a pit into which the very bad fall out of the
circle, never to join it again. Nor is the doctrine of the existence
of God when converted into pantheism of more avail. A deity who is the
mere _terminus ad quem_ of necessary evolution can neither be feared as
judge nor worshipped as God.

Long experience has taught the evil one that man cannot do without
religious sentiment; so he aims at getting its circulation into his
own hands by coming forward boldly as the advocate of its cardinal
points. He is determined to risk no more disappointing losses, by
striving to feed men on the dry husks of materialism, which are
insufficient to support life, and are sure, sooner or later, to provoke
nausea and repulsion. As to those who have been really converted from
scepticism by the spirits, nay, have been landed, as has sometimes been
the case, in the bosom of the Catholic Church, I can only say, Blessed
be God! who has ever exercised seignorial rights upon the devil's
fishing.

So much for the spiritualist amendment. I shall now proceed to consider
the positive arguments and evidence tending to show that spiritualism
is diabolic.

1st. I notice its shrinking and disgust for all active Catholicism
which extends to the use of fragments of Catholic truth in the hands
of zealous sectarians. This antipathy, I contend, is invariable; but I
must guard against being misunderstood. I admit that the spirits have
indulged from time to time in a considerable amount of Catholic, or, I
should rather say Ritualist, talk. Several instances may be found in
Mr. Home's séances in which holy-water and crucifixes are spoken of
with a certain amount of unction. I admit, too, that though sometimes
the spirits are discomfited by the mere presence of a religious
object--a medal, relic, etc.--this is by no means ordinarily the case.
It is quite possible for religious objects to be so presented as in
no way to embarrass the spirits, who have been sometimes permitted to
carry them about with apparent tenderness, even as Satan was allowed
to carry our Lord and set him on a pinnacle of the temple. A sword
requires to be handled with a certain amount of vigor and intention if
it is to avail as a weapon. If holy objects are brought out simply
as so many Catholic testimonials and orders of merit for the spirits,
I know nothing in the nature of things or in the promises of God to
prevent the devil wearing them in his button-hole. On the other hand, a
man uncertain of the spirits' character, but with an honest and lively
intention of rejecting them so far as they are God's enemies, "fugite
partes adversæ," if he adjures them in his name, will either reduce
them to silence and impotence, or extort the confession that they are
devils.

It would be easy to produce numbers of instances of the extraordinarily
hostile sensitiveness of the spirits in regard to the use in their
presence of Catholic prayers, medals, relics, etc. In fact, in order
to avoid being a non-conductor, if not an obstructive, a certain
undogmatic attitude of mind is required. We need not, indeed, reject
Christ, but we must be prepared to look for another beside him,
if not in his place. Mr. Home (_Rep._, p. 188) says that, for the
medium's success, "the only thing necessary is that the people about
should be harmonious." He explains that "the 'harmonious' feeling is
simply that which you get on going into a room and finding all the
people present such as you feel at home with at once.... Scepticism
is not a hindrance; an unsympathetic person is." I have no doubt that
this account is perfectly accurate so far as it goes. A Christian's
hatred of what he suspects to be the devil, and Professor Tyndall's
contemptuous disgust for what he considers a piece of cheating, are
both no doubt _natural_ impediments to spiritualistic manifestations;
although, in the former case, it may well be that it is something more.

The following scene from Prudentius (_Apoth._, 460-502) illustrates
what I have said as to Christian rite and formulary availing against
sorcery, not as a charm, but as a weapon of faith. It must be
remembered that Julian had been baptized, but his baptism had no effect
in breaking the magic rites. We venture thus to render it:

    "To give great Hecatè her glut of blood,
    Whole troops of cows and lowing heifers stood
    About her altar, every frontlet crowned
    With shadowy cypress twisted round and round.
    And now the priestly butcher drives his brand
    Into the victims, and with bloody hand
    Gropes keenly in the entrails chilling fast,
    To count each fluttering life-pulse to the last.
    When suddenly he cries, dead-white with fear,
    'Alas! great prince, some greater god is here
    Than may suffice these foaming bowls of milk,
    The blood of victims, flowers, and twisted silk.
    Yon summoned shades are scattering in dismay,
    And scared Persephonè glides fast away,
    With torch averted and with trailing scourge,
    Thessalian charms are powerless to urge
    The troubled gods to face the hostile thing.
    In vain our spells and mystic muttering;
    The flame has withered in yon censer's core,
    The blinking embers shrink in ashes hoar.
    The server with the plate can scarcely stand,
    The rich balm dripping from his trembling hand.
    The flamen feels his laurel chaplet go,
    The victim leaps, and shuns the fatal blow.
    Assuredly some Christian youth has dared
    To enter here, and, as their wont, has scared
    The assembled gods, and of their rites despoiled.
    Avaunt! avaunt! thou that art washed and oiled!
    That so anew fair Proserpine may rise.'
    He shrieked, and swooning fell, as though his eyes
    Had seen Christ angry and in act to slay.
    In a like fear the prince now thrusts away
    His royal crown, and gazes all about;
    For the fond youth had dared his spells to flout
    By bearing on his brow the Christian sign.
    Lo! one, dragged forward from the brilliant line
    Of royal pages, flaxen-haired and bright,
    Resigns his arms, and owns that they are right:
    That he is Christian, that his forehead bears
    The wondrous sign that every witchcraft scares.
    The startled monarch, leaping from his seat,
    Upsets the pontiff in his swift retreat,
    And flees the chapel, while the rest atone
    Their impious deed, seeing their master gone,
    And bowing low their heads in awe and shame,
    In faltering accents call on Jesu's name."

The fathers have the completest confidence in the efficacy of Christian
weapons in Christian hands, and even, when used honestly, in hands not
yet Christian, to defeat sorcery.

Tertullian (_Apol._, c. 23) throws out this bold challenge: "Let any
one, known to have a devil, come before your tribunal. That spirit, if
bidden speak by a Christian, shall as truly confess himself a devil
as he has elsewhere falsely declared himself a god. Or bring forward
some one of those who are thought to be divine patients, who, sniffing
up the altar's deity, conceive of the steam, violent retchers with
panting utterance; the heavenly Virgin herself, the promiser of rain,
Æsculapius too; ... if they do not all confess themselves devils,
not daring to lie to a Christian, then and there shed that insolent
Christian's blood."

Nor is it only the passionate Tertullian who can speak thus. S.
Athanasius (_De Incarn._, num. 48) is hardly less energetic: "Let any
one come who wishes to test what we have said; and let him, in the
midst of the manifestations of demons, and the guiles of oracles, and
the marvels of magic, use the sign of the cross, which these mock
at, or merely name Christ, he shall soon see how quickly the demons
are routed, the oracles silenced, the whole magic art and its charms
utterly wiped out."

The instances of modern spiritualist manifestations being stopped by
religious adjuration are very frequent.

Mr. Glover (_Rep._, p. 205) had been asking the spirits about the time
of our Lord's coming; they had answered glibly enough, and had pointed
out several texts in the Bible, when, apparently on a sudden impulse,
"he made a cross in a circle, and asked, in the name of the Father,
Son, and Holy Ghost, if the communications were of God, and the answer
was 'No.' He then asked if they were of the devil, and the answer was
'Yes.'"

Mr. Chevalier (_Rep._, p. 218) says that, after having received several
communications purporting to come from his recently-lost child, "One
day the table turned at right angles, and went into a corner of the
room. I asked, 'Are you my child?' but obtained no answer. I then said,
'Are you from God?' but the table was silent. I then said, 'In the name
of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, I command you to answer; are you
from God?' One loud rap--a negative--was then given. 'Do you believe,'
said I, 'that Christ died to save us from sin?' The answer was, 'No.'
'Accursed spirit!' said I, 'leave the room.' The table then walked
across the room, entered the adjoining one, and quickened its steps. It
was a small, tripod table. It walked with a sidelong walk. It went to
the door, shook the handle, and I opened it. The table then walked into
the passage, and I repeated the adjuration, receiving the same answer.
Fully convinced that I was dealing with an accursed spirit, I opened
the street-door, and the table was immediately silent; no movement or
rap was heard. I returned alone to the drawing-room, and asked if there
were any spirits present. Immediately I heard steps, like those of a
little child, outside the door. I opened it, and the small table went
into the corner as before, just as my child did when reproved for a
fault. These manifestations continued until I used the adjuration, and
I always found that they changed or ceased when the name of God was
used."

Miss Anna Blackwell (_Rep._, p. 220) gives her evidence immediately
after Mr. Chevalier's. Whilst admitting the fact that the spirits often
call themselves devils, she suggests a twofold explanation: 1st. That
they are coarse, undeveloped spirits. 2d. That they are vexed at the
rude treatment they have received. She is speaking of her sister's
mediumship: "The spirit would use her hand to write what communication
had to be made. The spirits wrote what was good and bad. One wanted
to sign himself Satan and Beelzebub; but," continues Miss Blackwell,
"my sister did not believe in the existence of any such a spirit, and
she said, 'No; if you are permitted to come to me, it is not to tell
such outrageous lies. If you persist in trying to impose upon me, you
sha'n't write.' I have been present at many such little fights. She
would resist the spirit, and, when she saw the capital S of Satan being
written, would twist her hand. The spirit has then written, 'I hate
you, because I cannot deceive you.' ... We never begin without prayer.
We say to the spirits that wish to deceive us, 'Dear spirits, we are
all imperfect; we will endeavor to benefit you by our lights, in so far
as they are superior to yours.' Sometimes they would overturn and break
the table; yet they were rendered better by our kindness. We would
never dream of addressing one as an 'accursed spirit.' From one who was
very violent, and by whom I have been myself struck, we have received
progressive messages, saying, 'We are going up higher now; we have,
through your help, broken the chains of earth, and we leave you.' When
my sister found the S being written, or the capital B for Beelzebub,
she would say with kindness, but firmness, 'Dear spirit, you must not
deceive; it is not for such tricks, but for a good end, that you are
permitted to come.'"

It is often said that the education question is the question of
the day; but I was hardly prepared to find that it embraced the
spirit-world. I know not which to pity most, those to whom the
responsibility has been brought home of having to educate a vast number
of imperfect spirits, who are, as Miss Blackwell admits, "all in a
manner devils," or the wretched spirits who have thus to begin all over
again as day-scholars at a dame's school.

According to Miss Blackwell's theory, the church is evidently
responsible for the existence of the devil. So far as he can be said to
exist at all, he is the church's creation; for, instead of doing her
best to instruct and humanize the rude but well-meaning spirit Arab
thrown upon her hands, she has goaded him to desperation by addressing
him as "_Maledicte damnate_." Oh! if she had only called him "dear
spirit," with Miss Blackwell, he might ere now have comported himself
conformably, instead of masquerading under such uncomfortable names as
Satan and Beelzebub and doing a world of mischief.

My second argument is the similarity between spiritualism and mediæval
witchcraft. I have already noticed incidentally several points of
resemblance, and would now draw attention to what is, perhaps, the most
important point of all. Of course, such similarity has no argumentative
force if Miss Blackwell's theory be admitted.

As I have before remarked, one of the most prominent characteristics
of mediæval magic was its being a parody of the church. The principal
ceremony of the "Sabbath" was a diabolical burlesque of the Mass, in
which the devil preached, and the celebrant stood on his head, and
the servers genuflected backwards. Now, amongst modern spiritualists
I have discovered no such violation of decency; the parody is not so
complete, and, on the whole, it is a decorous one; but it unmistakably
exists, and is on the increase. It is by no means uncommon to assemble
the spirit circle before an altar with crucifix and candles. In
_Experiences with D. D. Home_ we find that that gentleman has quite
a craving in this direction. He baptizes with sand, he stretches
himself in the form of a cross, imitates the phenomena of Pentecost,
the rushing wind, the dove, the tongues of fire, and is perpetually
anointing his friends with some mysterious substance, which apparently
emanates from his hands.

Against what has been said on behalf of the devil hypothesis the
spiritualist can urge nothing, except the by no means unwavering
testimony of the spirits themselves, and the spiritualist's own
recognition of the identity of his departed friends. As to the
spirits' testimony, it is worth just nothing. Evil spirits have always
personated the dead, as philosophers, fathers, schoolmen with one
accord testify. As to the recognition of friends, I should wish to
treat with all due consideration the natural craving of friends to
obtain some intelligence of their departed friends; but, on the one
hand, minute imitations of manner are certainly not beyond the devil's
power; on the other, affection is anything but keen-sighted, and the
rapture of a communication at all, when once the idea is admitted, is
apt to throw all minor details into the shade. Was not Lady Tichbourne
able to trace the features of her drowned boy in the Claimant's
photograph?

Wherever the spirits have represented persons of known character and
ability--men, for instance, who have left a gauge of their mental
qualities in their writings, like Shakespeare or Bacon--the personation
has been invariably a lamentable and most palpable failure. That the
spirits of clever men do not at all talk up to the mark is notorious
and generally admitted by candid spiritualists. Mr. Simkiss (_Rep._,
p. 133) says, "Beyond solving the important question, 'If a man die,
shall he live again?' by the very fact of spirits communicating and
proving their identity, there is to me little that is consistent or
reliable in what is revealed through different mediums." Mr. Varley
(p. 168) endeavors to explain the feebleness of spirit-talk by want
of education and development on the part of the mediums by which
their communications are conditioned. I do not say that there is not
something in this; but surely the communications of genius would, under
the most adverse circumstances, take the form rather of broken sense
than fluent twaddle.

The extreme irritation invariably manifested by the spirits towards
anything like suspicion, particularly if it take the form of trying to
subject them to a religious test, is surely grotesquely unnatural in
the case of spirits who have shuffled off the coil of mortality, with
whom life's fitful fever has passed. We have at least some right to
expect that persons who in their lifetime had a reasonable amount of
dignity and patience should have increased rather than diminished their
stock of virtue with their enlarged experience, unless, indeed, they
have so lost God as to have lost themselves.

It is difficult to conceive a justification for the spiritualist who,
believing that he is dealing with spirits, refuses to entertain the
idea that these may be devils, and makes no attempt to bring them to a
test. His best excuse, perhaps, would be that the world has to such an
extent lost its standard of faith and morals wherewith to test anything.

Spiritualists may object that some thing, at least, of what I have
urged against them avails as much, or even more, against the devil
hypothesis. Thus, if the spirit of Bacon is too nonsensical for Bacon,
_à fortiori_ he is too nonsensical for Lucifer, who must needs be
the cleverer spirit of the two. Upon this I observe that the retort
shows a complete ignorance of the devil's character and position.
"The character of a myth," some one interposes. Well, I am not now
discussing his existence. Even a myth must be in keeping. You have no
right to give Cerberus four heads, or make him mew instead of bark,
for all he is a myth. I suppose people have been seduced by Milton's
grand conception of the "archangel fallen" and the splendid melancholy
of his solemn rhetoric; but the devil of theology never says anything
wise or fine. He is, indeed, understood to retain the natural powers
with which he was created; but he is wholly averse from the God whom
all wise and fine utterances do, in their measure, praise. Wherefore
all such are in the highest degree repugnant to Satan. Neither are such
costly and uncongenial deceits necessary to beguile man. Selfinterest
and curiosity may be gratified at a cheaper rate.

The concessions of spiritualists themselves in reality reduce the
difference between us very considerably. I have gained all that I care
for, if it be conceded that these spirits may be the spirits of the
damned, who are equivalently devils; and Miss Blackwell admits that
these spirits are "in a manner devils," and Mr. Home (_Experiences_, p.
167) says of some of them: "I tell you you do not know the danger, they
are so fearfully low--the very lowest and most material of all. You
might almost call them 'accursed.' They will get a power over you that
you cannot break through." The one great difference between us is that
consistent spiritualists hold that there is no finality; that these
irrepressible devils--for they are always obtruding themselves amongst
the respectable spirit guests--may be reformed. But even so, would it
not be well to consider whether the chances are not in favor of our
being ruined before they are restored? Once and again it may be that a
spirit speaks to them who is from God, even as God spake sometimes in
the high places of Baal.[195] But God is not wont to reward imprudence,
and, on their own showing, spiritualists stand convicted of the most
extraordinary rashness in thus exposing themselves to the whirlwind of
spirit influence without having a spiritual constitution, so to speak,
or any canons or habits of spiritual life wherewith the influence can
be tested.

Man, as Alvernus finely says, is a being created "upon the horizon
of two worlds"--the world of sense and the world of spirit. But in
the sensible world only is he at home, wherein his material nature
is sufficiently developed for him to hold his own; whereas, in the
spirit-world, with which he is also in contact, the God of both
worlds must be his guide, or, horsed upon his excited imagination,
he may easily be lost in the wilderness, and fall a prey to lawless
spirits. Nothing can be more striking than the contrast between the
sobriety of the Catholic Church in her dealings with the spirit-world
and the rashness of spiritualists. The church has always recognized
as a reality spirit communications of various kinds, good and bad;
but she has always tested most rigidly the character of the spirits;
and even when these have satisfied every test, she has only allowed
their sanctity to be highly probable; she has never, so to speak,
granted them her _testamur_. They are ever on their trial, inasmuch
as she insists that the lessons they communicate shall be in strict
subordination to the rule of faith and morals; in other words, to the
ordinary duties of life. The church has ever shown herself keenly alive
to the dangers of supernatural intercourse. She has been jealously on
her guard against overwrought sentimentalism, vanity, or any strained
or undue development of one part of the patient's moral nature at the
expense of the rest.

Whilst she prizes amongst the choicest of her devotional treasures the
private revelations of her saints, such as those of S. Bridget, S.
Gertrude, S. Catharine of Sienna, and many more, yet if one consults
the great masters of Christian spiritualism, if I may so speak--such
as S. John of the Cross, for example--who have themselves experienced
the favors of which they treat--the ecstasy, the vision, and the
prophecy--one is more struck than by anything else by the stern common
sense of their precautions against deception, and the sad sobriety of
their confession that, after all, you can hardly ever be quite sure
that you are not the victim of an illusion.

That a certain moral discipline is necessary in order not to be
deceived, even when you are dealing with one who has a true spirit of
prophecy, is implied in the words of Ezechiel, cap. xiv.: "For every
man of the house of Israel, and every stranger among the proselytes
in Israel, if he separate himself from me, and place his idols in his
heart, and set the stumbling-block of his iniquity before his face and
come to the prophet to inquire of me by him: I the Lord will answer him
by myself.... And when the prophet shall err and speak a word, I the
Lord have deceived that prophet.... According to the iniquity of him
that inquireth, so shall the iniquity of the prophet be."

S. Augustine (_De Gen. ad Lit._, lib. xii. c. 13, 14) might be warning
those spiritualists who place their security in the peacefulness and
truthfulness of their communications: "The discernment of spirits
is very difficult. When the evil spirit plays the peaceful (_quasi
tranquillus agit_), and, having possessed himself of a man's spirit
without harassing his body, says what he is able, enunciates true
doctrine, and gives useful information, transfiguring himself into
an angel of light, to the end that, when persons have trusted him in
what is clearly good, he may afterwards win them to himself. I do not
think he can be discerned except by means of that gift of which the
apostle saith when speaking of the diverse gifts of God: 'To another
discernment of spirits.' It is no great thing to discover him when he
has gone so far as to do anything against good morals or the rule of
faith, for then he is discovered by many; but by the aforesaid gift, in
the very beginning, whilst to many he still appears good, his badness
is found out forthwith."

Again (_Confess._, lib. x. c. 35), he speaks of the danger of seeking
supernatural communications: "In the religious life itself, men tempt
God when they demand signs and marvels, not for any one's healing,
but simply for the sake of the experience. In this vast wood, full of
snares and dangers, what have I not had to drive away from my heart!
What suggestions and machinations does not the enemy bring to bear upon
me, that I may ask for a sign! But I beseech thee that even as all
consent thereto is far from me, so it may be ever further and further."

Amort, _De Rev. Priv._, p. 20, from Gravina, says: "It is often easier
to establish the certainty of the deceitfulness of an apparition than
of its truthfulness, because bad angels have their own characteristics,
which good angels never imitate; on the other hand, the bad often
imitate the appearance and manner of the good."

Amort, _ibid._, p. 104, from S. John of the Cross, says: "All
apparitions, visions, revelations, consolations, sweetnesses,
sensations, etc., which are received by the external senses, should
ever and always be refused by the soul as much as in it lies.... In
most cases they are diabolical.... When they are from God, they are
sent in order that they may be despised, and that the soul, by means
of the victory wherewith it overcomes these pleasures of the senses,
divine though they be, may be led to the things of the understanding."

_Ibid._, p. 115: "When the words in any supposed revelation take the
form of a process of reasoning after the application of the soul in
contemplation, God, the natural reason, and the devil may all three
concur in the same process."

No test of the holiness of a manifestation is considered quite
satisfactory save that of a continued increase in virtue, especially in
humility, in degrees corresponding to the increase of the favor; for
the devil will not consent to be a master of virtue. When S. Teresa
had scruples as to the source of her favors, it was thus her director
consoled her.

So cautious is Catholic mysticism; whilst spiritualists are not afraid
to keep a sort of spirit-ordinary, where

    "White spirits and black, red spirits and gray,
    Mingle, mingle, mingle; those that mingle may."

I repeat it, spiritualists who think they are communicating with
spirits, and take no pains to test their character, as though the
hypothesis of a devil were absurd, are inexcusably silly.

I must now consider some objections in the mouth of persons who,
without pretending that they have found any satisfactory solution of
the question in the theories of unconscious cerebration or psychic
force, are nevertheless exceedingly impressed by the strong psychic
element in the phenomena of spiritualism--the apparent necessity for
the presence of one or more persons of a peculiar nervous organization,
for a certain harmonious mixture, or rather melodious articulation, of
the company, in order to produce the desired effect. "Surely," they
say, "such law, _i.e._, such regular alternation of cause and effect,
as can be discovered is psychic. So far as we can subject the phenomena
to ordinary scientific tests, everything points to their being the
product of the psychic force of a certain peculiarly constituted
company." This is the tone of Mr. Cox's recent letter to the _Times_,
and Mr. Edwin Arnold's letter in the _Report_ is quite in the same key.

My answer is that I admit all that they say. Of course, so much of
law as is detected is psychic. There is no other law at work within
the sphere of our discovery. The question is whether there are not
indications of an influence at work which is irreducible to psychic
laws, whilst using, in a partially abnormal manner, psychic force.

Mr. Lewes will urge (letter, _Rep._, p. 264): "I might propose as an
hypothesis that the chair leaped because a kobold tilted it up; ... but
you would not believe in the presence of a kobold, because his presence
would enable you to explain the phenomena." Most indubitably I should,
if no less an hypothesis would explain the phenomena; particularly if
I had otherwise reason to believe in the existence and operation of
kobolds. I should hold the likelihood of the hypothesis of his action
in the particular case as steadily increasing in proportion as the
other hypotheses tended to break down.

"No guess," Mr. Lewes insists, "need be rejected, if it admits of
verification; _no guess that cannot be verified is worth a moment's
attention_." The last part of this trenchant dictum _is_ worth a
moment's attention. If it simply mean that it is not worth a scientific
man's while to attempt a direct scientific examination of what clearly
admits of no such treatment, I can only say that, however much the
scientific man may sometimes need the lesson, it is neither more nor
less than a truism. If it mean that no hypothesis is to be regarded
by any one as "worth a moment's attention" which science can never
hope directly to verify, it is conspicuously untrue. Even a _terra
incognita_ is not without scientific interest as marking a boundary;
nay, it may be scientifically proved to contain a place known to exist
and proved not to exist in any known lands.

Of course, the devil, or kobold, if Mr. Lewes prefers it, cannot be
verified in the sense of caught and handed over to scientific men as a
specimen of spiritualistic fauna. Neither do I suppose he can be really
detected, except by the standard of Catholic truth, by Catholic tests,
and Catholic weapons; and even then, in the eyes of unbelievers, he
will be no further identified than as an adverse intelligence in a very
bad temper. But surely this is enough, where men's minds have not been
reduced to mere machines for registering rigid scientific results, to
secure the devil hypothesis something more than "a moment's attention."

What law we detect in spiritualistic phenomena I conceive to be the
working of the conditions in subordination to which the devil is able
to communicate with man. This subordination is probably owing, in part,
to the nature of things which compels certain things to accost certain
other things in one way and not another, in part to the merciful
reservation of God. It would seem as if the spirits were, on the
whole, prevented from being more irreligious than the prevailing tone
of the company, or at least of the most irreligious portion of it. It
may very well be that the conditions limiting diabolical intercourse
are more complex and imperious, where the spirit "_quasi tranquillus
agit_, without harassing the body." In mediæval _diablerie_, the
demon is often represented as hindered or assisted by instruments of
a purely physical character; thus Coleridge makes Christabel lift the
enchantress over the threshold. A crowd, by neutralizing individual
resistance, may present fewer obstacles to the devil--nay, may supply
a medium of its own; just as frightened cattle huddled-together in a
thunder-storm are said, by the steam-column arising from their tightly
compacted bodies, to furnish a conductor for the lightning.

I have indicated in several places of these essays what I conceive
to be the objects the devil has in view in lending himself to
spiritualism. His main object, I can hardly doubt, is to do with
religious sentiment what we are told Mr. Fisk tried to do with the
gold currency of America--"corner it," get its circulation into his
own hands. In the numberless cases where religion is nothing more
than sentiment, he is only too likely to succeed; second-sight is
so much more satisfying to the imagination, and at the same time so
far more modest in its demands upon the will, than faith. The spread
of spiritualism in the last few years is notorious, and there is
every prospect of its continuing. Whether it will ever enter upon a
new phase of existence, and become a fact publicly acknowledged by
scientific men, is a question. It has never been so recognized amongst
civilized nations. Whatever miracles, divine or diabolical, were meant
to effect, it was not to overbalance the general sway of purely human
power, of which this world is the appointed stage. As a general rule,
the brilliant series of miracles by which the Christian martyr has
baffled death in the presence of admiring crowds has ended in quiet
decapitation at a convenient mile-stone. Many a time, doubtless, has
the Roman headsman flattered himself that his good straight-down blow
effectually upset that fine story made up out of a drugged lion and
a fagot of green wood, which had somehow imposed upon so many stupid
people. Not, of course, that I am denying that there have been miracles
which imperiously asserted themselves over all obstacles, like the
series which ended in Pharao's drowning; but, as a general rule, God
has spoken once and again, and then prosaic obstinacy has been given
its way. On these occasions, God has no doubt submitted himself to a
general law which he has made for all direct spiritual interference,
and which he mercifully enforces with especial strictness in the case
of the devil.

Any civilized nation engaged in active pursuits will always be likely
to contain, one should think, a majority among its scientific men who
will be unfitted to experience, and indisposed to believe in, and
still more to acknowledge, the phenomena of spiritualism. But it is
impossible to say; the spiritualistic system as developed by Allan
Kardec (see Miss Blackwell's communication, _Rep._, p 284) seems
to lend itself in a remarkable way to some of the most prominent
scientific tendencies of the day. If ever Darwinists should stand in
need of the consolations of religious enthusiasm, they might find a
congenial home in spiritualism. In the vast system of metempsychosis
to which Miss Blackwell introduces us, we have all the Darwinian
stages and to spare. First in order comes the "primordial fluid,"
"containing all the elements of derived existence," "the first
substantiation of creative thought." "There are three orders or modes
of substantiality"--"psychic substance," and "corporeal substance," and
"dynamic substance, or force," which last is stated to partake of the
nature of the two other modes, and to be the intermediary between them.

(P. 300) "Every state of the psychic element determines corresponding
vibrations of the dynamic element, which, effecting corresponding
aggregations of the atoms of the material element, produce the
substance or body which is the material expression of that state." The
soul's magnetic envelope, "perisprit," is at once its first garment and
the instrument by which it aggregates to itself the elements of its
body.

This system embraces a twofold metempsychosis--that of formation and
that of reformation. The first is the process by which the impersonal
psychic element is gradually prepared for individualization or the
attainment of conscious personality by being transfused progressively
through the mineral, vegetable, and animal worlds--the same process,
but with a different final cause, it would seem, as that described by
the poet:

    "Spiritus intus alit, totamque infusa per artus,
    Mens agitat molem et magno se corpore miscet."

The psychic element is presented, not as feeding, but as feeding
on successive worlds, like a silk-worm on mulberry-leaves, leaving
geological strata behind it, for instance, as the refuse of its mineral
sojourn.

Souls are first individualized in the fluidic or atmospheric world;
and if they are docile to the instruction of that world, they never
"incur the penalty of incarceration in bodies of planetary matter, and
consequently never become men," but remain in this or that fluidic
world until ripe for the highest or "sidereal order." On the other
hand, the spirits who are indocile enter upon the second series of
metempsychosis, "having brought upon themselves the penalty of exile in
a planet corresponding, in the compactness or comparative fluidity of
its material constituents, to the degree of their culpability."

(P. 309) "The moral and intellectual state of the soul decides the
corresponding magnetic action of the perisprit, and thereby decides the
nature of the body which is formed by that action."

(319) "While accomplishing the new series of incorporations in
progressively nobler forms, in higher and higher planets, the spirit
goes back, at each disaggregation of its material envelope, into the
fluidic sphere of the planet in which its last material embodiment has
been accomplished."

(322) "The fluidic world being the normal world of souls, we remain
in intimate (though usually unconscious) connection with the fluidic
sphere of the planet, while incarnated on its surface. We return to
it during sleep, when, through the elasticity of the perisprit (which
has been seen by clairvoyants elongated into a sort of luminous cord
connecting the soul with the sleeping body), we are enabled to visit
our friends in the other life."

(326) "The more extended vision of the fluidic sphere shows (its
inhabitants) a wide range of human actions and intentions, and thus
enables them to forecast with more or less correctness, and, when
permitted to do so, to predict the same with more or less exactness,
according to the flexibility of the medium."

S. Augustine has a fine passage in his _De Divinatione Dæmonum_, cap.
iii., comparing the keenness and swiftness (_acrimonia sensûs et
celeritas motûs_) which the devils possess in virtue of their fluidic
state (_aerium corpus_) to the vulture's knowledge, who, "when the
carcase is thrown out, flies up from an unseen distance; and to the
osprey's, who, floating aloft, is said at that vast height to see the
fish swimming beneath the waves, and fiercely smiting the water with
outstretched legs and talons, to ravish it."

I can conceive the attractions of such a system, combining, as it
does, the ingenuity and fulness of Platonism with something of the
color and rhythm of modern science. If any concordat is to be made
between religious enthusiasm unattached and science, I do not think the
chances of spiritualism are to be despised. Just at present, however,
although some scientific men have taken up spiritualism, there can be
no doubt that, on the whole, spiritualism and science are at daggers
drawn. There is no mistaking the utter loathing expressed in Professor
Huxley's letter (_Rep._, p. 229), in which he declines to take any part
in the committee's investigation, on the ground that, "supposing the
phenomena to be true, they do not interest me." He has a perfect right
to compare spiritualistic talk to "the chatter of old women and curates
in a cathedral town"; but his anger has made him quite miss the logical
point of the position. The privilege he declines as worthless is the
opportunity, not of listening to such conversation, but of examining
and testing the hitherto ignored faculty; and this no man can seriously
reject as uninteresting.

There is no difficulty in understanding the bitterness with which
modern science regards spiritualism. It had been for so long carrying
everything before it; it had weighed so many things on earth and in
the heavens; it had reduced so many apparently eccentric phenomena
to law; its discoveries had been so brilliant, and its still more
brilliant projections were so plausible, that it flattered itself that
all idea of the supernatural was fairly relegated to the obscure past
or to the obscurer future. The philosophy of the XIXth century was
being fast reduced to a bare statement of the contents of sensation,
and the philosophers of the day were looking for an easy victory over
the most respectable of dogmatic traditions, when, lo! full in the
calm scientific light, the singularly grotesque form of spiritualism
lifts its head, and the warrior who had so loudly challenged the king
to mortal combat finds himself set upon by the court fool. When earth,
according to the poet's dream, should be "lapped in universal law," up
starts a mass of phenomena not merely inexplicable by any known law,
but, in popular estimation at least, incompatible with any hypothesis
but that of supernatural agency. It has been the more intolerable that
spiritualism had affected an imposing vocabulary of scientific terms,
recommending itself to its audience by an appeal to partially known
laws, such as magnetism and electricity, whilst really indulging in the
most unblushing necromancy. Thus the scientific formulæ have been given
somewhat the _rôle_ of captives in the triumph of superstition. No
wonder scientific men are angry. But whilst they "do well to be angry,"
I think they do by no means well to refuse to investigate the subject
because on various accounts it is offensive to them.

Scientific men frequently complain that spiritualists will not submit
their séances to the test of a public examination in broad daylight.
Now, this is really not a fair statement of the case. Spiritualists say
that they have found by experience that a certain class of phenomena
require dark or twilight; but a vast number of independent physical
manifestations do take place in broad daylight. On the other hand,
when the scientific investigator insists upon interfering with the
constituents of the séance, the arrangement of the circle, etc.,
the spiritualist answers, fairly enough, that, since under the most
favorable conditions the success of the séance cannot be reckoned on,
it would be absurd to allow the abandonment of what experience has
shown to be a necessary condition of success. "With the phenomena of
magic we can experimentalize but little; neither can we evoke the
least of them at our good pleasure. We can but observe them where they
present themselves, gather them into corresponding groups, and discover
among them common features and common laws." (Perty, _Mystisch.
Erscheinungen--Vorrede_, p. xi.) This being understood, spiritualists
invite the representatives of science to make what observations they
please in broad daylight, when, at least, they will be able to discount
such disturbing conditions as they may not eliminate. It is an _onus_,
certainly, for the investigator to have to form a part of what is going
on; but this is no more than the detective undergoes when he plays
the accomplice in order to discover the thief. Say that spiritualism
is a folly, a disease, what you will, it is at least of the highest
scientific interest and practical importance that we should understand
its conditions and action as thoroughly as possible. If scientific men
have no more serious scruple to keep them aloof than the dignity of
their order--for, after all, this is what Mr. Huxley's excuses come
to--the exigencies of the case require that it should be put aside. If
the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain.

Nothing is more calculated to bring out the inherent diversities of
the human mind than the investigation of spiritualism; for it not
only involves an examination of some of the most difficult problems
relating to evidence, but, indirectly at least, an examination of the
whole process by which each individual concerned rejects or assimilates
his mental pabulum. Hence the extraordinary difficulty of conducting
such an inquiry without incessant wrangling. The Committee of the
Dialectical Society, to whose _Report_ I have so often referred, is
quite a case in point. Its _Report_ is the record of a schism, of an
irreconcilable clash of opinions. If the committee had waited until
these had been reduced to harmony, the _Report_ would never have been
published. One of the principal members--Dr. Edmunds--was, I think,
exceptionally tried. His own opinion was and is that spiritualism is
a mixture of trickery and delusion; but his own dining-room table
habitually took sides against him, and this in the most treacherous
manner. It used to wait until he had left the room, and then, in the
presence of the other investigators, run around with nobody touching it.

You might almost as well meddle with a man's digestion as with his
belief. Prove that his convictions are groundless, and he feels as
outraged as though you had affixed a register to his waistcoat which
showed the world that his favorite dish had disagreed with him. Dr.
Garth Wilkinson (_Rep._, p. 234) is by no means singular in his
experience "that nearly all truth is temperamental to us, or given in
the affections or intuitions, and that discussion and inquiry do little
more than feed the temperament." And what a variety of temperaments
will inevitably be found in any committee of investigation--men who,
like Mr. Lewes, consider the possibility of an hypothesis which cannot
be rigidly tested unworthy of consideration, or like Mr. Grattan
Geary (_Rep._, p. 95), who, on finding that many eminent men are
spiritualists, is simply impressed by the number of eminent men who are
enjoying an unmerited reputation for sanity. After all, men make more
account, as a general rule, of one little bit of experience, the real
force of which is incommunicable, and which, when put into words for
another's benefit, is often to the last degree trivial, than of all
the arguments in the world. A charming example of this is given by Dr.
H. More in a letter to Glanville, published at the beginning of the
latter's _Sadducismus Triumphatus_: "I remember an old gentleman in the
country of my acquaintance, an excellent justice of the peace, and a
piece of a mathematician; but what sort of a philosopher he was you may
understand from a rhime of his own making, which he commended to me on
my taking horse in his yard, which rhime is this:

    An _ens_ is nothing till sense find out,
    Sense ends in nothing, so naught goes about;

which rhime of his was so rapturous to himself that, at the reciting
of the second verse, the old man turned himself about upon his toe as
nimbly as one may see a dry leaf whisk'd round in the corner of an
orchard-walk by some little whirlwind. With this philosopher I have
had many discourses concerning the immortality of the soul and its
distinction. When I have run him quite down by reason, he would laugh
and say, 'That is logick, H.,' calling me by my Christian name. To
which I replied, 'This is reason, Fr. L. (for so I and some others
used to call him), but it seems you are for the new light and direct
inspiration,' which, I confess, he was as little for as for the other;
but I said so only by way of drollery to him in those times. But truth
is, nothing but palpable experience could move him; and being a bold
man, and fearing nothing, he told me he had tried all the ceremonies
of conjuration he could to raise the devil or a spirit, and had a most
earnest desire to meet with one, but never could do it. But this he
told me: when he did not so much as think of it, while his servant was
pulling off his boots in the hall, some invisible hand gave him such
a clap on the back that it made all ring again. So, thought he, now I
am invited to the converse of my spirit; and therefore, so soon as his
boots were off and his shoes on, out he went into the yard and next
field to find out the spirit that had given him this familiar clap on
the back, but found none neither in the yard nor field next to it. But
though he did not feel the stroke, albeit he thought it afterwards
(finding nothing come of it) a mere delusion, yet, not long before his
death, it had more force with him than all the philosophical arguments
I could use to him, though I could wind him and nonplus as I pleased;
but yet all my arguments, how solid soever, made no impression upon
him. Wherefore, after several reasonings of this nature, whereby I
would prove the soul's distinction from the body, and its immortality,
when nothing of such subtile considerations did any more execution on
his mind than some lightning is said to do, though it melts the sword,
upon the fuzzy consistency of the scabbard, well, said I, Fr. L.,
though none of these things move you, I have something still behind,
and what you yourself acknowledged to me, that may do the business. Do
you remember that clap on the back when your servant was pulling off
your boots in the hall? Assure yourself, said I, Fr. L., that goblin
will be the first that will bid you welcome into the other world. Upon
that his countenance changed most sensibly, and he was more confounded
with this rubbing up of his memory than with all the rational and
philosophical arguments I could produce."

Whilst admitting that the _Report_ of the Dialectical Society indicates
a very considerable initial success, I cannot but feel the undiminished
importance of W. M. Wilkinson's rather caustic warning (_Rep._, p.
231): "The first thing in such an investigation is to assume nothing,
not even that a committee of the Dialectical Society can 'obtain a
satisfactory elucidation of the phenomena.' No committee has ever done
so yet. A committee of professors of Harvard University, amongst whom
was Agassiz, after they had made an examination, did not think proper
to publish their report, though they had published their intention
to do so, and were frequently and publicly asked for it." The London
Society has, at least improved upon the example.

I have maintained throughout that neither the hypothesis of trickery
nor of delusion can be sustained for a moment as an adequate
explanation of the phenomena of spiritualism, on grounds which may
be thus summarized: 1. Many of these phenomena outdo all conjuring.
2. They take place where the possibility of trickery has been
eliminated. 3. The exhibition of imaginative excitement is, on the
whole, inconsiderable, and there is no appreciable proportion between
the degrees of excitement and the phenomena. But, at the same time, I
am far from maintaining that there is no trickery amongst the mediums,
and no predisposition in the company tending more or less to disqualify
them from detecting it. I am inclined to think that more or less
trickery forms part of the stock in trade of most mediums, but that its
share in the production of phenomena is comparatively slight.

Mr. Browning's marvellous conception of _Sludge the Medium_ is based,
I admit, upon a real, existing unscrupulosity on the one side, and on
a real, existing gullibility on the other; but these are magnified
into colossal and perfectly unreal proportions so far as Sludge is
to be taken as a representative of his class. In many cases a single
fraud may fairly be taken to vitiate the whole projection. If in a
chemical demonstration, for instance, we were to discover the secret
substitution, by the operator, of an ingredient not in the programme,
we might fairly conclude that the whole thing was a pretence; that
there was nothing in it. But this is not necessarily so in the case of
spiritualism; the lie or trick does not always imply the total absence
of other force, but may be an initial ceremony, preparing the company
by quickening their expectations, and propitiating the evil influence
by an acceptable sacrifice of human honor.

It must be confessed that there is something very suggestive of
trickery, and of silly trickery, in the attempts made from time to
time by the spirits to flatter into good-humor the anti-spiritualistic
critic of the company; as when Professor Tyndall was dubbed "Poet
of Science,"[196] and when Dr. Edmunds' portrait was given in such
glowing colors that, except in the character of a sceptic, he would
have been ashamed to reproduce it (_Report_). Again, that something
like systematic trickery has sometimes been attempted would seem to be
established by the very remarkable evidence of Mr. W. Faulkener Surgeon
(_Rep._, p. 125): "He said that for years he had been in the habit of
supplying magnets for the production of rapping sounds at spiritual
séances.... Some of these magnets--as, for instance, the one he had
brought with him--were made for concealment about the person; while
others were constructed with a view to their attachment to various
articles of furniture.... He had never himself fitted up a house with
these magnets, and he only knew of one house, Mr. Addison's, that is so
fitted up. He also stated that he had not supplied any of these magnets
for two or three years."

As regards the company's predisposition to believe in spiritualism, I
admit that a sufficient predisposing reaction against materialism has
taken place, giving room for a man to constitute what "Sludge" calls

    "Your peacock perch, pet post
    To strut, and spread the tail, and squawk upon,
    Just as you thought, much as you might expect,
    There be more things in heaven and earth, Horatio."

Nay, I admit that the following fiercely graphic catalogue of the
medium's patrons only sins by omission:

    1.  "Fools who are smitten by imaginary antecedent probabilities.

    2.  ... "their opposites
        Who never did at bottom of their hearts
        Believe for a moment--men emasculate,
        Blank of belief, who played, as eunuchs use,
        With superstition safely.

    3.  "The other picker-up of pearl
        From dung-heaps, ay, your literary man,
        Who draws on his kid gloves to play with Sludge
        Daintily and discreetly; shakes a dust
        Of the doctrine, flavors thence he well knows how
        The narrative or the novel--half believes
        All for the book's sake, and the public stare,
        And the cash that's God's sole solid in this world.

    4.  "There's a more hateful kind of foolery--
        The social sage's Solomon of saloons
        And philosophic diner-out, the fribble
        Who wants a doctrine for a chopping-block
        To try the edge of his faculty upon;
        Prove how much common sense he'll hack and hew
        In the critical minute 'twixt the soup and fish:
        These were my patrons...."

And far stronger than any such predispositions is the intense and
widespread feeling, so pathetic even in its uncouthest manifestations,
to which Dr. Edmunds refers (_Rep._, p. 57): "Prior to the experience
gained in this inquiry, I never realized the vast hold which the
supernatural has upon mankind. Minds which have broken away from the
commonplace lines of faith, and thrown overboard their belief in
revealed religion, have not cast out the longing after immortality."
And I may add, that when all religious assurance of what the soul must
needs desire is absent, the longing for some visible, palpable witness
becomes proportionably intenser. And so just now, from the very lack of
faith, there is an exceptionally vehement desire that some one should
come with unmistakable credentials from beyond the grave, and make
us see, and feel, and know what we cannot help longing for; and it
is difficult to say to what extent the wish may not be father to the
thought.

I admit that all this constitutes an adverse momentum of antecedent
probability. But, after all, spiritualists, as a whole, are not
persons who have given any indications that this yearning has so
wholly overbalanced their critical faculty as to make them incompetent
witnesses. Moreover, we have, as witnesses to spiritualistic phenomena,
not merely the spiritualists proper, but persons who, as regards the
predominance of this sentiment, are their extremest opposites--viz.,
the advocates of psychic force. It must be admitted that these persons
are either without the yearning for evidence of a future life, or at
least hold it in complete subordination to the critical faculty.

It may easily be contended that I have been overrating the progress and
prospects of spiritualism, for that the public prints as a rule make
fun of it. I may be reminded that Mr. Browning has exposed it, in the
region of poetry, in his _Sludge the Medium_; Professor Tyndall in that
of prose, in his delicious account of a séance, in which he discomfits
the medium and plays spirits himself, to the great edification of the
company, who rebuke him solemnly for his want of faith in his own
make-believe; that the keen critics of the _Saturday_ and the _Pall
Mall_ invariably treat spiritualism as unmitigated humbug.

In reply, I point to the _Report_; to the testimony of an antagonist
like Mr. Geary, as to the number of eminent men who believe in
spiritualism; to the notorious fact that scientific men, as a whole,
in Germany and America have ceased to regard spiritualism as a mere
delusion; to the recent correspondence in the _Times_, and particularly
to the article of December 26, 1872, wherein the writer, after
reviewing the _Report_, exclaims that "it is high time competent hands
undertook the unravelling of this gordian knot. It must be fairly and
patiently unravelled, and not cut through. The slash of the Alexandrian
blade has been tried often enough, and has never sufficed. Scientific
men forget that, in the matter of spiritualism, they must make
themselves fools in order that they may become wise." The writer then
proceeds to relate how he went off to examine for himself. He tells us
that he and his friend enter a room, the furniture of which consisted
of a table and a few cane-bottomed chairs, which he previously
examines; that in an inner room, during a dark séance, in which the
medium's hands and feet have been carefully secured, a chair is lifted
up and thrown upon the table; that afterwards, in the outer room, "the
furniture became quite lively, and this in broad daylight; a chair
jumped three or four yards across the carpet, our hat fell to our feet,
and numerous other phenomena occurred"; but the mediums are free, and
he is nervous about them. In another séance, the same writer, whilst
the medium's hands and feet are in custody, has various things thrust
into his hand, and once "felt distinctly the touch of a large finger
and thumb." Several times during the séance he takes the opportunity,
freely accorded, of carefully searching under the table with a lamp.
He confesses there was nothing during the whole evening, except the
phenomena themselves, to suggest imposture. "We tried our best to
detect it, but found no trace of it." And then he ends with "a slash of
the Alexandrian blade," after all, and suggests that still trickery it
must be.

Spiritualism indubitably affords, and in all probability will continue
to afford, an abundant and legitimate field for the satirist of human
folly, even when its substantial reality has been admitted; for it is
a condescension to a great vulgar want, and its supplies are detailed,
for the most part, through the unwashed fingers of very scurvy fellows
indeed. Neither is there anything in the discipline necessary for the
development of a medium, so far as I know, which makes his refinement
as a class probable.

Educated men are naturally shy of admitting their connection with
anything involving so much that is low and disagreeable, except as
a sort of "casual ward" experience; just as men are usually shy of
its being known that they eat strange meats, such as rats, out of
siege-time. But once let an heroic rat-eater come forward, impelled
by a sense of public duty, to tell the world what a noble viand it is
neglecting, when, lo! it appears, from confessions on this side and on
that, that numbers know all about it, and have been secretly indulging
in the rat feast. So it is with spiritualism and its adherents; it is
only now and again that the curtain is lifted up, and we are enabled
to appreciate the hold which it is steadily making good on the public
imagination.

As to the line taken by the _Pall Mall_ and the _Saturday_, the
question is whether the critics who write in these periodicals
could, under any circumstances, adapt their method and style, I will
not say to the support, but to the fair discussion, of an uncouth,
ill-conditioned, sensational enthusiasm like spiritualism. As it was
the Crusader's boast that he never touched the unbeliever save with
the sword, so, it would seem, some of our critics plume themselves
upon never touching enthusiasm but with a sneer. Our present school of
critics is the result of a reaction from the enthusiastic Young England
school of forty years ago, who were romanticists, patronizing religious
enthusiasm as one of the many forms of romance. We can hardly expect
that a school which is inclined to regard all religious sentiment as
something essentially weak and finikin; which can talk of Joan of Arc
as a "crazy servant-girl,"[197] should be civil to an exhibition of
enthusiasm much weaker, and vulgar to boot. Neither do I see how it
would be possible to write a trenchant _critique_ of such a nondescript
medley, except by treating it as a form of mania. It admits of no
precise scientific treatment, for it falls under no one category.
Spiritualism, to discuss, not to banter, would be as uncongenial a
subject for the _Pall Mall_ or the _Saturday_ as a case of chronic
bronchitis for a brilliant public operator.

When the "Jupiter" of the latter days is engaged in duly chronicling,
for the edification of the public, the splendid spiritualistic
phenomena with which Antichrist will dazzle the world, should the _Pall
Mall_ and _Saturday_ still exist, we should not look for them even
then amongst the enthusiastic crowd. Though employed in the government
interest, they will surely be allowed to do their old work in their old
way, and we shall find them engaged in the congenial task of mocking
the last miracles by which Enoch and Elias are gathering in the remnant
of the elect.

It may be insisted that the one effectual way of repressing
spiritualism is to pooh-pooh it. Surely it is too late; you must give
its many sober adherents some better reason against trusting their own
senses than its making other people laugh.

Assuredly spiritualism can never be safely despised until its reality
has been discounted and its author recognized.

FOOTNOTES:

[192] _Apoth._ l. 409.

[193] _Lib. de Divers. Quæst._, qu. 12.

[194] See Görres, _Mystik_, tom. iii. p. 346, French trans.

[195] St. Aug., _De Unit. Eccles._, c. 19.

[196] Tyndall, _Scientific Scraps_.

[197] This was in the _Spectator_, but surely not of it.




THE FARM OF MUICERON.


                            BY MARIE RHEIL.

                  FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.


XII.

The Sunday after the last day of the harvest, M. le Marquis invited
all the boys up to the château, where a magnificent banquet was
prepared, and they were expected to remain until the evening. He
ordered a splendid repast, and music besides; the principal barn, which
ordinarily was crammed full at this season, but that, owing to the
bad season, was comparatively empty, was decorated for the occasion.
Our master desired that nothing should be spared to make the _fête_ a
great success. All the fine linen of the château--and the closets were
heaping-full of it--the china, and silver were put into requisition, so
that there never was given a more superb banquet to great personages
than to our delighted villagers. As for the _fricassée_, it is
remembered to this day; it was composed, to commence with, of a dozen
kinds of poultry, so well disguised under different sauces that one ate
chicken in confidence as chicken, because it was so written on little
strips of paper laid beside each plate, but without being positive that
it was not turkey or pigeon; and every one agreed in acknowledging
that such a delicious compound had never passed down country throats,
and that the wines, if possible, surpassed the eating; so that the
good fellows commenced to be merry and perfectly happy when the roast
appeared.

Of this roast I will say a word before passing to other things, for
I fancy you have seldom seen it equalled. With all respect, imagine
a huge hog, weighing at least a hundred pounds, roasted whole,
beautifully gilded, and trimmed with ribbons, and reposing so quietly
on a plank covered with water-cresses you would have thought him asleep.

It was really a curious and most appetizing sight, and sufficiently
rare to be remarked; but see how stupid some people are! On seeing
this superb dish, whose delicious perfume would have brought the dead
back to life--that is to say, if they were hungry--some of the fellows
said that M. le Marquis might have better chosen another roast, as
pork was something they ate all through the year. Whereupon Master
Ruinard, the head-cook of the château, made a good-natured grimace, and
apostrophized them as a heap of fools, but without any other sign of
displeasure; and then seizing his big knife, that he sharpened with a
knowing air, he cut the animal open, and out tumbled snipe, woodcock,
rennets, and partridges, done to a turn, and of which each one had
his good share. As for the hog, no one touched it, which proved two
things--first, that you must not speak too soon; secondly, that when a
great lord gives an entertainment, it is always sure to be remarkably
fine.

At the dessert, which was abundant in pastry, ice-cream, and fresh and
dried fruits, they served a delicate wine, the color of old straw, the
name of which I don't know exactly, but which was sweet and not at all
disagreeable. At this time, M. le Marquis, accompanied by mademoiselle,
Dame Berthe, and Jeannette, entered and mingled with the guests, who
rose and bowed low. Our good master thanked the young men for the great
service they had rendered him; and as he could not drink with each one,
he touched his glass to that of Jean-Louis, saying it was to the health
of all the commune. They cried, "Long live M. le Marquis!" until the
roof shook; and as their heads were as heated as the boilers at the big
yearly wash, they whispered among themselves that it would be well to
carry Jean-Louis again in triumph, as much to please the master as to
render justice to him who was the cause of all this festivity.

Now, our Jean-Louis was the only one who remained composed after all
this eating and drinking. He had eaten with good appetite, and fully
quenched his thirst, but not one mouthful more than was necessary. He
heard all that was said without appearing to listen; and when others
might have felt vain, he was displeased; he therefore watched his
chance, slid under the table, and, working his way like an eel between
the legs of his comrades, who were too busily occupied to notice him,
in three seconds was out of the door, running for dear life, for fear
of being caught.

He was delighted to breathe the fresh air, and did not slacken his pace
until he had gone a good quarter of a league, and was near Muiceron.
Then he stopped to take breath, laughing aloud at the good trick he had
played.

"Thank goodness!" thought he, "I have at last escaped. They can run as
fast as they choose now; there is no chance of catching up with me.
What would M. le Marquis and the family have thought to have seen me
hoisted up on the shoulders of those half-tipsy fellows, and paraded
around the court, like a learned beast on a fair-ground? Not knowing
that I had come to the château only to oblige the master, who had
besides given me a valuable watch, it would have looked as though I
wished to receive in vain applause what I refused in money. None of
that, none of that for me; there is enough nonsense going on, without
my mixing myself up in it. They can drink and dance until sunrise
to-morrow, if they so please, it is all the same to me; and I will go
home to bed, after having told all to my dear mother, who will not fail
to approve of my conduct, and laugh heartily at my escape."

As he said this to himself, he entered the wood, of which we have
already spoken, that skirts La Range and throws its shade nearly to
the fir-trees which surround Muiceron. It was such a delightful spot,
either by night or day, that it was difficult to pass through it
without feeling a disposition to loiter and meditate, particularly for
such a dreamer as Jean-Louis. After all, now that he was safe, there
was nothing to hurry him home for at least half an hour. He therefore
put his hands in his pockets, and strolled along, resting both mind and
body in a dreamy reverie for the benefit of the one, and walking slowly
to the great good of the other.

Really, the evening was delicious. The great heat of the day had been
succeeded by a fresh breeze, which, passing over the orchards around,
brought into the wood the sweet odor of young fruit, mingled with that
of the foliage and bark of the trees, damp with the August sap. The hum
of insects was heard, and not far off the joyous murmur of the stream
leaping over the stones. As the ground had been thoroughly soaked for
several weeks past, quantities of wild flowers strewed the soil, and
added to the balmy air a taste of spring, entirely out of season. You
surely must have felt, at some time or other, how such nights and
such scenes enervate the brain. The will cannot resist the bewitching
influence; insensibly we become dreamers, and feel a strong desire to
converse with the stars. August nights especially are irresistible,
and I imagine no one, unless somebody depraved by wicked deeds and
thoughts, or a born idiot, can fail to understand and acknowledge the
effect.

Judge if our Jean-Louis, with his pure soul and young heart of twenty
years, was happy in the midst of these gifts of the good God. He was
like a child who hears for the first time the sound of the bagpipes;
and I beg you will not sneer at this comparison, for the reveries of
an innocent heart have precisely the same gentle effect on the soul
as the grand harmonies that roll through vast cathedrals on the great
festivals of the church.

Doubtless, that he might better listen to this music, he seated himself
on the moss at the bottom of a birch-tree, rested his head against
the trunk, and looked up at the leaves, shaken by the wind, his feet
crossed, and in the most comfortable position possible, to dream at his
ease. Now, whether he was more fatigued than he imagined, on account of
his week's hard labor, or whether the unusual feasting at the château
made him drowsy, certain it is that he first closed one eye, then both,
and ended by falling as soundly asleep as though he were in his bed at
Muiceron.

It happened that, during this time, a storm arose behind the hill
of Chaumier, to the right of the river that runs through the parish
of Val-Saint and Ordonniers--something which our sleeper had not
foreseen, although he was very expert in judging of the weather.
Ordinarily, the river cuts the thunder-clouds, so that this side of La
Range is seldom injured by storms; but this time it was not so. At the
end of an hour or two that his sleep lasted, Jean-Louis was suddenly
awakened by a clap of thunder which nearly deafened him; and in an
instant the rain commenced to fall in great drops that came down on his
face, and of which he received the full benefit as he lay stretched out
on the grass.

He rose at a bound, and started off on a gallop, that his best clothes
might not be injured. Muiceron was not far distant, and the storm had
just commenced; he therefore hoped to reach the house in time to escape
it. Not that he thought only of his costume, like a vain, effeminate
boy, but because his mother Pierrette was very careful, and did not
like to see his Sunday suit spoiled or spotted with the rain.

But the storm ran faster than he; the rain fell as from a great
watering-pot in the trees, lightning glared on all sides at once, and
one would have said that two thunder-clouds were warring against each
other, trying to see which could show the greatest anger.

In the midst of this infernal noise, Jean-Louis suddenly saw what he
thought, by the flash of lightning, to be a little brown form trotting
before him in the middle of the path. He was not a boy to be alarmed by
the raw-head-and-bloody-bones stories with which we frighten children
to make them behave, and which many grown-up men, with beards on their
chin, half believe to be true; but, nevertheless, the thing appeared
quite unusual. He hastened his steps, and, as sometimes he could see
in the lightning-glare as well as at noonday, he soon recognized the
costume of the women of the country, or at least the cloak they throw
over their clothes when the weather is threatening.

"Oh!" said the kind-hearted Jeannet, "here is a poor little thing half
frightened to death on account of the storm. I must catch up with her,
and offer to take her to the village."

For Jean-Louis, although he had very little ever to do with girls,
was so kindly disposed he was always ready to be of service to his
neighbors, whether they wore blouses or petticoats.

But as he hurried on, that he might put in practice his charitable
thought, there came a flash of lightning that seemed to set the woods
on fire, and, immediately after, a terrible clap of thunder as loud
as though the heavens were rent asunder. Jeannet involuntarily closed
his eyes, and stopped short, fastened to the ground like a stake. It
was what the _savants_ call--an electric shock. But don't expect me to
explain that expression, for I know nothing about it, and, besides, I
don't worry my head about such things.

When our boy opened his eyes, after one or two seconds, which appeared
to him very long, his first care was to explore the path, in order that
he might discover the unknown country-girl; but there was nowhere to
be seen a trace of a girl, a cloak, or anything that resembled a human
being.

"Well, this is at least singular," said he very uneasily. "Has my
sight grown dim? No; I would stake my head that I saw before me a
flesh-and-bone woman. I saw it--that I am positive and sure. If she has
been hurt by this stroke of lightning, which must surely have fallen
near here, she must be lying on the ground; for I have never heard
that the storm kills people by making them melt like snow under the
March sun."

This sudden disappearance excited him to such a degree that, without
thinking of the rain, which was pouring down in torrents, and had
drenched his new coat of Vierzon cloth, he resolved to enter the
copse, at the risk of losing his way, and search around until he would
discover the lost girl. But before leaving the beaten path, by a sudden
inspiration, he cried out with a loud voice:

"If there is any one here who needs assistance, let her speak. I will
bring two strong arms to the rescue."

Instantly a faint voice, stifled and weeping, replied, "Oh! for S.
Sylvain's sake, good people, have mercy on me!"

"Holy Virgin Mary!" cried Jean-Louis, "is not that the voice of my
sister Jeannette? She is the last person for three leagues around I
would have expected to find in such a plight at this hour of the night.
But I must be mistaken; it can't be possible."

And with that, more dead than alive from the violent palpitation of the
heart which suddenly seized him, Jean-Louis rushed towards a thicket of
young chestnut-trees that bordered the path, and from which seemed to
come the weak, mournful voice that implored pity. He pushed aside the
branches with a vigorous hand, and soon discovered a girl, in cloak and
hood, crouched upon the ground, and so doubled up in a heap she could
have been mistaken at first sight for a large ant-heap or bundle of old
rags left there by some passing beggar.

"For the love of our Lord and Saviour, tell me who you are, and don't
be afraid of me," said Jeannet, leaning over the poor little thing.

She raised her head, and instantly let it fall again on her knees,
around which her hands were clasped; but as the lightning continued
without ceasing a moment, the movement sufficed for Jean-Louis to
recognize her.

It was really Jeanne Ragaud, but so paralyzed with fear, so wet and
fainting, she seemed about to breathe her last. Her piteous moans were
enough to break one's heart. Her whole body trembled, and thus huddled
up in the middle of the mud in the dense underbrush, her situation
was so perilous I verily believe she would have met her death in that
lonely spot, but for the assistance sent by Heaven.

"Jeanne, Jeanne!" cried Jean-Louis, coming close to her, "keep up your
courage, my darling. Rouse up, I beg of you. Be brave; you are already
chilled through. It is dangerous to remain in the woods in such a
storm."

But the poor little creature did not move. The fright and cold of the
terrible tempest had totally bewildered her. Jeannet vainly shook her
by the shoulders, trying to raise her on her feet, and to unclasp her
hands, which had stiffened around her knees. He could not make her
change her position in the least. What could be done? He did not know
precisely how long she had wandered in the wood before falling down;
and although he had just heard her speak a moment before, he feared
that she was about to die, as perhaps she had been struck by lightning.

He made the sign of the cross, and invoked the angels of paradise.
Immediately he remembered that not far from this grove was a miserable
cabin, used by the wood-cutters, half tumbling down, but still
sufficiently sound to shelter a Christian. This thought gave him fresh
strength; and taking the little thing, doubled up as she was, in his
arms, he raised her from the ground, and carried her, without stopping,
to the wretched hut.

Well was it that he thought of this retreat, and, still better, that it
was not far distant; for Jeannette, although slender and not tall, was
in a dead faint, and consequently so heavy that Jeannet was perfectly
exhausted when he reached the shelter.

By a still greater mercy, he had his flint in his pocket, and, luckily,
it had not been injured by the dampness. He thus was able to strike
a light, after having laid the poor girl on the dry earthen floor.
He quickly lighted some handfuls of brush and straw that strewed the
ground, and by their smoky light discovered, in a corner of the cabin,
a good moss mattress, which the wood-men used when they came to sleep
in the place, and near by a little board, upon which laid a packet of
_auribus_--little resin candles very much used in our province.

"May God be praised for helping me!" thought the brave boy, delighted
at having found poor little Jeannette. "It is a poor bed-room in
comparison with the fine apartments at the château, but worth a palace
when we think of the thicket just now."

He unfastened his sister's cloak, with a thousand respectful
precautions, just as he would have touched the veil that covers the
statue of Our Lady, and in the same manner took off her shoes and
stockings, which he found very difficult, as, owing to the dampness,
the fine thread stockings clung tightly to the skin. That accomplished,
he built up the fire with all the rubbish he could find, and, turning
the moss mattress in such a manner that Jeannette's feet were in front
of the fire, he stretched her gently upon it, and seated himself beside
her, waiting for her to recover her senses.

Thus passed half an hour without the little one stirring; fortunately,
her cloak was very thick, so that the rest of her clothes were not wet,
and he could thus hope for the best. But it was the first time Jeannet
had ever watched by the side of a fainting girl; and, not knowing by
experience what to do in such a case, the time seemed to him very long
before she revived. He himself was dripping wet, and, although he
scarcely gave it a thought, he shivered as one who might soon have the
chills-and-fever.

"It would be very queer if I also should have an inclination to faint;
what then would become of us?" thought Jean-Louis, who really began to
feel very uncomfortable.

As this idea entered his head, Jeannette moved her little feet before
the fire, and began to sigh, and then to yawn, which was the best sign
that there was no danger of dying, as there is always hope as long as
a sick person can yawn. A minute afterwards, she raised herself, and
looked around with astonished eyes that asked an explanation.

"Well," said the happy Jeannet, "how do you feel, my poor little
sister?"

"Is it you?" she asked, still trembling. "O Jeannet! how frightened I
was."

And as she spoke, she tried to throw her arms around his neck, like
a child who seeks refuge in his mother's breast. Jean-Louis drew
back--something which was entirely different from his usual manner of
receiving her caresses.

"Are you angry?" said she. "I have done nothing wrong, except to
venture out to-night to return home; but the weather was not bad when I
started, and I did not dream of such a storm."

"I angry? Why should I be?" cried Jean-Louis, kissing both her hands.
"No, no, my pet; on the contrary, I am most happy to see you a little
restored. But I am thoroughly drenched with the rain; that is the
reason I don't wish you to touch me."

"That is true," said she; "I did not notice it before. What were you
doing before this good fire, instead of drying yourself?"

"I was looking at you," replied Jeannet innocently.

"Big goose!" cried the little thing laughing heartily with her usual
good humor. "Hadn't you any more sense than that? And now you are just
ready to catch the ague."

"Don't be uneasy, Jeannette; it is not the first time I have had a
check of perspiration. What I hope is that you will not suffer by this
adventure, any more than I. But tell me, why did you run away from the
_fête_ at the very moment the dancing was about to commence?"

"I cannot say why," replied Jeannette. "Sometimes we have ideas we
must follow, whether or no. It is as though some one stronger than we
were pushing us by the shoulders the way he wished us to go. To speak
frankly, I saw you leave hastily, and I instantly became more serious,
and felt less desire to be amused. I said to myself, Doubtless Jeannet,
who is better than I, knows that father and mother are alone waiting
for him at Muiceron, and he cannot bear the thought of their sitting
up for him until late at night. And I, what am I doing? Am I not also
a child of the house? Jeannet will relate all that happened at the
dinner, and they will ask, 'And Jeannette?' 'Oh! yes, Jeannette;
does Jeannette think of anything else but amusing herself and talking
nonsense far away from her parents?' At these thoughts my heart
throbbed so I nearly burst into tears; just then mademoiselle was busy
replying to the compliments every one was offering her; so I left the
barn, and went after my cloak, and, without further reflection, started
for Muiceron. You know how afraid I am of thunder and lightning; when
I saw the storm coming up, I became bewildered, and don't know which
way I went, but I suppose it was the wrong one. When I regained what
I thought was the right path, the storm was still raging, and I would
have died of fright, but for you, my old fellow."

"Thank God you escaped this time!" said Jean-Louis, very much touched
by the simple recital, which showed the good heart of the little girl;
"but, nevertheless, you ran a great risk. Now, Jeannette, let us hurry
home; we must quit this place, as it must be late."

"I suppose it is," said she. "Haven't you your watch to see what time
it is?"

"I left it hanging up in my room," replied Jeannet. "I did not wish to
wear it when at dinner in the château, for fear it might look as though
I wished to display it before those who had none; and it is well I did
not take it, as it would have been ruined by the rain."

"How can I walk barefooted?" asked Jeannette. "I can't put on my wet
stockings."

"And your shoes still less," replied her brother, laughing. "But if you
will let me, Jeannette, I can carry you."

"Poor Jeannet! Not at all; it would be too much for you," said she.
"Go to Muiceron, and bring me my wooden shoes. It is all quiet now
outside; I don't hear any noise, and I will not be afraid to remain
here alone for a little while."

It was really the best and shortest way of getting over the difficulty.
Jean-Louis opened the door of the cabin, and saw that the sky was clear
and bright; not this time with the lightning's glare, but with the soft
rays of the moon and beautiful stars of the good God. All was quiet and
peaceful, except that great drops fell from the trees, still wet with
the heavy rain, and that the ruts in the road were filled with water,
that made them look like little rivulets.

"Watch the fire, Jeannette, and be patient ten minutes," said he; "and
in two strides I will be there and back again."

It took a little longer time than that to return, as on entering the
farm he met Ragaud, who was looking to see if the storm had injured the
palings around the barn-yard, and was therefore obliged to stop and in
a few words relate the night's adventure.

The good man, while grumbling and scolding at the imprudence of his
daughter, who, he said, had no more sense than a child six years old,
felt fearfully anxious, as was easily shown by the rapid questions he
asked Jean-Louis. To assure himself that nothing was kept behind, and
that the boy, from kindness of heart, had not disguised the truth, he
hastily took down his big woollen scarf from the hook, and hurried off.

"I will lecture the giddy child well," said he. "Go before, Jeannet; I
will follow you. It is not far, so hurry."

"Mother will be anxious," said Jeannet. "Let me go alone; I will be
back the sooner."

"Your mother has been asleep a long time," replied Ragaud, "or else
she would have been on our heels before this, and we would have had to
carry her back also. Fasten the bolt, without any noise, and let us be
off."

With that they started. Ragaud was quick and light for his age, and
they proceeded at a rapid rate, which soon brought them to their
journey's end. Jean-Louis carried a bright lantern and a bundle of
woollen stockings and wooden shoes he had taken at random out of the
chest; for it was all-important that Jeannette's feet should be well
warmed, and that she should be in her comfortable bed as soon as
possible, so as to prevent fresh chills.

It was nearly midnight when they reached the hut, which enables us to
see what a long time had elapsed since Jean-Louis' flight from the
château, what a good sound sleep he had had in the wood, and proves
that the storm and Jeannette's swoon were not slight affairs.

As soon as they entered--Jeannet the first, Ragaud behind him--they
saw that the lantern was a wise precaution. The heap of brush-wood was
burnt up, and there was no light, except from a little pile of red
ashes, as even the resin candle glued to the wall was flickering and
falling in big drops, which announced its speedy death.

"Here we are, my Jeanne," cried Jean-Louis from the threshold of the
door. "Father is with me, and we have brought fresh lights."

No answer. The child was so weak and faint, it looked as though she had
swooned again. Ragaud, at this sight, forgot the scolding he intended
giving his daughter by way of welcome, and, leaning over her, placed
his hand on her forehead, which was icy cold.

"She is very ill, I tell you," murmured the good man. "Bring the
lantern here, Jeannet. God have mercy on me, how pale the poor child
is!... Jeanne, Jeanne, don't you know us?"

"Ah! yes, my father," she whispered, looking languidly at him. "I hear
you, but I am so sleepy ... so sleepy ... I can't talk."

"But you must wake up, and leave this place," said Ragaud. "Try and
rouse yourself, my child; in five minutes we will be at the house."

She made the effort, and tried to stand on her feet; but for Jeannet,
who was near and caught her, she would have fallen down.

"I am so tired!" she said again, closing her eyes.

"Shall we carry you on _a chair to see the king_?" asked Jean-Louis.
"Perhaps that will be the best way."

"Yes, yes," said she, smiling at this remembrance of her childhood;
"that will be fun."

Undoubtedly you know what is _a chair to see the king_? It is a child's
play, which generally is done by three persons--two boys and a girl;
the boys clasp hands in such a manner that a good seat is made for the
girl, who thus, without any fatigue to the bearers, can be carried as
easily as in a carriage.

Ragaud highly approved of the idea. Jeannet, who thought of everything,
tied the lantern to a piece of cord, and suspended it to Jeannette's
neck, who recovered enough strength to laugh; and thus, well lighted
and very happy, they started on their return to the farm, which they
soon reached safe and sound.

They entered Muiceron by the kitchen door, so softly that Pierrette,
who was sleeping in the big front room, did not hear the slightest
noise. Jeannette appeared perfectly restored; she was gay, although
still pale and shivering; but she assured them the warmth of the bed
would soon make her feel better. So they embraced, and, after many
good-nights, retired to their rooms.

The next morning Ragaud told Pierrette all the events of the preceding
night, but forbade her entering Jeannette's room, for fear she might be
awakened too soon after her great fatigue; but at the same time, unable
to restrain his own curiosity, he took off his wooden shoes, softly
lifted the latch, walked on tiptoe to the bed, and peeped between the
curtains, just to see, for a second, how the child was resting.

Alas! poor Jeannette was sitting up in bed, her face on fire, her eyes
wandering in delirium, her whole body burning with fever. She knew no
one. Her excitement was so great she beat the air with her bare arms,
while her throat was so choked up the voice was nearly stifled. Ragaud
thought she was dying; he uttered a loud cry, which brought Pierrette
to the bedside, where the poor mother fell down, half fainting with
grief and fright.

In an instant the whole farm was in a tumult. Big Marion set up
a blubbering, crying that the child was dying; the cow-herds and
stable-boys burst into the room, and, seeing every one in tears, began
to whine in their turn without exactly knowing why. Jean-Louis alone,
when he saw his sister's dreadful condition, did not shed a tear or
make a sound, but, darting out of the room like an arrow, leaped on a
horse's bare back, and galloped off for the doctor, who lived half a
league beyond Val-Saint, towards the large town of Preuilly.

By good fortune, he found him at home, as it was quite early; and,
while explaining the pressing case that brought him, spied the
doctor's wagon under the shed, and quickly harnessed to it the horse
which he had ridden, so that, in less time than it takes to say it,
doctor, wagon, horse, and Jean-Louis were on the way to Muiceron, and
reached there before any one else had thought that, before such great
lamentation, no matter what was the trouble, it would have been better
to have run promptly for assistance.

And here you will excuse me if I add, by way of advice, that presence
of mind, which is not counted among the virtues, is one nevertheless,
and not at all to be disdained in the life of this world; and,
therefore, I beg of you always to keep a good share in reserve, for
I do not doubt you may soon find use for it, if not to-day, perhaps
to-morrow, and you will always do well to remember what I say.


XIII.

The doctor, on seeing the room of the patient filled with people
lamenting from useless tenderness of heart, instead of doing something
for her relief, began by being very angry. He was a good man,
rather rough and coarse in manner, but skilful in his profession,
and understood perfectly how to manage peasants, for he had always
practised in the country, and was himself of the upper class of
villagers.

"What is such a lot of noisy, lazy bawlers doing around a sick girl,
who needs air and quiet?" he cried. "Get out of here, the whole of
you, and don't one dare come within ten yards. You, Ragaud, can stay
if you choose, but keep as quiet as you are now, and don't look as if
you were more dead than alive, with your miserable face a foot long;
you, Mme. Ragaud, stop hugging your daughter. Let her go; don't you see
you are smothering her? And above all, don't be dropping your tears
on her face; she don't know you. Jean-Louis, don't stir from here;
you are reasonable and courageous, and will be useful to me. And now
open the window, and let out this smell of the stables brought by
those abominable cow-herds, who ought to have been driven out with a
pitchfork. Good. Now tell me what has happened to this child."

All being thus quieted, and the room purified by the fresh morning
air, which came freely in through the open window, a slight change for
the better was soon seen in Jeannette. She let them lay her head on
the pillow, and, although she was still insensible, her pretty face,
crimson and swollen with the fever, looked less excited. The doctor
counted her pulse while he listened to the night's adventure, which was
correctly related by Jean-Louis, as neither the father nor mother could
have put two ideas together at that particular moment.

"Just as I thought," said the doctor; "a violent fever brought on by
exposure to the cold, and wet feet. All the danger is in the head, and
I do not deny that it is very great. The child has a cerebral fever;
do you understand? Cerebral means _of the brain_. Now the brain is the
inside of the head; so the sickness is there, under this beautiful
blonde hair, which you must instantly cut off. I hope, Mme. Ragaud, you
will not hesitate to sacrifice your daughter's hair to save her life?"

"O my God!" cried poor Pierrette, sobbing. "Do what you please, my dear
doctor; if it would be of any use to cut off one of my arms, I would
willingly allow it."

"Yes, my good woman, but that would not help you much, and her not at
all; so keep your arms, we will need them for something else. Come, we
must relieve her. Jump in the wagon, Jeannet, and go to the château,
and tell them to send me some ice, mustard, and other things that I
will write on this slip of paper; and remember to tell mademoiselle not
to be uneasy, and not to put her foot in this house short of a week.
While waiting for the return of Jean-Louis, Mme. Ragaud, draw a bucket
of water from the well, and bring it to me immediately."

Poor Pierrette obeyed without saying a word, which was very beautiful
in her; for hearing it announced that her daughter was ill from cold,
the words ice and well-water confused her terribly. She had already
been horrified when commanded to open the window. Indeed, Dr. Aubry was
no fool, as had been well proved for twenty years; and the best way was
to think that he knew what he was about, no matter how unreasonable his
words might sound.

Jean-Louis performed his errand with his usual promptitude; he brought
back what was needed for the first applications. During his absence,
the doctor had constantly applied bandages, soaked in very cold water,
to Jeannette's head; but that was not effective enough, and, as soon
as the ice was brought from the château, he prepared to use it. It
was the moment to accomplish the sacrifice of Jeannette's beautiful
hair, which was still dressed as for the previous night's dance. To
tell the truth, the thick, heavy braids were enough to weigh down the
poor sick head. Pierrette showed great courage; she only cared for the
relief of her child. As for the doctor, he thought no more of cutting
off this splendid hair than of pulling up a bunch of nettle out of the
flower-beds in his garden.

Ragaud sat as though nailed to his chair, and seemed neither to hear
nor see anything passing around him. You would have pitied the poor
old man. But our Jeannet, so brave until then, could not look on
indifferently at the murderous play of the scissors around that dear
head, which would so soon be shorn of its crowning beauty. As the
doctor cut off a tress and threw it on the floor, as if it were a
noxious weed, he picked it up and smoothed it with his hand, as though
to repay by caresses the condemnation it had received. Thus he soon had
all the fair hair in his hands; and then, as he thought that soon--too
soon, perhaps--it might be the only living vestige of Jeannette, his
courage vanished; he sank on a chair near the window, hid his face in
the mass of hair, that was still warm, and sobbed as though his heart
would break....

This touched Dr. Aubry, who was kind-hearted under his rough exterior.
He never talked sentiment, being too much accustomed to tears and
lamentations around sick-beds; but he loved Jeannet, and thought him
more refined and superior in tone to the surrounding boys. So he
approached the poor child, and, tapping him on the shoulder, he said by
way of consolation: "Bah! you big ninny, that will improve her hair; in
one year it will be handsomer and thicker than ever, and you will have
enough of this to make a hundred yards of watch-chain."

"In one year!" cried Jean-Louis, who only heard this word of all the
fine consolation. "Then you don't think she will die?"

"What are you talking about? Die? A beautiful young girl of seventeen,
who has always been healthy and good, don't die from having got her
feet soaked on a stormy night. Be reasonable, follow my orders, keep
everything around quiet and fresh, don't fatigue her with words and
embraces when she recovers her senses, and, with the help of God, I
will answer for her."

"Oh!" said Jean-Louis, throwing his arms around the doctor's neck,
"may Heaven listen to you, M. Aubry!"

These cheering words brought old Ragaud back to life; big tears rolled
from his dry, fixed eyes, and relieved him greatly. Pierrette fell on
her knees by the bedside; for, before thanking the doctor, it was right
to raise her heart to God, who saw further still than he.

M. Aubry again repeated his orders, which he always did--oftener six
times than once with his village patients; for it must be acknowledged
we are very stupid about nursing, and, outside of the common remedies,
which are purgatives, emetics, and quinine to break the fever, all
the rest of the medical gibberish appears to us very strange, and
often rather contrary to good sense. That is the reason those who are
cured burn a candle to S. Sylvain. But for his kind protection, there
would be as many deaths as sick people; and if you find fault with
that expression, I will tell you that I am very sorry for it, but that
is the way we talk, and I cannot express myself differently or more
delicately than I was taught.

The doctor drove off in his wagon, to which the farm-horse was still
harnessed, and he had the privilege of keeping it several days, which
was a great convenience to him, as his own beast was out at pasture.
He took care to pass by Val-Saint, where he found mademoiselle very
anxious and sad about her god-daughter's accident. As soon as she heard
it was a serious illness, she rushed to the bell, crying that she must
have the carriage immediately to go to her darling; but M. Aubry, who
had his own way with every one, caught her by the arm.

"I beg your pardon," said he; "but you are not going there at all."

"Why not?" she asked. "I cannot stay here without seeing my Jeanne,
when I know she is suffering."

"You shall not go," repeated M. Aubry firmly. "It would be dangerous
for you; and I am your physician as well as hers."

"What nonsense!" said mademoiselle, who, gentle as she was, did not
like him to oppose her. "You will never make me believe a brain fever
is contagious."

"That is yet to be seen," replied M. Aubry, who could lie when
necessary as well as any dentist; "and, if you should get sick, I
declare that, daughter of a marquis as you are, I would not have
the time to take care of you. At this moment I have more sick
people--maimed, wounded, and down with fever--than I can manage, and I
don't want another case; without counting that your château is perched
up as high as the devil, and, to get up here, I would lose half a day."

"You horrid man!" said mademoiselle, who could not help smiling, for
she knew the doctor's way, and never took offence at what he said. "You
talk like a car-driver; but you are perfectly capable of doing as you
say, so I dare not risk it. But when can I go?"

"We will see about that; neither to-morrow nor next day, nor for
several days after. I will come and bring news of her."

"But how will you find time, with all your patients?" asked
mademoiselle, delighted to catch the doctor in a little falsehood.

"You give me the change for my money," said M. Aubry, laughing in
his turn. "I see you are as malicious as ever. Well, then, to speak
frankly, it is not the contagion that I fear, but your chattering and
gabbling, which never stop. If La Ragaudine recovers, it will depend
upon quiet and repose. Not even the buzzing of a fly must be heard
in her room for a week; therefore, it would be useless for you to go
there. But now you can act as you think proper."

"You should have told me this at first," said mademoiselle. "I will not
go; but promise me you will always tell the truth about her, and never
conceal any danger."

"My God! no," said the doctor quietly; "and, to commence, since you
do not wish me to disguise the truth, I will tell you that, if Jeanne
Ragaud does not recover her senses to-night, she will be dead to-morrow
at twelve o'clock."

"But you are a monster!" cried mademoiselle, the tears streaming from
her eyes. "How can you be so hard-hearted as to tell me such news
without any preparation?"

"There!" said the doctor, "you are off again. I thought you wished me
to tell you the whole truth."

"My poor Jeanne! Dead to-morrow!" sobbed mademoiselle.

"One moment--pay attention to what I say--if she does not recover her
senses to-night; but she will, for she was already a little better
before I left Muiceron."

"Oh! I wish you would go away!" cried mademoiselle. "I hate to hear you
talk; you will set me wild.... Come now, doctor, speak seriously: is
poor dear Jeannette really in danger?"

"I tell you yes, but I have great hope. And now I am going away; you
are not angry with me, dear mademoiselle?"

"I will have to forgive you," said she, giving him her hand; "but know
well that I detest you from the bottom of my heart, and, when I am
sick, I will send for another doctor."

"Bah! I bet you won't," replied M. Aubry, perfectly unmoved; "you are
so amiable and gentle when the fever comes on!"

Mademoiselle laughed through her tears; she knew from experience it
was not easy to have the last word with M. Aubry, and she let him go
without further discussion.

The good God showed that he loved Muiceron. For three days Jeannette
was very ill, after which her youth and good constitution overcame the
disease. M. Aubry declared he would answer with his head for hers,
and soon the dear child recovered strength and color. But this was
the moment to be careful; for convalescence is very uncertain and
dangerous, they say, in such a case, and the least imprudence will
suffice to cause a relapse. Therefore the doctor for ever repeated:

"Attend to what I say; because she is better, that is no reason to
think she is cured. Don't let her stir any more than you would let
loose a chicken among the fir-trees; these affections of the brain are
terrible if there is a relapse."

That word, _affections_, was another that Pierrette could not manage to
understand; each time he said it she was terribly perplexed, and looked
intently at the doctor, to see if he could not use a more appropriate
one in its place.

"For," thought she, "I see nothing affectionate in such a wicked fever
that nearly brought my daughter to the threshold of the grave. Whoever
does or speaks ill is always called a great enemy; and I don't think an
enemy can ever be affectionate, or friendly, or anything else of the
sort."

And you will acknowledge the argument was not bad for a good
countrywoman, who knew nothing except to read her Mass-prayers by force
of habit.

It is not necessary to inform you that all the people around were very
much interested in Jeannette's illness; and if there is a consolation
that softens the bitterness of grief, it is surely that which is given
by friends who offer to share trouble. Many of the neighbors were
anxious to relieve Pierrette by taking her place at night; but you
understand that a mother is always mother, and, unless she had fallen
dead at her daughter's bedside, she would yield her post to no one.
Happily, the great danger which demanded such extreme care did not
last long; and as at the end of a week the fever left Jeannette, and
she then slept tranquilly the greater part of the night, Pierrette
consented to lie down, without undressing, on a little bed temporarily
placed in the sick-room by Jean-Louis, and thus was enabled to obtain
some rest.

But many weeks elapsed before Jeannette was strong enough to resume her
accustomed life; and as she daily felt herself improving, the great
difficulty was to keep her quiet in bed, and furnish her amusement, so
that she would not get up too soon, at the risk of falling ill again;
and here, again, Jean-Louis, with his devotion and thoughtfulness,
provided a remedy.

Not far off lived a beautiful young girl, a year or two older than
Jeannette, and the friend of her childhood, named Solange Luguet, the
sister of Pierre; she was tall, rather thin and pale, like Jean-Louis,
whom she somewhat resembled in features and character. This will not
astonish you, as I have already told you they were first-cousins
without knowing it; and, whether legitimate or illegitimate, near
relatives generally have a certain family resemblance.

Solange led a retired life, some said from piety, others from
shyness. She was a skilful seamstress, and embroidered beautifully;
consequently, she never wanted work, and passed her time by her little
window, sewing from morning till night. Jean-Louis was very fond of
her. He often wished Jeannette's tastes and habits were as quiet,
and he sometimes held up Solange to her as a model. But Jeannette's
character was entirely different, and what seemed to Solange the
perfection of happiness would have been miserably tiresome for her;
nevertheless, the two girls were great friends, and were always happy
to meet.

It was, therefore, Solange Luguet whom Jeannet thought of as a means
of distracting Jeannette during her convalescence. He went to her,
and begged that she would come and pass several hours every day with
Jeannette. Solange willingly consented, as she could take her work
with her, and whether she embroidered at home or at Muiceron was all
the same to her; and, besides, she could be useful to her friends,
especially Jean-Louis, for whom it was easy to see she felt a great
preference.

Now, Solange, in spite of her reputation for piety and shyness, was
very lively and bright. The first day she came to the farm Jeannette
was quite subdued; without saying it, she was afraid her companion
would be very serious and frown at the least joke. But it was just
the contrary; Solange amused her so much with her stories, and
gossip--which was never ill-natured--and songs, that Jeannette never
let her go until she promised to return next day. This pleasant
arrangement suited everybody. Ragaud and Jean-Louis gradually resumed
their outdoor work, and Pierrette was less tied down. We all know
that weariness of mind is the worst of ills, as it renders one sad,
and sadness makes both body and soul sick: so this little spoiled
Jeannette, who laughed and chatted from morning till night, recovered
four times as rapidly, thanks to Solange's agreeable company, and was
soon able to sit up an hour or two about noon.

Who had caused all this happiness? Even he who never gave it a second
thought, and to whom it was so perfectly natural to serve others that
it seemed a part of his everyday life; for the excellent Jeannet spoke
so seldom of himself, neither Jeanne nor the Ragauds ever dreamt of
thanking him for having brought Solange, seeing that they knew nothing,
and simply thought the Luguet girl came of her own free will, which
certainly she never would have done, if even the idea had ever entered
her head.

As soon as mademoiselle received permission, she hastened to
Jeannette's side. Every other day her beautiful carriage was seen
coming down the road, and, a minute after, she alighted, accompanied by
Dame Berthe, who always brought a little basket filled with dainties
and delicacies fitted to tempt an invalid's stomach.

Poor mademoiselle found the days very long since Jeanne had left, and
was very impatient for her complete recovery, that she might carry her
back to the château. She did not hesitate to express her desire at each
visit before the Ragauds, never remarking that neither ever replied
to her proposition. The reason was that Ragaud had received such a
severe shock by the narrow escape of his daughter, he had promised and
sworn never again to expose the child to such a fearful risk, which
had so nearly proved fatal. He saw in this terrible sickness a warning
from the good God; and, as he felt it in the bottom of his heart, he
acknowledged in the end that if Jeanne had not led a life above her
position, nothing like it would have happened.

Between ourselves, mademoiselle, who was much better informed than
Ragaud, should have even more clearly understood it. Still further,
as M. le Curé, who you can well imagine came constantly to Muiceron
since the accident, had been confidentially told by Ragaud of his
good resolutions, which he highly approved, and cautiously approached
the subject whenever an opportunity offered of conversing with
mademoiselle. But "none are so deaf as those who will not hear," said
this good pastor; "and even without a scene mischief will come of
taking Jeannette from the château. Her acquaintance there is too long
formed."

It did not happen precisely so. Jeanne, without scenes or difficulty
with any one, had been forced to seek refuge under the paternal roof,
and should have remained there until the present time from her own
free will and accord; but when one has strayed ever so little from the
right path, it is not easy to return to it, even when it has not gone
as far as mortal sin; and you will see this time again that I have
strong proofs to support what I have advanced, as Jeanne Ragaud had to
undergo severe and bitter trials before she could entirely give up the
half-noble position she had involuntarily filled, and resume fully the
simple peasant life.


XIV.

One day, when mademoiselle was making her accustomed visit, after she
had talked and laughed, and played dinner-party with the fruits and
delicacies she had brought to Jeannette, she suddenly exclaimed:

"You are looking admirably, my child--as pretty as a picture; your
color is more brilliant than even before you were sick, and your short
hair, which made me feel so sad the first time I saw it, is more
becoming than the way in which you formerly wore it; but you are very
badly dressed. What have you done with all the dresses I gave you?"

"They are still at the château, godmother," replied Jeannet. "I have
not needed them for a long time. If you will send me some of them, I
will try and look better at your next visit."

"You are very much thinner, poor little thing, so that none of them
will fit you; besides, it will be a long while yet before you can go
out. What you want is a dressing-gown, and I will have one made for
you, if you will promise me to wear it."

"When you come, I will," answered Jeannette, who knew well such a dress
did not suit her position, and that her parents would not like it.

"No, I wish you to wear what I will send, and not only when I am here,
but every day; do you understand, child? I wish it."

"O godmother!" said Jeannette, "I beg you will not insist upon it;
such a dress is very well at the château, but here I cannot dress
differently from my mother."

"I do not wish to transform you into a princess," replied mademoiselle;
"but neither do I like to see you dressed, as you are, in serge. I have
my own reasons for it."

Jeannette bowed her head, although at heart she was very much
dissatisfied. Pretty Solange, who was silently working away in her
corner by the window, gave her an encouraging glance, to keep her firm
in her good resolution; but for ten years Jeannette had given in to all
her godmother's whims and caprices, and dared not answer.

Two days afterwards, a large bandbox, directed to Jeannette, was
brought to Muiceron. She was still in bed, and was quite curious until
it was opened; and there was the promised dress, made of beautiful blue
cashmere, so fine and soft it looked like silk. As to how it was made,
I really cannot describe it; but it is enough to know that mademoiselle
herself could have worn it without impropriety, so that it can easily
be understood it was not suitable for Jeanne Ragaud.

"Isn't it beautiful?" exclaimed Jeannette, admiring the dress, fit
for a marchioness. "But I will never wear it; do you think I should,
Solange?"

"No, indeed," said Solange. "Don't do it for the world, Jeannette; it
would be very wrong for you to wear it, and the neighbors would laugh
at you."

"Help me to get up," replied Jeanne. "It will be no harm to try it on
once; it will amuse us. Can I?"

"Yes, to be sure," said good Solange; "I should like to see you for
once dressed as you were at the château."

Jeannette jumped quickly out of bed, and Solange, to amuse her, brushed
her short hair in such a way that she looked like a little angel; then
she put on some fine white petticoats, and, last of all, the beautiful
robe, which fitted her splendidly. Thus dressed, Jeannette was one of
the prettiest young ladies you can imagine; and I rather think she
looked at herself in the mirror with great satisfaction.

She sat down in the big arm-chair her godmother had sent her from the
château as soon as she was convalescent, and it was easy to see she was
not ill at ease in her beautiful present, but that, on the contrary,
was infinitely satisfied, and not at all anxious to take it off.

However, she feared the arrival of her parents, and did not wish them
to see her in such a costume. Solange, from the same thought, had not
resumed her work, and remained standing before her, ready to undress
her. You see the will was good, but the devil was upon the watch. At
the very moment that Jeannette, with a little sigh of regret, was about
to put off her gay trappings and don her peasant dress, the big white
horses of mademoiselle were heard pawing the ground in the yard.

"It is my godmother!" said Jeannette, blushing. "Well, I am not sorry;
she will see that I do honor to her present."

Mademoiselle entered immediately after, and, seeing Jeannette so pretty
and so stylish in her beautiful dress, kissed her heartily, and loaded
her with praises.

"You are perfectly lovely," said she; "and for the penalty, I have
prepared a great surprise. There is a handsome gentleman, who has come
with me, and wishes very much to see you."

"Will you please tell me who it is?" asked Jeannette.

"No; I wish to see if you will recognize him. Come in, Isidore," cried
mademoiselle to some one who was waiting outside the door.

The said Isidore immediately appeared--a tall young man, well made,
and dressed in the latest Parisian style. His hair was elaborately
curled, and his cravat, gloves, and shoes were so elegant he looked as
though he had just been taken out of a bandbox. He made a low bow to
Jeannette, and paid her a compliment such as we read in books.

Jeannette, much amazed, rose without speaking, and, as her astonished
look showed she did not recognize him in the least, mademoiselle
laughingly relieved her embarrassment.

"What!" said she, "you don't remember Isidore Perdreau, the son
of Master Perdreau, my father's notary, and the playmate of your
childhood?"

"You must excuse me," said Jeanne, "but he is so much changed."

"In size, perhaps," said M. Isidore, "but not in beauty, as you most
certainly are."

"He has returned from Paris, and will in future live at Val-Saint. It
is very good in him," said mademoiselle, "for his life will be very
different; but his father wishes to associate him with himself in
business."

"To all true hearts one's native place is dear," replied M. Isidore,
placing his hand on his waistcoat.

"Don't you remember the young girl by Jeannette?" asked mademoiselle.

"Not precisely," he replied.

"I am the sister of Pierre Luguet, with whom you used to go hunting for
blackbirds."

"Pierre Luguet? Ah! yes, little Pierre; and where is he now?"

"Always in the same place," replied Solange, without stirring.

M. Isidore did not condescend to continue the conversation with one so
little disposed to talk, and, turning towards Jeanne, lavished upon
her some more foolish compliments, which, without being exactly to the
taste of the child, were not displeasing to her vanity.

It was evident that mademoiselle encouraged Isidore, and thought
him very charming. It was not because she was wanting in sense or
penetration, but the custom of living alone in her big château, where
she rarely saw any one but country people, and the new distraction of
carrying out a plot that she had concocted, and which you will soon
guess, made her see things dimly; and whilst Solange, simple girl as
she was, saw at the first glance that young Perdreau had become an
insolent, ridiculous <DW2>, this high-born young lady, who had read so
many books, was ready to faint at the least word of that simpleton--for
simpleton was the name he well deserved until after-circumstances
proved that he was worthy of a still more odious title.

Dame Berthe behaved just like her mistress; but, as the good creature
had scarcely any common sense, that can very easily be understood.
Isidore, since his return three days before, had never ceased to
flatter her and relate long stories about Paris, principally his own
inventions, but to which, nevertheless, the old governess, with eyes,
ears, and mouth wide open, listened with devoted attention. So, when
Solange showed such coldness to her old school-fellow, mademoiselle
looked at her with anything but a gentle expression, and Dame Berthe
instantly shrugged her shoulders and made big eyes at her.

But Solange remained perfectly indifferent; in the first place, because
her back was turned to the ladies, and, secondly, because she worked
away as though she expected to be paid a franc an hour.

Meanwhile, Pierrette and Ragaud came back from the pool Saint-Jean,
where they had commenced to soak the hemp, and Jean-Louis soon
followed. When they saw such fine company in the room, they all three
stopped, rather ashamed of their working-clothes, which was doubtless
the reason they did not observe that Jeannet, in her elegant costume,
was a great contrast to them.

Ragaud, as you already know, was rather given to vain-glory, and his
vanity was easily tickled. It was the only defect of this good man,
but it must be acknowledged this defect clung to his heart as a tree
is tied by its root to the ground; so that in Isidore Perdreau he only
saw the favorable side--to wit, a young man, brought up in the capital,
very rich and handsome, who could be received in the best houses, and
who did not disdain to hasten to greet old friends so far beneath
him. Pierrette, without further reasoning, was very sensible of what
she likewise considered a great honor. So the excellent couple, whose
honest souls were rather stupefied for the moment, quite overwhelmed
Perdreau with the warmth of their reception, and pressed him so
earnestly to repeat his visit you would really have thought they were
welcoming the return of their own son.

Mademoiselle was in a gale of delight, and, when she re-entered the
carriage with her attendants, the lackeys' faces were in a broad grin
at seeing her so gay, and even the horses made two or three little
jumps on starting, as though they, too, participated in the good-humor
of their mistress.

"Well, what did I tell you?" asked mademoiselle of Isidore, who was
seated opposite to her. "Is she pretty enough, well-bred enough? And,
in spite of all your Parisian acquaintances, do you think she is a
woman to be scorned?"

"O mademoiselle!" cried Perdreau, "she is adorable, delightful! But you
brought her up; isn't that enough?"

"She will make a lovely bride," said mademoiselle; "and it will be the
happiest day of my life when I shall see you both leave the church
arm-in-arm."

"How becoming the wreath of orange-blossoms will be to her!" cried Dame
Berthe.

"But will she have me?" asked Isidore in a hypocritical tone.

"Bah! be assured she will be most happy, and her parents immensely
honored," replied mademoiselle; "besides, I have only to say a word, as
you know."

"You are an angel!" said M. Perdreau, as he kissed mademoiselle's hand;
"and if I had not seen you again before Jeanne Ragaud, my happiness
would make me crazy. I can only say that you are the most beautiful and
graceful woman in the world, and she is the second."

Poor mademoiselle, who was humpbacked and anything but handsome, and,
besides, nearly thirty, smiled nevertheless at this insolent speech,
so out of place from the mouth of her notary's son; so true is it that
compliments are swallowed as easily as ripe strawberries, no matter how
false they may be, if the mind is not properly balanced, and cannot
rise above the frivolity and nonsense heard on all sides in this world.

While the carriage rolled away to the château, each one at the farm
had something to say, and Perdreau was there, also, the subject of
conversation.

"He is a very pleasant fellow," said good Ragaud, "not at all proud,
and much better-looking than when he left home. He must have studied
very hard in Paris, and his dear, good father will have a worthy
successor."

"When I think," replied Pierrette, "how readily he accepted your
invitation to supper, never raising the slightest difficulty, that
proves he has a good heart."

"We won't know what to say to him," remarked Jeannette, "he is so much
more learned than we."

"Yes, but very simple with it all," said Pierrette. "I will not be the
least embarrassed. I am sure he will like to talk over all his boyish
tricks and adventures--how he stole apples from Cotentin's garden,
and how he would keep M. le Curé waiting when it was his turn to be
altar-boy."

"He was always full of fun," replied Ragaud, "and is so still; but that
is no defect."

"Oh! certainly not," cried Jeannette.

"For what evening have you invited him?" asked Jean-Louis, who had not
yet expressed an opinion.

"Next Sunday," said Ragaud; "that will not take us from our work, and
we can bring him back with us in the wagon after Vespers."

"What a beautiful dress you have on!" said Jeannet, looking at his
sister.

"Mademoiselle gave it to me," she replied, looking down. "I put it on
to receive her; but I will not wear it again."

"Until Sunday?" asked Jean-Louis.

"Certainly," said Pierrette, "Jeannette must be prettily dressed in
honor of Isidore."

Jean-Louis said nothing; he walked to the window where Solange was
sitting, and leaned on the back of her chair, apparently absorbed in
watching her embroider.

"Jeannet," said Solange, without raising her eyes, "what do you think
of all this?"

"It makes me sad," he replied.

"You have reason to feel so," said she. "That smooth-tongued Isidore
has turned all their heads. Mademoiselle is even more carried away
than the others; and, from the way things are going on, there will be
trouble before long."

Jean-Louis sighed. As they had spoken in a low tone, and the Ragauds
were conversing with Jeannette, their little conversation had not been
remarked.

"Will you go home with us after Mass next Sunday?" continued Solange.
"Pierre will be glad to see you, and Michou has promised to dine with
us at noon, and taste our boiled corn."

"Thank you," said Jeannet, "I will go with pleasure."

This was on Tuesday; the four following days Isidore Perdreau came
constantly to Muiceron, sometimes with mademoiselle, sometimes alone,
and was most cordially received by the Ragauds, and Jeannette also, I
regret to say.

If you are of my opinion, you will allow that nothing is pleasanter
than to listen to a story when there is only question of good people
and happy events. It makes our hearts glad, and we forget for a little
while that life is like the clouds in the sky, streaked with white,
gray, and black, and that often the dark clouds overshadow the light;
but as truth must be loved above all, I am very sorry to tell you
that for the present I have nothing good to relate. You must pardon
me, then, if I am obliged to sadden you by the recital of sinful and
criminal acts, and believe me that, if it is painful for you to have to
listen to them, it is not less so for me to recount them to you.

When mademoiselle once became possessed with the charming idea of
marrying her god-daughter to Isidore, never was the caprice of a woman
without occupation more obstinately pursued and more firmly fastened in
the very bottom of her brain. Very true, she only sought the happiness
of her beloved Jeannette, and thought she had thereby secured it. She
incessantly repeated to Dame Berthe that it would be the greatest
misfortune if Jeannette should marry a peasant, that after all the care
she had lavished upon her for ten years she could not bear to see her
milking the cows, and hardening her hands by washing and working in
the fields. On the other side, she would not risk the happiness of her
pet by marrying her to a man she did not know; consequently, she should
marry some one in the neighborhood; and Isidore was the only person
around who united all the requisites desired by mademoiselle, as the
other young men were only of the laboring class. She communicated her
idea to M. le Marquis, who, without making any objections, thought the
project might be attempted. He himself went to see M. Perdreau, the
father, and announced to him his wishes upon the subject, and Isidore
was immediately recalled from Paris.

Old Perdreau, the notary, passed for one of the most honest men in his
profession. For thirty years M. le Marquis had closed his eyes and left
him the entire control of his affairs, which, truth to say, were not
very complicated, as the principal wealth of the château consisted of
fertile land, woods, meadows, and vineyards, the revenues of which he
received and controlled.

More than that--and this was the worst--our master made him the special
confidant of his most secret expeditions. Thus, when he left home
on one of his mysterious journeys, where he expected to encounter
great dangers, Perdreau alone knew exactly the hiding-places of M. le
Marquis, the plots that were there concocted--in a word, the great
conspiracies that monsieur and his friends thought legitimate in their
souls and consciences, although they could scarcely be called such in
my opinion.

This was very astonishing, it must be acknowledged, as it bound M. le
Marquis hand and foot to his notary. But what could you expect? My
late beloved father, who had been an enthusiastic _Chouan_, contrary to
most of the people of his province, who did not care a fig for all that
fuss, said that perfectly honest souls can never think ill of any one,
and that is the reason they are often duped and vilified without their
even dreaming of it.

For it is time to let you know that Master Perdreau, the notary of
Val-Saint, was, and had been always, the most cunning rascal, not
only of our neighborhood, but of the whole country for twenty leagues
around, including all the towns, little and big. His only idea was
to make money, and for that he would have sold his master, his
conscience--in case he had one--his best friends, his soul, and even
the sacred vessels of the tabernacle. In the way of hypocrisy, deep
wickedness, theft, stinginess, and falsehood he had nothing to fear
from any rival, saving, perhaps, his only son, Isidore, who was rapidly
learning to play the knave, and promised, with the help of the devil,
to become very soon the true pendant of monsieur, his father.

In order to perfect this shameful education, Isidore had finished his
studies in Paris, and Master Perdreau, I need not say, had chosen a
college for him where he would neither learn virtue nor the fear of God.

For the consolation of good people, evil-doers seldom profit by their
crimes. Thus, at this period of our story, Master Perdreau was on the
eve of reaping the fruits of thirty years of criminal conduct, and it
was precisely the opposite of what he had sought all his life that was
about to happen to him.

Holding in his hand the secrets of M. le Marquis, he had used them to
obtain large sums from the poor deluded man, under the pretence of
advancing his interests; and with this money, added to other thefts,
he had first supplied his son with means for continuing his dissipation
in Paris, and then speculated so often and so well in a place not very
Christian--called, I believe, the Exchange--that he had nothing left
he could call his own but his little country office and debts enough
to drive him crazy. Judge, then, if he thought himself favored by
fortune when M. le Marquis came and proposed Jeanne Ragaud to him for
daughter-in-law. Never did a drowning man grasp more eagerly at the
plank held out to keep him from death. The girl's fortune was well
known. Muiceron and the adjoining property was worth at least one
hundred thousand francs; and to rightly estimate the money good Ragaud
laid by every year, one would have to count on his fingers a tolerably
long while. Further, Jeannette was an extremely pretty girl, brought
up as a young lady, and there was no doubt her godmother would leave
her--perhaps might give her at her marriage--a very handsome present.
All being thus arranged to the satisfaction of this scoundrel of a
notary, he had only to rub his hands and chuckle at the idea of having
fooled everybody during his whole life.

I will not sadden you by relating what was the conversation on the
subject between father and son on the evening of Isidore's arrival in
the village, and the means which they proposed to accomplish their
ends, which was to wheedle old Ragaud into giving up all the property
to his daughter, only reserving for himself a modest annuity. As for
the shameful way in which these arrant swindlers held up to ridicule M.
le Marquis, whom they called "old fool," and mademoiselle, whom they
stigmatized as the "yellow dwarf," on account of her crooked figure, it
would make me sick to relate all they said. However, in saying that
Perdreau deceived everybody, I have rather exaggerated, for two men in
the village saw through his villany, and, thank God, they were two of
the most worthy--namely, Jacques Michou, and our dear, holy _curé_.
The first, who, as you know, had never been drawn into the promising
conspiracies of his good lord, had always suspected Perdreau for
catching so readily at the alluring bait. He had watched him closely,
and, to fully unravel his plans, pretended to become very intimate with
M. Riponin, the steward, who was scarcely any better than the notary,
but who owed Perdreau a grudge for his having duped him in some knavish
trick they undertook together. Since then, Michou, who knew how to play
one against the other, in order to serve his master, made one thief
steal from the other, and fully succeeded in his design. As for our
_curé_, he knew both the good and the bad, and looked out for a squall.
The great misfortune was that mademoiselle was so fully possessed with
her idea of the marriage she neglected to consult him and ask his
advice.

Alas! I am bound now to avow that poor little Jeannette, whose sin was
more of the head than the heart, allowed herself to be very quickly
caught in the net held out to her. Never did a giddy, inconstant little
fish make the leap as willingly as she. In a village marriages are soon
arranged. The parties are supposed to be well acquainted. At the first
proposition, when the interests agree, they have only to say yes; and
so it happened no later than the second Sunday after the arrival of
Isidore Perdreau.

Every one assisted to hurry up the affair with lightning speed. Jeanne
solemnly believed all the nonsense poured into her ear by Isidore,
thought herself adored by him, and regarded him as infinitely superior
to all other men in style, manner, and fine speeches. Ragaud and
Pierrette were puffed up with pride; monsieur and mademoiselle did
not conceal their satisfaction; and the people around, with the sole
exception of Michou, who was looked upon as a cross, peevish old
fellow, hastened to congratulate the fortunate couple.

Sickness was no longer thought of. Jeannette, happy and triumphant,
rapidly regained her strength. The poor silly child only thought of her
new dresses and of the promised visit to Paris after her marriage, the
delights of which Isidore dwelt upon in glowing terms, which would have
turned a stronger head than hers. Never, in fact, did a family rush
blindfolded and more willingly into a bottomless abyss.

However, there was one person at Muiceron whose presence tormented
M. Isidore, and whom he had hated from the first day. You can guess
it was Jean-Louis. Each time that he entered the house and saw that
tall figure, the face pale and serious, silently seated in a corner,
the only one who did not receive him with joy, his eyes flashed with
anger, and he would turn his back on him in the most contemptuous
manner--something which the Ragauds would certainly have resented in
any one else; but the poor people were so bewitched they were unjust
enough to be angry with Jean-Louis, and even to fancy that he was
jealous, whilst he was only very properly grieved at what had happened.

His life had become very different. No more friendly talks, no more
watching for him, no more tender caresses; not that they had ceased to
love him, but there was no time for these innocent family recreations,
and, besides, it would have embarrassed them to make a display of
affection before M. Isidore, who thought all such country performances
beneath him. Poor Jean-Louis, who for so many years had always entered
Muiceron with joyful heart at the thought of embracing his dear mother,
now came in with sad and troubled brow. Pierrette always appeared busy
and worried. She would rapidly say "good-evening" in reply to Jeannet's
gentle salutation whispered in her ear, and immediately go on with
her work; for there were always sauce-pans to overlook, or orders to
give to Marion, who was not the least bewildered of them all. As for
Jeannette, the cold manner in which Jean-Louis always treated her
intended, and, above all, the wicked insinuations Isidore made against
him, aroused her displeasure; and, if Pierrette was always absorbed
in her household cares, Jeannette pained him still more by her frigid
manner, bordering on sullenness.

Jean-Louis felt all this most keenly. He was not a person who liked to
complain or ask explanations; besides, what would he have gained by it?
He knew too well the reason of their conduct to be obliged to ask why.
In a moment he could have changed all by appearing as delighted as the
rest; but that was precisely what he would not do. In truth, when we
see those we love at the point of drowning, how can we applaud?

Still worse was it when the family circle of Muiceron was increased
by the presence of old Perdreau, who nearly every evening showed his
weasel-face at the table, and drank with great friendliness to the
health of the good people whose ruin he was mercilessly plotting.
Jean-Louis two or three times bore it patiently; then he felt he could
take himself off, and be missed by no one; so one fine evening he
mustered up courage, left the farm before supper, and went off to the
house of his friends, the Luguets.

As usual, he found the little house quiet, clean, and shining with
neatness. Pierre was reading aloud the life of a saint, while Solange,
always employed, was sewing by the lamp. Their old parents and Jacques
Michou, seated around the fire, listened in silence, and the dog lay
snoring on the warm hearth-stones. Jeannet on entering motioned with
his hand for them not to stir, and seated himself by Solange, who
nodded to him.

"My friends," said Jean-Louis when the reading was over, "I have come
to ask for my supper this evening, and perhaps I may again to-morrow."

"Whenever you please, my boy," said Luguet.

"Things don't please you at Muiceron, eh?" asked Michou.

"Ah!" replied Jeannet sadly, "perhaps I am unjust and wrong; but I
cannot bring myself to help in that marriage."

"What difference does it make to you?" said Pierre; "when people are
possessed, they will do as they please. You are too sensitive, Jean;
after all, you will not have to marry Perdreau."

"I am so sure," replied Jeannet, "that poor child will be unhappy."

"No one forces her!" said Pierre. "She wishes it, so do the Ragauds, so
do M. le Marquis and mademoiselle. All agree; well, then, let them run
the risk!"

"Be still, Pierre," said Solange; "you speak as though you had no
heart. Remember that Jeannette has been from her infancy like a sister
to Jean-Louis; would you like to see me marry Isidore?"

"Ah!" cried Pierre, "I would sooner cut his throat; but you are not
like Jeannette."

"Don't say anything against her," replied good Solange with warmth.
"She is the best girl in the world; and because her head is rather
light and giddy, that does not prevent her having an excellent heart.
I understand Jean-Louis' feelings, for, certainly, Isidore Perdreau's
reputation is not very good. But who knows? Perhaps, when he is married
and settles down, he may make Jeannette a good husband."

"Thank you, Solange," said Jeannet, taking her hand, "it is so kind
in you to defend her; it makes me feel happy. If I could only show a
little friendship for Isidore, I think I would be less miserable; but I
cannot conquer myself; I cannot change...."

"It is not worth while trying to do it, boy," said Michou; "when we see
misfortune coming, and cannot prevent it, the best we can do is to keep
at a distance, and not meddle."

"Then, M. Michou, you really think trouble will come of it?" asked
Jeannet.

"Yes, my son, such overwhelming trouble," answered the game-keeper,
"that until the day I see them standing before the mayor and the
_curé_, I shall hope the good God will work a miracle to prevent
it. The Ragauds at present are like men who have taken too much
brandy--that is to say, they are as tipsy as a beggar after the
vintage. They can neither hear nor understand. But mind what I say; you
others who are in your senses. I will tell you what sort of men they
are, that infamous notary and his rascal of a son, and then you will
see whether Jean-Louis is right or wrong."

Thereupon he recounted to his astonished friends what we already know,
but went into greater details than I have thought necessary.

"We can only pray to God," said Solange when he had ended. "Alas!
poor Jeannette, what will become of her? M. Michou, you must warn the
Ragauds."

"You think that would be easy?" said Michou. "In the first place, they
would not believe me. Monsieur and mademoiselle would be indignant. The
Perdreaux are too thorough scoundrels not to have at hand a crowd of
proofs and protestations which would make them appear as white as snow.
Every one is against us, up to that obstinate Jeannette, who is dead in
love with Isidore, so they say--hare-brained little fool!"

"It is only too true," said Jeannet, much overcome.

"As for you," resumed Michou, "in consequence of your peculiar
position, you can say less than any one else; but if I were in your
place, I would not remain an indifferent spectator of such a sad
affair."

"What can I do?" said Jeannet. "How can I abandon them?"

"Come and stay with me a while. I am clearing a part of the wood;
you can overlook the workmen, and we can manage to keep house with
Barbette, if you are not very difficult to please about the cooking."

"Oh! I would like it very much, M. Michou, and you will do me a great
favor. But I must ask my father about it; will you see him, and get his
consent?"

"To-morrow we will have it all arranged," replied Michou.

"Jeannet," said Solange, "the wood of Val-Saint is not very far from
here; when your day's work is over, you must remember there is always a
place at our table for a friend. Come, and we will console you. Don't
worry yourself too much about all this affair; often the storm is so
terrible we expect every moment to be struck with lightning, and then
the clouds break, the sky clears, and, after all the fright, nobody is
killed."

Jean-Louis, notwithstanding his sadness, could not help smiling at
these hopeful words, spoken by this good and beautiful girl, so
reasonable in all things, and still always so cheerful. He pressed her
hand, and helped her set the table for supper. Michou, reflecting on
these words of Solange, wisely remarked that the future being in the
hands of God, who always concealed it from us through mercy or to grant
us agreeable surprises, it was unbecoming in us to torment ourselves
too much about it.

At which speech good Pierre, who never liked trouble, loudly applauded;
and then, the repast being served, all sat down to table, and, while
eating, conversed on various topics not the least connected with
Muiceron.


XV.

According to his promise, Michou the next day paid an early visit to
the Ragauds, accompanied by his old blackened pipe, which he always
kept firmly between his teeth when he feared he might become impatient
or angry in conversation. He said that, without it, the big words
would rush out of his mouth before he had time to prevent them; but
that, with it, while he smoked, shook it, or relighted it, he regained
his composure, and gathered time to arrange his ideas. And never was
_puffer_--as he called his pipe--more necessary than on this visit
to Muiceron. Seeing his friends on the point of throwing themselves
into the enemy's clutches, and knowing that remonstrance would
avail nothing, he felt that anger and sorrow might carry him to any
extremity--in words only, let it be well understood.

He found Ragaud seated before the door, shelling gray peas, while
Pierrette was washing dishes; for, since she had commenced to feed the
Perdreaux, all the crockery was in use, and they went to bed so late
half the work remained for next day.

"I wish you good-morning," said Michou to his friends. "I see you are
very busy, but I have only come to remain a few moments."

"Come in," said Pierrette.

"No, I prefer to remain outside," replied Michou. "I like the fresh
air. Ragaud, do you feel inclined to do me a favor?"

"What a question!" said the good man. "I am always ready for that, my
old friend."

"Thank you, it is not a very great request. Can you spare me Jean-Louis
for a fortnight? I have twenty men at work in the wood of Montreux, and
no one to oversee them. The young fellow can help me a great deal."

"Very willingly," said Ragaud; "the hemp is nearly ready, and I do not
want Jeannet just now."

"He will take his meals with me," replied Michou, "and sleep at my
house the nights. He will be obliged to work late; so you need not be
uneasy if he does not return home sometimes."

"Agreed," said Ragaud. "Do you employ the wood-cutters of the
neighborhood?"

"Deuce take it, no!" replied Michou. "I hire them right and left, and
truly they are the stupidest asses. The way they talk makes one's hair
stand up under his cap."

"Bah! what do they say?"

"Devilish nonsense! Why, they talk of nothing but revolution,
overthrowing everything and everybody, massacring the nobility, and
theft. I remember how my father, long ago, told me about the people
before the Reign of Terror, and I imagine these men must be something
of the same stamp. Some of them disappear sometimes; when they return,
they speak in whispers, and, when I order them to go to work, you
should see the way they glare at me. It is very well I don't know what
fear means; but, reinforced by Jeannet, all will go well."

"Take him right away," said Ragaud; "and if he is not enough, well,
send for me; I will give you a helping hand."

"You?" replied Michou, who commenced to mumble over his pipe. "You are
too busy in this house with the wedding."

"Oh! it is not going to be to-morrow," said Ragaud; "the day of
betrothal is not yet fixed. I leave all that to good M. Perdreau. He
is taking a great deal of trouble; and I am glad he is, for I know
precious little about legal matters."

"So, then, you don't bother yourself with anything?--very pretty
conduct on your part."

"What should I do?" asked Ragaud innocently. "Each one has his part to
play. M. Perdreau was brought up among books, and I at the plough. When
he has the papers ready, he will tell me where to sign my name."

"And you will sign it?"

"Undoubtedly, after he has read them to me."

"All very nice," said Michou. "If I were in your place, I would sign
without reading them; it would be more stupid...."

"What do you say?" asked Ragaud.

"I say," replied Jacques, "if you will allow me to offer a word of
advice, you will not only make them read your daughter's marriage
contract to you, but also have it read to others--to M. le Curé, for
example; he is learned also--that he is."

"That would be insulting to M. Perdreau."

"Not at all. Two such learned men would soon understand each other.
After all, you know, you must do as you think best. Good-morning! Thank
you for Jean-Louis; send him to me quickly. I must hurry off to my
rascally wood-cutters in the wood of Montreux."

And the game-keeper turned his back without waiting for an answer,
puffing away at his pipe so tremendously his cap was in a cloud of
smoke.

Ragaud continued to shell his peas, but it was easy to see he felt
rather anxious. Nevertheless, when he had ended his work, he re-entered
the house without showing any discomposure.

Jean-Louis left home that morning to spend a fortnight with Michou,
depressed in spirits, but still hoping the best. On passing through
Val-Saint, he stopped at M. le Curé's, who confirmed all that Michou
had said about the Perdreaux. That dear, good man was much distressed,
but could not think of any remedy for the evil; but he promised Jeannet
to say Mass for the family, and highly approved of his leaving Muiceron
for a time.

Meanwhile, the Ragauds acted as though they were bewitched. During
the first week after the departure of Jeannet, his name was scarcely
mentioned, even by Pierrette. They appeared to have lost all
recollection of the services the excellent-hearted boy had rendered his
adopted parents. No one thought of him or noticed him when he returned
sometimes late at night from his hard day's work; and, had it not been
for the good Luguets, poor Jean-Louis would have been as isolated in
the world as if he had been brought up in a foundling asylum--his
first destination. But God did not abandon him, and, although always
very sad, he did not lose courage. Every evening, whether he returned
or not to Muiceron, he visited his friends, and there, with Pierre
and Solange, he recovered his good-humor, or at least maintained his
gentleness and resignation. His friendship for Solange increased
day by day. He suspected nothing, nor she either; for although very
friendly and intimate, they only felt toward each other like brother
and sister. However, all was known in the village--better, perhaps,
than elsewhere--and the gossips commenced to say that the devout
Solange jumped at marriage as quickly as any other girl. Several of the
girls even commenced to tease her about him; all of which she received
gently, and smiled without being displeased, contenting herself with
the remark that, after all, she might choose worse; and her work was
continued more faithfully than ever.

One evening, when Pierre and his parents remained rather late at the
fair at Andrieux, which is three good leagues from Ordonniers, and
which is only reached by roads very difficult to travel in the bad
season, Jeannet, as usual, went to the Luguets, and was surprised to
find Solange all alone. She blushed slightly when she saw him, not from
embarrassment, however, but only, I imagine, because she remembered the
reports that were circulating in the village. Jeannet took his usual
seat, which was always near hers. The month of November was nearly
ended, and that morning Michou had told Jean-Louis that Jeannette's
betrothal would take place a little before Christmas, and the marriage
soon after. The poor fellow was overwhelmed with sorrow; he poured all
his grief into Solange's ear, and so great was his confidence in her
that he allowed himself to weep in her presence.

"You have lost your courage and become thoroughly hopeless," said
Solange gently. "I don't like that in a man, still less in a Christian."

"How can I help it? Am I made of stone?" replied Jeannet, his head
buried in his hands. "Alas! alas! Solange, I believed your words. I
thought that God would have mercy on us, and that this unfortunate
marriage would not take place."

"I don't see that it has yet," replied Solange. "In the first place,
they only speak of signing the contract a month from now, and up to
then the mill will turn more than once; and, after all, does not God
know better than we what is good for us, poor blind things that we are?"

"That is true; but to see Jeannette the wife of that man, without faith
or fear of God or law; to see my old father and dear, good mother
reduced to want; to be obliged to leave the country, and never see
Muiceron again! For think, Solange, that Jeannette, when she signs her
marriage contract, will know that I am not her brother! I will not wait
to be told that my place is outside of the house. God knows I have
worked for my parents, and their tenderness never humiliated me, but to
receive a benefit from Isidore--no, never!" cried Jean-Louis, raising
his eyes that flashed with honest pride.

"You are right in that," said Solange quietly; "but listen a
moment, ... and first sit down there," she added, gently placing her
hand on his arm. "Come to your senses. There, now, can you yet listen
patiently to me?"

"Go on," said Jean-Louis obediently; "you need not talk long to calm
me."

"Well," resumed Solange, resting her elbow on the table in such a
manner that her sweet face nearly touched Jeannet's shoulder, "I will
repeat again that the story is not yet ended; but as this good reason
is not weighty enough for your excited brain, I beg you will tell me
why you think Jeannette will despise you when she will learn that you
are not her brother."

"But how can you expect it to be otherwise, my dear friend? Is it not
against me that I seem to be installed in her house for life? that I
have had half the hearts of her parents? Do you think that Isidore,
who detests me, will not tell a thousand falsehoods to prejudice her
against me? Ah! Solange, I have suffered terribly during the last
month; but to see Jeannette regard me as an intruder; to have her crush
me with her scorn, and make me feel that I am a foundling, picked up
from the gutter--it is beyond all human strength, and the good God will
not compel me to endure such agony. I will not expose myself to such a
trial."

"But what can you do? You cannot get work in the country without
running the risk of meeting her at every turn."

"I will manage it," said Jean-Louis. "France is a kind mother, Solange,
and has never refused food to one of her sons, even though he had no
name but the one given in baptism. I know that my dear father intended
to procure a substitute for me; but, in the present situation, I can no
longer accept a cent of Jeannette's inheritance, which will one day be
Isidore's."

"Good," said Solange. "But wait another moment. All this is still in
the future, since you can only be drawn next year; so put that aside.
I will only say that you have spoken like a good-hearted fellow, for
which I don't compliment you, as I knew you were that before. But,
to return to what we were speaking of, why do you think you will be
scorned by Jeannette? Come, now, tell me all. You love the little
thing? and ... more than a brother loves a sister?"

"Ah!" cried Jeannet, hiding his face, which he felt crimsoning, like
a young girl surprised, "you drag the last secret from my heart. Yes,
I love her, I love her to madness, and that adds to the bitterness of
my despair. May God pardon me! I have already confessed it, but with
my great sorrow is mingled a wicked sentiment. Solange! I am jealous;
I know it well. What can you expect? I was so before I knew it, and I
cannot drive it from me. Did I ever feel that she was not my sister?
No, not once until the day that there was question of her marriage;
and yet," added he clasping his hands, "God, who hears me, knows that
if she had chosen one worthy of her, I would have had the strength
to conquer it for the sake of her happiness. But so many misfortunes
have made me what I am, and--what I only avow to you--incapable of
surmounting my jealousy and dislike."

While he spoke thus, beautiful Solange smiled, not like a scornful
woman, who has no pity for feelings to which she is insensible, but
like a mother who is sure of consoling her sick child. Her clear,
tranquil eyes rested upon Jean-Louis, who gradually raised his, that he
might look at her in his turn; for everything about this girl of twenty
years was so gentle and calm, and at the same time so good, one always
expected to receive consolation from her.

"You wish to scold me?" said Jean-Louis. "If so, do it without fear, if
you think I am in fault."

"Not at all," she replied; "there is nothing wrong in what you have
confided to me, Jeannet. I pity you with my whole heart, only I
scarcely understand you."

"Why so, Solange? You are, however, very kind, and certainly have a
heart."

"I hope so," said she; "but when a creature is loved so dearly, she
should be esteemed in every respect."

"Don't I esteem Jeannette? O Solange! why do you say that?"

"But I only repeat what you first said, my child," she replied in her
maternal tone, which was very sweet in that young mouth. "You think her
capable of despising you, and imagine that she will disdain you when
she learns the misfortune of your birth; therefore, you do not esteem
her, and so, I repeat, I can't understand such great affection."

"You can reason very coolly about it," said Jeannet; "but if your soul
were troubled like mine, you would not see so clearly to the bottom of
things."

"It is precisely because you are so troubled that the good God permits
this conversation to-night," she replied. "Let me tell you now why I
still hope. Jeannette at this moment sins by the head, but her heart is
untouched; and here is the proof: the secret you so dread her knowing
she has known as well as either of us for more than three months. Have
you seen any change in her manner?"

"Oh! is it possible?" cried Jeannet. "And who told her?"

"I myself," answered Solange. "She had heard at the château some
words dropped by Dame Berthe, which excited her curiosity. After
her sickness, when I went to stay with her, she one day asked an
explanation of her doubts; and as I feared, if she questioned others,
she would not be properly answered, I told her all."

"You did right; and what was her reply?"

"She threw herself in my arms, and thanked me," said Solange. "For more
than an hour she spoke of her great affection for you, which time had
augmented instead of diminishing. She wept for your misfortune, and
thanked God that her parents had acted so well, as by that act they had
given her a brother; and never did I see her so gentle, tender, and
kind. She made me promise I would never tell you that she knew your
secret; but the poor child did not then foresee the necessity that
compels me to speak to-night on account of your wicked thoughts."

"Dear, dear Jeannette!" said Jean-Louis, with tears in his eyes.

"I have heard lately," continued Solange, "that she came near sending
off Isidore, because he presumed, thinking she knew nothing, to make
some allusion to the subject. She declared that she considered you her
brother, and those who wished to be friends of hers must think the
same."

"Say no more," said Jeannet. "I will love her more than ever."

"No," replied she, "it is useless. Only don't despair. Take courage,
for there is always hope when the heart is good; and the moment this
poor child, who is now acting without reflection, will know she should
despise Isidore, she will dismiss him and drive him away as she would a
dangerous animal."

"But will she ever know it?" said Jean-Louis.

"Hope in God," replied the pious girl. "Has he ever yet abandoned you?"

"Beg him to make me as confident as you," said he, looking at her with
admiration. "What good you do me! How can I repay you, Solange, for
such kind words?"

"Perhaps," said she seriously--"perhaps, one day, I may ask you to do
me a great service."

"Really! Let me know it now. I will be so happy to serve you."

"Yes? Well, then, I will," replied Solange, after a moment's
hesitation. "You have laid bare your heart to me; I will return your
confidence. Jean-Louis, I also have a secret love in my soul, and I
will die if I do not obtain what I desire."

"You!" said Jeannet, astonished; "you, dear Solange! I always thought
you so quiet and so happy in your life."

"It is true," said she, sighing. "I look so, because I cannot let
people see what they could not understand. But with you, Jean-Louis, it
is different; I can tell you everything."

"I hope, at least," said Jeannet, smiling, "that he whom you love is
worthy of your esteem."

"Oh! yes," she replied, crossing her arms on her breast, while her
pale, beautiful face crimsoned with fervor--"oh! yes, for he whom I
love is the Lord our God. I wish to be a Sister of Charity, Jeannet,
and until then there will be no happiness on earth for me."

Jean-Louis for a moment was dumb with surprise at this avowal; then he
knelt before her, and kissed her hands.

"I might have suspected it," said he, much moved; "you were not made to
live the ordinary life of the world. God bless you, dear Solange, and
may his holy angels accompany you! But what can I do to aid you in your
holy wishes?"

"Much," she replied; "you can inform my parents, and afterwards console
them; reason with Pierre, who will be half crazy when he hears of my
departure; and perhaps you can even accompany me to Paris, for I am
afraid to go alone. I have never been away from home, and I would not
dare venture on that long journey."

"But, dear Solange, you will need a great deal of money for that."

"Oh!" said she, laughing, "do you think me a child? For two years I
have deprived myself of everything, and I have more than enough. See,"
she added, opening a little box, which she kept hidden under a plaster
statue of the Blessed Virgin, which stood near her bed. "Count!"

"Three hundred francs!" said Jeannet, after having counted; "and ten,
and twenty, and thirty more--three hundred and sixty, besides the
change. There are nearly four hundred francs."

"There will be when I am paid for what I am now embroidering," said
she. "Is that enough?"

"Ten times too much," replied Jeannet. "Poor dear Solange! what
happiness to think that I shall see you until the last moment!"

"And afterwards again," said she gaily; "the white cornets are made to
go over the world. We will meet again, don't fear!"

It is truly said that example is better than precept. Jean-Louis became
a man again before that beautiful and pious girl, so brave and so good.
His heart was comforted, his soul strengthened. He would have blushed
now to weep about his sorrows, when Solange was about to sacrifice her
whole life to the sorrows of others. She commenced to play her part of
Sister of Charity with him, and God doubtless already blessed her; for
never did balm poured into a wound produce a more instant effect.

They finished their little arrangements just as the Luguets returned
home. Pierre was rather gay, as he could not go to the fair without
drinking with his friends; and when a man's ordinary drink is water
 with the skins of grapes, half a pint is enough to make him
feel jolly.

Therefore, when he found Solange and Jeannet in conversation, looking
rather more serious than usual, he commenced to look very wise,
whistled, winking from one to the other, to let them know he understood
what was going on. Jean-Louis was seated near the fire, and pondered
over the mutual confidences made that evening. He paid little attention
to Pierre's manœuvres; but Solange saw them, and, while laying the
cloth for supper, begged her brother to explain, in good French what
was on his mind.

"Yes, yes, my pretty one!" said he, trying to put his arm around
her waist, something which she did not permit even in him; "we know
something about you."

"Nothing very bad," she replied, laughing; "here I am before you in
flesh and blood, and you see I am not at all sick."

"Don't be so sly," he answered; "this is not the time. We returned from
the fair with lots of acquaintances, and every one told us you were
going to be married, and that your bans would be published next Sunday."

"It is rather too soon," said Solange quietly; "the consent of the
parents will be needed, and I don't know yet whether it will be given.
And to whom shall I be married? Those people who are so well informed
should have told you that."

Thereupon Pierre, without answering, struck Jean-Louis on the shoulder.

"Look up, sleepy-head!" cried he in his ear. "Can you tell me who is
going to marry my sister Solange?"

"Who? What?" answered Jeannet, like one coming out of a dream. "What
are you talking about?"

"I say that you and Solange can keep a secret famously," said he,
rather spitefully. "It is well to keep it secret, when you are only
thinking of marriage, and I don't object to your first arranging it
between yourselves; but now that everybody knows it except us, it is
rather provoking for the family."

"You are crazy," said Jean-Louis.

"A big baby, at least," said Solange, shrugging her shoulders.

"All very well," said Pierre; "we know what we know. We say nothing
further. When you choose to speak of your affairs, well, we will be
ready to listen to you."

Jeannet was about to reply, but Luguet and his wife, who all this
while had been in the barn, giving a look at the cattle, to see that
all was safe for the night, re-entered the room, and Solange motioned
to Jean-Louis not to continue such a useless conversation before her
parents.

But whether Pierre was more obstinate than usual that night on account
of the wine in his head, or whether his great friendship for Jeannet
inflamed his desire for the alliance, certain it is he would not give
up his belief in the approaching marriage, and continued throughout
supper to make jokes and clack his wooden shoes underneath the table;
in fact, he acted like a boy who is sure of his facts and loves to
torment people. Jean-Louis several times was on the point of telling
him to be quiet, but Solange, with her gentle smiles, always prevented
him.

You can well perceive this confirmed Pierre in his belief that they
understood each other, as honest lovers have the right to do; so that,
if he was a little doubtful on his return from the fair, he was no
longer so at the end of the supper, and went to bed so firmly persuaded
that he would soon have Jeannet for brother-in-law, they could easier
have cut off his right hand than make him believe to the contrary.

                            TO BE CONTINUED.




EPIGRAM.

TO DOMITIAN, CONCERNING S. JOHN, COMMANDED TO BE CAST INTO A CALDRON OF
BURNING OIL.


    Thou go unpunish'd? That shall never be,
    Since thou hast dar'd to mock the gods and me.
    Burn him in oil!--The lictor oil prepares:
    Behold the saint anointed unawares!
    With such elusive virtue was the oil fraught!
    Such aid thy olive-loving Pallas brought![198]

                                                  --CRASHAW.

FOOTNOTES:

[198] The allusion is to wrestlers anointing themselves to prevent
their adversaries grasping them.




NANO NAGLE:

FOUNDRESS OF THE PRESENTATION ORDER.


There is no fact more apparent or more full of significance in the
history of the church than the constant acting and reacting upon
each other of races and nations in the perpetual struggle between
civilization and religion with barbarism and infidelity, light with
darkness. While the faith seems dimmed and its professors the victims
of persecution in one land, in another the torch of learning and
piety is slowly but surely kindling into brilliancy, and the ardor of
apostolic zeal is being awakened, even by the supineness and apostasy
of its neighbors. That this should be permitted or ordained by divine
Providence is a mystery to all, but its effects can easily be perceived
by any ordinary student of history.

For proof of this mutation and transition we need not go beyond our own
day and generation. Europe of the XIXth century presents a spectacle,
if not alarming, at least discouraging to many who have the cause of
Christianity sincerely at heart. In one country we perceive a direct
attack on the Sovereign Pontiff, wholesale spoliation of his temporal
possessions, restriction of his personal liberty, and a general
onslaught on the religious orders--those most efficient agents for the
propagation of morality, charity, and intelligence--which surround
him--and that, too, by a prince of Catholic origin and education, who
claims the right to govern twenty millions of subjects. In another we
have a stolid, sordid _imperator_, instigated by a more intellectual
but not less arbitrary minister, not only claiming complete dominion
over the lives and property of twice that number, but assuming also the
right to dictate the terms upon which they shall worship their Maker,
what shall be their faith, and who may be their teachers and guides in
the way of salvation.

Again, in such countries as Austria, France, Spain, and Belgium,
until very recently considered the bulwarks of Catholicity on the
Continent, indifferentism, communism, and open infidelity, if not
yet triumphant, have certainly of late made rapid strides towards
power and authority, and to the human eye seriously threaten the very
existence of society, of all order and all law, human and divine,
in those distracted nations. And still, a prospect such as Europe
now presents, though seemingly gloomy, is actually full of hope and
promise. While the hitherto supine Catholics of the Italian peninsula
are being aroused into earnestness by the outrages daily perpetrated
on the Holy Father and the religious orders, and their co-religionists
of Germany are forming themselves into a solid, compact, and energetic
array in defence of their rights, elsewhere the cause of the church is
progressing with a rapidity and uniformity that equally astonishes and
alarms her enemies.

Take our own republic, for example, with its seven archbishops, its
forty-nine bishops, thousands of priests, and millions of earnest
and obedient spiritual children, where a century ago a priest was
an object of curiosity to most of the people, and a Catholic was
generally regarded with less favor than is now shown the Chinese
idolaters. Now, what has wrought this change; what has scattered
broadcast over this vast continent, and engrafted in the heart of
our vigorous young republic the doctrines of the church, but the
persecutions which our co-religionists have endured and are still
enduring, in the Old World? To the irreligious maniacs of the French
Revolution, to the penal code of Great Britain, and now to the
mendacity of Victor Emanuel and the truculent tyranny of Bismarck,
are we mainly indebted, under Providence, for the origin, growth, and
increase of Catholicity among us. Like a subterranean fire, the spirit
of the church can never be repressed. Subdued in one place, it will
burst forth in another with redoubled force, intensified by the very
attempts made to confine it.

Then let us look at England--England which among the nations was the
land of the Reformation; who not only stoned the prophets, but whose
annals for nearly three centuries are the most anti-Catholic and
intolerant to be found in the records of modern history. She, also, as
in the early ages of her conversion, felt the effect of continental
barbarism and persecution. At the very time when the faith seemed
to have been utterly extirpated within her boundaries, the French
Revolution drove to her shores many Catholics, lay and clerical, of
gentle birth, cultivated manners, and varied accomplishments, and to
those exiles does she owe primarily the revival in her bosom of the
religion planted by S. Augustine. She has now sixteen archbishops and
bishops, sixteen hundred priests, over one thousand places of worship,
where assemble large congregations, including many of the most eminent
and distinguished of her sons.

The Catholics of Ireland, always true to the faith and loyal to the
head of the church, were common sufferers with their co-religionists
across the Channel, and, though in a different manner and at an earlier
period, they were equally the gainers with those of England, and from
causes almost similar. The property of that cruelly tried people was
not only confiscated by the penal laws, their clergy outlawed, and
their persons subjected to all sorts of pains and penalties, but they
were denied the poor privilege of acquiring the principles of the
commonest education. The consequences of such persecution, continued
generation after generation, were what might have been, and no doubt
was, expected to be--that the people, persistently refusing to yield
to cajolery or threats in matters of conscience, within two centuries
after the "Reformation" had almost universally sunk into abject poverty
and secular ignorance. In fact, had it not been for their traditional
knowledge of the great truths of religion, and the instruction
sometimes stealthily given them by some fugitive priest in remote
mountains and the fastnesses of the bogs, they must inevitably have
degenerated into something like primitive barbarism.

However, such an anomalous state as this could not last for ever.
All Christendom was about to cry out against it, and an incident
occurred in 1745, under the administration of the celebrated Lord
Chesterfield, which awakened at home general attention to the wretched
manner in which four-fifths of the inhabitants of the country were
obliged to worship their Creator. It happened that in that year a
small congregation was assembled secretly in an old store, in an
obscure part of Dublin, to hear Mass, when the floor gave way, and
the entire body was precipitated to the ground below. F. Fitzgerald,
the celebrant, and nine of his parishioners, were killed, and several
others severely injured. The viceroy, who, whatever may have been
his other faults, was certainly less bigoted than his predecessors,
thereupon took the responsibility of allowing the Catholics, under
certain restrictions, to open their chapels, and worship in public.
This limited concession was the commencement of a new era in the
affairs of the Irish Catholics. The number of priests began to
increase; churches, rude and small of necessity, sprang up here
and there, generally in secluded localities, as if afraid to show
themselves; and incipient efforts for the education of the masses of
both sexes were soon noticed.

In this latter great work of benevolence the most zealous and efficient
was the lady whose name heads this article. She seems to have been
endowed by Providence with all the gifts, mental and moral, necessary
to constitute her the pioneer of that host of noble women who, since
her time to the present, have devoted themselves to the education and
training of the females of Ireland. Born of an ancient and thoroughly
Catholic family of considerable wealth and wide popular influence,
she grew up amid home scenes of comfort, peace, and charity, a devout
believer in the sanctity of religion, and in perfect accord with the
instructions of indulgent but watchful parents. The position her father
held among his poorer and less fortunate neighbors, his charity to
the needy, and his protection to the helpless, afforded her, even in
her extreme youth, many opportunities of studying the wants of the
distressed, and of sympathizing with their afflictions: principles
which, then perhaps nourished in her heart unconsciously, were in
after-years destined to grow and fructify into those nobler deeds of
charity that have made her memory so cherished and revered.

Honora, or, as her friends and beneficiaries loved to call her,
Nano Nagle, was the daughter of a gentleman named Garret Nagle, of
Ballygriffin, near Mallow, in the county of Cork, where she was born
A.D. 1728. Through both parents she was related, not only to many
of the old Catholic houses, but to several of the most influential
Protestant families in the South; which is only worthy of remark
as furnishing a clew to the fact of her parents' wealth and social
standing in times when those of the proscribed religion were not only
disqualified from accumulating or holding property in their own right,
but were personally objects of contempt and contumely to the dominant
class. It may also, perhaps, account for the impunity with which Mr.
Nagle, despite the numerous statutory enactments, was enabled to send
his favorite child to the Continent to complete an education the
rudiments only of which could be obtained in the privacy of her family.

Accordingly, at an early age, Nano quitted her pleasant and cheerful
home by the Blackwater for the retirement and austerity of a convent
on the banks of the Seine, in which institution she acquired all the
accomplishments and graces then considered befitting a young lady of
position.

Having entered school a mere girl from a remote part of a
semi-civilized country, untutored, undeveloped, and, it is even said,
a little petulant and self-willed, she now, at her twenty-first year,
emerged from the shadow of the convent walls into the sunshine of
Parisian life, an educated, beautiful, and self-sustained woman. Her
family had many friends in the French capital, particularly in the
households of the Irish Brigade officers and other Catholic exiles,
and her entrance into the best society was unimpeded, and was even
signalized by rare scenes of festivity and mutual gratification.
Her native _naïveté_ and buoyancy of spirits, tempered with all the
well-bred courtesy and dignity of a French education under the old
_régime_, made her a general favorite; and though it does not appear
that she was in the least spoiled by the admiration and adulation that
everywhere awaited her, there is little doubt that she participated in
the fashionable dissipations of the gay capital with all the ardor and
impetuosity latent in her disposition. Admitted to such scenes, it is
little wonder that for a time she forgot the land of her birth, its
persecutions and tribulations, its degraded peasantry and timid and
degenerate aristocracy. One so young and so capable of appreciating the
refinements and elegancies of the most cultured city in Europe, might
well have been excused if she found it difficult to exchange them for
the obscurity and monotony of a remote provincial town.

But the spell which at this time bound her was soon to be broken. The
still, small voice of duty and conscience was soon to find a tongue
and speak to her soul with the force almost of inspiration. The
circumstances of this radical change in her life are thus graphically
described in a very valuable book recently published:

  "In the small, early hours of a spring morning of the year 1750,
  a heavy, lumbering carriage rolled over the uneven pavement of
  the quartier Saint Germain of the French capital, awakening the
  echoes of the still sleeping city. The beams of the rising sun
  had not yet struggled over the horizon to light up the spires
  and towers and lofty housetops, but the cold, gray dawn was far
  advanced. The occupants of the carriage were an Irish young lady
  of two-and twenty, and her chaperon, a French lady, both fatigued
  and listlessly reclining in their respective corners. They had
  lately formed part of a gay and glittering crowd in one of the
  most fashionable Parisian _salons_. As they moved onward, each
  communing with her own thoughts, in all probability reverting
  to the brilliant scene they had just left, and anticipating the
  recurrence of many more such, the young lady's attention was
  suddenly attracted by a crowd of poor people standing at the yet
  unopened door of a parish church. They were work-people, waiting
  for admission by the porter, in order to hear Mass before they
  entered on their day's work.

  "The young lady was forcibly struck. She reflected on the hard
  lot of those children of toil, their meagre fare, their wretched
  dwellings, their scanty clothing, their constant struggle to
  preserve themselves and their families even in this humble
  position--a struggle in many a case unavailing; for sickness, or
  interruption of employment, or one of the many other casualties
  incidental to their state, might any day sink them still deeper in
  penury. She reflected seriously on all this; and then she dwelt
  on their simple faith, their humble piety, their thus 'preventing
  the day to worship God.' She contrasted their lives with those of
  the gay votaries of fashion and pleasure, of whom she was one. She
  felt dissatisfied with herself, and asked her own heart, Might
  she not be more profitably employed? Her thoughts next naturally
  reverted to her native land, then groaning under the weight of
  persecution for conscience' sake--its religion proscribed, its
  altars overturned, its sanctuaries desolate, its children denied,
  under grievous penalties, the blessings of free education.

  "She felt at once that there was a great mission to be fulfilled,
  and that, with God's blessing, she might do something towards
  its fulfilment. For a long time she dwelt earnestly on what we
  may now regard as an inspiration from heaven. She frequently
  commended the matter to God, and took the advice of pious and
  learned ecclesiastics; and the result was that great work which has
  ever been since, and is in our day, a source of benediction and
  happiness to countless thousands of poor families in her native
  land, and has made the name of Nano Nagle worthy of a high place on
  the roll of the heroines of charity."[199]

Miss Nagle then set out for Ireland, firmly determined to commence the
noble work so suddenly contemplated and so maturely considered; but on
her arrival in Cork, she found her friends exceedingly lukewarm, and
the amount of ignorance and destitution in that city so appalling that
she shrank from the very magnitude of the difficulties to be overcome,
and began to fear that she had, in a moment of enthusiasm, overrated
her ability and mistaken her vocation. This was natural. What could a
young lady, scarcely entered on womanhood, delicately nurtured, and
hitherto accustomed only to the society of the most fastidious--what
could such a frail scion of aristocracy do to remove even an
infinitesimal part of the incubus of poverty, ignorance, and crime, the
result of centuries of misgovernment, which then weighed so heavily on
the people?

She therefore resolved to visit the French capital again to consult
eminent clerical friends, and to lay before them all her doubts
and difficulties. They heard her explanations and arguments with
attention, weighed her objections with proper gravity, and finally,
having dispelled her doubts and strengthened her self-confidence,
assured her that in their opinion--and it was a unanimous one--God had
evidently called her to be the succor and comfort of her afflicted
countrywomen--a decision which subsequent events proved to have been
little short of prophetic. Thus reassured, and casting aside once
for all the allurements of life, the rational pleasures which youth,
beauty, and wealth might reasonably command, Miss Nagle resolved to
eschew the things of the world for ever, and devote herself heart and
soul to the self-imposed duties from the performance of which she
had lately shrunk, more from a consciousness of the weakness of her
position than from any lack of intention to perform them faithfully.
The resolve she so solemnly made then she kept till the day of her
death, thirty years afterwards, with unflinching fortitude and fidelity.

In 1754 we find her back in Cork, steadily but quietly, almost
secretly, as the spirit of the times demanded, initiating her crusade
against squalor and ignorance. With what precocious circumspection
she commenced her labors is best shown in a letter to a friend, Miss
Fitzsimmons, then in the Ursuline Convent at Paris. The extract is
long, but it will repay perusal, as it may be considered an exact
reflex of the working of her strong, simple, but thoroughly earnest
mind. She writes under date July 17, 1769:

  "When I arrived, I kept my design a profound secret, as I knew, if
  it were spoken of, I should meet with opposition on every side,
  particularly from my own immediate family; as, to all appearances,
  they would suffer from it. My confessor was the only person I told
  of it; and as I could not appear in the affair, I sent my maid to
  get a good mistress, and to take in thirty poor girls. When the
  little school was settled, I used to steal there in the morning.
  My brother thought I was in the chapel. This passed on very well
  until, one day, a poor man came to him, to speak to me to take
  his child into my school; on which he came in to his wife and me,
  laughing at the conceit of a man who was mad and thought I was in
  the situation of a schoolmistress. Then I owned that I had set
  up a school; on which he fell into a violent passion, and said
  a vast deal on the bad consequences that may follow. His wife is
  very zealous, and so is he; but worldly interests blinded him at
  first. He was soon reconciled to it. He was not the person I most
  dreaded would be brought into trouble about it; it was my uncle
  Nagle, who is, I think, the most disliked by the Protestants of any
  Catholic in the kingdom. I expected a great deal from him. The best
  part of my fortune I have received from him. When he heard it, he
  was not at all angry at it; and in a little time they were so good
  as to contribute largely to support it. And I took in children by
  degrees, not to make any noise about it in the beginning. In about
  nine months I had about two hundred children. When the Catholics
  saw what service it did, they begged that, for the convenience of
  the children, I would set up schools for children at the other end
  of the town from where I was, to be under my care and direction;
  and they promised to contribute to the support of them. With this
  request I readily complied, and the same number of children that
  I had were taken in; and at the death of my uncle, I supported
  them all at my own expense. I did not intend to take boys, but my
  sister-in-law made it a point, and said she would not allow any
  of my family to contribute to them unless I did so; on which I
  got a master, and took in only forty boys. They are in a house by
  themselves, and have no communication with the others."

This letter, it will be observed, was written fifteen years after the
first school was founded, and already there were in active operation,
in various parts of the city, two schools for boys and five for girls,
all under the supervision of Miss Nagle, and supported from her private
purse, or by a contribution of one shilling per month, which she was in
the habit of collecting from a few of the more wealthy of the citizens.
In these nurseries of intelligence and morality--model schools, in
fact--the children of both sexes were taught to read and write, to say
their daily prayers, learn the catechism, and, in the case of the older
girls, to acquire a familiarity with such useful work as befitted
their condition. Those who were of sufficient age heard Mass every
morning, went to confession monthly, and to communion as frequently as
their confessor considered advisable.

In supervising so many schools, and constantly instructing hundreds
of pupils, whose moral as well as mental culture had been neglected
hitherto most wofully, this heroic woman's self-imposed labors, it may
well be imagined, were of the most arduous description, and we are not
surprised to find that her health began to show signs of giving way.
"In the beginning," she says, "being obliged to speak for upwards of
four hours, and my chest not being so strong as it had been, I spat
blood, which I took care to conceal, for fear of being prevented from
instructing the poor. It has not the least bad effect now. When I have
done preparing them at each end of the town, I feel like an idler that
has nothing to do, though I speak almost as much as when I prepare
them for their first communion. I find not the least difficulty in it.
I explain the catechism as well as I can in one school or other every
day; and if every one thought as little of labor as I do, they would
have little merit. I often think that my schools will never bring me
to heaven, as I only take delight and pleasure in them. You see it
has pleased the Almighty to make me succeed when I had everything, I
may say, to fight against. I assure you I did not expect a farthing
from any mortal towards the support of my schools; and I thought I
should not have more than fifty or sixty girls until I got a fortune;
nor did I think I should in Cork. I began in a poor, humble manner;
and though it has pleased the divine will to give me severe trials in
this foundation, yet it is to show that it is his work, and has not
been effected by human means. I can assure you that my schools are
beginning to be of service to a great many parts of the world. This
is a place of great trade. They are heard of; and my views are not
for one object alone." The fortune here so delicately alluded to was
left her by her uncle Nagle, who, profoundly penetrated with a sense
of her discretion and of her devotion to the friendless, bequeathed
her the bulk of his property. It was a very considerable sum, and was
unstintingly devoted by her to further the great objects she had ever
in view.

As her schools multiplied, and the attendance on each increased, with
a rapidity that astonished every one, Miss Nagle saw the absolute
necessity of calling in other and, if possible, organized assistance,
that thus, by making her system more perfect, she might perpetuate the
good work already so auspiciously begun. She therefore resolved on a
bold measure--one that could have entered only the mind of a dauntless
spirit, fortified by implicit faith in the protection of Providence.
She determined, in fact, despite the many inhuman and ingenious penal
statutes against monastic institutions, to establish a convent in Cork.

For this purpose, some time previous to the date of the above letter,
four young ladies, representing some of the best families in the
neighborhood, were sent to the Ursuline Convent of S. Jacques, in
Paris, to enter their novitiate, while Miss Nagle, with her usual
generosity and prudence, set silently to work to build a suitable house
for their reception on their return. That event took place in 1771, and
marks a new era in the history of the church in Ireland and England.
The young novices who thus not only abandoned the allurements of the
world, home, friends, and future, to serve God, but braved the terrors
of the penal laws and the sneers of the anti-Catholic rabble, deserve
to have their names handed down for the admiration and homage of their
sex in every age and clime. They were "Miss Fitzsimmons, the special
friend and correspondent of the foundress; Miss Nagle, her relative;
Miss Coppinger, of the Barryscourt family, and cousin of Marian,
Duchess of Norfolk; and Miss Kavanagh, related to the noble house of
Ormonde." They were accompanied by Mrs. Margaret Kelly, a professed
sister of the Ursuline Convent of Dieppe, none of the sisters of S.
Jacques being willing to undertake so hazardous an enterprise.

They arrived in May, and on the 18th of September following took
formal possession of their convent, and from that day may be dated the
reintroduction of the conventual order into the United Kingdom of Great
Britain and Ireland.[200]

Thus in the wise designs of God, while the Encyclopedists and the
secret societies of the Continent were maturing their plans of attack
on the church and her institutions, when monasteries, convents,
colleges, and hospitals from one end of Europe to the other, already
feeling the premonitory symptoms of that monstrous earthquake of
immorality and infidelity which was soon to be felt throughout
Christendom, were shaking to their very foundations, in an obscure
little city in the South of Ireland were planted the seeds of religion
and Christian instruction which have since grown up and produced such
marvellous fruits. The incident becomes even more interesting when we
consider that the five ladies who commenced this beneficent work were
all educated in that country and city, which ere long were to furnish
the deadliest enemies of Catholicity.

It is not to be supposed that so daring an act as that of the intrepid
Nano could pass unnoticed. Though the sisters studied the greatest
seclusion, it was at one time proposed by the local authorities to
enforce the laws against them; but better counsels prevailed, and the
humble community grew rapidly in popularity and usefulness. A few
months after its establishment, a select school, with twelve young
ladies as pupils, was founded, and this number was quickly augmented
by children from the more wealthy Catholic families of the adjoining
counties. There are now five houses of this order in Ireland.

At first Miss Nagle lived in the convent; but her impatient soul, her
burning love for the children of the lowly, was not yet satisfied;
for though the good Ursulines devoted all their available time
to the instruction of the poor, while perfecting in the higher
branches of education those destined in turn to become teachers,
she felt that another and a more comprehensive organization was
necessary to combat so vast an array of popular error, ignorance,
and destitution. A society that would devote itself, as she had so
long done, individually, exclusively, and gratuitously to the service
of the impoverished and untrained masses was what she desired, and
what she felt called upon to form and direct. With that indomitable
energy which I ever characterized her, though enfeebled in health,
reduced in fortune, and prematurely old from incessant labor, at the
age of forty-four she retired from the companionship of her friends
and _protégés_, the Ursulines, to a house adjacent to the convent,
purchased by herself, and, gathering around her some pious women,
formed a society that was to be known as "Of the Presentation of Our
Blessed Lady in the Temple." The objects of this association were:
"Going through the city, looking after poor girls; inducing them to
attend school, and instructing them in their religion; and, further,
visiting, relieving, and consoling the sick poor in their own homes
and in the public hospitals--duties analogous to those now discharged
by the Sisters of Charity and Sisters of Mercy."[201] Being approved
by the bishop of the diocese, the Rt. Rev. Dr. Moylan, it began its
pious labors on Christmas day, A.D. 1777, by entertaining at dinner
fifty poor persons, the foundress being the presiding genius, or rather
angel, of the entertainment. She also established, in connection with
the home, an asylum for aged females.

This was the origin of what is now known as the _Presentation Order_,
and was the last and crowning glory of Nano Nagle's remarkable career.
Though of exclusively Irish origin, and notwithstanding that the
original design of its foundress has been somewhat changed, and its
field of labor circumscribed and partly occupied by other orders
or congregations, the institution founded by her with such limited
means and materials has, with God's blessing, flourished with amazing
rapidity, and has spread its influence, not only over the native land
of the foundress, but to Great Britain, the lower provinces of North
America, and even to India and Australia. In Ireland alone there are
at least fifty convents of the order, with poor schools, industrial
schools, and asylums for the aged attached.[202]

In 1791 the society was reorganized and founded into a congregation
at the request of the Bishop of Cork. The brief of Pope Pius VI.
granting the prayer, directed that the members should observe as near
as possible the rules governing the Ursulines, taking, after proper
novitiate, simple vows of chastity, poverty, and obedience. Sixteen
years later the congregation was changed into an order by brief of
Pius VII., under the title and invocation of the "Presentation of
the Blessed Virgin Mary." The rules and constitutions governing the
congregation and order were, at the request of His Holiness, drawn up
by Dr. Moylan, approved by the archbishops and bishops of Ireland, and
upon being forwarded to Rome, and upon proper examination, received the
Papal sanction.

The six or seven years spent by Miss Nagle as head of the Society
of the Presentation were perhaps the most useful of her life; for
not only did she create and perfect a plan of practical instruction
and discriminating charity which has since been of infinite benefit
in promoting the cause of religion and industry in other parts of
Ireland; not only did she inculcate in others who were to survive her,
principles of order, charity, and self-denial, but she organized a
system of relief and a scheme of instruction which were of infinite
benefit to the deserving poor of Cork, and which were afterwards
applied with equal advantage by other religious bodies in other cities
and towns. None knew so well as she did to whom to give and whom to
refuse, though it may be well imagined that her gentle heart, when it
erred, leaned in favor of the latter.

Nor must we suppose that the early years of what might be called her
missionary labors were devoted exclusively to the instruction of her
little waifs. On the contrary, much of her time--all, in fact, that
could be spared from her private devotions and her beloved schools--was
devoted to the visitation of the sick and the relief of the starving;
for starvation, be it remembered, was even then chronic in the South of
Ireland. On her return from France, she at first mingled occasionally
in society, as much to conceal, perhaps, her immature plans as in
deference to the wishes of her friends; but gradually she withdrew from
all association with those of her own station, and devoted her entire
time to acts of practical charity. Even the most inclement winter
weather could not deter her from her duty; and it is said that before
daylight she might be noticed wending her way to the little North Cork
chapel, to hear Mass as the commencement of a long day's labor, and
that far into the night, in the unlighted streets of Cork, a female
figure, closely enwrapped in a cloak and bearing a lantern, could
be seen hurrying to the death-bed of some poor sufferer, regardless
of rain or snow or the cutting night-blast. So familiar had this
apparition become to the citizens, and so well her errands of mercy
were known, that the vilest of both sexes passed her with respect, and
she trod the lanes and alleys of the worst parts of the city with
perfect safety. At the sight of that little lantern in the distance,
the drunken brawler, as he reeled home, ceased his ribald song or
stayed the half-uttered oath; and the ill-starred wanderer, the pariah
of her sex, fled to some hiding-place, or came forth for a few words of
gentle admonition, which fell like healing balm on her wounded, sinful
soul; for Nano Nagle, in humble imitation of her Redeemer, had charity
for all, even for the most degraded of mankind.

It is unnecessary to say that, in all her toils and struggles,
Miss Nagle enjoyed the respect and esteem, and, when required, the
assistance, of all the more wealthy and respectable of the citizens
of Cork, Protestant as well as Catholic; but it was amid her children
and in the hovels of the poor that she was best beloved, because best
known. Where famine hollowed the cheek and glazed the eye, she was
to be found, with her brave words of comfort and hope, and, better
still, with her well-filled basket and open purse; where sickness and
disease lurked, and the atmosphere of the miserable dwellings of the
fever-stricken was laden with almost certain death, her place was at
the bedside of the dying, consoling and solacing; now administering the
cooling draught to the poor patient's burning lips; now, by prayer and
spiritual instruction, endeavoring to smooth the path to a better world
of the soul that was struggling to be free. No danger daunted her, no
sight, however repulsive, stayed her persistent charity; and it is even
said that the once brilliant and accomplished favorite of the Rue St.
Germain did not hesitate, when she considered herself called upon to
do so, to perform the most menial of domestic offices for her sick or
aged pensioners.

Thirty years of such unremitting labor was more than a constitution of
ordinary strength could well bear; and even Miss Nagle, buoyed up as
she was by intense devotion to the poor, felt that the hand of death
was upon her, and that she was about to receive the eternal reward of
her virtues, her charity, and her zeal in the service of God. Early in
1784 her health completely broke down, and, thus timely warned, she
prepared, with Christian sincerity and humility, to leave the scenes of
her earthly labors, and pass through those portals which, for the just,
open to an infinity of happiness. In the house of the society, and
surrounded by its members, her spirit calmly took its upward flight on
the 26th of April, 1784. Her last advice to her little community was:
"Love one another as you have hitherto done."

Such, in brief, were the life and labors of one whose name even is
seldom heard, and of whose heroic efforts in the cause of religion
and education so little mention is made beyond the boundaries of the
locality in which she wrought and which she sanctified. Judging her
by the sacrifices she made, there may be found many even of our own
day equally meritorious; but considering the age in which she worked,
the dangers and difficulties which constantly beset her path, the
invincible energy with which she surmounted all obstacles, and the
widespread and beneficent character of the results of her thirty years'
toil, we may assuredly place her among the most remarkable and most
devoted of the daughters of the church.

FOOTNOTES:

[199] _Terra Incognita; or, The Convents of the United Kingdom._ By
John Nicholas Murphy. London: 1873.

[200] There are now in England and in Wales alone two hundred and
thirty-five convents, containing about three thousand nuns of various
orders and congregations. Among these is the Presentation Convent in
Manchester, to which is attached a female orphanage, a poor school
attended by four hundred and seventy-five day and five hundred
Sunday-school scholars.

[201] _Terra Incognita._

[202] The convents are those of the city of Cork, South, opened in
1777, in which is also an asylum for aged women; the city of Cork,
North; Bandom, Doneraile, Youghal, Midleton, Fermoy, Michelstown,
Limerick, Killarney, Tralee, Dingle, Milltown, Cahirciveen, Millstreet,
Listowel, Castleisland, Thurles, attached to which is an industrial
school; Cashel, with an orphanage and an industrial school; Fethard,
Ballingary, Waterford, Dungarvan, Clonmel, Carrick-on-Suir; Lismore,
George's Hill, Dublin; Roundtown, near Dublin, Maynooth, Clondalkin,
Lucan, Kilkenny, Castlecomer, Mountcoin, Carlow, Maryborough, Kildare,
Bagnalstown, Clane, Stradbally Portarlington, Mount Mellick, Wexford,
Enniscorthy, Drogheda, Rahan, Mullingar, Granard, Tuam, Galway, and
Banmore.




GRACE SEYMOUR'S MISSION.


In a small village of New England, elm-shaded and far from the resorts
of travellers, there lived, a great many years ago, two people in easy
circumstances, the owners of a lovely cottage--a father and his only
daughter.

They were well descended, and fully showed it; moreover, the girl's
mother had been an Englishwoman of high birth, the daughter of a great
house which, in the past, had also been allied to that of the man she
married. Edward Seymour had once been the pastor and the favorite of
the village of Walcot, an upright, believing, uncompromising Calvinist,
a kind of Cromwell with all the ambition turned heavenwards, and all
the hardness tempered by a warm, generous nature. His wife also had
been a vigorous believer in the same theology. Sprung from a family
noted for its "Low Church" views in England, she had been strongly
interested in the narrative of the American missionary, in the days
when he, fresh from the university, and filled with vehement but
practical enthusiasm, had gone to the "mother country" on a tour of
alms-asking and receiving. From interest sprang attraction; then love,
with its impulsive and whole-hearted logic, rushed in and pleaded the
cause of the disciple with that of the religion, and suggested forcibly
that a fortune thrown at the feet of the minister would eventually find
its way to the feet of God. Sweet argument of the heart! though in this
case an argument misapplied.

So it fell out that, despite warnings and shakings of heads and holding
up of hands, Elizabeth Howard and her fortune (not a princely one,
though) crossed the seas, and Edward Seymour presented a fair young
foreign enthusiast to his congregation as his beloved and hard-won
bride, under the fire of a rude battery of eyes belonging to the
startled maidens whose charms had long since (in their own individual
minds, at least) been destined for the minister's solace and support.
She won her way into the hearts of all, this young English Calvinist,
full of pure-hearted sincerity, gentle yet steadfast as "Priscilla, the
Puritan maiden," courageous in self-denial that the poor might profit
by her privations, a confidant the most unhappy ever found sympathetic,
and the most guilty, indulgent. Her husband used to say of her that the
Scriptures had never received a more fitting and perfect fulfilment, a
more ideal accomplishment of true womanhood, as set forth in the many
sentences where wise and holy women are depicted, than Elizabeth had
proved herself to be.

In household matters she was no less at home than in those graver
concerns of the parish and the soul-life of her husband's spiritual
people. A good deal of the old earnestness regarding religious truth
remained in the little favored community of Walcot, and serious,
intelligent investigation was one of the many sturdy though reverential
habits of thought that yet lingered with these world-forgotten
villages. To Seymour himself the place was a paradise; the work was
not such as to overtax his bodily strength to that degree that leaves
but little energy for the intellectual requirements of his calling;
neither was the stress upon his imagination so unwholesomely great
as it is with too many of his successors, whose brain, in order to
froth up according to their Sunday audience's expectations, must be
in a moral ferment for the previous six days of the week. His wife,
no frivolous gossip to whom tea and petty scandal are dear, no mere
drudge from whom household cares have worn away the bloom of poetry
and the freshness of early enthusiasm, was to him a living guide, a
true helpmate, bearing his burdens and sharing his joys, a gospel-law
written in sweetest, most natural human characters, and a most winning,
womanly embodiment of the stern and glorious word "Excelsior."

Was it a reward for _her_ many virtues, or a trial for _his_ strong
and faithful nature, that God should call her hence, and close the
book abruptly which had been to her husband a living commentary on the
divine law? Yet it happened so, but not at the outset of their purified
love-career; for when Elizabeth Seymour came to die, she saw not only
her husband near her, with faith subduing sorrow in his inspired eyes,
but two children, one a girl of fifteen, the other a boy of four
years, the only ones she had had, but upon whom she had lavished the
holy mother-love that would have been intense still for each had her
children numbered as many as the sons of Jacob.

Grace--she had been called so because it was through earnest prayer
alone that her mother had survived her birth--was holding her father's
hand, while his other one and her own were clasped in the dying woman's
wasted fingers; and as the little one at her feet pulled unconsciously
at her long dress, she felt her heart throb strangely, solemnly, when
her mother said:

"Grace, I leave you my place; be a helpmate to your father, be a mother
to little George. Bring him up a brave, Christian man, like _his_
father--like _my_ father, for whom he is named. Never let him do wrong,
though the greatest worldly advantages might be the result. Remember
that, my child; offer your life to the Lord sooner than see your
brother offend him. God bless you, my precious Grace!"

The sick woman turned her longing eyes earnestly upon her husband,
and he, half kneeling, sank on the floor, and supported her head on
his shoulder. The burden was featherlight, but the strong man shook
and swayed as in mortal weakness, and his voice was low and broken.
Grace took the child's hand, and turned away. Those last moments
were too sacred even for a daughter's eye to gaze upon; angels alone
listened to the secret heart-speech of those two, whose lives had
been as the two strands of one rope. They had been all in all to each
other. The husband's love, if the greatest, had not been the less
faithful; but the burden was now for him, the reward for her. Strange
dispensation--and yet one that no lover would alter if he could--that
the deepest love should be but an earnest of the deepest suffering;
that the higher the heart goes in its sublime learning, the greater
should be its privilege of agony. And yet this thorny path is a very
Via Triumphalis, and those who tread it would not give one drop of the
royal purple that dyes their weary feet for all the kingly mantles
of rare and costly hue that grace the throne of the earthly monarch
or strew the path of the earthly victor. Edward Seymour had a double
right to this brotherhood of sublimest sorrow; for in his heart his
love had grown so strong that not once, but many times, it had held
unholy struggles with the higher, wider Love, to whom he had vowed
himself from his childhood, and he had had to wrestle mightily with its
strength, and had only overcome because, after all, the enemy he fought
was human, and the weapons he used were of God's eternal fashioning.
In Elizabeth's calmer, more even nature, love had never risen to that
height; it had flowed a tranquil stream in the channel of duty, and, if
deep, had never been turbulent. The trial had never come to her which
had threatened shipwreck to her husband; she had never even known of
it, for it had been the _one_ secret of his frank and pure life. The
awful moment came at last; Grace and little George had come nearer
again, and all three said afterwards that "Jesus" was the last sound
that passed the dying woman's lips. For a few minutes a trembling
stillness reigned; it was as if those left behind were listening
to the feet of the bearer-angels that had come to carry their mate
away. Could they but have listened at the same time to the wondrous
revelation of lightning-like truth that flashed from those angels'
solemn eyes, and transformed the blind belief of the living woman into
the exultant faith of the heaven-illumined Catholic! Strange and awful
thought! that those from whose mortal sight the scales have only just
been taken by death should, on the instant, enter into such communion
with the unknown, unsuspected truth, and be borne so far deeper in its
blessed knowledge than those who spend lives of long and humble search
on earth. Elizabeth Seymour knew now where truth had always been, and
yet she must look with spirit-eyes on her loved ones bending over her
beautiful, senseless body, all unconscious of that truth, all unknowing
of their dark and dangerous pathway. Would her agonized prayers ever
bring them to her new resting-place? Would God ever allow them to join
her in the other world? And meanwhile, the minister, with his dear
burden still in his clasped arms, lifted his head, and poured forth a
prayer into which his very life was breathed, ending with a passionate
flinging of his whole nature into the bosom of the all-knowing,
all-loving Father--"Thy will be done, not mine!"

As he lifted the inanimate form gently on the pillows, closed the eyes,
and pressed a kiss of all but despairing grief upon the white, warm
forehead of the lost one, his daughter, letting the child go, seized
his hand, and pressed it to her bosom, kissing it passionately, as
if, from the very instant of her mother's departure, she was taking
possession of the precious trust made over to her on the same spot only
a few short moments before.

He, ever mindful of others before himself, felt his child's signal, and
pressed her hand in return, leading her gently from the room, while the
old nurse, his wife's attendant from her early childhood by the sunny
brooks and fragrant meadows of Gloucestershire, performed the last
necessary duties towards the loved remains.

Day after day the dead lay in a darkened room, with flower-wreaths
framing her simple coffin, a queen in death as she had been in life,
with a touching court about her of widows and orphans, of mourners
comforted, of children and old men, of strong young laborers whose
minds she had turned soul-wards, and whose reverence for her had been
little less than that--so misconstrued by those very men--of Catholics
for a patron saint. At night, when the stream of villagers would
cease, the husband and the daughter watched hand-in-hand by the one
they could not think of as really gone from them while her sleeping
form lay so near their own resting-place. Now and then the minister
would say a few words, half in soliloquy, half to his companion, and
she, with her clear, pitying gray eyes upturned, would look at him in
dumb sympathy, and a pang would shoot through his heart, as he read the
mother's expression in the daughter's face. They renewed the flowers
and rearranged the internal draperies of the coffin; they spoke in
whispers, as one does in a sick-room, fearing to wake the happy dreamer
whom the first sleep has just come to relieve from a load of burning
pain and constant restlessness; little George was even allowed to bring
his quiet toys, and crawl over the floor round the strange bed where
he was told his mother was sleeping--at first sight of the coffin,
he had asked gravely, Was that a cradle, and had a new baby come to
play with him?--and, in a word, the death-veiled chamber seemed more
like home than any other part of the cottage. Then came the last day,
and the lid was to be fastened over the white-robed, white-crowned
sleeper. Grace brought her father a bunch of heliotrope to lay in her
mother's hands; it had been her own and her husband's favorite flower
in life; and just over her heart, together with a heart-shaped paper,
on which the name "Jesus" was illuminated in red and gold, was placed
a triple tress of hair, and attached to it a scroll with the names
of "Edward--Grace--George." Thus something living, something of her
earthly treasures, went down with her to the tomb; and on the day of
the great awakening, who shall say that those tokens will not make the
wife and mother's heart throb with a deeper joy, as she rouses herself
to meet those whose last pledge of undying love she will find thus laid
on her breast?

Slowly the procession moved to the meeting-house, and slowly on to
the churchyard; a neighboring minister performed the simple service,
and the three bereaved ones walked immediately behind the coffin.
The villagers were more awed by the face of the husband than by the
black-palled coffin of the wife; and some one remarked, "It was
more as if the minister had been walking between two angels to the
judgment-seat of the Almighty than as if, a father and a widower, he
was leading his orphan children to a new-made grave."

The silent cottage, buried under its wealth of flowering creepers,
seemed very cold and desolate when the mourners returned; tea was laid
in the cosey library, the blinds were drawn up, and the little birds
twittered in the veranda; everything was ordinary and as usual again,
the same it had been just one week ago, the day before _she_ died; but
it seemed so different! Mr. Seymour threw himself in an arm-chair by
the window, and took up a paper-knife mechanically; little George had
been taken up-stairs, and the third chair at the tea-table was for the
kind clergyman who had come to help his brother in his affliction.

Grace had taken off her bonnet and shawl, and was making tea in the
tea-pot that, together with the high, old-fashioned English urn, had
been one of her mother's most cherished wedding-gifts. Tears came
to her eyes and blinded her, and her hand shook as she touched the
tea-caddy of old English oak and wrought iron. Still, with all these
homely mementos rendering her sad inauguration of new duties sadder
still, she bravely thought of her trust, and struggled successfully to
be calm, at least in outward seeming. Her father's friend now came in,
and sat down in silence in a low chair opposite Mr. Seymour. Grace laid
her hand on her father's arm:

"Will you have your tea here by the window, on the little, low table?"
she said tremulously.

"No, my pet," he answered, taking her hand, and stroking it gently;
"let us sit down together, as usual." And he led her to her new place
at the head, as if he wished her to see that he would not shrink from
the everyday details of sorrow that each triviality of life would be
too certain to throw into relief.

They made no pretence of talking beyond the few necessary questions
of even the smallest assemblage at tea; but when Mr. Ashmead, their
guest and the minister of the neighboring parish, said that he thought
he must leave on the morrow early, both his host and his young, grave
hostess begged he would stay for a few more days, till next Sunday
even, if he could.

And so the new life began--the life we meant to start with at
the beginning of our story, but which has seemed so to need its
introduction, to be so much more interesting through it, that we could
not help putting in this long, explanatory prelude.

       *       *       *       *       *

The long days of winter passed, and a year was gone since the day that
saw Elizabeth Seymour's burial. Grace was growing tall and womanly, and
had taken her mother's place with as great seriousness as success. She
it was who taught her little brother all he was capable of learning
at his age; she who helped the worn-out teacher in the school; she
who copied out her father's sermons, and looked out his texts and
quotations.

The father and daughter, now knit together by a doubly tender tie,
and fully realizing all its happy solemnity, turned to the welcome
occupations of study to fill the many vacant hours their duties allowed
them. Mr. Seymour's library was extensive, and every month brought from
Boston some valuable and interesting additions. Of course, theology
figured mainly among the subjects treated of in these old and new
books; but not alone the theology of his own sect, for he had the
early fathers' magnificent works, those Thebaids of literature where
the vastness of the seemingly endless desert is only a veil for the
innumerable caves of deepest science, and hidden recesses filled with
most beautiful dogmas. The councils, too, were not unrepresented on
his shelves, though the earlier ones were to him the best known and
the least obnoxious. Among them was a dusty little book, in ancient
type, evidently a very hermit of a book, whose solitude had not been
disturbed since, by some accident, it had once made its way there among
the miscellaneous collection of a small library purchased nearly twenty
years ago. We may have occasion to refer to it again.

Mr. Seymour, confident of the truth of his own doctrines, never
hesitated to simulate doubts and ask questions, or propound religious
problems for the further mental training of his daughter's inquiring
disposition; but this habit of constant investigation at last produced
in her a tumult of the brain which she found she no longer had the
power to quell. Questions forced themselves upon her, doubts wrestled
for mastery in her mind, all things began to take strange, hitherto
undreamt-of shapes, and truths, elusory yet alluring, seemed to
rise out of axioms which she thought she had long ago laid aside as
proved and dangerous errors. She strove to hold on to her once blind
and unreasoning acceptance of her father's teaching. She would have
welcomed any superstition, could it only have promised her peace; but
the restless spirit, once roused in her, hurried her remorselessly,
till at last, in sheer despair, she turned to sweeping and systematic
denial of everything she had been taught to look upon as truth.

At first she did not speak to her father about these strange
experiences; she clung to the idea that it was physical excitement, a
fever of the brain, which would subside and let her see her landmarks
plainly once more. But the tempest grew wilder and more hopeless;
questions rose up, and would not be crushed out of existence--faced her
and mocked her, and would not be answered by the catechism formulas
she strove to oppose to them; her life seemed resolving itself into an
eternal, tormenting, unspoken, but ever suggested "why?" that rose and
took the shape of a demon she could not lay nor yet would listen to.
Importunate voices were all around her, chasms opened on every side;
and while she taught her little brother, and wrote out her father's
sermons, it seemed as if a stern and pitiless query sounded within her
very heart, demanding why she abetted the enslaving of other minds to
codes of which she herself felt the utter insufficiency. The keenest
misery to her was that this mocking voice, whose every vibration pulled
down a stone of her former religious temple, and sent it echoing in
hollow tones of fiendish triumph down the recesses and depths of her
torn heart--this voice never suggested one idea upon which she might
have seized and made the corner-stone of a new organization of truth.
The strange demon that beset her seemed, to her agonized mind, the
spirit of heartless destruction only, not even of the most perishable
and paltry substitution. Hollow, empty, heartless, seemed life to
her; faith gone, or proved an illusion good only for those whose
weak brain could not bear the spiritual loneliness of unbelief; the
world a charnel-house, in which death-doomed fools quarrelled about
precedence in another world, whose very existence was a myth of their
own miserable creation; life a journey aimless and useless, and the
faiths men carried through it only so many wind-threatened torches they
bore for their own deception--was this all, was this the beginning and
the end? Blindly her heart cried out, "Somewhere there must be a God,
somewhere there must be happiness!" and the fiend within her brain made
answer: "There is no God save the one the coward imagines; there is no
happiness save that which the fool finds in ignorance."

One day, after many months of this life-wearing struggle, Grace spoke
of her state to her father; and strange indeed was the shock to the
earnest, clear-thinking minister. Grave and tender, he tried to handle
the wounded child, but Grace was not to be soothed into faith; it
was conviction she required. Firmly yet patiently she heard him, and
answered:

"All that I have said to myself, but it is of no avail."

He tried to speak to her of her mother--of her belief, her unwavering
hope in God, her sure knowledge of Jesus, her feeling of rock-bound
security at the moment of her death; but to all this Grace answered: "I
know it all, but I cannot feel it; tell me something else, something
more."

Then the father, roused out of his half-hopeful state as to her
difficulties, and out of his hitherto so sweet reliance upon her
kindred strength, turned to the dogmatic aspect of his faith, and
prayed fervently that the Lord would open his child's eyes once more,
and draw her in out of the cold desert where her soul wandered, a
shivering stranger. But, alas! those apparently clear-cut arguments,
those knife-like dogmas, so trenchant, so uncompromising, those
technicalities of crystallized religion, so satisfying to the old
exiles and first settlers of New England, fell unheeded on the ear
of Grace, who, had she believed them, would have been as competent a
teacher of them as her own father, as far as her thorough knowledge of
their slightest details went. Mr. Seymour was trying to do God's work;
he was trying to _create_, to give life to a lifeless organization, to
put a quivering human soul into a shapely but ice-cold form.

Grace had once said she did not want example nor personal experience,
but clear, frigid demonstration. She was right as to the seeming want
in her soul--the want of absolute, incontrovertible truth; she was
wrong as to the fire from heaven, which was her real want--the purely
personal gift of faith, direct from God, which only can descend and
strike the waiting soul as a sacrifice, and enkindle it for ever, no
more to be extinguished by error or by doubt.

Another year passed, and things were unchanged. No, not unchanged, for
Mr. Seymour, in his great anxiety to bring his daughter back to the old
belief in which he and his ever-remembered wife had been so carefully
reared, had explored hitherto sealed books and commentaries in the vain
hope that, since none of the old arguments touched her, some newly
suggested ones might. He did not expect to find anything in these works
which would strike _him_ as either proving or disproving his settled
belief; still, he thought chance might throw into his hands some
demonstration that would have the desired effect upon Grace. She seemed
to be inclined to magnify beyond his utmost powers of toleration the
absolute independence and free will of man; she proudly took her stand
on human reason, insisting that if there were a creative God, and if it
were really he who had given reason to man, it followed that this regal
gift must be allowed full play in determining the object of faith. His
Calvinism rebelled and retreated to its old entrenchments, denouncing
reason as the natural enemy of faith, as an inventive principle ever
actively evil and godless. But he once read in a work of one of the
"great" reformers these strange and somewhat coarse words:

"The devil's sole occupation is to get the Romish priests to measure
God's will in his works, with reason."

He was staggered. He searched his book-shelves for some work of
Catholic theology. As he was passing his hand along the volumes, and
running his eye down their titles, the little, dusty book we have
mentioned fell down. He picked it up, and, looking at it carelessly,
saw its name, _Catechism of the Council of Trent_. Curiosity at
once made him forget the first motive of his expedition among the
books, and he sat down to examine the newly-found volume. By and by
he got interested, and from page to page his eyes ran eagerly, now
sparkling with defiance, now widening in astonishment, and anon his
brow contracting with intense earnestness, as clear dogmas revealed
themselves from out the ancient text--dogmas directly opposite to
his own, it is true, yet at every moment appealing to rational and
unbiassed human nature.

Here man was represented as a grand monument of God's glory, a
being worth redemption in the eyes of God, a creature endowed
with intellectual gifts to lead him rationally towards faith and
virtue, even as he was provided with feet to carry him to the clear
mountain-spring, and with hands wherewith to till the yielding,
fruitful soil. Here he beheld a humanity not degraded to brutishness
by the fall, but redeemable through the very qualities God's grace
had yet left to it; here he saw reconciled man's dignity and God's
majesty; here, in a word, a religion which, claiming to be divine, was
consequently not afraid to acknowledge and to guide the good tendencies
whose very humanness put them beyond the pale of competition with
herself. Mr. Seymour had always been taught to adhere to the Bible
as the one infallible rock of salvation; he now saw the Bible merged
into a system he had once called idolatrous, but could not at present
stigmatize as such. He determined to read the Bible from the point of
view of the Council of Trent, for pure intellectual curiosity's sake,
he said to himself. Alone and almost hiding from his daughter's still
hopeless but always eager inquiries, he began this study, with what
result would be almost useless to mention. The Council of Trent had
seemed plausible when studied by itself; but when referred to the book
he had always called the rule of faith, this council was irrefutable.
Could he have been mistaken all his lifetime? could it be that God
had purposely left him in ignorance so long? Or was not his belief at
least as good as the faith of the Council of Trent? But then came
his clear philosophical training to the rescue; for, it said, how can
contradictory axioms both be true? Hitherto he had unhesitatingly
held the Catholic doctrines to be intrinsically, nay blasphemously
untrue, and it followed that his own, their direct contradictories,
must be right; but if, upon examination, the reverse was evidently the
case, then his former opinions--for doctrines he could no longer call
them--must be radically, irredeemably false. One day he spoke to Grace
about it, and was surprised at the calm manner in which she received
a communication whose mere rudiments had been such a shock to him. To
her mind, this curious development of her father's researches was a
really interesting study, quite apart from its religious bearing, and
considered principally as a logical _passe-temps_. But to her father it
was a heart-stirring reality, which he pursued with all the hitherto
pent-up passion that his cold creed had forced to run in such narrow
channels. Once he said to his child:

"Grace, I used to believe the Bible was the only rule of faith; but
I never saw that the Bible presupposed a church, a heaven-ordained
society to shelter it from the conflicting explanations and
interpolations of men; presupposed, also, a willing obedience on the
part of the faithful to believe it as it is written, not a desire to
shrink from its plain teachings and explain away its doctrines. How
could we, without a church to interpret it to us, be sure that we were
not following some far-fetched human adaptation of its teaching, or
pandering to some cowardly modification of its code of morals? No; the
Bible presupposes the church, and, without it, would be more of a dead
letter than the Hebrew is a dead language."

Grace was silent, and wondered. Her own feelings were as unsettled as
ever, but she tried to live less in her own hopeless struggle than in
the noble, fruitful, self-forgetting life that was dawning for her
father. As his convictions grew deeper and took stronger root, his
anxiety for his child waxed more and more terrible. Would the grace
of God that had come to him through the yellow pages of an old book
never touch her with its rod of power? Had reason no influence on
her logical-seeming mind, had sentiment no power on her undoubtedly
loving heart? She went about her self-imposed duties as usual, bringing
consolation wherever she went, cheering others with words that were
powerless to cheer her own heart, kind and considerate to the poor,
amiable to all. Her father, smitten with dread as to her bodily as
well as spiritual welfare, asked himself how he could expose her at
this moment to the poverty that must result from the only step he knew
he ought to take. To leave Walcot as a convert meant to throw himself
and his children--Grace especially--into the most absolute penury. He
could endure it, George would hardly feel it, but his daughter, brave
and affectionate as she was, could her shattered heart bear up under
so unexpected a necessity? So he cheated himself and hesitated yet;
but the evil spirit was to be defeated soon. God could not allow his
returning son and no longer blinded servant to wander long in human
weakness outside the holy fold.

Grace was sitting at a reading-desk in her father's library one Sunday
evening in June, the purple sunset streaming in and giving the lilacs a
deeper hue, and the laburnums a more burnished shade, when a young man
swung open the garden gate, and, with free and unfettered step, almost
ran up to the house-door.

Seeing he was a stranger and a gentleman, Mr. Seymour opened the
library window, and leaned out, saying in a courteous tone:

"I am Mr. Seymour, if you are looking for me. I'll let you in directly."

The young man paused with his hand on the door-knocker, and waited till
his host came round.

"You must excuse my abruptness," he said pleasantly, as he handed his
card to Mr. Seymour. "I am already presuming on a relationship you may
choose to ignore."

"Why ignore it? The nephew of my dear wife is as welcome to my house as
if he were my own son," answered Mr. Seymour, laying the card on the
table. "Come," he continued, "let us be at home at once. I'll introduce
you to my daughter, your cousin."

They went into the library together, and the father, turning to Grace,
said:

"Here is a cousin from over the sea, child--George Charteris."

Grace had heard her mother talk of her younger sister's marriage to a
Mr. Charteris years before she herself was married, so the name was
familiar to her.

"I wish, my boy," said the host, "that God had spared your dear aunt to
see you here; but he knows best. And you have come to stay with us a
little before you go home again, I hope? Have you seen anything yet?"

"I only landed in Boston yesterday," answered the young man, "and have
had hard work to get here so soon. I came on business, to tell the
truth."

"Really!"

"You see, letters are very uncertain; and I just felt in the humor, so
I came across myself. I have got important papers for you. My uncle,
George Howard, died five weeks ago at his place in Gloucestershire,
and, as he left no children, the estate goes to the next of kin--your
son, George Seymour."

Grace and her father looked at each other in solemn, strange wonderment.

"My son!" he said slowly, "my son!"

"Yes, the son of the eldest sister. My mother was the younger sister,
you know. And so I came over about it; I am supposed to be a lawyer,
but the fact is, business is not overpowering with us young fellows,
and, as I had enough money to spare, I thought I would sooner go myself
than pay a man to make a mess of it. You and my father are appointed
guardians during the minority of the heir."

"And they will expect him to go and live in England?" said the father
thoughtfully.

"Of course; will there be any difficulty about that?"

Seymour did not reply; he only glanced at his daughter with an awed
expression about his face. She was looking at him intently. Young
Charteris noticed how ill she seemed.

The rest of the evening passed very sociably, and, having shown his
young guest his room, Seymour returned in his dressing-gown and
slippers to the library. Grace stole in softly, still dressed, and
looking anxious. She drew a chair beside him, and, taking his hand in
her own, said solemnly:

"Dear father, it was ordained we should leave this place."

"Was such _your_ idea also, my child?" her father asked.

"Of course; and if I have not spoken of it before, my dear father, it
was only because I was waiting for _you_ to mention it first."

It seemed a reproach! Was God using this blind instrument to show him
more forcibly where his duty lay?

"I know, father," continued Grace, "what that means for you in the
circumstances you newly stand in. It means that you will not be allowed
to be guardian to your son, that you will be denied access to him,
that he will be brought up a Protestant before your eyes, and that
practically you will be as homeless as the outcast you would have made
yourself from this village and this church. But remember, whatever
happens, Grace is always with you--will always be, whether she believes
or not, happy or wretched, poor or rich, until it shall be your own
pleasure to drive her from your side. Although thy God may not be my
God, yet thy people shall be my people, and we will stand or fall
together!"

"My brave child!" was all the father could answer through his tears.

"But, father dearest," she resumed in a quick, decided voice, "if
George is to be brought up as you wish, the first thing to secure is
his being rightly baptized; and you can do that this very next day. I
shall be allowed to see George, and thus my mother's trust will be in
my hands yet."

"O my girl! it is hard, you cannot tell how hard."

"I have lost what you have won, father. Think you the loss of faith a
lesser evil than the changing of it?"

"Poor child! poor child! God grant you may see it one day."

"God grant I may," she answered frankly, "if it be the truth."

They spoke far into the night, and Seymour determined to announce
from the pulpit next Sunday his unshaken conviction of the truth of
the Catholic faith, and to take a final leave of his congregation.
Young Charteris knew nothing of it. George was baptized the following
morning. The week passed by, and the young English cousin was more
than ever attracted by the strange, silent, preoccupied manner and
the serious, anxious beauty of his girl-companion. A gay young man,
with hardly any surface of religion about him, he yet had that deep
observative faculty which renders some men's perceptions so acute and
true in the field of religion. Half an unbeliever himself for fashion's
sake, he was yet quick to detect how really far from unbelief the
seemingly cold, doubting girl's heart was; and he smiled to himself
as he shrewdly thought how both Puritanism and this present phase
of feeling would be rudely shaken when brought face to face with
the hot-pressed life of wealthy, bewildering London. But something
whispered to him that neither father nor daughter would allow the
brilliant world to stand between them and their convictions, whatever
those might be. Meanwhile, Charteris romped with little George, who was
wisely kept in ignorance as to his new honors, and the days sped fast
towards the eventful Sunday which was to have so strange and stormy an
ending.

The Saturday previous, Mr. Seymour sat at the window of his library, in
his favorite arm-chair, his daughter leaning her head upon his knee,
and holding one of his hands clasped to her bosom. For a long time
there was a silence; then, like the evening breeze just born among the
tree-tops, a faint whisper of conversation began to stir the quiet of
the darkened room. The sun was gone down, and the crescent moon was
rising in white mistiness behind the shrubbery.

"It was just such a night, Grace," said the minister, "that we sat here
with Ashmead more than two years ago--the day we began our new life
without your dear mother; and now we have turned another leaf already,
and are on the threshold of another new life!"

"Yes, my own darling," said his child; "but it is not without me that
you are going to begin it. In any case, I shall never leave you. And if
we are parted from little George, why, what can we do but cling more
and more to each other?"

"Have you thought, Grace, that it may be a life of toil that we are
going to meet?" asked her father earnestly.

"Father dearest, would my mother have shrunk from entering it with you?
And do you think _I_ love you less than she did?"

"My brave girl!" he answered, with a soft light coming into his dreamy
eyes. Presently he said: "But, Grace, you will have little consolation,
little support, for my principles are leading me; but you?"

"My love for you is _my_ guide!" she said fervently.

"Truly, my child, you are even as Ruth, who clung to Naomi for very
love, and thereby reaped the reward of faith. God grant you may be led
to the same end through my humble instrumentality."

There was a pause. The father, after a few moments' earnest thought,
spoke again.

"Grace, darling," he said, and she started, as if collecting her
runaway thoughts.

"Yes," she answered, with a loving look.

"Do not blame me for speaking abruptly, Grace," her father resumed;
"for circumstances are such as allow us little spare time for forms of
speech. Has it ever struck you that you will most likely marry? And
have you noticed your cousin's manner towards you?"

At the first hint of marriage Grace had lifted her great, startled eyes
to her father's face; then, on the second and more personal question,
she looked quickly down, and a burning blush came like sunset hues over
her usually pale cheeks. But she never hesitated nor wavered in her
answer, for the blush was more that of surprise than consciousness.

"I never thought of my cousin in that way. Did _you_? And I have
thought vaguely some day I might be a good man's wife--a minister's,
most likely; but now these strange doubts have come to me, I could have
no peace in any new relation in life. In conscience, my father, I could
enter upon none."

"Well, child, I am glad so far. But if your cousin had many
opportunities, depend upon it he would love you. I only say this to
caution you. You know your own heart; you know I could approve such a
marriage under certain circumstances, always provided you do not come
to the happy truth I have reached. Now, you can act as your conscience
and your reason impel you; but it is always better, I think, to work in
the full daylight."

"I could not marry as I am now. Besides, I could not leave you."

"You might have to leave me."

"Father!" cried the girl, startled.

"Never mind," he said soothingly, but not offering to explain himself,
and then went on: "Supposing a thing to be possible, still, in the case
that you remained out of the church, would you let your cousin be your
helpmate and your protector?"

"If you wish it, I will think of it, and question my own heart," said
Grace; but the words were measured, and the tone was cold. Her father
felt it.

"Grace, I did not wish to hurt you, child. I cannot tell you all I
meant, for I hardly discern yet what is God's voice within me, and what
the voice of my own earthly enthusiasm, perhaps even ambition. But, my
own precious daughter, our hearts will always be one; and after God,
there is no one on earth more dear to me than you are."

Grace laid her head on her father's knee again.

"So if your cousin Charteris should speak to you on the subject of
marriage before your views of religion are changed, you will answer
deliberately and calmly, will you not, having searched your innermost
feelings well?" said the father.

"I will," said Grace firmly.

The next day dawned fair and bright; the very air had a holiday feel
about its quiet, fresh-scented crispness; the birds sang softly in
the vivid-painted trees, and it seemed as if nature had reserved a
very jubilee of delights for the lovely summer afternoon. Crowds came
soberly to church, the children glancing longingly at the tempting
hedges, the young people now and then looking into each other's eyes
the things they dared not put in words, and would have spoilt in the
saying had they done so; to some, older and more spiritually-minded
persons, came, on the fragrant breeze, faint suggestions of the
fabled millennium, in which they believed with the grasping faith of
disappointed souls; to all came, on the wings of this Sunday morning,
impressions of peace, of happiness; perceptions of a life holier and
higher than that of the present; vague stirrings of the soul, as if
some mystery, both dread and beautiful, were coming out to meet them
from the unusual radiance of this never-to-be-forgotten day.

Very solemn indeed did the day's brightness seem to the earnest
minister; a new bridal, far different from the bridal eighteen years
before in the very country for which he was now again bound--a bridal
of the soul with sorrow and with sacrifice, a taking up of the crown
of thorns and the cross of dereliction. He would walk into the old
meeting-house, a hero among his people; he would leave it, an outcast
and a leper among his brethren. He would meet his flock a revered
pastor, an acknowledged guide; he would go out of that pulpit, his no
longer, an exile, a suspected impostor, an accursed and condemned man.
And not there only was the sting; beyond and far above it was the human
sense of deep humiliation at having to unsay his teaching, to renounce
the doctrines he had taught for twenty years, to warn his people of
the very faith he had believed in from his cradle. It is no slight
thing for a man, learned and looked up to, an eager and practical
theologian, to stand before a congregation of intelligent, sharp-witted
hearers, and say, "I was mistaken!" For when you feel that every word
you speak is changed, as it falls on their ears, into a barbed weapon
against yourself, and will be handled by remorseless and unsympathizing
fellow-men until twisted into meanings you never dreamed of and
deceptions you would scorn, then it is that the painful, human side
of the great and heroic sacrifice is revealed, and that our fleshly
weakness has to turn perforce in helpless and blind reliance upon God.

Solemn also, and far sadder, seemed the glorious beauty of that Sunday
morning to Grace Seymour by her open window, through which came the
scent of lilacs and blossoming horse-chestnuts; her books ranged in
melancholy silence on the shelf above the mantel, the old family Bible
lying solitary and unopened on a little table by itself, an air of
desolateness hanging over the simple, innocent-looking room, with its
chintz hangings and two or three old prints and faded pictures. Some
were of sacred subjects, and these, unless this were the spectator's
fancy, seemed more forlorn than any others; Grace herself thought
so sometimes, as she would give a pathetic survey to the room that
had known no change since her childhood, save when the great change
of death had wafted into it some of the old mementos of her English
mother's youth.

On the eve of this last change, that was almost another death, the
young girl sat with clasped hands on the wide window-sill, and gazed
with sad yet steadfast eyes on the beauty of the breaking day. To her
it was indeed a setting forth on a journey without scrip or staff,
without guide or compass. In her love for her father, she gloried in
his grand, manly act, though it drove her forth into the desert world;
but though she rejoiced at his stern following of principle, as at a
deed of heroism in itself, yet what comfort was there for her in the
dreary waste of an untried world? To set out on the road to heaven,
leaving the paths of men, was one thing; but to leave the known for the
unknown, the real life of human sympathy for a dark, companionless one
among things that were only shadows and mocking figures of mist--what
was that? And would human love carry her through? Could she follow, by
the glow-worm light of an earthly though hallowed feeling, the same
path in which a fiery pillar preceded her father's soul, and angels
guided his footsteps? But come what might, she would try; so she had
resolved from the beginning. Besides, was it not she who had, according
to the instinct of her true nature, decided for her father the step
his own conscience had counselled, but from which his human love
still weakly recoiled? And, therefore, was she not bound to share his
fortunes, even though love had not impelled her to do so? She could not
pray that this day's work might end in good, she could not pray for
strength or guidance; she could only helplessly gaze upon the familiar
home-scene she had watched so often from that window--the spread of
orchard and garden and meadow-land beyond, the golden lights flickering
among the shrubs, and playing with the soft, changing shadows--all the
beauty that had been her soul's book for years, and was now the only
book she could still read and love as of old. A sort of dumb prayer was
that wistful gaze, the hopeless, half-conscious murmur of paralyzed
lips striving to form once more sounds that long ago, they remember,
used to mean _something_ to the understanding. Little George at this
moment ran across the lawn after a yellow butterfly, and looked up
fearfully at the library-window, as if expecting to be reproved for
such unwonted exercise on the sacred day.

Grace started and looked at her watch. It was time; the bells had been
ringing some minutes, and the hour was drawing nigh. She stole down to
her father's side, very solemn and quiet, and took his hand. He turned
and clasped her in his arms.

"God will bless you yet, my little one," he said, with an earnest look
into her brave eyes, "for all you are to me."

Hand-in-hand they walked the short distance between their cottage
and the meeting-house. The great trees stood protectingly round the
little church, shading it like a temple, with broad shadows flung like
curtains before its doors, as if to supplement the bareness in which
human hands had left it. The people were crowding in; some stepped
aside as the minister passed, making room for him; others nodded to
him, and were startled at the unwonted look in his far-searching eyes.
Grace, on the contrary, seemed almost defiant, as if she thought of
nothing save the storm which one short hour would bring about her
darling's head. The congregation seated themselves with that undertone
of quiet rustling peculiar to country audiences. Grace sat directly
facing her father; but she had turned herself so that her features were
visible to those who sat in the nearest pews behind. Edward Seymour
slowly came up the pulpit stairs, and stood before his people. One
long, sweeping glance he gave them, then his eyes went upward, and a
light came into them, as of something more than human.

The crowd was thrilled, and men and women gazed at each other
inquiringly.

Then he began: "My friends, I have come to say farewell to you. This is
no sermon, but an explanation which is due to you. I am not going to
leave you for the city, nor for another flock, nor for the retirement
of a college-life. It is not a man who has called me, it is not the
world or my own interests that have bidden me leave you; it is God.

"Truly, 'God's ways are not our ways, nor his thoughts our thoughts.'
If you will bear with me, I will show you how this has been borne in
upon me, and will give you, what you have a right to hear, the brief
history of the change which is calling me away from you."

The interest of his hearers was acutely, if not painfully, awakened;
every one waited breathlessly for the novel experiences of one who had
always seemed so strong in the belief he taught. Some thought he had
turned to the Methodist views, some suspected him of Episcopalian
leanings; of the truth, not one had the slightest inkling, for, to
their minds, such a change was more irrational than suicide, and more
awful a judgment than insanity.

Step by step, with clear, sharp-cutting words, he developed the doubts
and fears of his soul; he dissected his life for the last year, and
showered Bible texts upon his hearers in his rapid way that would have
been impassioned had he let it be; and when, one after the other, he
had sapped all the axioms his former teaching had rested on, and had
carried the mind of his audience, against its will, out of the sphere
of certainty, he then paused a moment, and said in a more gentle voice
than he had used in his dogmatic course:

"And now, my friends, what remains to be said? This: to confess my
mistake before you all, to humble myself at the feet of God, whom I
have so long misunderstood and mistaught, and to ask your forgiveness
for having given you, in my ignorance, stones when you asked for bread,
serpents when you cried for food. You know the church which alone
teaches all that God has now shown me to be true; you know that it is a
church flouted and condemned, persecuted and poor--none other than the
Holy Roman Catholic Church (here the stir was like an electric shock
among the rapt audience, and Grace half rose up in her seat, and looked
defiance from her flashing eyes upon her nearest neighbors), none other
than was founded in the poverty of Bethlehem, the ignominy of Calvary,
the secrecy of the catacombs.

"I have but few words left to say to you, my friends. We have walked
together for many years, seeking God. I knew not that I had not found
him; _now_ I know that I walked in darkness and in the shadow of
death. I pray that each of you, in God's appointed time, may be led,
like me, to find him. I thank him that this grace should come with
sorrow, exile, and poverty in its train. I take up the cross willingly,
and leave home and country, and a beloved grave, and a people to whom
my soul was knit, to follow humbly where God shall lead me. And now,
once again farewell, and may God bless you, every one, and reward you
for all that your friendship and your fidelity have ever done for him
who was once your pastor."

With a grave and simple salutation, he went down the pulpit stairs,
passed out of the church, his daughter eagerly joining him and linking
her arm in his. Her English cousin, who had come in late to the
service, hastened after them, and frankly expressed his astonishment
at the sudden turn of affairs. The people, who streamed out after them
in hurried groups, as if anxious to get into the air, that they might
talk over this extraordinary event, eyed them askance as they walked
home; the deacons spoke together in shocked whispers, and the older
men and women quoted texts about wolves in sheeps' clothing. Some
of the younger church members were scared and disturbed more by the
uncompromising arguments than by the tangible result; while others,
the reckless and the more "unregenerate," boldly said they admired the
minister's "pluck."

George Charteris dwelt very seriously on the exclusion from the
guardianship of his son which this course of Mr. Seymour's would
inevitably entail; but the father only answered sadly: "The Lord did
not speak to me of such things; those affairs are in his hands, and his
secrets are not for us to inquire into. So far as I saw my way clear,
I have answered the call of God."

Several friends called in the evening to speak to the minister about
the incredible announcement he had made that morning; they found him
the same as ever, patient, kind, and courteous, and his young daughter
more beautiful and more attractive than before; for the determined way
in which she supported her father's conduct gave her a touch of the
heroine.

Late that night the two visited the moonlit grave near the little
church. Great elm-shadows veiled it, and the night-wind rustled the
violet and primrose leaves that bordered it all round. In the summer
a cross of heliotrope grew at its head, but as yet it had been too
cold to put the plants out. In his new-found faith, the husband could
now kneel and pray, and speak to the angel guardian of his lost wife,
and send messages to the soul that knew all he had so lately learnt,
and knew it so much better than he. But the great thing of which he
spoke was the future of his children and hers, praying that they too,
especially Grace, should be brought to the same knowledge and saved
through the same faith. Grace stood like a statue, her hands clasped
and resting on her father's shoulder, her slight form bending forward
as he knelt. When he rose, she pressed his arm and drew him towards
her, looking up into his tear-veiled eyes with looks of hungry love. It
was a rare and a piteous sight to see the strong man weep, to see the
wave-like emotion of this solemn hour bow the head of the deep thinker,
the calm and kingly scholar. It made him more sacred in her sight, and
kindled her rapturous feelings to that degree that she could gladly
have died, that he might be spared one pang more in his future path of
thorns.

He hardly suspected _all_ that he was to his child; for great
though his love was, broad, and deep, and still, it was silent as
the great ocean that sleeps round the islands of coral, beneath the
changeless radiance of southern constellations. But few outward signs
passed between father and daughter, for his grand, noble nature was
self-contained and grave; and for that very reason Grace honored him
in her heart, calling him to herself a hero among men. Was it strange
that, by his side, other men seemed dwarfed, that their virtues seemed
shallow, and their very vices more contemptible than horrible? Was
it strange that his intellect, so far-reaching, and his practical
business abilities, so clear and straight-forward, should make other
men seem only half men, with one side of their nature alone monstrously
developed, till it grew to overbalance the other, and make the whole
into a grotesque travesty of humanity, a moral satyr, more beast than
man, and more fool than either?

I do not say that such ungracious thoughts came to her when she noticed
her cousin, George Charteris; but something hollow and unreal suggested
itself to her, as she listened to his brilliant, frivolous talk or
his cynical, off-hand observations. She thought, if that is what
modern fashion breeds in men, the world of to-day is no better than a
smelting-furnace, obliterating all but the changing current of mingled
ore and dross constantly running with aimless speed through its many
channels. She looked forward to any contact with it as a trial, and
only stayed herself with the idea that everything noble and pure and
dignified was embodied in her father's life, in which she would always
be wrapped up. Yet she had promised to think of marriage!

The day following this eventful Sunday the Seymour family left Walcot.
Their cottage, which was their own property, was to be let for a year,
as their affairs were still unsettled and their plans quite undecided.
From that day Edward Seymour again felt that a new journey had begun
for him; and where his soul would be landed he knew not, nor cared to
know, so God was before him and his daughter at his side.

                      TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.




CUI BONO?


    Pale star, if star thou be, that art
    So fain to shine, though far apart
        From all thy stately peers;
    Thou whom the eye can scarce discern--
    Oh! who hath set thee there to burn
        Among the spheres?

    Thou com'st too late: the firmament
    Is full, and thou wast never meant
        For yonder gorgeous steep;
    The night hath counted all her pearls,
    And, pillow'd on her casket, furls
        Her wings in sleep.

    The night needs not thy tardy ray;
    Thou canst not usher in the day,
        Nor make the twilight fair;
    What sailor turns to thee at sea?
    What mourner doth look up to thee
        In his despair?

    Mournful or glad, no eye shall chance
    To light on thee; no curious glance
        Thy motions shall discern;
    No lonely pilgrim pause to catch
    Thy parting ray, nor lover watch
        For thy return.

    Oh! leave the world that loves thee not--
    For who shall mark the vacant spot?
        Oh! drop into the cloud
    That waits to take thee out of sight,
    Beyond the glare of yonder bright
        And chilly crowd!

    "I may not, if I would, return
    Into the dark, or cease to burn
        My spark of light divine:
    For he that in my lamp distils
    The sacred oil, he surely wills
        That I should shine.

    "I fret not at the blaze of spheres,
    The distant splendor that endears
        The night to men; but strive--
    Finding strange bliss in perfect calm--
    To keep with these few drops of balm
        My flame alive.

    "It may be that some vagrant world,
    Or aimless atom, toss'd and whirl'd
        Through windy tracts of space,
    Perceives by me the Hand that tends
    It ever, and the goal that ends
        Its tedious race.

    "I know not: me this only care
    Concerns, that I for ever bear
        My silver lamp on high,
    Nor lift to God a laggard flame,
    Because on earth I cannot claim
        A partial eye."




THE JANSENIST SCHISM IN HOLLAND.

JANSENISM IN THE CHURCH OF UTRECHT.


             FROM LES ETUDES RELIGIEUSES. BY C. VAN AKEN.


I.

I shall not undertake to write the history of Netherland Jansenism. I
have a more special purpose in view; it is to demonstrate the actual
existence of that heresy in the so-called Church of Utrecht. To this
end, I shall, after showing what the principles of Jansenism are,
make it clear that the errors of Baius, as developed, or, so to say,
amended, by Jansenius, are reproduced by Quesnel, and are to be found
in the false Synod of Pistoia. This assembly, held in 1786, under the
authority of Leopold II., Grand Duke of Tuscany, and presided over
by Scipio Ricci, Bishop of Pistoia and Prato, merits our attention;
for the principal documents I shall make use of in this paper concern
the official adhesion given by the schismatical clergy of Holland
to the synod.[203] As to the events which are related and admitted
by all historians, I shall only refer to them in order to point out
their significance, or to dissipate the obscurity in which the recent
promoters of the schism have sought to envelope facts.

"Jansenius had been a great reader of S. Augustine; but he brought to
the study of this author far more of zeal than of prudence or real
knowledge. In some passages he renders the thoughts of the Doctor
of Grace well enough; almost everywhere else, and even in the most
important points, he is grossly in error. An extensive reader he was
not; one author alone absorbed his whole life, and the more he dwelt
upon his author, the less he understood him. His posthumous work is
bad, impious, and truly heretical. Calvin, as Jansenius presents him,
is no longer Calvin."

Thus writes F. Denis Petau (author of _Dogmes Théologiques_ and
_Doctrine des Temps_) to F. Bollandus, August 9, 1641, shortly after
the publication of the celebrated _Augustinus_. The Calvinists of
Holland have taken the same view as F. Petau; for them Jansenius is an
ally, a friend, whose opinions are less opposed to theirs in substance
than in form. Did not the Bishop of Ypres candidly acknowledge that
he "almost entirely" approved the Calvinist Synod of Dordrecht?
The Abbé of Saint-Cyran, another patriarch of Jansenism, remarked:
"Calvin thought justly, but expressed himself ill--_bene sensit,
male locutus est_." However, there are important differences between
the two heresies; but it would take us too much out of our way to
indicate them in detail. These words of the false Synod of Pistoia
perfectly express the germinal idea of Jansenism: "In these latter
days a general obscurity prevails in regard to the most important
truths of religion.... It is necessary, therefore, to remount to the
pure source of the principles which have been obscured by novelties,
in order to establish a uniformity of doctrine which shall be a
subject of edification for the faithful, and gratify the wishes of
our most religious prince.... To establish this unity of principles,
the enlightened sovereign suggests to the bishops to take for their
rule the doctrine of S. Augustine against the Pelagians and the
semi-Pelagians, who, through their system, have destroyed the spirit of
the Christian religion, and preached a new gospel."[204] It must needs
follow from this that the authority of the church is not an efficacious
remedy against error, since it was possible for the general belief
of the faithful to be obscured for centuries in regard to the most
important truths.

Is this in any wise different from what the reformers of the XVIth
century pretended? Did not Calvin, especially, have always in his mouth
the name of the great Bishop of Hippo? Jansenius develops the same
thought in his preliminary work, _De Ratione et Auctoritate_.[205]
Baius had prepared the way for him.[206] For the authority of the
teaching church, always youthful and full of life, as S. Irenæus says,
the Jansenists substituted S. Augustine, who was no longer at hand to
protest against the abuse that had been made of his words--words often
rugged and obscure. So much for the general ground; let us now enter
into detail.

Following Baius, Jansenius sets out with this fundamental axiom, which
is, as it were, the culminating point whence one takes in his whole
system: The complete man is not a compound of body and soul only (as
the Catholic doctrine declares, in consonance with sound philosophy);
but a third principle, the Holy Ghost, the sole source of all wisdom,
of all charity, is necessary, in order to complete the rational
being, and to render him worthy of his Creator and of his natural
destiny.[207] Without this grace--for so Jansenius considered it--body
and soul constitute only a sensual and animal being, defenceless
against all evil desires, and incapable of rising to the knowledge and
love of good. The immediate consequence of these principles is that God
could not create man without bestowing upon him the Holy Ghost and all
the other gifts which faith manifests to us in our first parents.[208]

These were, no doubt, so many graces, says Jansenius; but these graces
were none the less due to human nature, which without them would have
been incomplete.[209]

"The first man was created in a state of _perfect_ innocence, and
could not come forth otherwise from the hand of God. The idea of
any other state whatever is a chimera which would degrade humanity
and openly conflict with the perfections of a sovereign Providence.
Faith teaches us that Adam was established in justice and charity.
He therefore loved his Creator, and had within himself no perverse
inclination."[210] Thus speak the sectaries of Pistoia, faithful
interpreters of Jansenist thought. The church has condemned this
conclusion; she teaches us that God could have created man as he is
born at present, without sin, to be sure, but still without that
_perfect_ innocence which consists in the supernatural and purely
gratuitous gifts of charity and integrity.[211]

However, sin entered into the world, and at one blow man lost all
the gifts of the Holy Ghost: he had fallen into that abnormal state
of incompleteness in which God could not have established him in the
beginning. "He hastened from darkness to darkness, from error to error,
from sin to sin: powerless to deliver himself from that love which
held him attached to himself."[212] But "the infected root must (by
a physical necessity, as Jansenius says)[213] produce defective and
corrupt fruit. He transmits to his children, therefore, in the order of
generation, ignorance of good and a vicious inclination to evil."[214]
This is original sin, according to the Jansenists.

The Catholic Church, in whose eyes sin is above all a moral disorder,
teaches that ignorance and concupiscence are not sins, but the
consequence of the first transgression, and the occasion to man in his
fallen state of voluntarily committing new sins.

Jansenius exaggerates from the first the extent of the wound which
ignorance caused in us. The fallen man, according to him, is no longer
possessed of organs for perceiving the truths which concern the higher
interests of the soul; God, the future life, natural right, are so
many closed books, which revelation alone can open for us.[215] This
is a sort of religious scepticism, often revived since, and always
rejected by sound theology. It is the real source also, we may be sure,
of the peculiar mysticism which has flourished among the Jansenists
from the beginning. By a natural consequence, Jansenius treats reason
and science as enemies of faith; he would have them banished afar from
theology. It is not intelligence, says he, but memory, and, above all,
the heart, which penetrates revelation.[216] Is this the same as to say
that the adversaries of the _Augustinus_ have opened the door to modern
rationalism, as Sainte-Beuve insinuates? By no means. Between the two
errors lies the truth as proclaimed by the Scriptures and the fathers,
maintained by the sovereign pontiffs, and definitely decided in the
Holy Council of the Vatican.[217]

Ignorance, the fruit of sin, is itself imputed as sin, say the
Jansenists; in other words, we are guilty before God of the faults
into which ignorance causes us to fall unwittingly and in spite of
ourselves.[218] This is also the teaching of Scipio Ricci's false
synod. Pelagius, we are told by it, "could not understand why the
ignorance of good which is born with us, which is _necessarily_
transmitted to us in the order of generation, and by which man falls
into error without wishing to, and in spite of himself--_invitus ac
nolens_--ought not to excuse sin."[219]

Pelagius, who denied the fact of the original fall, would not admit
that ignorance, the consequence of the fall, was an evil or a weakness,
especially in view of man's supernatural end; but faith, equally with
good sense, forbids our maintaining that one can be guilty without
willing to be so--_invitus ac nolens_.

The second wound of man in his fallen state is denominated
concupiscence. In the system of Jansenius "it is a movement of the soul
which leads to the enjoyment of self and of other creatures for some
other end than God. It is, therefore, an affection of the soul contrary
to order, and _bad in itself_. Hence it is that man without grace (that
is, deprived of grace), and under the slavery of sin, since cupidity
reigns in his heart, whatever effort he may make to withdraw himself
from its influence, refers everything to himself, and by the general
influence of the love which dominates him, _spoils and corrupts all
his actions_."[220] This error of Jansenius has been stigmatized as it
deserves in the bulls directed against Baius and Quesnel.[221] These
writers present the error under forms the most various; for example,
"All that man does without grace is sin. All the works of infidels are
sins. The sinner, without grace, is free only for evil."

According to Catholic doctrine, man by his fall has become the slave of
sin, and has from himself only sin and falsehood, in the sense that of
himself he is for ever incapable of justifying himself from the stain
of original sin and from the sins he has voluntarily committed; he
can do nothing, absolutely nothing, towards his supernatural destiny;
his weakness is so great that, without assistance from on high, he
cannot but fall frequently and grievously, especially when assailed
by powerful temptations. In these truths there are motives enough for
humbling our pride, without needing to go so far as the Jansenists,
and say that the necessity of our sinning is an absolute and continual
necessity. This theory would be less repulsive if, with the fathers,
the abundance of grace were also proclaimed. Christ's redemption, the
latter tell us, embraces all time; but his grace is more palpable to us
in these days, and more generally diffused. Divine assistance is always
at hand, say they unanimously, at the moment it is wanted; so that
man can at least call upon God for help, and thus obtain the strength
of which he stands in need. Jansenius, on the contrary, pitilessly
restrains the measure of liberating grace. Let us hear what the Synod
of Pistoia has to say on this subject:

"The Lord willed that, before this plenitude of time [the time of our
Saviour's appearance upon earth], mankind should pass through different
states. It was his will that man, _abandoned to his own lights_,
should learn to distrust his _blind reason_, and that his wanderings
should thus lead him to desire the assistance of a superior light.
This was the _state of nature_ in which man knew not sin, and suffered
himself to be drawn by concupiscence without being aware of it."[222]
Thus, then, there was a long series of centuries in which mankind in
general were abandoned to ignorance and cupidity, and when, without
knowing it, without wishing it, they fell from sin to sin. Is this not
frightful? But what follows is still more cruel: "God then gave him a
law which brought him to a knowledge of sin. But man, being POWERLESS
to observe it, became a prevaricator under the law. Sin became even
more widespread, either because the law forbidding it heightened the
desire for it, or because prevarication--that is, contempt of the
law--was added to its violation.... The law, therefore, was given by
God, ... not to heal the wounds of mankind, but to acquaint him with
the malady and with the necessity of a remedy."[223] Thus viewed, the
law of Sinai is an injustice and a subject of derision.

Finally, "The Son of God descended from the bosom of his Father and
brought salvation."[224] Now, at least, grace, like a current of life,
will pass into the veins of languishing humanity! Alas! no; the further
we advance the more disheartening becomes the doctrine of Jansenius.
He acknowledges at the outset that progress in the individual follows
the same course as in the species. I will explain his thought: many
men, even under the Christian law, have not the gift of faith--they
are in the _state of nature_; others are enlightened by the rays of
divine revelation or by the interior light of grace--they are in a
state analogous to that of men under the law. "While earthly love
reigns in the heart, the light of grace, if it be alone, produces the
same effect as the law.... It is necessary, therefore, that the Lord
should create in the heart a holy love, that he should inspire it with
a holy delectation, contrary to the love which reigns there. _This
holy love, this holy delectation, is, properly speaking, the grace
of Jesus Christ_; it is the grace of the New Testament.... Dominant
love is a holy passion which operates in man, in regard to God, the
same effects which dominant cupidity operates therein in regard to
the things of earth."[225] Millions of men are thus excluded from all
participation in redeeming grace. Jansenius says distinctly that the
graces indispensable to salvation are not accorded at all times except
to the small number of the elect; all others receive nothing, or only
temporary and insufficient helps, which serve but to render them more
guilty. In this sense, the Jansenists refuse to admit that Christ
died for the eternal salvation of all men; the predestined alone were
comprehended in the great contract by which Jesus, in dying, offered
his life, and the Eternal Father accepted his stainless oblation as the
price of justifying grace. It is in this sense, also, that the fifth
proposition of Jansenius has been condemned as heretical: "It is a
semi-Pelagian error to say that Christ died or shed his blood for all
men in general."[226]

Hence arose that horrible Jansenist doctrine of predestination,
borrowed from Calvin, in which God is made to appear pitiless even in
his mercies, the reprobate as a victim less guilty than unfortunate,
and the elect one as a spoiled child who ought to blush at his immortal
crown.[227]

I shall return to this latter point hereafter. Meanwhile, let us point
out another consequence of the doctrine here laid down. If it be true
that man is often abandoned by grace, and if, in consequence of his
impotence, he necessarily violates the divine commands, must we, then,
believe that God orders what is impossible? No doubt of it, reply the
Jansenists; Pelagius first dared to deny this consequence--that the
just themselves do often lack necessary grace.[228] This monstrous
error is expressed in the first proposition of Jansenius, as follows:
"Some of God's commandments are impossible to the just in the state
of their present strength, whatever will they may have, and whatever
efforts they may make; and the grace through which these commandments
would become possible to them is wanting."[229] Catholics, with the
Council of Trent (session vi. chap. xi.), say quite the contrary.
It is a doctrine universally held in the church, and borne out by
the unanimous consent of the fathers, that no one is deprived of the
graces indispensable to salvation, except through his personal fault.
Theologians also, for the most part, teach, with reason, that God
confers the grace of conversion on sinners the most obstinate and
hardened.

How is it that Jansenius was unable to perceive one of the clearest
points of Christian revelation--the infinite mercy of God towards the
sinner? It was the inevitable consequence of his doctrine concerning
liberty.[230] In his eyes, the equilibrium of the human will has been
irreparably lost; man naturally follows the attraction which dominates
him.

Without grace, our poor will tends irresistibly to the depths of
sin; an evil cupidity dominates it. But let the delectation of divine
love take possession of this entirely passive and powerless heart,
and it will be drawn to good by an equal necessity. Now, we see but
too well that this holy passion which operates in man, in regard to
God, the same effects which the dominant cupidity operates in regard
to the things of earth, is the privilege of but a small number. One
only explanation is possible--all the rest are without grace. Be it
observed that, according to the Jansenists, every grace is charity,
irresistible, victorious delectation. The _Augustinus_, it is true,
speaks of certain _little_ graces which do not at once carry the soul
to the heights of perfection. Such as they are, they are none the
less efficacious; if their power is not greater, it is because God
has not given them more force than they in effect possess. The grace
called by the theologians _sufficient_ is held in aversion by the
Jansenists; it is a grace which has for them the demerit of not being
efficacious.[231] The three following propositions from Jansenius on
liberty and grace have been pronounced heretical:

"In order to merit or demerit in the state of fallen nature, it is
not necessary that man should have a liberty opposed to necessity
(as to willing); it suffices that he should have a liberty opposed
to constraint."[232] "In the state of fallen nature, we never resist
interior grace."[233] "The semi-Pelagians admitted the necessity of an
interior and preventing grace for all actions, even for the beginning
of faith; they were heretics in so far as they assumed that grace to be
such that the human will could resist it or obey it."[234]

Quesnel renewed every one of these errors,[235] and the Synod of
Pistoia gives Quesnel's book an unreserved approbation.[236] Ricci
and his adherents tell us, with Jansenius, that the equilibrium of
the human will is lost, and that "this idea of equilibrium is a rock
against which the enemies of grace" (that is, Catholic theologians)
"have dashed themselves." They themselves ignore every grace from
Jesus Christ, except that which _creates_ in us a holy love, a holy
delectation.[237]

The efficacy of grace, say they, "does not depend on our will, but
produces it by changing us from not willing to willing, _through its
all-powerful force_.... Far from waiting our consent, grace creates
it in us."[238] In the synod's whole body of doctrine, by means of
which it aims to bring back the faith to its primitive purity, we find
not a word in contradiction of the heretical system of Jansenius; it
everywhere follows, on the contrary, the spirit of that system, but
carefully avoids reproducing literally any one of the famous five
propositions. But we do find in the acts of the synod that celebrated
conclusion which concentrates in itself the poison of the Jansenist
heresy in its full force: "There are in man two loves, which are, as
it were, the two roots of _all_ our actions--cupidity and charity;
the first is the bad tree, which can produce only bad fruit, and the
second the good tree, which alone produces good works. Where cupidity
dominates, charity reigns not; and where charity dominates, cupidity
reigns not."[239] As if there were not, remarks Pius VI., lying between
culpable love and divine charity, which conducts us to the kingdom of
heaven, a legitimate human love![240]

When our common humanity is thus debased and disparaged, a distance
is necessarily placed between it and its sole mediator, Jesus Christ,
himself man also, but evidently incapable of taking upon himself a
nature as incomplete as ours. Hence, the disciples of Jansenius have
generally manifested an antipathy to devotions which bring us into
intimate relations with the sacred humanity of our Saviour. The tender
and Christian devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus is especially
intolerable to them.[241] As to the Blessed Virgin Mary, her title of
Mother of God, so solemnly defined in the Council of Ephesus against
Nestorius, hardly finds favor among them. To the Jansenists, Mary is
certainly not the Immaculate One who crushes the head of the infernal
serpent. They represent her the most frequently as the Virgin depicted
by Michael Angelo, trembling and almost hiding before the glance of
Christ the judge, on the last day.[242] _Her greatness is terrible_,
said the Abbé de Saint-Cyran to Mère Angélique. Could it be otherwise?
Could Jansenist fatalism give more room for confidence than for
intercession?

May I be permitted to add a last word to this already long analysis?
It is said that Jansenism has had the merit of recalling Catholics
to a respect for the sacraments.[243] Is this said seriously? Luther
had made all spiritual life centre in faith; the sacraments were thus
nothing but ceremonies proper to excite this principal sentiment. In
place of faith, Baius and Jansenius have substituted charity. Redeeming
grace, the divine adoption, justice, holiness, all these they identify
with love, as Luther identified them with faith. Now, I ask, what is
it that renders the sacraments so worthy of veneration? Christian
tradition replies with one accord: it is their efficacy; the sacraments
are truly the causes and the instruments of grace and charity; they
are, as it were, vases filled with redeeming blood. But the Jansenists
do not so regard them. According to them, the sacraments do not confer
sanctity; they suppose it.[244] Before baptism, and before penance,
the adult must have _dominant_ charity in his heart; without this,
his repentance, and even his prayers, would be but movements of the
dominant cupidity, and, consequently, new sins. It may be thought
that I exaggerate; I subjoin, therefore, passages from the Synod of
Pistoia, in which Quesnel and Jansenius speak again: "When we have
unequivocal signs that the love of God reigns in a man's heart, we
may with reason judge him worthy of participation with Jesus Christ
in the reception of the sacraments. This is the rule which should
be observed in the tribunal of penance (in the question of granting
absolution). Works alone afford a morally certain proof of conversion.
When the love of God takes possession of the soul, it becomes active
and efficacious."[245] Again: "The first disposition for praying as
we ought is a perfect detachment from all created things and a kind
of disgust for all earthly consolations."[246] Until the sinner has
received this grace of the Holy Ghost, he is unworthy of absolution
quite as much as of communion. The words of Saint-Cyran to poor Sister
Mary Clare are well known: "It is necessary to come, living, to
penance. This is why I have kept you waiting so long. I have left you
to live; for five months you have been living a spiritual life." So far
no sacraments. The practice was still worse than the theory, as we well
know. And this is the way in which Jansenism would recall Catholics to
a respect for the sacraments! It has, at one blow, narrowed Christ's
functions and those of the church.[247]

                      TO BE CONCLUDED NEXT MONTH.

FOOTNOTES:

[203] De Potter, in his _Life of Scipio Ricci_, points out the identity
of the Netherland schismatics with the Jansenists of Pistoia. The
Marquis of Ricci's whole collection of documents was open to him; but
he has not published those which we give further on.

[204] _Synode de Pistoie_, translated by Du Pac de Bellegarde, and
approved by the Schismatics of Utrecht, p. 239 _et seq._ Pistoia, 1788.

[205] See, especially, chapters xii., xiii., xvii., xxi., xxii., xxiii.

[206] Edition Gerberon, pp. 489, 240, etc. In his first reply to Philip
Marnix de Sainte-Aldegonde Baius thus expresses himself: "But because
Holy Scripture, which can neither deceive nor be mistaken, contains
within itself truth itself; and the church is not enlightened _except_
by the truth written in the sacred books, and, _left to herself_, could
easily fall back into her darkness; _therefore_, it is more suitable to
say that Holy Scripture gives authority and dignity to the church of
Christ, than the reverse." We know that the project of Jansenius was
first to publish only the _Vindiciæ Michælis Baii_. The _Augustinus_
took its source from this.

[207] Baius, _De Prima Hominis Justitia_, b. i. Jansenius, _De Gratia
Primi Hominis_, c. 1; _De Statu Primæ Naturæ_, b. i. c. iii. _et seq._;
b. ii. c. i. _et seq._

[208] _Loc. cit._, Quesnel _in II. Cor. 5_, etc.

[209] Jansenius, _De Statu Puræ Naturæ_, b. i. c. xx.

[210] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 242.

[211] _Bull of S. Pius V. against Baius_, prop. 21, 55, 78, 34, 26.
_Bull of Clement XI. against Quesnel_, prop. 35. _Bull Auctorem Fidei
against the False Synod of Pistoia_, Nos. 16, 17.

[212] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 243.

[213] _De Statu Pur. Nat._, b. i. Calvin, _Institut._, b. ii. c. i;
Luther _in Psalm LI_.

[214] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 244.

[215] _De Ratione et Auctoritate_, c. iv., vii., _et seq._ Baius, _De
Prima Hom. Just._, b. i. c. viii.; _De Charitate_, c. v.

[216] _Ibid._ For consistent Jansenists, science in the natural order,
especially in what appertains to man, is impossible. When one has only
an incomplete being to study, all of whose harmonies are in disorder,
how can we have any certitude as to the nature of that being?

[217] Session III. _De Fide._

[218] Jansenius, _De Statu Naturæ Lapsæ_, b. ii. c. ii.-vii. Quesnel,
_in Rom._ i. 19 and _II. Thessal._, iii. 18. _Prop. Condemned_, 40 _et
seq._ _Prop. Condemned by Alexander VIII., 7th December, 1690._

[219] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 246.

[220] _Ibid._ p. 247.

[221] Jansenius, _De Statu Nat. Laps._, b. ii. c. vii. _et seq._; b.
iii. c. ix. _et seq._; b. iv. c. xviii. Quesnel, _in Luc._, xvi. 3; _in
Joann._, viii. 34, 36; _Prop. Condemned_, 38, 39, 41, 45, 46, 48, etc.
Baius, _De Virtut. Impiorum_, c. vi. _Prop. Condemned_, 16, 25, 27, 30,
35, 36, 37, 40, 61 _et seq._

[222] _Synode de Pistoia_, p. 249 _et seq._ _Prop. Cond._, 18, 19, 21.
Jansenius, _De Gratia Christi Salvatoris_, b. i. Quesnel, _in Hebr._,
viii. 7; _Galat._, v. 18; _Marc_, xii. 19, etc. _Prop. Cond._, 6, 7,
64, 65.

[223] _Synode de Pistoie_, _loc. cit._

[224] _Ibid._

[225] _Ibid._, p. 251, 259. _Prop. Cond._, 21, 25. Baius, _De
Charitate_, c. v. _Prop. Cond._, 16, 38, etc. Jansenius, _De Gratia
Christi Salvat._, b. v. Quesnel, _passim. Prop. Cond._, 40, 44, 45-67.
_Protestation du P. Quesnel_ (1715, without any other date), p. 190,
_et seq._

[226] Jansenius, _De Gratia Christi Salvat._, b. iii. c. xx., xxi.
Quesnel, _Prop. Cond._, 32, 29. _Causa Quesnelliana_, p. 188 _et seq._

[227] Calvin, _De. Prædestinat._, b. iii. v.; _Instit._, b. ii. c. v.
Jansenius, _ibid._, b. ix.

[228] Jansenius, _ibid._, b. iii. c. vii. _et seq._; _De Hæresi
Pelag._, b. iv. c. xvi. _Baius, Prop. Cond._, 54.

[229] Jansenius, _De Gratia Christi Salvat._, b. iii. c. xiii.

[230] Baius, _De Libero Hominis Arbitrio_, c. ii. iv. _et seq._ _Prop.
Cond._, 39. Jansenius, _De Statu Nat. Laps._, b. iv. c. xxi. _et seq._
_De Gratia Christi Salvat._, b. vi. c. v. _et seq._, xxiv. to the end.
Quesnel _in Luc_, viii. 24, etc. _Prop. Cond._, 10, 22-25, 38, etc.

[231] Jansenius, _De Gratia Christi Salvat._, b. ii. and vi. Quesnel,
_in Matth._, viii. 3, etc.; _Prop. Cond._, 9, 10, 11, 19, 20, etc.
_Protestation du P. Quesnel_, p. 102 _et seq._

[232] Jansenius, _De Statu Nat. Laps._, b. iv. c. xxi. _et seq._, cited
above.

[233] Third proposition. See _De Gratia Christi Salvat._, b. ii. and vi.

[234] Fourth proposition. See _De Hæresi Pelag._, b. vii., last chap.;
b. viii. c. vi., viii. _De Gratia Christi Salvat._, b. ii. c. xv.

[235] See preceding notes and _Causa Quesnelliana_, p. 163-193.

[236] Edit cit., pp. 196 and 547; Appendix (v. ii.), p. 340 _et seq._

[237] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 242.

[238] _Ibid._, p. 252.

[239] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 252. _Prop. Cond._, 23, 24, 25. Baius,
_De Charitate_, c. vi. _Prop. Cond._, 38, etc. Jansenius, _De Gratia
Christi Salvat._, b. v. c. iii. _Protestation du P. Quesnel_, p. 190
_et seq._ _Prop. Cond._, 44, etc.

[240] Bull _Auctorem Fidei_, No. 24.

[241] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 521, 528. _Prop. Cond._, 61 _et seq._

[242] Rivière, _Le Nestorianisme Renaissant_, 2d part (1693). Van der
Schuur (Utrecht, 1699), _De Kleyne Getyden_. _Synode de Pistoie_,
p. 259 _et seq._ _Prop. Cond._, 69.; _Ibid._, appendix, p. 121 _et
seq._ Baius, _Prop. Cond._, 73. We know that the Jansenist bishops of
Holland loudly protested against the proclamation of the dogma of the
Immaculate Conception. See _Port Royal_, vol. i. p. 233.

[243] _Port Royal_, vol. i. p. 446; vol. ii. p. 189 _et seq._, 154, etc.

[244] Baius, _De Sacramentis in Genere_, c. iii. v. _Prop. Cond._,
33, 43, 70, 10, 12, 31 _et seq._, 57, etc. Saint-Cyran in _Aurelius_
follows the principles of Baius on this point.

[245] _Synode de Pistoie_, p. 257 _et seq._, 376-397. _Prop. Cond._,
25, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, etc.

[246] _Ibid._, p. 516. See Quesnel, _Prop. Cond._, 59 _et seq._

[247] On this point, to which I can only refer _en passant_, see
Linsenmann, _Michael Baius und die Grundlegung des Jansenismus_, c. v.
(Tubingen, 1867).




AN ENGLISH MAIDEN'S LOVE.[248]


The third Crusade had commenced. The cry, "God wills it," had gone
forth from many a manly breast, and already Frederic of Germany, Henry
II. of England, and Philip Augustus of France had received the cross
from William, Archbishop of Tyre. But a more powerful monarch than
Saladin, against whom their combined strength was to be directed,
struck Frederic before he reached Palestine, and called Henry II., whom
domestic difficulties had detained in England. Death gives not back
that which he takes, and, for the want of a leader, the German army was
broken up.

Richard, the brave Cœur de Lion, took his royal father's place, both
on the throne and in the Crusade, and, with Philip of France, started
on his glorious mission. Among those brave men who gathered around
England's standard, joying to be led by so bold a king, who, with
his lion's heart, dared every danger of sea, land, or fierce and
cruel Moslem, was one of the oldest and proudest of Norman blood.
His forefather, who had fought by the side of William the Conqueror,
had distinguished himself by many a daring deed, and had won from
his royal master, in recognition of his bravery, an earlship over a
fair and smiling province of "merrie England"; then, renouncing his
Norman title in behalf of a younger son, and marrying his eldest to
the daughter of a Saxon knight, he established his right to the soil
of his adopted country. Much of his fearless nature seemed to have
come down with the blood of Robert de Bracy, who, at the ripe age of
fifty-five, had found himself unable to resist his monarch's call, and
to whom Cœur de Lion himself owed much of wise counsel. Robert de Bracy
was a man of stern aspect, but withal so compassionate and forbearing,
that he won the love of every one who came in contact with him. His
bravery had already been proved when, as a young man, he fought beside
Henry II, during the war against France; and, later, in that most
dreadful invasion of Ireland--dreadful, because of the blow it gave to
Irish independence, and for the gradual sinking of her people, from
that time, from the eminence in erudition and lore for which they were
renowned among the nations, and which, be it to their credit said, they
are using every effort to regain. A man perfectly incapable of the
least dishonorable action, he was revered as a knight "without stain
or reproach." A fervent Catholic, his religion was his pride, and he
never was ashamed of kneeling in church beside the poorest beggar, nor
felt insulted because poverty's rags touched his velvet robes. But the
good earl's heart received a terrible blow when he heard of the murder
of Thomas à Becket. His faith in his king was shaken, and nothing but
the stern duty of allegiance could have induced Robert de Bracy to
remain in England. So when the Crusade was preached, he gladly seized
the opportunity to show his love for the crucified King--for him whose
throne was a cross, and whose crown was of thorns--and enrolled himself
among the Crusaders. He was joined by his only son and Sir John de
Vere, who, like himself, was of Norman blood--a brave, honest man, of
strict integrity, whose character will be better seen in the unfolding
of the story. The earl was deeply attached to the young knight, and
the highest proof he could give of his love was in his willing consent
that, on their return from Palestine, Sir John should wed his daughter,
Agnes de Bracy, whose heart was no less pure than her face was lovely.
"An' we'll make an earl of thee, my lad!" cried the impetuous King
Richard when the betrothal was announced to him.

The court of the earl's castle was crowded with armed retainers,
knights, and esquires, who formed the retinue of De Bracy and De
Vere. Even on and beyond the lowered drawbridge might be seen bands
of neighing steeds, their impatience checked ever and anon by their
riders, who awaited the earl to head and lead them to the rendezvous
of the Crusaders. Court and castle alike resounded with the clank of
steel and tread of armed men, while buxom waiting-maids and merry lads
hastened to and fro in the bustle attendant on such a departure. Here
and there stood a page giving the finishing polish to his master's
sword, and, again, others assisted in the girding on of the armor.
Every now and then might be heard the wailing of some fond wife or
mother, contrasting somewhat strangely with the jests of those who had
no tie to make the parting a sacrifice in the good cause. Apart from
all this, in one of the inner rooms of the castle, were gathered the
earl and his family. Lady de Bracy's loving eyes wandered sadly from
her honored husband to the manly features of her son, kneeling by her
side, and back again to the earl, who was soothing the grief of his
youngest child, Mary, just old enough to know that her father was going
over land and sea, and that she might never see him again. In the deep
embrasure of one of the windows, partly concealed by heavy curtains,
stood Sir John and his betrothed. Agnes had been weeping, but being
calmed by Sir John, whose grief partook more of the nature of joy than
fear, since on his return he was to claim her as his bride, she rested
her head quietly against his breast, both her hands clasped around his
neck, while her uplifted eyes sought to read every expression of his
noble face.

"Beloved," he said in a low tone, "it will not be for long, please God,
though I would that thou wert my wife e'en ere I go. And," he added,
continuing his whispered tones, "I were no Christian knight to doubt
thy faithfulness. I'll prove thee mine on our return from the holy
wars."

Agnes looked steadily at the face so lovingly bent over her, and,
unclasping her hands, she drew from her girdle a scarf, such as was
worn in those days, and bound it on Sir John's sword-belt. Then,
returning her head to its resting-place, and feeling his arm drawing
her tightly to him, as though by the very motion to thank her, she said:

"An' there is thy love's guerdon; thou shalt wear it in battle, and,
when thine eyes fall on it, remember that _one_ is praying for thee in
bonnie England."

Any further discourse was prevented by the earl, who cried:

"Sir John, we have no time to lose; the men are ready, the steeds drawn
up, and our presence alone is needed for immediate departure. Come,
Agnes, my daughter." And as he placed one arm around her, with the
other he drew his wife gently to him. Raising his eyes to heaven, he
exclaimed: "O God! protect these dear ones while I am fighting the good
fight in thy name and for thee. And this child," he added, as, tenderly
kissing his wife and Agnes, he loosened his hold and took Mary in his
arms--"this child, Mother of God, belongs to thee; keep her pure,
that thy name, borne by her, may be ever spotless!" Then, calling the
knights, he hastily quitted the apartment, not daring to look back.
The son tore himself from his mother's farewell embrace, and quickly
followed; but Sir John still lingered. At last, summoning his courage,
he strained Agnes to his breast:

"Farewell, my beloved! God have thee, my own, in his keeping for so
long as it seems best to him that we be parted."

As the drawbridge was raised behind the retreating soldiers, Agnes
stood at the loophole of the main turret, where, with her mother, she
watched till the men, horses, and banners disappeared, shut from sight
by the declivity of a distant hill, when she sank on her knees, and
prayed fervently for the loved ones who had started on their perilous
journey.

We have said that Agnes de Bracy was lovely; that word can hardly
convey the true nature of her charms. Personal beauty she had, and
much: dark eyes, a clear complexion, a perfect mouth, disclosing
perfect teeth, and breaking into a smile of winning beauty, together
with a graceful form; a character of womanly sweetness, and great
strength of will. But as Spenser hath it:

    "Of the soule the bodie forme doth take;
    For soule is forme, and doth the bodie make."

It was the soul in Agnes de Bracy, rich in God's sweet grace, which
gave her that wonderful expression; the pure heart, "without guile,"
which caused her eyes to gleam with a look that made Sir John once
exclaim, "Methinks, Agnes, thine eyes would soften the stony heart of
the Mussulman himself, and e'en make a Christian of him."

Nor was Sir John deficient in those qualities which would be apt to
win the admiration and love of such as she. Like the earl, he was a
most devout Catholic. With a full, heartfelt appreciation of his holy
faith, he could not--as many, alas! do--put it on and off with holiday
attire, but every word and action proved how thoroughly it was a part
of himself, and how, without it, in spite of great natural talents, he
would be--nothing.

To follow the Crusaders on their journey, every step of which was
fraught with danger; to watch the course of events as they shaped
themselves during the march of the two armies, is not the province of
this story. About three years later, the earl, with wounds scarcely
healed and a heavy heart, stood before the drawbridge of his castle,
which was being rapidly lowered at the unexpected blast of his bugle.
The clanking of the heavy armor was a joyful, long-looked-for sound to
the inmates of the castle, who had assembled in the court to welcome
back the earl and his followers. Weary and dust-laden, they passed
under the portal of the gateway, a sad remnant of their former numbers,
greeting those who stood expectant with joy or fear. Suddenly a loud
wailing arose, as many a mother looked in vain for the well-remembered
form of her brave lad, who died fighting the Saracen; and the sounds
of glad rejoicing were hushed in the presence of the angel of sorrow.
The earl and his son made their way rapidly to the same room that had
witnessed their farewell, and there their loved ones awaited them. A
thrill of terror passed through Agnes' frame as she missed the features
of Sir John; and, seeing a strange look in her father's eyes, which
were fixed so tenderly but sorrowfully on her, she clasped her hands
tightly, and cried out: "My God! my God! thy will, not mine, be done;
but, oh! if _he_ is dead!"

"Agnes, my child, my precious child!"--and Robert de Bracy drew his
daughter to him--"God knows my heart is heavy enough with the story I
have to tell thee, yet it is not what thou dost expect. Sir John is
living, strong and well, but"--and his lips quivered with emotion--"but
he is Saladin's prisoner; and I fear me greatly that neither gold nor
silver will ransom him."

"Saladin's prisoner, my father? Saladin's prisoner? And will nothing
ransom him?" And bowing her face in her hands, she wept bitterly.
But her violent grief was not of long duration; her nature was too
thoroughly schooled. She checked its first outburst; and, trusting
to Him who had always given her help in her troubles, she breathed a
short, fervent prayer. Then, raising her head, she turned to the earl,
and in her sweetest voice:

"Forgive me, my father," she said, "for that I have not been thy
daughter, and, in my selfish sorrow for what God has ordained, I have
forgotten to bid thee welcome home."

"Agnes! Agnes!" And the old earl nearly broke down under the weight of
his sorrow--sorrow all the keener for the suffering of his daughter.
"Agnes, we will not give up all hope. I would have begged of Saladin
on my knees for _his_ ransom, but it could not have been; I was ordered
away, and no respite granted."

"Give up all hope? No, indeed, my father. Far from me be such a
thought! God will help us, and my beloved shall be ransomed if it is
his will; for he gave him to me, and he can take him away."

       *       *       *       *       *

Lo! Damascus is rising before us; not the Damascus of to-day, but
the quaint, beautiful Oriental city of the XIIth century. The golden
crescents of her domed mosques flash in the light of the Eastern sun.
Her thoroughfares are crowded with men in their Turkish garb, and women
veiled after the manner of their nation. Her shops are resplendent
with jewels, pearls, and jacinths; fragrant with the perfumes of musk,
ambergris, and aloes-wood; glittering with rustling silks and heavy
brocades, interwoven with gold, and scarlet, and silver. Houses,
beautiful in their quaint architecture, meet the eye at every corner,
together with palaces, the residences of emir and vizier. But with
naught of these have we to do. Our story takes us into the heart of
the city to the palace of Saladin, Sultan of the Turks. As we enter,
we behold banners unfurled. Shields, helmets, every species of armor
decorate the main hall, along whose sides are ivory benches, where the
eunuchs wait their master's orders. A great dome is overhead, and the
sun, pouring down through its latticed windows, floods the hall with
light, and causes the steel of the armor and the jewels of the hall
to sparkle and flash with brilliancy. At the further end is a heavy
curtain of brocade, richly wrought with various kinds of embroidery in
white, red, and gold. Two tall armed men guard the corners. We will
imagine the curtain lifted for us, and enter. There sits Saladin on
his throne. His followers are around him. Rich are the robes which
fall from his shoulders, well befitting the Sultan of the East. If the
hall was gorgeous in its beauty, the room of the throne is no less
so. The hangings on the walls are figured with various wild beasts
and birds, worked with silk and gold. The sandal-wood work gives out
its own peculiar perfume. In fact, all betokens a royal presence. And
of what sort is Saladin? Great talents in him combine for mastery;
great activity and valor. The severity and rigor, so inflexible as to
make the bravest heart quail with fear before him, was often replaced
by such kindness, such generosity, that the poor, the widowed, and
orphaned did not hesitate to appeal to his mercy. And as he sits before
us, we must draw back and continue our story.

An eunuch has presented the bowl and vase, and, having performed the
ablution, Saladin turned slowly round, gazing steadily at the stern
faces before him. "By Allah!" he exclaimed, as his eyes rested on the
one nearest him--"by Allah! I trow, Moslem chiefs, you are brave, yea,
very brave and very skilful. You have beaten back the Christians. You
have proved yourselves true sons of Mahomet; but, for all that, I know
a braver man than you. Eunuch! bid the Christian slave come forth."
At his sultan's orders, the eunuch made a low bow, and retired behind
one of the hangings. In a few moments he returned, followed by a guard
of men, and Sir John de Vere in their centre. As they approached with
him, Saladin waved them back, and bade the Christian only to remain
before the throne. Then suddenly he made a sign--a sign dreaded alike
by vizier and eunuch. It was obeyed, and a soldier, stepping forward,
waved a sharp and gleaming scimitar over the head of the captive;
but he did not flinch, nor move a muscle of his face, but continued
gazing with stern, unshrinking eye straight forward. The sultan, as if
satisfied with the courage the prisoner evinced, motioned the soldier
back. Then he said:

"John de Vere, thy father's land, thine ancient home, thou shalt see no
more; but I have great need of men like thee. I command thee, forsake
thy Christian faith; and, if thou wilt adore Mahomet and God, there is
no favor thou shalt ask, by my royal word, that shall not be granted
thee. I will set thee above all men. I alone will be above thee. I will
make thee my son. I will give thee palaces, gold, and precious gems;
and from all the queenly maidens thou shalt choose one and wed her as
thy bride. Thou canst not refuse that which my caliphs strive for years
to obtain, and which to thee is given in one day. I bid thee reply."

As Saladin finished, he sank back on his throne, and a quiet smile
played around his lips as he awaited his captive's answer. Sir John
listened to him calmly and patiently. Then having bowed low, he
raised his head erect, and made the Christian's mark--the sign of the
cross--upon himself.

"Saladin," he said, "Sultan of the Mussulmans, since thou dost bid me
reply, I will first return thanks for all the favors I have received at
thy hands. From the first day of my captivity till now thou hast loaded
me with kindnesses; for these I am grateful, though gratitude may not
seem to be in the answer I make thee. Know, then, I, a Christian,
cannot renounce my faith. I am a sworn soldier of my God--of him
who died for me. Dost thou think that I, who bear the cross upon my
shoulder, could on that cross bring scorn? Thou dost promise me a
Moslem wife. In that far-off land--which God grant I may see before I
die!--I have a love, whom as my very life I love. To her sweet heart
I will not be false. Saladin, I cannot bear a Moslem name nor wed a
Moslem maiden."

"Ah!" cried the sultan, "thou dost not know woman's heart. Perchance
she whom thou lovest so fondly is the bride of another; nor doubt me,
that heart, fickle and false as any woman's, which swore such fealty to
thee, belongs now perhaps to thy rival. Never yet was woman known to be
constant. Ah! John de Vere, thou hadst better remain with me."

As he ceased, the curtain was raised, and two by two came those holy
men vowed to ransom Christian captives from the hands of the Turks.
They approached Saladin's throne, and, opening their bags, they poured
out with lavish hand an untold treasure at his feet.

Then the chief monk said:

"The bride of Sir John de Vere, O Sultan Saladin! sends all she hath,
gold and gems, and bids thee take them, but to restore to her her
betrothed."

"The other captive knights may go with thee," replied the sultan; "but
as for all these gems and gold, his lady-love would give them for a
dress. Sir John de Vere may not go with thee. No wealth can ransom him,
for I love him with a more than brother's love, and hope to win his in
return. Why, I would give a hundred slaves, if he would renounce his
Christian faith. So thus to thy lady this answer; for I will prove how
Christian maidens love. Tell her that, before I yield my thrall, she
must cut off her own right arm and hand, and send it hither to ransom
John de Vere!"

"Saladin," said the captive, "thy permission for one word to say to
these monks before they go. I bid you, brothers," he added, turning to
them, "to speak of me as dead. For, O sweet-heart! my betrothed bride,
well do I know that not only arm and hand, but even life itself, thou
wouldst willingly give for me; and I cannot prove thy death, that I may
live. Do not tell her the sultan's cruel words. O brothers! I beg you
do not!"

As sole reply, they gathered up the useless treasure, and, returning to
their ships, they sailed for England. With mournful hearts they landed
on the shore, and travelled day and night till they reached De Bracy's
castle. There they laid down their full bags, and told Agnes that for
neither gold nor silver could Sir John be ransomed; but if it was still
her heart's wish that he should see his native land again, the sultan
had promised that for one gift her betrothed should go free.

"And that gift?" said Agnes.

"Is," replied the head monk slowly, "thine own right arm and hand, cut
off for his sake. This is the ransom asked. Thou canst not prevail on
Saladin to take a meaner thing."

Every face grew white at these cruel words. They shuddered as they
listened to the monk; only Agnes preserved her usual calmness. The
earl clutched his sword, and could hardly refrain from vowing death
to every man of the Moslem race. Little Mary cried out, clasping her
sister tightly, "Sure, Agnes, such a wicked man cannot be found." But
quieting the child, she looked at Lady de Bracy. The face of the mother
was marked with keen suffering. It was a dreadful moment for the brave
spirit of Agnes; she knew she must make answer, and that at once. But
how could she tell those, who suffered so much at the very thought of
the deed, of her resolution? "My God! it is hard; but as we love in
thee, thou must help me to do what is right," was the prayer which rose
from her heart, as with her lips she framed her answer.

"My dear ones, your daughter need not say how much she grieves for your
sakes that she must suffer. Cruel is the ransom asked; who could know
it better than I? But God loves us, and did he not, because of his
love, give his own beloved Son? And do we not see every day how churls
and nobles give their lives for their king? 'Greater love than this
no man hath, that a man lay down his life for his friends.' That, my
father, we know from the holy Gospels. Wouldst thou have thy daughter
shrink duty, thou, my lord and father, who hast bled by Cœur de Lion's
side?" She hesitated a moment, then, her sweet voice growing clearer
and stronger, she continued:

"I am John de Vere's betrothed, and to him I owe my fealty, even though
it should cost my life. My lord and father, what is my life? Long years
spent in pleading with God to end the banishment of my love. And at
last he has heard, at last my prayer has been granted. Only it must be
proved that my love is pure; so he sends me pain, and I will take it,
grateful to endure; for is not the reward great?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Once again the holy friars found themselves in the beautiful city of
Damascus. Eagerly they threaded their way through its broad but devious
thoroughfares till they reached the palace of the sultan. Within, in
the room of the throne, sat Saladin in royal state. By his side stood
Sir John de Vere. He still retained the badge of slavery, for he was
too true to give up his faith; but to Saladin's councils he was often
summoned. When any measure to be taken against the Christians was the
theme of debate, he remained respectfully but firmly silent. Against
his brothers he could not in conscience speak; to do so for them he
knew would prove more than useless. But yet many were the subjects on
which his knowledge and fine sense of justice could be brought to bear;
and Saladin was not the man to fail in taking advantage of his wise
judgment.

Some such serious business had called around the sultan his advisers,
and, as usual, Sir John stood foremost among them. They had all but
finished the subject under consideration, when the folds of the curtain
were lifted, and a herald entered the royal presence.

"Sultan, our lord," he said, "the monks appointed to ransom the
Christians stand without. They crave an audience again."

"Let them enter," was the command given, and swiftly obeyed. Again the
curtain was lifted upon the holy men, and again it fell, shutting them
from the outer hall, as they stood in the presence of Saladin. The
superior stepped forward:

"We thank thee, sultan, for the favor thou hast accorded us in this
audience. But we bid thee learn, O monarch! a lesson we bring thee--a
lesson of how great, in a nobler faith than thine, is love's purity and
power." A dim foreboding seized Sir John at the monk's words, and his
whole form shook with ill-suppressed emotion, as he listened to the
conclusion:

"Monarch! what are women to thee? Slaves, toys of an idle hour, the
playthings of passion. What women of thine would do for thee as Agnes
de Bracy hath done for him who stands beside thee--him whom thou
callest thy slave? Thy cruel words have been heeded. Lo! the answer."
And he laid at Saladin's feet a casket, richly wrought in gold and
silver. Sir John looked as one frenzied, then seizing the casket
pressed it to his heart:

"Why did you tell her, O cruel monks? Did I not ask you to speak of me
as dead? O fair arm! O dear, sweet hand! that thou shouldst cut it off,
my beloved, and for my poor sake!"

Saladin stretched out his hand to take the casket; but Sir John only
pressed it the tighter, and sobbed aloud. At this, the superior of the
monks, coming forward, said something in a low voice, which caused the
young knight to lift up his face and look at the brother. Then, turning
to the sultan, he placed the casket reverently before him. Saladin
took it and opened it; as he raised the lid, the perfume of aromatic
spices escaped therefrom. Lifting the linen, he looked steadily for a
moment, then large tears were seen to escape from his eyes and roll
down his cheeks. All the higher nature of the man seemed to be aroused.
Calling his nobles around him, he held the casket silently for their
inspection. Within it lay embalmed the lily-white right arm and hand of
Agnes de Bracy. There was no mistaking the delicate form of the arm,
the shape of the tapering fingers. Severed from the shoulder of that
noble girl, they lay in all their beauty, a reproach to the cruelty of
the sultan. In that throne-room not one man but was moved to tears.
Then Saladin closed the casket, but, still keeping a firm hold on it,
he cried out:

"Mahomet and God witness for me! with a deep brother's love I love
John de Vere, and I thought I might retain him by me if I asked this
ransom. But now I would give my kingdom to recall those words. Haste,
John de Vere, haste to thy noble love. O fair arm! O fair hand! True,
brave heart! Oh! that I could claim such love as thine! John de Vere,
tell that noble woman that Saladin yields his selfish love. Take to her
gold, gems; load the ship with all of wealth and beauty I have; but
they would vainly prove Saladin's grief. She who has proved thee such
a noble love will make thee a noble wife, John de Vere. But thou canst
not take with thee this precious casket. Among my treasures I shall
store it away. It will prove to future ages how Christian maidens keep
their troth, and how pure is their love."

       *       *       *       *       *

More than this the legend tells us not. But it is said that in a church
in England may still be seen a statue of the knight and his noble,
one-armed lady.

FOOTNOTES:

[248] Some years ago, a poem appeared in an English weekly with the
same title, "An English Maiden's Love." The author stated that, when
a mere girl, she read the incident in a very stupid old novel founded
upon the same subject, and which she never could succeed in meeting
with again. We have not seen the novel, but have ventured to borrow
the incident, and offer it to the readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD in its
present form.




OUR MASTERS.


Freedom is the boast of half the civilized world, and the envy of the
other half. It is the embodiment of the desires of our age, the goal
of the individual, as well as the collective life of nations. It is
a treasure jealously guarded or a prize passionately longed for, the
pretext for riot and disorder, the burden of diplomatic messages, the
ostensible object of all civic government. England records in the
words of a national song, "Britons never will be slaves," her proud
determination to grasp it; America asserts elasticity of personal
liberty as the chief attraction of her territory; everywhere the cry
is, "We will do as we like, and accept no dictation from any man." It
is a somewhat strange commentary on this fierce vindication of one
man's rights that they invariably clash with the rights of all other
men, provided the latter happen to differ in the interpretation of
freedom. Again, it is a curious psychological phenomenon that this
much-vaunted freedom generally ends in a frantic appeal to the state
to force one particular set of principles upon a large majority to
whom these principles are repulsive. In some countries "freedom"
means expulsion from a quiet retreat deliberately chosen years ago
by men and women in full possession of their senses: witness the
depopulated monasteries and the poor religious thrust out to starve
or beg. In others it means the minute supervision of state officials
over the educational and religious interest of thousands--a sort of
domestic inquisition in perpetual session on moral subjects, which
the individual inquisitors do not pretend even to have studied. In
conjunction with this species of freedom we have the ravenous appetite
for unbelief of all shades, for laxity of morals, for the elasticity
of the marriage-tie, for a pleasant and dignified way of losing our
souls, for decorous but unrestrained indulgence of our passions--in
short, for the manifold attractions of the "broad road." This is the
serious side of the question--the one to be dwelt upon by preachers and
philosophers, and that which the heedless actors in the world's drama
are apt to pass by as a matter of course--a thing taken for granted
long ago.

But there is another aspect, more personal and more intimate, in which
this question appears to us. We boast of being free, and at every turn
the commonest circumstances of our daily life belie us. Free! why, we
are tied as fast as we can be to a perpetual pillory; like the prisoner
of Chillon, we can just walk round and round our post at the length of
our chain, and wear a groove into the hard stone of our surroundings.
Free! with a hundred masters: the gout, dyspepsia, the doctor, the
cook, society, the weather. Free! with the newspaper to dictate our
ideas and opinions, to choose, recommend, and puff our candidates, to
lay down the law in criminal cases, to patronize the jury and pass
sentence on the prisoner!

It would be hard to find a condition in life which is not eminently
a bondage, and a bondage the more galling because the bonds are so
insignificant. It is almost equally hard to know where to begin the
record of our abject submission to external trammels. You are tired,
and want to sleep an extra hour in the morning. Of course, you think
you have only to will this, and it is done. But you are not allowed
to sleep; the noise in the street increases; the bells of the cars
mingle in determined clangor with the whistle of the steamboat; an
organ-grinder takes up his position under your window, and serenades
you into madness; the "horn of the fish-man is heard on the hill"
(Murray Hill); presently the fire-alarm sounds, and the clatter of
engines follows close upon it; while all the time the flies are
industriously reconnoitring your face, walking over your eyelids,
losing themselves in your hair, and, despite your half-unconscious
protest, you must own after all that you are awake.

Then the whole tenor of your mind for the day may depend upon the
exact degree of tenderness in the customary beefsteak or on the extra
turn given to the crisp buckwheat. So the wire-pulling is done in the
kitchen, and your vaunted independence as a man and a citizen goes
down ignominiously before the fiat of the cook. This kind of thing is
interminable. You are at the mercy of your tradesmen, and, for the sake
of peace, you pay the bills and submit to be cheated with inferior
provisions while paying the price of superior ones. The newspaper is
not always ready to your hand when you feel inclined to look at the
news of the world, and straightway your mind becomes uneasy, your
temper rises, and you have again surrendered your freedom. You order
your horse, but find he is lame, and so you must forego your plans for
the day; you make up your mind to start by the early train to-morrow,
and enjoy a day in the country, and find, when you open your window
in the morning, that the rain is pouring with dismal steadiness, and
promises to do so for many hours to come. Sometimes your wife keeps
you waiting fifteen minutes for dinner, and, on sitting down, you find
the soup cold and the _entrées_ spoiled; and it is well known that not
even Job could have stood that! The wind and tide wait for no man; and
so you are hurried out of bed against your will at unseasonable hours
of the night or morning, and packed on board the steamer bound for
Europe while yet half asleep and as sulky as a bear, your free-will
practically gone as much as if you were a bale of goods being shipped
and checked for Liverpool.

Social customs are no less a hidden tyranny. If you would not appear
eccentric, you must do as others do--wear a dress-coat when you would
fain be in your shirt-sleeves, and a smile when you are dying for an
opportunity to yawn. If you are a silent man, you must nevertheless
join in the gossip of your fellow-guests, and laugh at unmeaning
jokes, for fear people should call you a misanthrope, and avoid you
as a "wet blanket" to conversation. If you have any decided opinion,
you must keep it to yourself, and avoid the vacant stare of astonished
good-breeding which is the penalty of any energetic statement. It
is vulgar to be too demonstrative or to have any settled opinions;
enthusiasm is out of fashion, and indifference has at least the
advantage of never committing you to anything. If a little deviation
in manner from the recognized standard is not reprehensible, then it
is voted amusing, and the self-asserting individual is considered a
good butt; but no one dreams of asking his advice or even crediting him
with common sense. All his real qualities are lost sight of, and he is
judged by the mere accident of "originality." No one takes the trouble
further to investigate his character; he is "odd," and people either
drop him as a bore, or run after him as a lion.

If a man has a hundred invisible masters, a woman has five hundred.
From the cook to the dressmaker, from the nurse to the baby, she is
surrounded by tyrants. She is at the mercy of the _coiffeur_, who comes
in an hour behind time, and tumbles her hair into shape in a violent
hurry, so that she is late at the ball; she lives with the sword of
Damocles above her head in the shape of the dressmaker, who _will_
send in a ball-dress so loosely sewn together that it splits in many
places before the evening is over; if she is poor, she is the slave
of desire, perpetually tantalized by the splendors she cannot reach,
eating her heart out because Mrs. Jones has got a new bonnet so far
finer than her own, or Mrs. Smith's rich uncle gave her a cashmere
shawl impossible to outrival; if she is married, the regulating of the
domestic atmosphere will cost her many an anxious thought, a curtailed
hour of leisure, an uneasiness regarding a possible storm when Harry
comes home and finds his new hat mangled by the pet puppy; if she
is single, she will be always scheming for an escort, and fretting
lest she should be overlooked, and so on through every variety of
possible female situations. To this picture there is a companion. See
the unhappy bachelor of moderate means, in a forlorn boarding-house,
pining for the simplest luxuries or the innocent liberty of stretching
at full length on a lounge without taking off his working-clothes;
sighing for a variety in the round of his monotonous meals, and
for the possibility--without hazard of starvation--of an occasional
morning snooze when the inexorable breakfast-bell calls him to the
renewed treadmill of existence. But woe to the man who rashly turns
to matrimony, and surrenders, without mature deliberation and cogent
reasons, the liberty--such as it is--which still remains to him. His
change may be from the "frying-pan into the fire," and the nightly
fate of the wretched Caudle, of curtain-lecture memory, may claim
him for life. Is the rash Benedict "free," when the irreproachable
wife begins to make her hand felt, and, together with the immaculate
table-linen, the punctual and succulent meals, the orderly household,
the never-failing newspaper always at hand at the right moment, yet
silently conveys to him the awful impression that she is heaping coals
of fire on his head? A man may be in prison, and, if he can pay for
them, may yet enjoy every luxury and attention; still, it would be
rather stretching the point to say that he was therefore free. So both
sexes know how to tighten invisible bonds around each other's claims,
and "freedom" is practically as meaningless as the apparent life of a
still green tree woven round by the graceful and fatal vine.

The majority of mankind are quite debarred from any tangible freedom
by the lack of means with which to procure it. A poor man cannot,
physically speaking, be a free agent; but, in compensation, the richer
and higher placed a man is, the more social and moral trammels will
he encounter. Excess of want and excess of possession often end by
producing the same result. The poor man cannot move from his post,
because he has not the money to do so; the rich man cannot move from
it, because he has too much money to watch over. Wealth, too, brings
its responsibilities; and a conscientious man, in whose hands lie the
life and comfort of hundreds of his fellow-creatures, cannot leave
his post because his tenants or operatives would suffer through his
absence. In fact, no one, in a certain sense, can be "free," except
an unprincipled man and an unbeliever. Selfishness is the only road
to such animal freedom as would content a sensualist. A Christian, be
he poor or rich, cannot aspire to this worldly freedom, because his
religion tells him that he is _not_ free to desert those with whom
God has linked his fortunes. Family circumstances fetter one to an
incredible degree; conscience is a perpetual trammel; and even the
exigencies of position are sometimes a legitimate restraint on our
actions. Many persons of narrow minds, not particularly influenced
by moral forces, fall a prey to Mrs. Grundy, and dare not face the
opinion and comments of their neighbors. In the most trivial things we
are slaves to the verdict of society. Who would not rather have danger
than ridicule? How many things, whether lawful or unlawful, are we not
ashamed to do, because of what "people would say," quite irrespective
of the intrinsic right or wrong, expediency or uselessness, of the
thing itself? It may well be said that it is less a sin in the eyes of
the world to break every one of the Ten Commandments than to enter a
room with your hat on, or ask a girl to marry you on nothing a year.
It would require more pluck to stand up for an unfashionable religion,
or defend an unpopular person in a cultivated assemblage arrayed on
the opposite side of the question, than it would to storm a citadel
or rescue a sinking ship. To contravene one-quarter of an article of
the impalpable code of society entails downright ostracism; and the
lynch-law administered to social delinquents effectually keeps people
in this imaginary groove, where the invisible penalties of religious
codes are unavailing to enforce good morals. How hollow the system
is which thus intrenches itself behind such paltry defences we need
not say; but how infinitely more galling and more belittling is this
servitude than the yoke of God which men fly from! Absolute hardships,
real privations, men will cheerfully undergo, provided it is with a
worldly object; nobody minds being a slave when the devil is master and
the livery is cloth-of-gold.

One of the axioms of the day is that marriage should be a profitable
speculation. To what lengths do not men and women proceed in order to
fulfil this inculcation to the letter? The writer once heard the hunt
after wealthy marriages likened to the vicissitudes of S. Paul on his
journeys. The likeness was forcible, though hardly elegant; but, at
any rate, it was earnestly and not irreverently meant. The best of it
was that it was so startlingly true, and that no part of the world, no
system of society, could escape the allusion. Perils by sea and land,
perils by robbers, perils by false brethren, watchings and hunger,
cold and nakedness--there was not one detail which did not find its
counterpart in the modern race after matrimonial advantages. People
undergo for the world more hard penances than would suffice to bridge
over purgatory, did they suffer them for God. Wolsey, in his disgrace,
cried out that if he had served his God but half so well as he had
served his king, he would not now be reaping a meed of contempt and
ingratitude. So with the world; it despises those who toil for it, and
no one is less respected by it than the very man who has sacrificed
principle to win its life-homage. As to the marriage lottery, there is
very little that is not staked for a lucky throw of the dice. Health is
ruthlessly sacrificed; delicate girls brave the night air, the draughts
in the corridor, the sudden change from a fetid heat to intense cold,
the unwholesome meal at abnormal hours, the loss of actual rest, all
for the questionable pleasure of attending a ball every night in the
week, and being seen "everywhere." Economy is disregarded, and reckless
outlay on flimsy, temporary dress indulged in without a murmur;
delicacy and modesty are tacitly put by as unfit considerations in
the present, however useful they may prove in the future; underhand
inquiries as to a young man's habits and associates, his fortune and
his prospects, are unblushingly made, quite as a matter of business;
snares and pitfalls are judiciously contrived for the coroneted or
gilded victim; pride of birth, of which, at any other time, the
practised diplomatists of the _salons_ are so tenacious, is pocketed
at the approach of some plebeian prize, and the son or daughter of a
self-made man is welcomed with admirably simulated rapture when duly
weighted with the parent's hardly-earned money. Stranger than all,
this mania of gambling in marriage--for it is nothing less--seizes
even persons whom you would naturally suppose would, by instinct or
principle, be averse to any such transactions; but though you will find
them proof against every other meanness, the very shadow of this one
will unsettle their minds. Good people seem impelled to join this race
as by an irresistible fatality, and will actually blind themselves to
the repulsiveness of such a course by glossing it over as an outgrowth
of a sacred instinct, parental love, and solicitude. Needy and idle
men, seeking a fortune by marriage with an heiress, are not a whit
better--nay, a shade more despicable--than mercenary women on the same
lookout.

But it must be confessed that there is a healthier and nobler side to
human nature which is too often obscured by the supposed requirements
of our worst tyrant--society. There are women who, being rich and
high-minded, view this pursuit of themselves with disgust; and there
are men, equally high-minded, but poor, who love these women, but, for
fear of being classed with interested suitors, and sometimes for fear
of a contemptuous refusal, never come forward and acknowledge their
love. The woman who sees this may love such a man, but maidenly dignity
forbids her making it too plain; and "society" thus manages to make
two honest hearts wretched for years, sometimes for life, and perhaps
in the end to efface in them even the belief in true and disinterested
affection. And we dare to call ourselves "free"!

Business and our material interests are so many burdens and trammels to
our liberty. Say that we are easy-going and indolent, fond of sedentary
pleasures; but a long and uncomfortable journey becomes necessary, and,
under the penalty of material losses, we are obliged to choose the
lesser of the two evils. Or reverses swoop down so suddenly upon us
that, having been used to elegant leisure and comparative security, we
are incontinently thrown on our own resources, and obliged to work, if
we would not starve. Even the choice of work is not always open to us,
or we may happen to choose some unremunerative work, which fate and our
hard-hearted neighbor will persist in making useless to us. Even with
prosperity work itself becomes a tyrant; and when the lucky worker
thinks of enjoying his earnings in peace and retirement, the restless
demon of habit steps in to make his very retirement wretched. He is
allowed no peace, but sighs for the counting-house or the workshop; and
one has heard of such haunted men going about disconsolately beneath
the weight of fortune, until solaced by a miniature feint of the old
work--a place where, far from the satin, gilding, and ormolu of the
fashionable mansion, they can plane and turn common chairs and tables,
or sit in a leathern apron, cobbling their own boots. Poor millionaire!
are you "free"?

Other men are slaves not so much to their passions as their tastes.
Such an one undergoes tortures if another's collection of china is
better than his own, or if a rival bids higher than he can afford to
do for an old Italian or Flemish picture. This man would give himself
more trouble to secure an old carved _secrétaire_ of English oak or
Indian ebony than he would to promote some work of charity; another has
a hobby about sumptuous bindings, or rare lace, or any _bric-a-brac_
of the kind; inartistic furniture is an eyesore to him, inharmonious
colors upset his equanimity, and everywhere, even in church, any defect
of form irritates and repulses him. He is hardly master of his own
thoughts, and is apt to form hidden prejudices; he lives in the clouds,
and often makes himself disagreeable to those who do not.

The tyrannous custom of making funerals and weddings an occasion of
useless pomp is perhaps one of the most reprehensible of all. The
fashion has insensibly grown till one's perverted sense of what is
"fitting" has almost acknowledged it to be a necessity. So the mourners
are disturbed, their privacy broken in upon, delicacy outraged in
every possible way, the curiosity of strangers gratified, an unseemly
hubbub substituted for the solemn stillness natural to the presence of
death--all in order that the world's fiat may be duly obeyed. People
pretend that all this fuss is to honor the memory of the dead. No such
thing; it is to feed the vanity of the living. It must not be said
that Mr. S--- did not provide as good a table, as handsome any array
of carriages, as great a profusion of flowers, as richly ornamented a
coffin, for his wife's funeral, as did Mr. R---- last year on a similar
"melancholy occasion," any more than in the lifetime of the two ladies
could it have been suffered to have gone abroad that Mrs. S----'s rooms
were not as uncomfortably crowded for a reception as Mrs. R----'s, or
her carriage not of the same irreproachable build.

The world has undertaken to decide for us, in the privacy of home as
well as beyond its walls, exactly the degree of outward respect to
be shown to the dead. Such and such a particular texture, and crape
of such and such a particular width, is the measure of the widow's,
the daughter's, or the sister's grief; less would be indecorous, more
would be eccentric! The milliner tells us in a subdued voice how much
jet is allowable, and how soon the world expects the appearance of a
white collar in place of a black one, just as the world dictates the
exact length of a court-train, and mentions the appropriate number
of feathers to be worn in the hair. In England, a widow's cap is _de
rigueur_, and not to wear it would be to brand one's self with the
mark of a flirt and a questionable character. In other countries in
Europe, it is not in use, and the character of French and Italian
widows is not dependent on an extra frill of white crape. How a poor
and proud woman, unwilling to be behind her neighbors in respect of
decorous mourning-robes, can manage the enormous expense of a thing
so perishable and so dear as crape, in such quantities as to entirely
cover a dress, is a mystery which the peremptory laws of society do not
care to enter into and do not pretend to solve.

Weddings are hardly, under the iron hand of custom, what one might
reasonably expect them to be--_i.e._, family festivities. They are not
occasions of personal rejoicing over the happiness of your nearest
and dearest--oh! no, that is humdrum and "slow"; so the wedding-day
is turned into a gorgeous manifestation of your worldly wealth--a day
of hollow ostentation and often of hidden sadness. The extravagance
of your floral decorations, and the judicious display of the bride's
presents, cost you more thought than the solemn covenant about to be
made; the adjustment of the pearl necklace, the graceful folds of the
bridal veil, the perfect fit of the white kid glove, are of far more
importance than the vow pronounced so lightly at the altar. It is the
reception, not the sacrament, that predominates in most minds. Instead
of a family gathering, reverently waiting in prayer for the happy
consummation of a very solemn and awful contract, you have a mob of
slight and careless acquaintances, down to the very scourings of your
visiting-list, assembled to stare and gape at the show, to talk slang
and make unseemly jokes, to criticise your hospitality, and make bets
as to how soon the marriage may be followed by a separation. Everybody
asks how much money has the bride, what is the standing of the
bridegroom, what are the settlements, etc. When they go away, they do
not even thank you for the lavish expense, whose fruits they, and they
alone, have enjoyed; but, instead of that, they abuse your champagne
and rebuke your extravagance. Privacy--a necessary condition of
domestic happiness--is impossible on this great day; prayer is almost
out of the question; reflection is scared away. It might be hoped that
the young couple would now be allowed to retire into private life,
after this free exhibition of themselves as the central figures of a
puppet-show. But, no; fashion pronounces otherwise. A wedding-trip,
though not deemed quite indispensable by the code of society, is still
favorably looked upon, and, if possible, is a still worse thing than
the wedding itself. Dissipation is the order of the day; the change
of toilets becomes the all-absorbing topic of the bride's thoughts
and conversation; the tour must include the showiest watering-places;
perpetual motion and a full meed of frivolity are ensured, a
kaleidoscope of discreet admirers provided, little mild triumphs of
flirtation enjoyed, with the added zest of perfect security from
embarrassing proposals, and equal immunity from the new-made husband's
wrath, since he could not thus early begin to lay down the law; and
a most miserable foundation is laid for the after-comfort of home.
Besides, what does a wedding-trip imply? That life is a drudgery, and a
respite is necessary before taking up the burden. The home is thus made
a vision of imprisonment--scarcely a wise preparation. Then the foolish
and utterly useless expenditure probably <DW36>s the young couple, in
ordinary cases, for some time to come. The month's trip has swallowed
what would have covered half the year's expenses, and "going home,"
instead of holding out a bright prospect, is connected with dulness,
retrenchment, and monotony. This is what society and its tyranny have
succeeded in making of marriage. Are such couples "free" agents?

Who _is_ free on this earth? Who is not the slave of petty caprices,
even if he escapes the worse servitude of degrading vices? The
drunkard, the sensualist, the gambler, are victims of low passions that
destroy health and sap vitality, while they surely lead to a lonely or
a violent end; but with such aberrations we do not propose to deal. But
even those who pride themselves on their freedom from any vice or bad
habit, what are they, often, but puppets swayed by absurd influences
radiating from such sources as the loss of a night's rest, the delay of
a meal, the failure to reach a certain train?

Children and pets are well-known tyrants, not only to the mother or the
maiden aunt, but to the male creation in general and the old generation
in particular. The grandfather is ready at all times to be made a
hobby-horse, the grandmother to drudge for king baby. The children's
dinner is the event of the day; Harry's destructiveness of his first
pair and all following pairs of trousers is the burden of the household
lament; little Cissy's first tooth is a matter of deep interest; baby
Maggie is allowed to pull mother's hair down just before dinner,
unrebuked--nay, even encouraged. Pet poodles and favorite parrots,
and, indeed, all tame companions of mankind, absorb a wonderful amount
of human interest and attention, and often demand it at unseasonable
hours; compelling idleness, or at least encouraging loss of time. In
fact, our time and mind are ever occupied with supplementary things,
forced upon us by custom or caprice; and we secretly but helplessly
rebel, incapable, we think, of either resistance to our own follies,
or courage to laugh in the face of Mrs. Grundy.

It is impossible to stand absolutely free in the world, but there is
freedom and freedom. Of all freedoms, that of the free-thinker is the
narrowest. Uncertainty is a grievous spirit, doubt a bad master; and
the poor free-thinker finds that his mental companion and philosophic
guide offers him but slight comfort under misfortune. Moral restraints
are to him but chaff in the wind, religious forms mere dust shaken off
his shoes; but what remains? He deems himself king of the world of
thought, but he finds his kingdom turned into a desert; he acknowledges
no ties or duties, undertakes no responsibility, works (if he works)
for himself alone, and then finds that what he earns he cannot enjoy
unshared. Temporary human companionship on earth has no charms for him;
for he reflects that annihilation follows death, and it is therefore
useless to make bosom friends of men who will so soon be less than
nothing, and whose only memento will be in the richness of the crops
grown over their graves. The mental solitude of the free-thinker is
not an agreeable or a soothing one; much less is it fruitful in high
thoughts or heroic actions.

If any ask in an earnest spirit, where are the fewest masters, and
where freest men?--we would answer, in the cloister.

A startling answer to the worldling; a suggestive one to the thinker.
Let us examine it, and see whether it can be substantiated. Religious
are the men supposed to be the most subjected to authority in the
world--those whose duty it is to have not only no will of their
own, but even no individual thought, no opinion of any kind. Even
so, in a sense; and on that account, not despite it, _but because
of it_, are they the freest men on earth. The secular clergy are
comparatively free, because they have one object only; that is, one
Master. Priests are not burdened with family and household cares,
scarcely with social necessities; but none the less are they sometimes
vexed by circumstances which they cannot control, and are made to pay
the tithe of that slavery which any contact with the world, even for
the world's good, and by men who are not of the world, necessarily
entails. Religious even of active orders are still freer, because they
are less of the world; but the man who stands before God in silent
contemplation, as the eagle pauses before the sun and looks into its
depths, is the freest of all. A purely contemplative order, whose
mission, higher yet than that of the captains of Israel, is that of
Moses praying with uplifted arms for the triumph of the people of
God--such is the home of the highest and truest freedom.

The ascetic has found the secret that philosophers seek for in vain,
that attitude of godlike calm in the midst of all transient storms of
life. The supremest exercise of freedom is to surrender that freedom
itself, with full confidence that the person into whose hands it is
surrendered is the representative of a higher power. A king would not
be free were he prevented from abdicating his kingship; the religious
vow is the abdication of a kingdom greater than is constituted by
so many thousands of square miles. This renunciation once made, no
earthly event can be of the slightest interest to the disenthralled
man. No care for his body, no solicitude for his reputation, remains;
he has disrobed himself of his earthly belongings, and let slip every
vestige of the garments of worldliness. A spirit--practically almost
disembodied--he looks above for inspiration, comfort, guidance,
knowledge. The miseries of earth, if poured into his ear by some
despairing fellow-mortal, gain from him the divine pity of an angel
rather than the passionate sympathy of a man; he is raised above the
wants of nature, the wrangles of society, even the perplexities of the
intellect. Taught no longer by men or by books, he speaks face to face
with God in his long prayers and meditations, and no human interest
ever distracts his mind from this exalted colloquy. Insensible to the
influences of time, place, and circumstance, he is still as free as
air when hunted from his retreat by men to whom his whole life is an
enigma; the oracle speaks to him in the midst of a crowd, and he no
more hears the murmur of those around him than if he were at sea, a
thousand miles from land; a palace, a prison, or a scaffold are all
reproductions of his cell, for the same all-filling Presence surrounds
him, blinding him to all else. His indifference is so galling to his
enemies, his freedom so mysterious and so provoking, that they would
rather put him to death than witness the unutterable calm they can
neither disturb nor emulate; but that death is only the one more step
needed for his perfect bliss--the one veil to be yet lifted between the
ascetic philosopher and the freedom that taught him his philosophy.

Serene land of passionless perfection, which men call the monastic
life! How many, even among religious, scale thy furthermost heights?
Yet it is a consolation to mankind to know that there _is_, even on
earth, a sanctuary where human nature, be it only represented by ever
so few, can reach to that ideal state of perfect communion with God and
perfect contempt of all trammels which alone should be dignified with
the name of philosophy.




A LOOKER-BACK.

    "For as he forward mov'd his footing old
    So backward still was turn'd his wrinkled face."--_Faerie Queene._


There are some people in the world who, like the sad mourners that come
up through Dante's hollow vale with heads reversed, have not the power
to see before them. Their eyes are always peering into the past, they
go groping in the dim twilight of bygone days; they wander off the
highway of ordinary life, till they lose their place in its sphere;
they have no knowledge but legendary lore, no wisdom but that of past
generations. And when, by some accident, they cross the current of the
present age, they grasp at the very first relic of the past as a link
with the receding shore.

It was such a one that found himself adrift on the high tide at Charing
Cross--which Dr. Johnson so loved; and, amazed and confused by the
incessant, tumultuous flow of a life in which he had no part, took
refuge in the thousand sanctuaries of the past to be found in London.
Belonging by a peculiar grace, as one born out of due time, to the
ancient church--for ever ancient, for ever new!--he turned particularly
to those old Catholic foundations around which cluster so many
associations, at once religious, historical, and poetic. Having read of
them from childhood, and learned to connect them with the past glory
of the church, and familiar with all the romantic and legendary lore
concerning them, when he found himself in their midst his heart and
soul and imagination were at once aflame. It was then to such places as
Westminster Abbey, Christ's Hospital, the Charter-House, and the Temple
that his heart instinctively turned on his arrival in London.

Not that he actually visited them first. The Divine Presence, alas! no
longer dwells in them incarnate; and it was of course, as became one
with pilgrim-staff and scallop-shell, to the foot of the Tabernacle
he hastened, the first time he issued from his lodgings, to offer
up his prayer of thanksgiving to _Jésus-Hostie_ for a safe voyage
across the Atlantic. But at his very threshold he could see a spot
associated with many terrible memories, marked by a stone: "Here stood
Tyburn Gate." Here the last prior of the Charter-House was executed,
and Robert Southwell, the Jesuit poet of Queen Elizabeth's time,
whose last words were expressive of his attachment to the Society of
Jesus and his happiness to suffer martyrdom. Many others, too, of
religious and historic memory, ascended here from earth to heaven.
Close beside the spot is the Marble Arch of Hyde Park. "Beyond Hyde
Park all is a desert!" said our pilgrim with Sir Fopling Flutter,
glad to be diverted from memories too sad for one's first impressions
of a foreign city. Two serene-looking "Little Sisters of the Poor,"
providentially crossing the path, directed him to the French chapel--a
modest sanctuary, but where such men as Lacordaire, De Ravignan, and
other distinguished French pulpit-orators have been heard. The way
thither was through Portman Square, once the property of the Knights
of S. John of Jerusalem. Here the celebrated Mrs. Montague once lived.
In one corner of the square stands apart--in a large yard, a square
old-fashioned brick house with an immense portico in front, and a
two-story bow window at the end--one of those houses that we at once
feel have a history. This is Montague House, where Mrs. Montague used
to give an annual dinner to the London chimney-sweeps, "that they might
enjoy one happy day in the year"--a house frequented by the literary
celebrities of the time--where Miss Burney was welcomed, and Ursa Major
grew tame.

A short distance from the French chapel is the Spanish church,
dedicated to S. James, with its S. Mary's aisle lighted from above,
giving a fine _chiaro-oscuro_ effect to the edifice. It was pleasant to
find an altar to the glorious Patron of Spain in a city where he was
once so venerated, and whose name has been given to one of its social
extremes. The devotion of the English to S. Jago di Compostella was
extraordinary in the Middle Ages. So general was it, that the Constable
of the Tower, in the time of Edward II., used to receive a custom of
two-pence from each pilgrim to Spain going or returning by the Thames.
Rymer mentions 916 licenses to visitors to that shrine in the year
1428, and 2,460 in 1434. And here, in this modern English church, is a
statue of the saint, with the scallop-shell on his cape, first assumed
by pilgrims to Compostella as a token that they had extended their
penitential wanderings to that sainted shore. English Catholics of the
olden time seemed to have had a special love for pilgrimages, and we
hail a renewed taste for such a devotion as a revival of the spirit of
the past.

It was the good fortune of our modern pilgrim to hear the Archbishop
of Westminster preach a few days after in the Spanish church on the
state of the soul after death--a preacher that harmonizes at once with
the past and the present--full of sympathy with the present, full of
the spirit of the past. A S. Jerome from his cave, a S. Anthony from
the desert! is the first thought, and his wonderfully solemn style of
preaching is in harmony with his ascetic appearance. Nothing could be
more impressive and affecting. Neither did our wanderer forget the
ivy-clad oratory at Kensington, still perfumed with holy memories of F.
Faber. He felt the need of thanking him here for the thousand precious
words he had spoken to his soul through his beautiful hymns and
invaluable works on the inner life; soothing it in sorrow, and arming
it against the transitory evils of life. Such evils follow every one,
even the pilgrim, and it was good to repeat here Faber's lines:

    "These surface troubles come and go
      Like rufflings of the sea;
    The deeper depth is out of reach
      To all, my God, but thee!"

What a round of sweet devotions in this church, with the taper-lighted
oratory of Mary Most Pure! Oh! how near to heaven one gets there!--the
beautiful shrine-like chapel of S. Philip Neri, and the solemn Calvary
where, between the two thieves, the Divine Image is outstretched on the
huge cross, embalming the wood--

                        "Image meet
    Of One uplifted high to turn
    And draw to him all hearts in bondage sweet."

Many pious hearts seem drawn here to meditate on the Passion, and, one
after another, go up to kiss the blood-stained cross. Oh! how many ways
the church has of leading the soul to God! Guido declared he had two
hundred ways of making the eyes look up to heaven. The church has many
more with its multiplied popular devotions, each peculiarly adapted
to some cast of soul. It would be heaven enough below to have a cell
somewhere near this sweet school of S. Philip's sons and the beautiful
altars they have set up.

While thus gratifying the devotional instincts of his heart, some
religious monument of bygone ages was constantly falling in our
pilgrim's way. How could he pass S. Pancras-in-the-Fields without
falling into prayer, as Windham in his diary tells us Dr. Johnson
did, recalling the Catholic martyrs burnt here at the stake in Queen
Elizabeth's time? The bell of S. Pancras--O funeral note of woe!--was
the last to ring for Mass in England at the time of the so-called
Reformation. A wonder it did not break in twain as it sounded that last
elevation of the Host! Has it ever uttered one joyful note since that
sad morn, when the altars were stripped, the lights one by one put
sorrowfully out, and the Divine Presence faded away? No, no; it has the
saddest tone of any bell in London, at least to the Catholic ear. As
it was here he was laid away, it is no wonder that faithful Catholics,
down to the present century, were in the habit of coming to S. Pancras
at early morning hour to seek some trace of their buried Lord. Perhaps
he sometimes appeared to such devout souls, as of old to his Mother
and Magdalen. It is certain that, at least, he spoke to their hearts
as they lingered here to pray--pray that he might rise again! And
here they wished to rest after death, till they were again allowed to
have a cemetery apart. This was the burial-place of the Howards and
Cliffords, and others of high lineage, both foreign and native. One
old friend lies here, John Walker--well known from his _Dictionary_,
once extensively used in America, a convert to the Catholic Church,
and a friend of Dr. Milner's, who calls him "the Guido d'Arezzo of
elocution, who discovered the scale of speaking sounds by which reading
and delivery have been reduced to a system."

S. Pancras was once a popular saint. The boy-martyr of Rome, whose
blood was shed in the cause of truth, was regarded in the middle ages
as the avenger of false oaths. The kings of France used to confirm
treaties in his name. The English, with their natural abhorrence of
lying, so honored him as to give his name to one of the oldest churches
in London. Cardinal Wiseman has popularized his memory in these days
through _Fabiola_.

Again, what a flood of recollections comes over the pilgrim in passing
through Temple Bar, or going across London Bridge, first built by the
pious brothers of S. Mary's Monastery in 994. The old bishops and monks
were truly the _pontifices_ of the middle ages--not only as builders of

          "The invisible bridge
    That leads from earth to heaven,"

but good substantial arches of stone over stream and flood. The Pont
Royal over the Seine was built by a Dominican. So was the Carraja at
Florence. The old bridges of Spain were mostly due to the clergy.

Bridge-building was esteemed a good work in those times, and prayers
were offered for those engaged in it. At the bidding of the beads, the
faithful were thus invited: "Masters and frendes, ye shall praye for
all them that bridges and streets make and amend, that God grant us
part of their good deeds, and them of ours."

London Bridge was rebuilt of stone nearly two centuries later. Peter
of S. Mary's, Colechurch, began it. Henry II. gave towards it the
tax on wool, which led to the saying that "London Bridge was built
on wool-packs." Peter did not live to complete it. That was done by
Isenbert, master of the schools at Xainctes--a builder of bridges in
his own country. He finished London Bridge in 1280. Near the middle
of it was a Gothic chapel, dedicated to S. Thomas à Becket, and under
the wool-packs--that is to say, in the crypt--a tomb was hollowed out
of a pier of the bridge for Peter of Colechurch. When this pier was
removed in 1832, his remains were found where they had lain nearly six
hundred years. On the Gate-house of London Bridge was hung the head of
Sir William Wallace. Bishop Fisher's (of Rochester) was hung here the
very day his cardinal's hat arrived at Dover; and two weeks after, that
of his friend, Sir Thomas More. Here, too, were suspended the heads of
F. Garnet, of the Society of Jesus, and scores of Catholic priests in
Queen Elizabeth's time.

Yes, London is full of Catholic memories. Bridewell, Bedlam, Mincing
Lane, Tooley St., and many more are names of Catholic origin, now
corrupted, the derivation of which it is pleasant to recall as they
meet the eye. One strolls through Paternoster Row, and Ave Maria
Lane, and by Amen Corner, out of love for their very names, reminding
us of the Catholic processions around Old S. Paul's. Shall it be
confessed?--profaner thoughts here mingle with such memories. Passing
through Paternoster Row, one naturally looks up, expecting to see
the splendid Mrs. Bungay come forth to take her drive with a look of
defiance at the chaise-less Mrs. Bacon at the opposite window!

Not far from here is Christ's Hospital, so familiar to us all through
Lamb, Coleridge, and Leigh Hunt. It is at once recognized by the
bust of Edward VI. over the entrance. It is pleasant to be allowed to
wander through the arcades and quadrangles at one's pleasure, with no
guide to disturb the delightful memories evoked by such a place. Going
into a quadrangle, surrounded by a kind of cloister hung with memorial
tablets, the first thing noticed is a marble slab on the wall to the
right, inscribed:

"In memory of the Rev. James Boyer, who for many years was head
grammar-master of this Hospital. He died July 28, 1814, aged
seventy-nine years."

One could not help pausing to read and copy this tribute to so old
an acquaintance. To be sure, "J. B. had a heavy hand," which was
rather too familiar with a rod of fearful omen, but he ground out some
fine scholars, and has been immortalized by the great geniuses that
expanded under his tuition. I can see Master Boyer now, as Charles Lamb
describes him, calling upon the boys with a sardonic grin to see how
neat and fresh his rod looked!--see him in his passy, or passionate
wig, make a precipitate entry into the school-room from his inner den,
and, with his knotty fist doubled up, and a turbulent eye, single out
some unhappy boy, roaring: "Od's my life, sirrah! I have a mind to whip
you"; and then, with a sudden retracting impulse, return to his lair,
and, after a lapse of some moments, drive out headlong again with the
context which the poor boy almost hoped was forgotten: "And I _will_,
too!"--treating the trembling culprit to a sandwich of alternate lash
and paragraph till his _rabidus furor_ was assuaged.

Lamb, in his delightful essay, _Recollections of Christ's Hospital_,
dwells on some of his fellow-pupils whose memory one cannot help
recalling while lingering under these arches. And chief among them,
"Samuel Taylor Coleridge, logician, metaphysician, bard--who in these
cloisters unfolded in deep and sweet intonations the mysteries of
Jamblichus or Plotinus, or recited Homer in his Greek, or Pindar,
while the walls of the old Grey Friars re-echoed to the accents of the
inspired charity boy." He tells us, too, of Thomas Fanshawe Middleton,
"a scholar and a gentleman in his teens," but said afterwards to have
borne his mitre rather high as the first Protestant bishop of Calcutta,
though a more humble and apostolic bearing "might not have been exactly
fitted to impress the minds of those Anglo-Asiatic diocesans with
reverence for home institutions and the church which such fathers
watered." There is a monument to the memory of Bishop Middleton at S.
Paul's, where he is represented, in his robes of office, in the act
of confirming two East Indians, but the hand raised over their heads
has all the fingers broken off but one. Let us hope what apostolic
authority he possessed was centred in that digit!

Above all, at Christ's Hospital one recalls the gentle Elia himself.
Perhaps in yonder dim corner he furtively ate the griskin brought from
the paternal kitchen by his aunt. "I remember the good old relative,"
he says (in whom love forbade pride), "squatting down upon some odd
stone in a by-nook of the cloisters, disclosing the viands (of higher
regale than those cates which the ravens ministered to the Tishbite),
and the contending passions of L. at the unfolding. There was love
for the bringer, shame for the thing brought and the manner of its
bringing."

Under these pillared arches, so shadowy to-day with the heavy London
fog, Richardson perhaps conceived his first dramatic scenes, and Leigh
Hunt began to weave the delicious fancies that have since charmed us
all. Yonder was the dormitory the young ass was smuggled into, which
waxed fat, and proclaimed his good fortune to the world below, setting
concealment any longer at defiance.

While thus musing, an instalment of the eight hundred boys at the
Hospital came out to their sports in their quaint costume of black
breeches, long yellow stockings to the knees, and a dark-blue gown
down to the heels, garnished with bright buttons bearing the likeness
of Edward VI., and confined by a leather belt. White bands at the neck
give them a clerical look by no means at variance with so monastic a
place. They had innocent, open faces, such as we find in our monastic
schools, reminding one of Pope Gregory's well-known exclamation:
"_Non Angli sed angeli._" They tucked up their skirts and betook
themselves most heartily to their sports. It was queer to see their
long yellow-stockinged legs flying across the quadrangle. They have
caps, it is said, about the size of a saucer, which they dislike so
much that they prefer going bare-headed, but they did not mind the fog,
now almost amounting to rain. Children, we all know, are, as Lamb says,
"proof against weather, ingratitude, meat under-done, and every weapon
of fate." One of them stopped to pump some water for the visitor to
offer as a libation to the memory of Charles Lamb.

"Pierian spring!" scornfully shouted Master Boyer to a young writer of
a classical turn: "the cloister pump, you mean!"

The school-room visited bore marks that would have done credit to
a Yankee jack-knife, and revived pleasant reminiscences of youthful
achievements in a New England school-house. The chapel, too, with its
mural tablets, and flag tombstones, and painted window, of Christ
blessing little children, is interesting. At the right of the chancel
is a remnant of old monastic charity. An inscription in yellow letters
on a claret- ground announces that "the bread here given weekly
to the poor of the parish of S. Leonard's is from a bequest of Sir John
Trott and other benefactors," and on the other side in equally glaring
characters: "Praise be to thee, O Lord God, for this thy gift unto the
poor!" There is rather a more amusing inscription of a similar nature
at S. Giles', Cripplegate, opposite the monument to Milton:

    "This Bvsbie, willing to reeleve the poore with fire and withe breade,
    Did give that howse whearein he dyed then called ye Queene's heade,
    Fovr fvlle loades of ye best charcoales he wovld have brovght each
        yeare,
    And fortie dosen of wheaten breade for poore howseholders heare:
    To see these thinges distribvted this Bvsby pvt in trvst
    The Vicar and Chvrch wardenes thinking them to be IVST:
    God grant that poore howseholders here may thankfvll be for svch,
    So God will move the mindes of moe to doe for them as mvch:
    And let this good example move svch men as God hath blest
    To doe the like before they goe with Bvsby to there rest:
    Within this chappell Bvsbie's bones in dvst a while mvst stay,
    Till He that made them rayse them vp to live with Christ for aye."

The said Busby is represented above this curious inscription, in
bold relief, as a be-ruffed man of jovial type, holding a bottle in
one hand, and a death's-head in the other, so that one does not know
whether to laugh or cry. It would be more reasonable to cry over the
grave of that dreadful prevaricator Fox, called the Martyrologist,
said to be buried in the same church, only one does not know where
to weep, as the precise spot is not known. So one has to be satisfied
with sighing before a huge stone set up to his memory at the end of
the church, and thinking with Lessing that "if the world is to be held
together by lies, the old ones which are already current are as good
as the new." What a pity Fox had not belonged to S. Pancras' parish!
However, that saint seems to have kept an eye on him, and avenged the
cause of truth. We do not suppose there are many now who are credulous
enough to accept Fox as reliable authority concerning the history of
those sad times. And if we stop to look at his tablet here, it is with
something of the same feeling that we turn down Fetter Lane to see
where "Praise God Barebones" and his brother "Damned Barebones" lived,
and wonder how any one house could hold them both.

But to return to Christ's Hospital. It must not be supposed that,
meanwhile, it has been forgotten that this institution was originally
a Catholic foundation. It was the first thought at entering, nor could
the pleasant associations of later years prevent a regret that so
monastic a building is no longer peopled by the old Grey Friars. Keats'
lines recurred to memory:

    "Mute is the matin bell whose early call
      Warned the Grey fathers from their humble beds;
    Nor midnight taper gleams along the wall,
      Or round the sculptured saint its radiance sheds!"

It was on the second of February, 1224, during the pontificate of
Honorius III. and the reign of King Henry III., S. Francis of Assisi
being still alive, that a small band of Franciscan friars landed at
Dover. There were four priests and five lay-brothers. Five of this
number stopped at Canterbury to found a house, and the remainder came
on to London. The simplicity of their manners and mode of life made
them popular at once, and they speedily acquired the means of building
a house and church. Among other benefactors, John Ewin, or Iwin, a
citizen of London, gave them an estate, as he says in the deed of
conveyance, "for the health of my soul, in pure and perpetual alms,"
and became a lay-brother in the house, leaving behind him, when he
died, a holy memory as a strict and devout observer of the rule. A
large church adapted to their wants was completed in the year 1327, and
dedicated to "the honor of God and our alone Saviour Jesus Christ." It
was three hundred feet long, eighty-nine feet broad, and seventy-four
feet high. Queen Margaret gave two thousand marks towards it, and the
first stone was laid in her name. John of Brittany, Earl of Richmond,
and his niece, the Countess of Pembroke, gave the hangings, vestments,
and sacred vessels. Isabella, the mother of Edward III., and Philippa,
his queen, also gave money for its completion. The thirty-six windows
were the gifts of various charitable persons. The western window, being
destroyed in a gale, was restored by Edward III., "for the repose of
the soul" of his mother, who had just been buried before the choir.
In 1380, Margaret, Countess of Norfolk, erected new stalls in the
choir, at a cost of three hundred and fifty marks. Many nobles were
buried here--four queens, four duchesses, four countesses, one duke,
two earls, eight barons, thirty-five knights--in all, six hundred and
sixty-three persons of quality. Among them was Margaret, the second
wife of Edward I., and granddaughter of S. Louis, King of France. She
was buried before the high altar. In the choir lay Isabella, wife of
Edward II.--

    "She-wolf of France with unrelenting fangs,
    Who tore the bowels of her mangled mate"--

beneath a monument of alabaster, with the heart of her murdered husband
on her breast! Near her lay her daughter Joanna, wife of Edward Bruce
of Scotland. Here too was buried Lady Venitia Digby, so celebrated
for her beauty, the wife of Sir Kenelm Digby, who erected over her a
monument of black marble.

In the middle ages the great ones of the world, at the approach of
death, the all-leveller, feeling the nothingness of earthly grandeur
and riches, often sought to be buried among Christ's poor ones, and
not unfrequently in their habit, not thinking "in Franciscan weeds to
pass disguised," but as an act of faith in the evangelical counsels,
and a recognition of the importance of being clothed with Christ's
righteousness. It was a public confession that the vain garments they
had worn in the world had been as poisonous to them as the tunic
Hercules put on. Dante laid down to die in the cowl and mantle of a
Franciscan. Cervantes was buried in the same habit. Louis of Orleans,
who was murdered by the Duke of Burgundy, was buried among the Celestin
monks in the habit of their order. Anne of Brittany, twice Queen of
France, wore the scapular of the Carmelites, and wished it to be sent
with her heart in a golden box to her beloved Bretons.

The Grey Friars' church was destroyed at the great fire, and the
monastery greatly injured. There are still some portions of it
remaining, however, which are at once recognized. Some of the books
of the old monastic library are still preserved--a library founded by
Sir Richard Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London, the hero of
the nursery rhyme, to whom the Bowbells sounded so auspiciously. He
laid the foundation of this library in 1421, and gave four hundred
pounds towards furnishing it. The remainder of the books were given, or
collected by one of the friars.

It seems that, after all, Edward VI. was not the founder of the modern
institution of Christ's Hospital. He merely gave it its name, and added
to the endowment. When the monastery was suppressed by his father,
it was given to the municipality of London, and the city authorities
conceived the idea of converting it into a refuge for poor children. It
was chiefly endowed by the citizens themselves, though aided by grants
from Henry VIII. and Edward VI.




NEW PUBLICATIONS.


  THE LIFE OF S. ALPHONSUS LIGUORI. By a Member of the Order of
    Mercy. New York: P. O'Shea. 1873.

  THE LIFE OF THE SAME. By the Rt. Rev. J. Mullock, D.D., Bishop of
    Newfoundland. New York: P. J. Kenedy. 1873.

S. Alphonsus has never found a perfectly competent biographer, and
perhaps never will. F. Tannoja has written full and minute memoirs,
containing all the facts and events of his life, but he wrote under the
fear of the Neapolitan censorship, and could not speak openly of the
miserable infidel Tanucci and the other Jansenists and infidels, or
faithless Catholics, of the wretched period in which the saint lived,
and the corrupt court with which he had to contend. Moreover, Tannoja
had not a sufficiently elevated and comprehensive mind to be able to
appreciate and describe the life and times of S. Alphonsus in their
higher and broader relations. The Oratorian translation of his life is
a most wretched and shabby affair in respect to style and accuracy.
The religious lady who has prepared the first of the lives placed at
the head of this notice has therefore done a very great service to
the Catholic public by compiling a careful and readable biography
from the other earlier works of the kind, and adding some interesting
particulars concerning the history of the modern Redemptorists.

Bishop Mullock's life of the saint is quite brief and compendious,
but of the best quality so far as it goes. The publisher has made a
great blunder in omitting the title of Doctor of the Universal Church,
which has been given to S. Alphonsus since Dr. Mullock's life was first
published, on the title-page.

Archbishop Manning, who has given, though in brief form, the best
appreciation of the character and work of the great doctor which we
have seen, truly says that S. Ignatius, S. Charles, and S. Alphonsus
are the three great modern leaders of the church in her warfare. As one
of this great trio, S. Alphonsus deserves to be universally known and
honored among the faithful, and we rejoice in the publication of the
biography compiled by the accomplished Sister of Mercy as the best we
have in English, wishing it a wide circulation, as a means of promoting
devotion to the latest of the doctors and one of the greatest of the
saints.

  LIVES OF THE IRISH SAINTS. Vol. I., No. 1. By Rev. John O'Hanlon.
    Dublin: Duffy & Co.

It is not often that we have the privilege of noticing such a work
as this--the labor of a lifetime, the history of a whole nation's
sanctity. Since Alban Butler, no such hagiographer as F. O'Hanlon
has appeared, nor has any work on hagiology so full of interest and
importance been given to the world. Up to this time the saints of
Ireland, with few exceptions, were hidden saints; of the three or four
thousand souls who have shed upon her the light of their sanctity,
and earned for her the glorious title of the "Island of Saints," the
world knew scarcely anything. It was in vain that the ancient annalists
compiled voluminous records for the benefit of posterity; those that
escaped the hands of the spoiler were left unexamined, and the learned
of the nation seemed to have forgotten that their country had a holy
and heroic past, whose history it was their sacred duty to look into
and perpetuate. No attention was given to traditions of bygone days; no
light was thrown upon them; they were fast becoming dim and obscure,
and what was, in reality, fact, the rising generation was beginning
to regard as fable. This neglect, so ruinous, and even criminal,
might have gone on till it became irreparable, had not this learned
and devoted priest undertaken the great task of redeeming the past of
Erin's sanctity from the oblivion into which it was rapidly sinking.
How carefully he prepared himself, and how well qualified he is to
perform this labor of patriotism and love, the first number of his work
gives ample proof. His acquaintance with Irish lore, his erudition and
research, his fine style, all combine to make him the fittest person
that could have engaged in so great a work.

Were we disposed to find fault with him at all, we should say he is
rather critical; at least, we fancy we perceive in him a tendency to
conform to the critical spirit of the age, which perhaps is prudent,
after all, and may enhance the historical value of the work, though it
will mar somewhat, we think, the poetic beauty it ought to possess.

No literary effort has yet been attempted that appeals so strongly to
the national and religious sentiments of the Irish people; and none
should receive so large a share of their interest and support. F.
O'Hanlon's _Lives of the Irish Saints_, when completed, will be a noble
monument to Erin's faith and Erin's glory, to which his countrymen in
every land should feel proud to contribute; the appreciation that he
meets with may encourage others to enter the comparatively unexplored
mine of Irish history, and bring to light the treasures it contains.

We learn that F. O'Hanlon, who is a citizen of the United States,
has copyrighted the work here, and it is to be hoped will make
arrangements for its reissue in this country. Meanwhile, intending
subscribers may address the author directly, or order the book through
"The Catholic Publication Society," New York. It will be published
serially, and the American price is fifty cents per number.

  JESUITS IN CONFLICT; OR, HISTORIC FACTS illustrative of the Labors
    and Sufferings of the English Mission and Province of the Society
    of Jesus in the Times of Queen Elizabeth and her Successors. By a
    Member of the Society of Jesus. London: Burns & Oates. 1873. (New
    York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

Another publication throwing light on the period of the Elizabethan
persecution of Catholics, and more especially on the part borne by
the Jesuits themselves in this heroic struggle. So many books have
appeared lately on this subject that we may almost say that a new
branch of Catholic literature has been opened in the English language.
The "getting up" of this book is worthy of the subject, and we rejoice
that it is so; for, to take a simile from a passage in this very
volume, we may say with truth of the outward appearance of a book
in these times what the holy lay-brother, Thomas Pounde, considered
his rich dress in prison to be: "A means of inspiring Catholics with
greater courage, and conciliating authority" (p. 42). The history of
the three confessors of the faith, Thomas Pounde, George Gilbert,
and F. Darbyshire, is very interesting. In the two former we have
examples of lay sanctity and constancy, as distinguished from that of
priests, though both saints were in heart members of the Society of
Jesus, to which one was affiliated by extraordinary dispensation of the
ordinary novitiate, and the other received the habit and pronounced
his vows _in articulo mortis_. Thomas Pounde, of Belmont, a man of old
family and high connections, had all the burning zeal of a convert
whose soul had narrowly escaped the everlasting infamy of the life
of a court minion. Not only his fearlessness and constancy, but his
high intellectual attainments, claim our attention. Thirty years of
perpetual imprisonment had not enfeebled his mind, and his one desire
was a public disputation with his adversaries, nay, "with Beza and all
the doctors of Geneva," if it pleased his foes to reinforce themselves
with such noted aid. In a lengthy paper, written in 1580 to show that
the Bible alone is not the true rule of faith, he brings forward
the same reasons which we hear so much about in our day, and after
specially dwelling on the many articles of universally held Christian
faith that are _not_ directly and plainly traceable to Scripture, he
says pointedly: "Do not these blind guides, think you, lead a trim
daunce towards infidelitie?" He could not have spoken otherwise had he
meant his apology for the XIXth instead of the XVIth century.

George Gilbert, also of a good English family, was one of those rich
men who, in truth, make themselves the stewards of the Lord. With him
originated the useful and ingenious Catholic Association, in which
young men of the world bound themselves to become the temporal guides,
helpers, couriers, furnishers of the priests who labored spiritually
for the conversion of England. The companion of F. Parsons, as Pounde
had been of F. Campion, he, too, was a convert not only from courtly
vanities, but from actual Calvinism. Ardently desiring martyrdom,
he nevertheless embraced obediently and lovingly the cross of a
"sluggish death in bed"; but at least the pain of exile had been added
to imprisonment, for he was banished from his native land, and died
at Rome in 1583. His whole substance was offered to the service of
God, and what little remained at his death he left to the Society for
the spiritual needs of his country. It was not till he lay upon his
death-bed that he pronounced his vows.

F. Darbyshire was as learned as he was zealous. While in France
preparing for his perilous English mission, he refused the honors of
the pulpit and the professorial chair, and confined himself to giving
catechetical instruction; but God so rewarded his humility that grave
scholars and theologians would flock to hear him, and make notes of
the wonderful learning he displayed, while they admired the eloquence
he could not hide. He and his friend, F. Henry Tichborne, might well
congratulate themselves, later on, on the holy efficacy of persecution,
which had caused the "confluence of the rares and bestes wittes of our
nation to the seminaries," and of the happy increase in the number
of fervent inmates of the foreign seminaries They descant, too, on
the unwise policy of persecution, and the fact that no religion was
ever permanently established by the sword. The faith might have been
reft of one of its greatest glories in England had not a short-sighted
fanaticism resorted to violent means to uproot it. F. Darbyshire died
in exile in France in 1604, in the very same place, Pont-à-Mousson,
where he had so signally distinguished himself for learning and for
modesty in the beginning of his apostolate.

This book is written in simple, Saxon style. The author trusts rather
to facts than to rhetoric, just as of old the acts of the martyrs were
chronicled without much comment, whether descriptive or panegyrical.
The volume bears "First Series" on its title-page, as a promise that
it is but the prelude to other biographies as interesting. Let us hope
that the promise will be speedily fulfilled.

  THE LIFE OF THE BLESSED JOHN BERCHMANS. By Francis Goldie, S.J. (F.
    Coleridge's Quarterly Series, Vol. VII.) London: Burns & Oates.
    1873. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

At last we have in English a biography of this angelic imitator of S.
Aloysius, as charming as himself. The other lives we have seen are
edifying but tedious. This one is equally edifying, but as fascinating
as a romance, and published in an attractive style. It is specially
adapted for the reading of young people.

  LECTURES UPON THE DEVOTION TO THE MOST SACRED HEART OF JESUS
    CHRIST. By the Very Rev. T. S. Preston, V.G. New York: Robert
    Coddington. 1874.

We cannot do more than call attention to the publication of this work,
just issued as we go to press. It embraces stenographic reports of four
extempore lectures by the pastor of St. Ann's, New York, upon a subject
of special interest at this time. In an appendix is given the pastoral
of the archbishop and bishops, announcing the consecration of all the
dioceses of this province to the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus; together
with a Novena, from the French of L. J. Hallez.




THE

CATHOLIC WORLD.

VOL. XVIII., No. 108.--MARCH, 1874.[249]




JOHN STUART MILL.[250]


In 1764, Hume met, at the house of Baron d'Holbach, a party of the
most celebrated Frenchmen of that day; and the Scotchman took occasion
to introduce a discussion concerning the existence of an atheist, in
the strict sense of the word; for his own part, he said, he had never
chanced to meet with one. "You have been unfortunate," replied Holbach;
"but at the present moment you are sitting at table with seventeen of
them."

Whether or not the leading men among the positivists and cosmists of
England to-day are prepared to be as frank as the Baron d'Holbach, we
shall not venture to say; at all events, John Stuart Mill, to whom they
all looked up with the reverence of disciples for the master, has taken
care that the world should not remain in doubt concerning his opinions
on this subject, which, of all others, is of the deepest interest to
man. Among those who in this century have labored most earnestly to
propagate an atheistic philosophy, based on the assumption that the
human mind is incapable of knowing aught beyond relations, he certainly
holds a place of distinction, and, as a representative of what is
called scientific atheism, the history of his opinions is worthy of
serious attention.

It was known some time before his death that he had written an
autobiography; and when it was announced that his step-daughter, Miss
Taylor, whom he had made his literary executrix, was about to publish
the work, the attention of at least those who take interest in the
profounder controversies of the age was awakened.

As an autobiography, the book has but little merit; though this should
not be insisted on, since success in writing of this kind is extremely
rare. If it is almost as difficult in any case to write a life well as
to spend it well, when one attempts to become the historian of his own
life, there is every probability that he will either be ridiculous or
uninteresting. Mill, too, it must be conceded, had but poor material
at his command. His life was uneventful, uninviting even, in its
surroundings; and when the patchwork of his philosophical opinions is
taken away, there is little left in it that is not wholly commonplace.

He was born in London, in 1806, and was the eldest son of James Mill,
who was a charity student of divinity at the University of Edinburgh,
but, becoming disgusted with the doctrines of Presbyterianism, gave up
all idea of studying for the ministry, and in a short while renounced
Christian faith, and became an avowed atheist, though his atheism was
negative; his belief in what is called the relativity of knowledge
not justifying him in affirming positively that there is no God, but
only in holding that the human mind can never know whether there be a
God or not. He, however, did not stop here, but, scandalized by the
suffering which is everywhere in the world, forgot his own principles,
and maintained that it is absurd to suppose that such a world is the
work of an infinitely perfect being, and was rather inclined to accept
the Manichean theory of a good and evil principle, struggling against
each other for the government of the universe. But of God, as revealed
in Christ, he had a hatred as satanical as that of Voltaire.

"I have a hundred times heard him say," writes his son, "that all ages
and nations have represented their gods as wicked, in a constantly
increasing progression; that mankind have gone on, adding trait after
trait, till they reached the most perfect conception of wickedness
which the human mind can devise, and have called this God, and
prostrated themselves before it. This _ne plus ultra_ of wickedness
he considered to be embodied in what is commonly presented to mankind
as the creed of Christianity."[251] In other words--for Mill can mean
nothing less--he held that the character of Christ, as portrayed in the
Gospel, is the highest possible conception of all that is depraved and
repulsive; that Christ, instead of being incarnate God, is the essence
of wickedness clothed in bodily form; that, compared with him, or at
least with the God whom he called his father, Moloch, Astarte, Jupiter,
Venus, Mars, and Bacchus are pure divinities; and from the manner in
which the son narrates these opinions of his father, he evidently
desires that we should infer that they are also his own.

The elder Mill, who seems to have been a natural pedagogue, took the
education of his son exclusively into his own hands, and was most
careful not to allow him to acquire any impressions contrary to his own
sentiments respecting religion. Instead of teaching him to believe that
God created the heavens and the earth, he taught him to believe that we
can know nothing whatever of the manner in which the world came into
existence, and that the question, "Who made you?" is one which cannot
be answered, since we possess no authentic information on the subject.

To show, however, his father's conviction of the logical connection
between Protestantism and infidelity, he records that he taught him
to take the strongest interest in the Reformation, "as the great and
decisive contest against priestly tyranny for liberty of thought."

"I am thus," he adds, "one of the very few examples in this country of
one who has not thrown off religious belief, but never had it; I grew
up in a negative state with regard to it."[252]

How he could grow up in a negative condition with regard to religion is
not easily understood when we consider that his father instilled into
his mind from his earliest years the doctrine that the very essence of
religion is evil, since it is, and ever has been, worship paid to the
demon, the highest possible conception of wickedness; though he was
at the same time careful to impress upon him the duty of concealing
his belief on this subject; and this lesson of parental prudence was,
as the younger Mill himself informs us, attended with some moral
disadvantages.[253]

These moral disadvantages, in his own opinion at least, were without
positive influence upon his character, since through the whole book
there runs the tacit assumption of his own perfect goodness. I am an
atheist, he seems to say, and yet I am a saint; and he is evidently
persuaded that his own life is sufficient proof that the notion that
unbelief is generally connected with bad qualities either of mind or
heart is merely a vulgar prejudice.

"The world would be astonished," he informs us, "if it knew how great a
proportion of its brightest ornaments, of those most distinguished even
in popular estimation for wisdom and virtue, are complete sceptics in
religion.... But the best of them (unbelievers), as no one who has had
opportunities of really knowing them will hesitate to affirm, are more
genuinely religious, in the best sense of the word religion, than those
who exclusively arrogate to themselves the title."[254]

This is probably not more extravagant than the assertion that the God
of Christianity is the embodiment of all that is fiendish and wicked.

We cannot, however, pass so lightly over this portion of Mill's book,
or dismiss without further examination the assumption that the best
are they who refuse to believe in God, and hold that man is merely an
animal.

The real controversy of the age, as thoughtful men have long since
recognized, is not between the church and the sects. Protestantism,
from the beginning, by asserting the supremacy of human reason, denied
the sovereignty of God, and in its postulates, at least, was atheistic.
Hence Catholic theologians have never had any difficulty in showing
that rebellion against the authority of the church is revolt against
that of Christ, which is apostasy from God. To this argument there is
really no reply, and the difficulties which Protestants have sought to
raise against the church are based upon a sophism which underlies all
non-Catholic thought.

The pseudo-reformers objected that the church could not be of Christ,
because in it there was evil; many of its members were sinful; as the
deists hold that the Bible is not the word of God, because of the many
seeming incongruities and imperfections which are everywhere found in
it; as the atheists teach that the universe cannot be the work of an
all-wise and omnipotent Being, since it is filled with suffering and
death; and that love cannot be creation's final law, since nature, "red
in tooth and claw with ravin," shrieks against this creed.

If the imperfections and abuses in the practical workings of the church
are arguments against its divine institution and authority, then
undoubtedly the "measureless ill" which is in the world is reason for
doubting whether a Being infinitely good is its author.

Hence the traditional objections of Protestants to the church are,
in the ultimate analysis, reducible to the atheistic sophism, which,
because there is evil in the creature, seeks to conclude that the
creator cannot be wholly good; not perceiving that it would be as
reasonable to demand that the circle should be square as to ask that
the finite should be without defect.

The church is, both logically and historically, the only defensible
Christianity; as Jean Jacques Rousseau long ago admitted in the
well-known words: "Prove to me that in matters of religion I must
accept authority, and I will become a Catholic to-morrow." There is
no controversy to-day between the church and Protestantism which is
worthy of serious attention. All that is important has been said on
this subject, and Protestants themselves begin to understand that it is
far wiser for them to try to hold on to the shreds of Christian belief
which still remain to them than to waste their strength in attacks on
the church, which, as they are coming to recognize, is after all the
strongest bulwark of faith in the soul and in God.

The ground of debate to-day is back of heterodoxy and orthodoxy; it
lies around the central fact in all religion--God himself.

The scientific theories of the present time, if they do not deny the
existence of God, are at least based upon hypotheses which ignore him
and his action in the world; and the few attempts which have been made
to construct what may be called a philosophy of science all proceed
upon the assumption that, whether there be a God or not, science cannot
recognize his existence.

The faith which the elder Mill taught his son--that of the manner in
which the world came into existence nothing can be known--is that
which most scientists accept. The desire to organize society upon an
atheistic basis is also very manifest and very general.

      "Reorganiser, sans Dieu ni roi
    Par le culte systematique de l'Humanité."

The idealistic philosophy of Germany, invariably terminating in
pantheism, is another proof of the atheistic tendency of modern thought.

Mill, in his _Autobiography_, has of course made no attempt to prove
that there is no God. On the contrary, as we have already stated,
he has admitted that this proposition cannot be proved; but he
believes there is no God, fails to perceive any evidence of design
in the universe, and, from a morbid sense of the evil which abounds,
feels justified in concluding that the cosmos is not the work of an
infinitely good and omnipotent Being.

Dr. Newman, in his _Apologia_, a work of the same character as the
_Autobiography_ of Mill, but which will be read with delight when Mill
and his book will have been forgotten, has seen this difficulty, and
given expression to it in his own inimitable manner. "To consider
the world," he writes, "in its length and breadth, its various
history, the many races of man, their starts, their fortunes, their
mutual alienation, their conflicts; and then their ways, habits,
governments, forms of worship; their enterprises, their aimless
courses, their random achievements and acquirements, the impotent
conclusion of long-standing facts; the tokens, so faint and broken, of
a superintending design; the blind evolution of what turn out to be
great powers or truths; the progress of things, as if from unreasoning
elements, not toward final causes; the greatness and littleness of man,
his far-reaching aims, his short duration, the curtain hung over his
futurity, the disappointments of life, the defeat of good, the success
of evil, physical pain, mental anguish, the prevalence and intensity of
sin, the pervading idolatries, the corruptions, the dreary, hopeless
irreligion, that condition of the whole race so fearfully yet exactly
described in the apostle's words, 'having no hope, and without God in
the world'--all this is a vision to dizzy and appall, and inflicts upon
the mind the sense of a profound mystery which is absolutely beyond
human solution."[255]

But, as Dr. Newman expresses it, ten thousand difficulties do not
make one doubt. Difficulty and doubt are incommensurate. When we
have sufficient reasons for accepting two seemingly contradictory
propositions, the fact that we are unable to reconcile them should not
be a motive for rejecting them. The human race has accepted, in all
time, the existence of God with an assent as real as that with which
it has believed in the substance that underlies the phenomenon. To a
countless number of minds, the difficulty to which Mill has given such
emphasis has presented itself with a force not less than that with
which it struck him.

Millions have approached the mystery of evil, and have asked themselves

    "Are God and nature, then, at strife,
    That nature lends such evil dreams?"

But they have not weakly refused to believe in God because they
could not comprehend his works. They saw the evil; but the deepest
instincts of the soul--the longing for immortal life, the craving for
the unattainable, the thirst for a knowledge never given, the sense
of the emptiness of what seems most real; the mother-ideas of human
reason--those of being, of cause, of the absolute, the infinite, the
eternal, the sense of the all-beautiful, the all-perfect--made them fall

    "Upon the great world's altar-stairs
    That <DW72> through darkness up to God,"

and stretch hands of faith, and trust the larger hope.

We do not propose to offer any arguments to prove that God is, or to
show that his existence is reconcilable with the evil in the world,
since Mill has not attempted to establish the contradictory of this;
but we wish merely to state that his apprehension of the difficulties
which surround this question is not keener than that of thousands
of others who have seen no connection between apprehending these
difficulties and doubting the doctrines to which they are attached.
Whilst admitting that science can never prove that there is no God,
Mill evidently intended his _Autobiography_ to be an argument against
the usefulness of belief in God for moral and social purposes;
"which," he tells us, "of all the parts of the discussion concerning
religion, is the most important in this age, in which real belief in
any religious doctrine is feeble and precarious, but the opinion of
its necessity for moral and social purposes almost universal; and when
those who reject revelation very generally take refuge in an optimistic
deism--a worship of the order of nature and the supposed course of
Providence--at least as full of contradictions and perverting to the
moral sentiments as any of the forms of Christianity, if only it is as
fully realized."[256] Confessing the inability of the scientists to
prove that there is no God, he thinks that they should devote their
efforts to the attempt to show that belief in God is not beneficial
either to the individual or to society. We shall, therefore, turn to
the question of morality, which is enrooted in metaphysics, out of
which it grows, and to which it is indebted both for its meaning and
its strength.

Can the atheistic philosophy give to morality a solid basis? To deny
the existence of an infinitely perfect Being is to affirm that there is
no absolute goodness, no moral law, eternal, immutable, and necessary,
no act that in itself is either good or bad, no certain and fixed
standard of right and wrong.

Hence atheistic philosophy can give to morality no other foundation
than that of pleasure or utility:

    "Atque ipsa utilitas justi prope mater et aequi,
    Nec natura potest justo secernere iniquum."

And, in fact, this has been the doctrine, we may say, of all those who
have denied the existence of God.

Epicurus, Lucretius, Hobbes, Helvetius, Volney, and the whole
Voltairean tribe in France, have all substantially taken this view
of the question of morality; and Mill's opinion on the subject did
not, except in form, differ from theirs. His father was the friend
of Bentham, an advocate of the utilitarian theory of morality, which
he applied to civil and criminal law; and young Mill became an
enthusiastic disciple of the Benthamic philosophy.

"The principle of utility," he writes, "understood as Bentham
understood it, and applied in the manner in which he applied it through
these three volumes, fell exactly into its place as the keystone which
held together the detached and fragmentary component parts of my
knowledge and beliefs. It gave unity to my conceptions of things. I now
had opinions, a creed, a doctrine, a philosophy; in one among the best
senses of the word, a religion; the inculcation and diffusion of which
could be made the principal outward purpose of a life."[257]

Bentham sought to save the ethics of utility by generalizing the
principle of self-interest into that of the greatest happiness; and it
was this "greatest-happiness principle" that gave Mill what he calls
a religion. Though less grovelling than the theory of self-interest,
yet, equally with it, it deprives morality of a solid foundation,
substitutes force for right, and consecrates all tyranny.

If there be no God, and interest is the sole criterion of what is good,
in the name of what am I commanded to sacrifice my particular interest
to general interest? If interest is the law, then my own interest is
the first and highest. If happiness be the supreme end of life, and
there be no life beyond this life, in order to ask of me the sacrifice
of my happiness, it must be called for in the name of some other
principle than happiness itself.

And if "the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns,

    "What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys,
    Tho' the deep heart of existence beat for ever like a boy's?"

Besides being false, this "greatest-happiness principle" is impossible
in practice. Who can tell what is for the greatest good of the greatest
number? It is very difficult, often impossible, when we consider only
our individual interest, to decide what actions will be most conducive
to our happiness, in the utilitarian sense of the word. How, then, are
we to decide when the interests of a whole people, of humanity, and for
all future time, are to be consulted? Would any atheist of the school
of Mill, who is not wholly fanatical, dare affirm that the greatest
number would be happier, even in a low and animal sense, without faith
in God and a future life? And yet, according to his own theory, unless
he is certain of this when he attempts to destroy the religious belief
of his fellow-beings, his act is immoral.

Was it not in the name of, and in strict accordance with, the
principles of this theory that Comte planned what Mill calls "the
completest system of spiritual and temporal despotism which ever
yet emanated from a human brain, unless, possibly, that of Ignatius
Loyola--a system by which the yoke of general opinion, wielded by
an organized body of spiritual teachers and rulers, would be made
supreme over every action, and, as far as is in human possibility,
every thought of every member of the community, as well in the things
which regard only himself as in those which concern the interests of
others"?[258]

There is yet another vice in this system. If the good is the greatest
interest of the greatest number, then there are only public and social
ethics, and personal morality does not exist. Our duties are towards
others, and we have no duties towards ourselves. Thus the very source
of moral life is dried up.

Let us come to considerations less general and more immediately
connected with Mill's life.

Of his father's opinions on this subject he says: "In his views of
life, he partook of the character of the Stoic, the Epicurean, and the
Cynic, not in the modern but the ancient sense of the word. In his
personal qualities the Stoic predominated. His standard of morals was
Epicurean, inasmuch as it was utilitarian, taking as the exclusive
test of right and wrong the tendency of actions to produce pleasure
or pain. But he had (and this was the Cynic element) scarcely any
belief in pleasure, at least in his later years, of which alone, on
this point, I can speak confidently.... He thought human life a poor
thing at best after the freshness of youth and of unsatisfied curiosity
had gone by.... He would sometimes say that if life were made what
it might be by good government and good education, it would be worth
having; but he never spoke with anything like enthusiasm even of that
possibility."[259]

This certainly is a gloomy, not to say hopeless, view of life, and one
which, in spite of Mill's attempt to produce a contrary impression,
pervades the whole book. The thoughtful reader cannot help feeling
that Mill's state of mind was very like that described by the apostle:
"having no hope, and without God in the world." A deep and settled
dissatisfaction with all he saw around him, the feeling that all was
wrong--society, religion, government, the family, human life, the
philosophic opinions of the whole world except himself, together with
an undercurrent of despair, which made him doubt whether they would
ever be right, gave a coloring of melancholy to his character which he
is unable to hide. Life was no boon, and not even the faintest ray of
light pierced the black gloom of the grave.

Of his father he writes: "In ethics, his moral feelings were energetic
and rigid on all points which he deemed important to human well-being,
while he was supremely indifferent in opinion (though his indifference
did not show itself in personal conduct) to all those doctrines of the
common morality which he thought had no foundation but in asceticism
and priest-craft. He looked forward, for example, to a considerable
increase of freedom in the relations between the sexes, though without
pretending to define exactly what would be, or ought to be, the precise
conditions of that freedom."[260]

Here we have an instance of the truth of the inference which we have
already drawn from the principles of the utilitarian ethics--that they
take no account of personal purity of character, and teach that man's
duties are towards others, and not towards himself. There is a still
more striking example of this in Mill's _Autobiography_.

He early in life made the acquaintance of a married lady, for whom
he conceived a very strong affection. He spent a good deal of his
time with her, and says: "I was greatly indebted to the strength of
character which enabled her to disregard the false interpretations
liable to be put on the frequency of my visits to her while living
generally apart from Mr. Taylor, and on our occasionally travelling
together"; though their relation at that time, he tells us, was only
that of strong affection and confidential intimacy. The reason which
he assigns for this is certainly most curious: "For though," he says,
"we did not consider the ordinances of society binding on a subject so
entirely personal, we did feel bound that our conduct should be such
as in no degree to bring discredit on her husband, nor therefore on
herself."[261]

In other words, Mill recognizes no obligation of personal purity,
even in the married, but holds that unchastity is wrong only when it
brings discredit on others; though he was unfaithful even to this
loose ethical code, since, according to his own account, his conduct
was such as to be liable to misinterpretation, and, therefore, such as
might bring disgrace upon the husband of the woman with whom he was
associating.

His hatred of marriage and of the restraints which it imposes is seen
in several parts of the work before us.

Of the Saint-Simonians he says: "I honored them most of all for what
they have been most cried down for--the boldness and freedom from
prejudice with which they treated the subject of the family, the
most important of any, and needing more fundamental alterations than
remain to be made in any other great social institution, but on which
scarcely any reformer has the courage to touch. In proclaiming the
perfect equality of men and women, and an entirely new order of things
in regard to their relations with one another, the Saint-Simonians, in
common with Owen and Fourier, have entitled themselves to the grateful
remembrance of future generations."[262]

A man who puts himself forward as the advocate of free-love should not,
one would think, insist especially on the moralities, or give himself
prominence as a proof that belief in God is not useful either to the
individual or to society.

Mill's social ethics are of the same character. He is a socialist of
the most radical type, and considers the great problem of the future to
be how to unite the greatest individual liberty of action with a common
ownership in the raw material of the globe, and an equal participation
of all in the benefits of combined labor; though the "uncultivated
herd who now compose the laboring masses," as well as the mental and
moral condition of the immense majority of their employers, convince
him that this social transformation is not now either possible or
desirable. Still, his ethics lead him to hope that private property
will be abolished, and that the whole earth will be converted into a
kind of industrial school, in which every man, woman, and child will be
required to do certain work, and receive in remuneration whatever the
controllers of the general capital may see fit to give them. Thus, in
the name of the greatest good of the greatest number, personal purity,
the family, private property, society, are all to be no more, and the
human race is to be managed somewhat like a model stock-farm, in which
everything, from breeding down to the minutest details of food and
exercise, is to be under the control of a supervisory committee.

As we have already seen, Mill, after reading Bentham, got what he
called a religion: he had an object in life--to be a reformer of the
world.

This did very well for a time; but in the autumn of 1826, whilst, as
he expresses it, he was in a dull state of nerves, he awakened as
from a dream. He put the question to himself: "'Suppose that all your
objects in life were realized; that all the changes in institutions and
opinions to which you are looking forward could be effected at this
very instant; would this be a great joy and happiness to you?' And an
irrepressible self-consciousness distinctly answered, 'No!' At this
my heart sank within me; the whole foundation on which my life was
constructed fell down.... I seemed to have nothing left to live for.

"At first I hoped that the cloud would pass away of itself; but it did
not.... I carried it with me into all companies, into all occupations.
Hardly anything had power to cause me even a few minutes' oblivion of
it.... The lines in Coleridge's 'Dejection'--I was not then acquainted
with them--exactly describe my case:

    "'A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
    A drowsy, stifled, unimpassioned grief,
    Which finds no natural outlet or relief
    In word, or sigh, or tear.'"[263]

He now felt that his father had committed a blunder in the education
which he had given him; that the habit of analysis has a tendency
to wear away the feelings and dry up the fountains of pleasurable
emotions; that it is a perpetual worm at the root both of the passions
and of the virtues; and, above all, fearfully undermines all desires
and all pleasures which are the effects of association.

"My education, I thought, had failed to create these feelings in
sufficient strength to resist the dissolving influence of analysis,
while the whole course of my intellectual cultivation had made
precocious and premature analysis the inveterate habit of my mind. I
was thus, as I said to myself, left stranded at the commencement of my
voyage, with a well-equipped ship and a rudder, but no sail; without
any real desire for the ends which I had been so carefully fitted out
to work for; no delight in virtue or the general good, but also just as
little in anything else.... I frequently asked myself if I could, or if
I was bound to, go on living, when life must be passed in this manner.
I generally answered to myself that I did not think I could possibly
bear it beyond a year."[264]

This sad state of mind was the protest of the soul against the skeleton
of intellectual formulas into which it had been cramped. A man is
not going to live or die for conclusions, opinions, calculations,
analytical nothings. Man is not and cannot be made to be a mere
reasoning machine, a contrivance to grind out syllogisms. He is a
seeing, feeling, contemplating, believing, acting animal. We cannot
construct a philosophy of life upon abstract conclusions of the
analytical faculty; life is action and for action, and, if we insist
on analyzing and proving everything, we shall never come to action.
Humanity is a mere fiction of the mind, and can be nothing, whilst God,
to most men at least, is a living reality, to be believed in, hoped in,
loved. Were it possible for us to accept the doctrines of Stuart Mill,
we should feel the same interest in his humanitarian projects that we
do in Mr. Bergh's society for the prevention of cruelty to animals. We
pity the poor brutes, but we butcher them and eat them all the same. If
there is nothing but nature and nature's laws, it is perfectly right
that the few should live for the many, and that thousands should sweat
and groan to fill the belly of one animal who is finer and stronger
than those he feeds upon. Neither the law of gravity, nor that of the
conservation of forces, nor that which impels bodies along the line
of least resistance, nor that which causes the fittest--which means
the strongest--to survive, can impose upon us a moral obligation not
to do what we have the strength to do. These infidels talk of the
intellectual cowardice of those who believe. Let them first be frank,
and tell us, without circumlocution or concealment, that there is
nothing but force; that whatever is, must be; and that nothing is
either right or wrong. If we are permitted to swallow oysters whole, to
butcher oxen and imprison monkeys in mere wantonness; and if these are
our forefathers, why may not the strong and intelligent members of the
human race put the weak and ignorant to any use they may see fit; or
why may we not imitate the more natural savage who roasts or boils his
man as his civilized brother would a pig?

It is easy to make a show of despising the argument implied in this
question; but, admitting the atheistic evolutionary hypothesis, it
cannot be answered.

Cannibals hold that it is for the greatest happiness of the greatest
number that their enemies should be eaten; and, after all, what is
happiness, in the utilitarian and animal sense, but an affair of taste,
to a great extent even of imagination? Have not slave-owners in all
times held that it was for the greatest good of the greatest number
that slavery should continue to exist? Or has the greatest-happiness
principle had anything to do with the abolition of slavery among the
Christian nations or elsewhere?

Men appealed in the name of right, of justice, of the inborn dignity of
the human soul, of God-given liberty, and the conscience of the nations
was awakened. They gave no thought to the idle theories of brains, from
which the heart and soul had been strained, about a greatest-happiness
principle. What have atheists ever done but talk, and mock, and
criticise, and seek their own ease whilst discoursing on the general
good?

Mill takes the greatest care to record, in more than one place, that
he and his father occasionally wrote articles for the _Westminster
Review_ without receiving pay for them; thinking it, evidently, worthy
of remark that an atheist should even write except for money. Here we
may note a vice inherent in atheism, which proves at once its untruth
and its impotence. It leaves man without enthusiasm, without hope,
without love, to fall back upon himself, a wilted, shrunken thing, to
mix with matter, or to vanish in lifeless, logical formalism. It has
no heroes, no saints, no martyrs, no confessors. Its advocates either
abandon themselves to lust and the senses, or, making a divinity of
their own imagined superiority, worship the ghost they have conjured
up, whilst looking down upon the rest of mankind as a vulgar herd still
intellectually walking on four feet. Mill makes no effort to conceal
his contempt for the mass of mankind; and contempt does not inspire
love, which alone renders man helpful to man.

The gloom which settled around the life of John Stuart Mill, when he
once fully realized that, holding the intellectual opinions which he
held, nothing was worth living for, and that he was consequently left
without a motive or an object in life, never really left him. He tells
us, indeed, that the cloud gradually drew off, and that, though he had
several relapses which lasted many months, he was never as miserable
as he had been; but it is quite evident, from the whole tone of this
_Autobiography_, that his disappointed soul, like the wounded dove,
drew the wings that were intended to lift it to God close to itself,
and, hopeless, sank into philosophical despair. Happiness he considered
the sole end of life; and yet he says that the enjoyments of life,
which alone make it worth having, when made its principal object, pall
upon us and sicken the heart. "Ask yourself whether you are happy, and
you cease to be so. The only chance is to treat, not happiness, but
some end external to it, as the purpose of life."

In other words, in Mill's philosophy, the end of life is happiness,
which can be possessed only by those who persuade themselves that
this is not the end of life. The doctrine of philosophical necessity,
during the later returns of his despondency, weighed upon him like an
incubus: "I felt as if I was scientifically proved to be the helpless
slave of antecedent circumstances; as if my character and that of all
others had been formed for us by agencies beyond our control, and was
wholly out of our own power. I often said to myself, What a relief
it would be if I could disbelieve the doctrine of the formation of
character by circumstances!"[265]

He tries to escape from the fatal web in which his soul hung helpless;
but sophisms and quibbles of the brain cannot minister to a mind
diseased or pluck sorrow from the heart.

But the saddest part of Mill's _Autobiography_ is the portion devoted
to the woman whose friendship he called the honor and chief blessing of
his existence. The picture which he has drawn of his childhood is at
once painful and ludicrous.

He does not even incidentally allude to a single fact which would lead
one to suppose that he had a mother or had ever known a mother's love.

The father, as described by the son, was cold, fanatical, morose,
almost inhuman, acting as though he thought children are born merely
for the purpose of being crammed with Greek roots and logical formulas.
John Stuart was put at Greek vocables when only three years old. His
father demanded of him not only the utmost that he could do, but much
that it was utterly impossible that he should do. He was guilty, for
instance, of the incredible folly of making him read the _Dialogues_
of Plato when only seven years old. He never knew anything of the
freshness or joyousness of childhood, or what it is to be "boy
eternal." He grew up without the companionship of children, blighted
and dwarfed by the abiding presence of the narrow and unnatural man who
nipped the flower of his life in the bud, and repressed within him all
the sentiments and aspirations which are the spontaneous and healthful
product of youth. He was not taught to delight in sunshine and flowers,
and music and song; but even in his boyish rambles there strode ever
by his side the analytical machine, dissecting, destroying, marring
God's work with his lifeless, hopeless theories. The effect of this
training was, as we have already seen, that when the boy became a man,
he found himself like a ship on the ocean without sail or compass, and
there gathered around his life the settled gloom of despair, which his
philosophical opinions tended only to deepen.

Without a mother's love, without a father whom it was possible to love,
without friends of his own age, without God, dejected, despondent,
hopeless, he met the wife of a friend of his father, who, from the
manner in which she controlled her first and second husbands, must
have been a clever woman, and he became an idolater, giving to her the
adoration which his father had taught him to withhold from God. That
there is no exaggeration in this statement every one who will take the
trouble to read the seventh chapter of Mill's _Autobiography_ will be
ready to confess.

He married this woman in 1851, when he was forty-five and she but
two years younger, and seven years later her death occurred. Mill
wishes the world to believe that this woman was the prodigy of the
XIXth century, surpassing in intellectual vigor and moral strength
all men and all other women; that to her he owed all that is best in
his own writings; and that he is but the interpreter of the wonderful
thoughts of this incomparable woman, whom others have deemed merely a
commonplace woman's rights woman.

"Thus prepared," he writes, "it will easily be believed that when
I came into close intellectual communion with a person of the most
eminent faculties, whose genius, as it grew and unfolded itself in
thought, struck out truths far in advance of me, but in which I could
not, as I had done in those others, detect any mixture of error, the
greatest part of my mental growth consisted in the assimilation of
those truths; and the most valuable part of my intellectual work was in
building the bridges and clearing the paths which connected them with
my general system of thought."[266]

Mill seems to have been incapable of a healthful sentiment of any kind.
The same quality in his stunted and warped moral nature which caused
him to have a false and exaggerated sense of the evil that is in the
world, leading him to atheism, made him a blind and superstitious
worshipper of the imaginary endowments of his wife. But one must read
the book itself to realize how far he carried this idolatry.

When she dies, he again sinks into the gloom which his superstition had
seemed to cause him partially to forget; and if he continues to work,
it is only with the feeble strength "derived from thoughts of her and
communion with her memory." Her death was a calamity which took from
him all hope, and he found some slight alleviation only in the mode of
life which best enabled him to feel her still near him.

She died at Avignon, and he bought a cottage as close as possible to
the place where she was buried; and there he settled down in helpless
misery, feeling that all that remained to him in the world was a memory.

"Her memory," he writes, "is to me a religion, and her approbation the
standard by which, summing up, as it does, all worthiness, I endeavor
to regulate my life."[267]

He did not believe in God, in the soul, in a life beyond life; he had
scarcely any faith in the practical efforts of the age to improve the
condition of the masses, upon whom he looked as the common herd; his
own countrymen especially he despised as selfish and narrow above all
other men, grovelling in their instincts, and low in the objects which
they aim at; happiness he held to be the sole end of existence; and at
the close of his life, an old man, in a foreign land, in immedicable
misery, he stood beside a grave, and sought with feeble fingers to
clutch the shadow of a dream, which he called his religion; and so he
died.

We have never read a sadder book, nor one which to our mind contains
stronger proof that the soul longs with an infinite craving for God,
and, not finding him, will worship anything--a woman, a stone, a memory.

FOOTNOTES:

[249] Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by
Rev. I. T. HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at
Washington, D. C.

[250] _Autobiography._ By John Stuart Mill. New York: Holt & Co. 1873.

[251] P. 41.

[252] P. 43.

[253] P. 44.

[254] P. 46.

[255] _Apologia_, p. 268.

[256] P. 70.

[257] P. 67.

[258] P. 213.

[259] P. 48.

[260] P. 107.

[261] P. 230.

[262] P. 167.

[263] P. 134.

[264] P. 140.

[265] P. 169.

[266] P. 243.

[267] P. 251.




THE FARM OF MUICERON.


                            BY MARIE RHEIL.

                  FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.


XVI.

However, our good friends at Muiceron had not become, believe me, so
entirely perverted by vanity as to lose all remembrance of the past.
They could not have lived twenty years with a boy as perfect in conduct
and affection as Jean-Louis without missing him as the days rolled on.

I acknowledge, nevertheless, that the first week passed so quickly
in the midst of the flurry and fuss of the marriage contract and
presents--bought on credit--that the absence of the good child was
scarcely felt; but, towards the end of the second week, one evening
Pierrette asked Ragaud if the time had not nearly expired that
Jean-Louis had been lent to Michou for the clearing of the forest of
Montreux; "for," said she, "I cannot live any longer without him, he
was of so much use to me, and the house is so empty without him."

"I gave him for a fortnight," replied Ragaud, "and I would not
disoblige Michou by reclaiming him before; but I think we will see him
next week, and then I hope he will be over his little miff."

"What miff?" asked Pierrette.

"Bless me! wife, you are a little too simple if you have not noticed
long before this how sullen the boy has become."

"He never says much," replied Pierrette, "and we have all been so very
busy lately, it has made him more silent even than usual."

"That is precisely it," said Ragaud. "You have petted him so much,
he fancied everything was his; and when he saw us so occupied with
Jeannette's marriage, he took it in dudgeon, and became offended."

"That would be very wrong in him," replied La Ragaude, "and I don't
believe Jeannet capable of such wicked sentiments. Jealousy is not
one of his faults; on the contrary, he always thinks of others before
himself."

"That may be, that may be, but you cannot judge of wine, no matter how
old you may know it to be, before tasting; and, in the same way, you
cannot answer for any quality of the heart until it has been tried.
So it was very easy for Jeannet not to be jealous when there was no
subject for jealousy; but, if you were not always blind and deaf to his
defects, you would acknowledge that from the day that Isidore put his
foot in this house he has changed as much as milk turned into curds."

"That may all be," said Pierrette, who could not answer her husband's
objections.

"That may all be so easily that it is positively so," replied Ragaud,
"and Jeannet will not re-enter this house until I have spoken very
plainly to him, and made him promise to treat Isidore as a brother."

"That is just what I think," replied good Pierrette, who loved peace
above all things, "and you always speak wisely."

Jeannette, for her part, had a little secret annoyance that she
carefully concealed, but which made her more irritable and less docile
than usual, greatly to the astonishment of Pierrette, who thought
her to be at the summit of happiness. After being rather sullen with
Jeannet, because he did not appear delighted with her marriage, and,
above all, with her intended, she was now displeased to see Isidore
parading before every one--and to her the first--his great satisfaction
at the departure of Jean-Louis. He even seemed to seek every occasion
to speak injuriously of him before her parents, and allowed no one
to praise him in his presence. The child was not very patient, we
already know, and, as Solange truly said, her head alone was dazzled;
her heart was not spoiled enough to make her lose her good sense.
Still further, she began to feel very uneasy on a subject which she
wished to understand clearly before finally engaging herself--it
was that of religion. She had felt the ground around Perdreau, and,
although he was as hypocritical as the devil, he had attempted several
very disagreeable jokes about the church and her ceremonies which, I
must say, provoked Jeannette to such a degree, she openly showed her
displeasure. Thereupon Isidore, seeing that he had gone too far, and
that he must be more careful or he would lose her dowry, tried to play
the part of a saint in his niche; but it was a comedy in which he was
not well skilled from want of practice, and Jeannette, more and more
worried and unhappy, commenced to regret that the good and wise Jeannet
was no longer at her side to aid her with his advice, of which she had
never before felt such urgent need.

So she, in her turn, hazarded the same request as Pierrette, and asked
her father when they might expect the return of Jean-Louis.

Ragaud made her nearly the same reply as he had done to his wife,
without mentioning his ideas in relation to Jeannet's supposed
jealousy; and Jeannette patiently awaited him.

But the fortnight went by without any sign of the boy, and it could
be easily perceived that Jeannette was becoming nervous--a kind
of sickness little known in the country even by name, but which
mademoiselle's example had taught Jeannette to attempt whenever
things did not go on exactly as she wished. However, affairs went on
precisely as those rascally Perdreaux desired. The marriage-contract
was prepared, and, after an immense scrawl of big words, which Ragaud
did not understand, it concluded by making the good man abandon all
his personal and landed property to his daughter, only reserving for
himself a moderate annuity. Ragaud was ashamed to avow that all this
waste paper was entirely above his comprehension. He tried to look
very wise, but proved by his questions that he was caught in a trap;
for, after the reading of the knavish document, which stripped him of
everything, he innocently asked if he would retain the right to manage
Muiceron, and live there as master during his life.

"Undoubtedly," replied the notary; "your children would be unnatural to
let it be otherwise. I have done all for the best, for I suppose you do
not wish to oblige my son to marry under the _dotal law_?"

"What is the _dotal law_?" said Ragaud.

"It is the greatest disgrace that can be imposed on a man," gravely
replied the notary.

"Oh! I beg pardon, M. Perdreau; and so in your paper there is no
question of that?"

"Certainly not," said the notary. "I have drawn up the papers for the
good father and honorable man that you are."

"Then it is all right, and I have nothing more to do but to thank you,"
said the honest farmer.

"We could both sign it this evening," said the head rascal.

"There is no hurry," said Ragaud; "we will do that when all the family
are present, before my wife and the children. I wish Jeannet to sign it
also."

"Sign? Your Jean-Louis can't sign it," said the notary, "as he has no
name; the law, M. Ragaud, does not recognize illegitimate children."

"Really! That is cruel for the boy, monsieur; at least, I would like
him to hear the paper read."

"For what reason?"

"To please him, that is all; he has been like a child to us for twenty
years, and has never deserved to be driven from the family."

"As you please; I think it useless. In business, you see, there is no
such thing as sentiment; however, if you prefer it...."

"I certainly do prefer it," replied Ragaud firmly. "I have been a just
man all my life, monsieur, and I do not wish now to act unjustly toward
a child who has always served me so faithfully."

The notary did not reply, but his ugly weasel-face showed such bitter
displeasure that Ragaud, already dissatisfied with the conversation,
suddenly remembered Jacques Michou's remarks, and promised himself to
keep his eyes open.

Fortunately, the good God gives to honest men a sense of distrust
which is easily sharpened. The peasant, in particular, is never
entirely at ease when spoken to in more difficult language than two and
two make four. Now, Ragaud, on account of his vanity, did not wish to
acknowledge before others that he understood nothing of all the fine
writing on the stamped paper, but he avowed it to himself, and, putting
on a perfectly innocent air, he said to Perdreau:

"Will you have the kindness to let me have the papers for a few days? I
would like to read them over again when I have time."

"Very willingly," replied the notary, well convinced--and there he was
right--that good Ragaud could not decipher the handwriting, and that it
would be all Greek to him. "I was even going to propose it to you. Take
them, M. Ragaud, and read them at your leisure; but I need not tell you
that it must remain a secret between us until the day the contract is
signed."

"I understand," replied Ragaud. "I know how to be discreet, monsieur,
and I am not more desirous than you that my daughter's affairs should
be known all over the neighborhood."

He did not speak falsely in promising it; for to a Christian the word
of a priest is sacred, and he only intended to let the _curé_ read the
contract under the seal of confession.

The next day it so happened that M. Perdreau went to the city, where he
expected to pass two days, to plan an affair still worse than the rest,
which you will know in due time. Ragaud, thus having the field clear,
hurried off to Val-Saint, with the papers carefully folded under his
blouse.

That morning Jeannette was not in good humor. Three weeks had gone
by without any news of Jeannet, who did not even return to sleep
at Muiceron. She received her loving Isidore like a spoiled child,
shrugged her shoulders when he told her she was charmingly pretty, and
ended by telling him he must find out something about Jean-Louis, and
bring him back to her as quickly as possible, or else she would not
believe he loved her.

Isidore, who had every defect--above all, the silly vanity to think
that he was fully capable of turning the heads of all the girls, which
is, in itself, a proof of presumptuous folly--pretended at first to
take it as a joke, imagining that Jeannette wished to provoke his
jealousy. But seeing her serious and resolute, he replied in an angry
tone that such a commission was not to his taste.

"In that case," she replied, "it is not to mine to talk to you to-day."

"Then I will take my leave," said he, touching his hat.

She did not detain him, and contented herself with smiling, which he
thought another little coquettish trick.

"You are like all women," said he slowly, "who do not mind sacrificing
their hearts for a whim."

"What do you call a whim?" replied Jeannette. "Is the desire to see my
brother again a whim? Very well, then, I declare to you that I will
regard nothing decided as to our marriage until Jean-Louis has returned
home."

"Do you think, my little beauty," said he, turning red with anger,
"that I will let you call that vagabond of a foundling brother after
you become my wife?"

"We will see," replied she; "but, meanwhile, I do not intend to
change, and neither will I allow Jeannet to be insulted in my presence;
it is not the first time I have told you so, M. Isidore."

"And so you are capable of becoming seriously angry with me, who adores
you, on account of your pretended brother?"

"If you are unreasonable and unjust," said she resolutely, "I will no
longer love you."

"You scarcely love me now," said he sullenly. "I did not believe that
the day would ever come when you could think so little of me."

"I have always thought," she replied, "that husband and wife should
agree upon all points. Ever since I can remember, I have always had
a respect and friendship for Jean-Louis, and never has he behaved
otherwise than well in this house, where he is looked upon as a son. I
don't know why my marriage should change my feelings in regard to him;
and that is a question I confess we had better settle at once before
going any further.

"Very well," said M. Isidore, speaking like one who had suddenly
decided upon some plan. "I am very sorry to be obliged to pain you, but
I will not bother myself about this bast--about this Jean-Louis, and
that because it is time you should know the truth about him; he is far
from being worthy of your esteem, my dear Jeanne."

"Oh! indeed!" said she. "Here is something very new; and the proof, if
you please?"

"You insist upon knowing it?"

"Absolutely and quickly," replied Jeannette, who began to grow
impatient.

"You will certainly be grieved, and there is reason for it," said
Isidore in a sad tone. "Know, then, that this Jean-Louis, whom you
fancy dying with grief because he no longer sees you, is all the while
enjoying himself immensely."

"How can he amuse himself?" asked Jeannette. "You are telling stories.
Jeannet is in the wood of Montreux, where he has too much to do, in
clearing out the forest, to think of anything else; besides, he is not
naturally very gay, poor boy!"

"_Poor boy!_ Don't pity him so much; he would laugh if he heard you.
Clearing the wood of Montreux--he? It is a mere pretence to hide his
game; he wishes to be more at ease to court Solange Luguet.

"M. Isidore," cried Jeannette, starting up, pale with anger, "keep on
speaking ill of Jean-Louis--he is a man, and can defend himself; but to
speak thus of my cousin Solange is a cowardly falsehood!"

"How pretty you look!" said Isidore insolently. "Anger is so becoming
to you, I would always like to see you so, if it were not so painful
to me to excite you thus. No, Jeanne, I do not lie. M. Jean-Louis, who
owes his life to your parents, and whom you call brother, at this very
instant ridicules the whole household. He is going to marry Solange,
and I don't believe he will even inform you of it."

"Who told you so?" asked Jeannette, amazed. "People will gossip so."

"I had it from Pierre Luguet. It is true it is common talk, but I would
not have believed it, if Solange's own brother had not said it."

"Can you swear it to me?" said she.

"I can swear to it positively. Ask Pierre; you see I am not afraid of
being proved a liar."

"I believe you," said Jeanne, who sought in vain to keep back the
tears that filled her eyes. "Never, I confess, would I have believed
that of Jean-Louis."

"You understand now why I did not care to start in search of that
gentleman. I am indignant at his conduct; it is frightful ingratitude.
To think that he had here a father, a mother, a sister, and that he
abandons all to go off and be secretly married! Is it not proof in
itself that he renounces and despises you?"

"Oh! it is very wrong, very wrong!" said Jeannette, much excited. "You
were right--I can no longer call him brother."

"I hope not; it would be affection very badly bestowed, and which would
make you the laughing-stock of the village. Are you still angry with
me, my dear Jeanne?"

"Pardon me," said she, extending her hand; "you see, I have had good
reason for sorrow."

And then she burst into tears, no longer able to restrain them, but
without exactly knowing the cause of so real a pain.

Isidore did not expect to succeed so well. This time he had not lied;
he really believed Jeannet would be married, as that giddy-brained
Pierre had announced the fact to him. And yet he did not like to
see Jeanne weep for such a little thing. It made him think that the
affection of these two children, who had lived together as brother
and sister for so many years, was much stronger than he had believed,
and he was more determined than ever to put a stop to it after he was
married, and even before, if he could.

He left Muiceron very much dissatisfied. Jeannette was sad; she let him
go off without scarcely noticing him. When she was alone, the wish to
seek some consolation led her to go after her mother, to see if she had
heard the news, and to talk with her about it.

But, behold! just as she left the room she ran against some one, and
who should it be but Jean-Louis, who had come after some changes of
clothes to carry off to the wood, and who, knowing that she was with
her intended, did not wish to disturb her.

At the sight of her brother all the readiness of her character came
back and took the place of her vexation. She assumed an air so haughty
that Jeannet, all ready to embrace her, stepped back, dumb with
astonishment.

"_You there?_" said Jeannette, with a frown on her brow.

"You there? Why do you speak so to me?" asked he, astonished.

"You must not forget," continued Jeanne, who proudly raised her head as
she spoke, "that I am engaged to Isidore Perdreau."

"Yes, I know it," said Jean-Louis.

"Consequently," she replied, "it is no longer possible for me to treat
you as formerly. You know why?"

"I know it," answered he, lowering his head.

"It is no longer proper," said she, "for us to behave as brother and
sister, since we are not so really."

"That is true," said Jeannet, his heart aching with mortal agony.

"That is all I have to say," added Jeannette in a still haughtier tone;
"and now, Jean-Louis, I wish you much joy and happiness--this I say in
remembrance of our friendship!"

"Are you bidding me farewell?" asked he.

"I will see you later--and--and your wife also; but you understand?"

"My wife?" said Jeannet.

"Enough," replied Jeanne; "I do not wish to know your secrets. It is
useless for you to seek my father and my mother."

And with that she rapidly crossed the room, and hurried off; for,
between ourselves, this great anger was not very real, and the longer
she looked at the pale, beautiful face of her brother, whom she had
not seen for such a long time, the more she felt like throwing her
arms around his neck, instead of ill-treating him. But her words had
been too cruel; they had entered the soul of Jean-Louis like so many
sword-thrusts. It was all ended for him. Proud as he was, and always
overwhelmed with the secret grief of his birth, to have it recalled to
him by so dear a mouth was deadly suffering. He remained an instant as
though his senses had left him, not knowing what to do or to think;
then all at once his reason returned. He had just been driven out, and,
after all, they had the right to do it. He made the sign of the cross
on his heart, and left the house, with the intention of never returning.

He went back to Michou, and passed the evening with him at the
Luguets'. He said nothing of what had happened to any one. Dear,
good Solange noticed that he was sadder than usual, but that was not
astonishing; she knew he had been that day to Muiceron, and she very
truly thought he had possibly heard things which could not contribute
to lighten his heart and make him gay.

It is now time to tell you that old Perdreau was one of the leaders of
a band of ruffians who assembled in a lonely field every week in our
city of Issoudun, where, after taking the most frightful oaths, they
plotted, murder, arson, and the robbery of the châteaux and churches.
It was what is called a secret society, and was known by the name of
_la Martine_; and some weeks afterwards, when the Revolution of 1848
broke out, which caused such havoc among us, there was a well-known
man, so I have been told, who bore the same name, and who placed
himself at the head of the insurgents, believing them, in good faith,
to be the most honest men in the world. This man, who was as good
as any one you could find, and even a passable Christian, my father
assured me, bit his thumbs until the blood came when he saw himself
despised and his counsel disregarded. But it was too late; the evil
was done. Undoubtedly you know much more about it than I, and so I
scarcely dare venture to say any more on the subject. You must only
know that the cursed notary had used all the money of M. le Marquis to
pay the rabble of _la Martine_, with the understanding that, when they
pillaged the château, he should have half the estate, including the
dwelling-house.

As for Isidore, he was fully up to the business, and worked at it
assiduously, as much at Paris as elsewhere. The men who worked in the
wood of Montreux belonged to the gang; he knew them all by name, and
kept them all near Val-Saint, so as to be ready for the contemplated
insurrection. But in case the thing should not succeed, or would be
delayed, he did not think it beneath him to provide himself with a pear
to satisfy his thirst, and that was his marriage.

Our good Ragaud returned from his interview with M. le Curé rather
depressed in spirits. The contract, as read by the holy man, did
not appear to him as captivating as when explained by the notary.
He had learned still further, from a few words discreetly uttered,
that it would be well not to place implicit faith in Master Perdreau,
and believe him the personification of honor, as until then he had
innocently imagined. What now could be done to arrange, or rather
disarrange, affairs so far advanced? The poor man was devoured with
care and anxiety. He dared not speak to his daughter, whom he thought
to reduce to desperation at the mere mention of the word rupture; and
then to withdraw from the contract now would lower him tremendously
in the eyes of the world around. No longer able to see clearly,
Ragaud kept quiet, locked the documents safely in his chest, and
waited--which, in many circumstances, is the wisest policy.

A long week passed; then came the festivals of Christmas and New Year.
Old Perdreau was half dead with impatience, but nevertheless dared not
say a word, or even appear too anxious. What bothered him, besides,
was that the rascally gang in the wood of Montreux were constantly
receiving messages from their infernal society to hurry up affairs,
and, therefore, they threatened to commence the dance before the
violins were ready, which would have spoiled all the plans. Pushed to
extremity, he determined, one fine day, to send his son secretly to
allay the storm by speaking to his worthy companions in roguery.

Isidore, who feared nothing and no one, ridiculed his father's anxiety.
He promised to quiet them that very night, and about eleven o'clock, in
spite of the bad weather--for it was snowing, and the wind was very
high--he left for Val-Saint.

The place they were clearing was quite far from M. Michou's little
house, where Jean-Louis slept, together with the game-keeper. The men,
as is customary among wood-cutters, had constructed a large retreat
formed of the trunks of trees, cemented with mud and moss. It was
towards this spot that young Perdreau directed his steps; and never did
a stormier night fall upon an uglier traveller.


XVII.

It is not difficult to conjecture that Jeannet, in spite of his
heart-troubles and sorrows, had not been--sharp as he was--blind to
the character of the men who worked under his orders in the wood of
Montreux. In the first place, Michou warned him from the beginning
to be watchful, and not to allow the slightest infringement of
discipline or drunkenness among men, who were unknown and of decidedly
doubtful appearance. One warning sufficed; he observed for himself,
and caught at random more than one stray expression which he chanced
to overhear. And then, what could be expected from men who seemed
to be without family or friends, who never frequented the church,
and shunned the places where the honest people of the commune were
accustomed to assemble? Certainly, our good Jean-Louis was not wanting
in penetration, and old Michou, who prided himself upon seeing very
far into everything, was as distrustful as he; consequently, they
agreed that every night one or the other should take a turn around the
retreat of the wood-cutters, and see what was going on in this nest
of mischievous rascals. To do this, Jeannet had skilfully managed
to make an opening in the angle opposite to that where the men had
established their fireplace, so that, the room being well lighted
inside, everything could be clearly seen outside.

Usually, and for many nights, all was quiet and orderly; the greater
part of the band of _la Martine_, tired out with the day's labors,
slept soundly all the evening, stretched pell-mell upon heaps of dried
leaves strewed over the floor of their bivouac. Only a few remained
drinking by the hearth; so that the watchers, after a glance around,
went off to sleep in their turn.

On the night of which I speak, Michou should have made the round, but
Jean-Louis, who since the scene at Muiceron had been miserably unhappy,
and could not sleep, asked leave to fulfil the extra duty.

"It is very stormy," said he to his old comrade. "Remain at home, M.
Jacques; I will go to Montreux in your place."

"Be off, then," said the keeper, without waiting to be asked twice,
"you are young and not rheumatic; and I will smoke my pipe while
waiting for you."

Jeannet threw over his shoulders a heavy brown wrapper, and was off in
a flash.

When he reached the retreat, he was surprised to see light shining
through the two or three little windows under the roof, and a big
column of smoke coming out of the chimney. Just at this moment Isidore
entered from his side; he made them open the door, by means of a signal
well known among men of that stamp; they received him with much honor,
and rekindled the fire, which was burning rather low.

Jeannet looked through the opening; judge of his astonishment when he
recognized Jeannette's intended, and saw the cordial welcome extended
to him by the men, who grasped him by the hand, and made room for him
among them. He was dumfounded, almost fancied himself in a dream, but,
at the same time, shook with anger, shame, and sorrow.

But this was only the beginning of his surprise. If the inside could
easily be seen, the conversation was as plainly heard through the
wooden walls, lined with moss; and what he heard froze the blood
in his veins. Isidore first spoke, and made an eloquent discourse,
which was several times interrupted by the bravos of his audience; in
which speech he showed precisely what he was--a pagan, an agrarian,
a complete villain, without either faith or justice. He encouraged
his friends, the ruffianly crew before him, to proceed to arson and
pillage--to murder, if necessary--for the one purpose, said he, of
gaining the triumph of the _holy cause_. This word _holy_, which he did
not scruple to repeat, sounded so horribly in his blasphemous mouth
that poor Jean-Louis shuddered while listening to him; not from fear,
but from the furious desire to avenge the name of holy, which he had
dared to pollute with his tongue.

"O my God!" thought he; "that the husband of Jeannette! And is it on
account of such a vagabond that I have been treated so harshly? Poor,
poor Jeanne!"

After Isidore had finished his frightful speech, his companions began
to curse and swear all at once. Glasses of brandy were passed around,
and their heads, already heated by wicked passions, became still more
excited; so that they began to dispute among themselves as to whom
should belong this and that piece of the estate of Val-Saint. This one
wanted the fields, another the wood, a third such or such a farm, and
so on with the rest, until Isidore, commanding silence, reminded them,
with threats and oaths, that the château should belong to his father,
and that whoever failed to comply with his promise would be answerable
to him personally.

"Come, come," said one of the men, "we will see a little about that;
he is going rather too far. Is it because he is going to marry a
devotee--eh, Isidore?"

Perdreau turned livid with anger at being thus addressed--not that he
respected Jeannette or her principles, but because he was as proud as a
peacock; and as he held every one around him in sovereign contempt, he
did not recognize their right to meddle in his private affairs.

"I will marry whom I please," said he haughtily; "and the first one
that finds fault has only to speak."

"Bah! bah! Isidore, don't be angry," said an old wood-cutter, who went
by the name of _Blackbeard_, on account of his savage look. "What they
say is only for your good; we have heard tell of your marriage, and it
alarms us. The truth is that if the thing is true, you will be tied for
ever to that Ragaud, who belongs to the sacristy clique."

"Ha! ha!" replied Isidore, somewhat pacified; "the moment you talk
sense, I am willing to answer. Tell me, then, what would you do if a
chestful of gold came under your hand?"

"What nonsense even to ask such a question! Why, I would pick it up,
of course."

"That is just what I am doing," replied Isidore, laughing; "and as for
the piety and all that stuff, I don't bother myself. When I will have
the principal, I am capable of regulating the rest."

"Do it, and joy be with you," said Blackbeard; "we understand each
other. So no one will be allowed to interfere with Isidore; he is
worthy of our esteem!"

The rascals applauded, and recommenced their shameful jokes and
infernal proposals. Isidore, once more master of the assembly, spoke
at greater length, and ended by exacting an oath that no one should
move in the cause until a given signal from Paris. They all swore as he
wished, and, as the night was far advanced, honest Perdreau took leave
of his good friends, fearing that daylight might surprise him before he
could regain his house.

Jean-Louis needed all the strength mercifully granted by the good God
in such a trying moment to listen until the end to all these horrors.
The blood boiled in his veins; he felt neither the snow, nor the biting
north wind, and more than once his indignation was so great, he stepped
forward and clenched his fist, as though he would throw himself in the
midst of those demons, without reflecting that a solid wall separated
them from him. Happily, he restrained himself; for courage is not
imprudence, and, if he had failed in coolness, he would have lost all
the results of the important discovery he had just made. He went back
to Michou's cabin, whom he found awaiting his return, according to his
promise, and who had commenced to feel very anxious about his long
absence.

"M. Jacques," said he, on entering, "I came very near not returning...."

And in a few words he recounted all he had heard and seen.

Michou said not a word. He relighted his pipe, and paced the floor,
plunged in thought.

"I knew the Perdreaux were famous scamps," said he at last, "but not
quite so bad as that!"

"Oh!" cried Jeannet, "if my death could have saved Jeannette from that
rascal, I would have broken in the door and fallen in the midst of them
without hesitation."

"A very stupid thing you would have done, then," replied Michou; "they
would have killed you, and to-morrow announced that you had fallen from
a tree. That would have been a lucky thing for Perdreau."

"God watched over me," replied Jean-Louis. "And now, what shall we do?"

"That little Ragaud," said Michou, "deserves it all for her frivolity
and vanity; and, as a punishment, we should let her go to the end of
the rope with her Isidore."

"Never, never!" cried Jean-Louis. "You are not speaking seriously? The
daughter of your old brother-in-arms?"

"Ha!" replied the old fellow, "my old brother-in-arms! Ten years ago I
predicted what would be the end of his nonsense."

"This is not the time to wish it now," replied Jeannet. "Let us save
them, M. Michou; I can do nothing without you."

"Why not? You have a tongue like me; more than that, you saw and heard
all; go to-morrow to Muiceron."

"Impossible," said Jeannet, much embarrassed.

"Impossible? There is something behind that!"

"But was it not you yourself who made me promise not to return to my
parents?"

"Most certainly, my child; but the case is urgent, it seems to me, and
they should know in time, so as to change their minds before it is too
late."

"I will lose my self-control if I meet Isidore face to face."

"Jeannet," said Michou, "you have a good heart. I know all, my boy;
they drove you from Muiceron. Marion heard that little magpie of a
Jeannette dismiss you, and she related the story to me, weeping all
the while, good fat girl that she is. I wished to see how far your
generosity would carry you. Evil be to them who treated you in that
manner; they deserve what has happened."

"No," said Jean-Louis, "they are blinded, that is all; and now I have
forgotten those words, said without reflection. M. Jacques, I beg of
you help me to save Jeannette."

"You will have a fine reward, eh?"

"Oh! what is it to me? After all, can I, for a few cruel words, lose
the memory of twenty years of tenderness and kindness?"

"If you do not have your place in heaven," said the keeper, raising his
shoulders and voice at the same time, to conceal his emotion, which was
very visible, "I think our _curé_ himself cannot answer for his. Come,
let us see what we can do to save this hare-brained Jeannette. In the
first place, to-morrow, at the latest, I intend that M. le Marquis'
place shall be cleared of those rascals that encumber it. The thing
is easy; I will tell them that, owing to the bad weather, we will
postpone the clearing of the forest until spring, as the work advances
too slowly, and give them two weeks' pay ... no, I won't; one week is
enough. And then you--you must write; do you hear? _Write._ Writing
remains, and scenes and conflicts are avoided; you will therefore
write six lines, carefully worded, to Perdreau. You will tell him you
were at the meeting in the wood that night. How? That is none of his
business--it is enough that you were there; then you will add: 'I give
you three days to disappear, after which I will warn the police.' And
for the explanation at Muiceron, I will see to it."

Jean-Louis saw at once the good sense of this arrangement, and obeyed
immediately. In reality, it was the only means of bringing things to
the best possible conclusion.

The next day Michou went to the wood, as usual. He found the men at
their work, as though nothing had happened, and taking aside old
Blackbeard, who appeared to have some control over his companions,
he told him very quietly of his intention. Now, you will have no
difficulty in seeing that for men who reckoned upon dividing a domain
worth five hundred thousand crowns in a few days, to be free from work
and receive a week's pay was a clear and enticing advantage. Michou
was applauded; and, but that it went against the grain, he would have
had the happiness of shaking hands with the whole crew. But as he was
not very desirous of that pleasure with such a set, he was entirely
rewarded for his pains by seeing them file past him arm-in-arm, and
watched them as they went down the road, singing at the top of their
lungs.

That same morning Jean-Louis' letter left for its destination, and in
the evening the letter-carrier deposited it at the notary's house.

It has been remarked that villains are not brave. The good God,
who protects honest men because they scarcely think of defending
themselves, has put cowardice in the hearts of their enemies, and it
serves as a rampart always raised before virtue, which prevents the
wicked blows of vice from piercing it to death. Do not be astonished at
that beautiful phrase; I acknowledge I am not capable of inventing it;
but, in order that I might repeat it to you, I carefully copied it from
a big book, full of wise sayings, formerly lent to me by the Dean of
Aubiers.

If the lightning had fallen upon the notary's house, it would not have
produced a greater shock than Jeannet's simple letter. The Perdreaux,
as they were better educated than the mass of the poor people, whom the
ringleaders of the revolution use for their own purpose, did not doubt
but there would be great trouble and an overthrow of thrones, but were
not the less sure of the universal division of property, which they
looked forward to with such eagerness. But the safest and strongest
plank of salvation for them was the marriage of Isidore, and it was
most important that it should take place now, or else the prison-doors
would soon be opened. Old Perdreau was annihilated. For thirty years
he had had the boldness to calumniate his neighbors on every occasion;
he was on the eve, if he could, of causing the ruin, and perhaps the
death, of our good lord by delivering up his property and betraying
his secrets; but before this paper, which contained only a few lines
without threats or anger, written by a foundling, he turned livid
and trembled with fright, and his ugly face, ordinarily so bold, was
covered with a cold sweat. Isidore also was as pale as he; from time to
time he read Jean-Louis' letter, crushed it in his hand, trampled it
under foot, swore by the holy name of the Lord, and struck the tables
and chairs with his clenched fist. But that did not help the matter.
The father and son dared not speak to each other. At last Isidore took
the paper up again; and as if that scare-crow, by disappearing, could
mend affairs, he tore it into a thousand pieces.

"We are lost, lost!" repeated old Perdreau, clutching his gray hair
with both his hands.

"That remains to be seen!" cried Isidore. "Father, instead of sinking
into such despair, you had better think of some plan. It was by your
order I went to Montreux. I knew there was no need of such hurry."

"What could I do?" asked the unhappy old man, ready to humiliate
himself before his son. "We were menaced on all sides."

"It was only you who saw all that," replied Isidore harshly; "I always
listened to you too much."

"We can deny it all," ventured Perdreau.

"That is easy to say. But I am not sure of our men, if they should be
questioned. That cursed foundling will be believed before all of us."

"Lost! lost!" repeated the notary, in the last state of despair.

"We won't give up," said Isidore. "Go to bed, father; you are in no
condition to talk. I will reflect for both."

"Ah! think of something, no matter what; we must avert the blow," said
old Perdreau, as he staggered to his room.

"Avert the blow!" repeated Isidore; "the devil himself would not
succeed--unless--unless...."

He paused, as if some one would listen to his thought. A frightful
idea entered his head, and all that night the notary, who groaned and
shivered with fever in his bed, heard him walking about, taking great
strides across the floor, whilst he uttered disconnected words.

The next day the servant found her masters in a sad state; one sick,
almost delirious, the other asleep, all dressed, in a chair, with a
face haggard from the effects of the terrible night that had just
passed.

But two hours afterwards, affairs resumed their accustomed train.
Isidore bathed and changed his clothes, drank a bowl of hot wine, in
which he poured a good pint of brandy. He swallowed this comforter,
ate a mouthful, and appeared fresh and well. But an experienced person
would easily have seen that his eyes looked like balls of fire under
the red lids, and that every moment he made a singular movement with
his shoulders; you would have thought he shuddered, but doubtless that
was owing to the heavy frost the night before.

He went to see Jeannette, as usual, and was wonderfully polite; the
little thing was sad, but gentle and quiet. She willingly spoke of the
marriage, of the contemplated journey, and the presents she wished. But
yet it was easy to see that each one of the betrothed was playing a
part in trying to appear at ease, and scarcely succeeded. Jeannette, in
the midst of a fine phrase, would stop and look out of the window, and
Isidore would profit by the opportunity to fall into a reverie, which
certainly was not suitable at such a time. The reason was that the
slight friendship that was felt on one side had taken wings and flown
away; whilst on the other that which perhaps might begin threatened to
be cut short by circumstances: but whose fault was it?

"As you make your bed, so you must lie," said our _curé_, and Isidore,
who had stuffed his with thorns, should not have been surprised if he
felt them. No one can describe, because, very fortunately, no one can
understand, the disordered state of this unhappy young man's mind. He
had formed a resolution whose result you will soon see; and on whatever
side he looked, he saw a bottomless abyss open before his eyes. He was
afraid--this yet can be said in his favor, for indifference to crime
is the state of finished scoundrels--and he would not now have gone so
far, if, as we hope, he had not previously lost his senses.

He prolonged his visit to Muiceron as long as he could. Little
Jeannette was tired out and did not attempt to conceal it, which
sufficiently showed how much pleasure she took in the presence of her
future husband. She even yawned two or three times, which any other day
he would have resented; but now it escaped his notice.

At nightfall he at last decided to leave, and then it could be seen, by
his pallor and the manner that he passed his hand across his brow, that
the great deep pit of which I spoke caused him a greater vertigo than
ever.

Nevertheless, he started resolutely on the road for the wood of
Montreux, and, when he was near the wood-cutters' retreat, he looked
as if he wished to enter it; but suddenly he retraced his steps, and
afterwards appeared so absent and buried in his own reflections, he did
not notice that the cabin was empty, and no work going on inside.

One man, however, was walking among the huge piles of timber, half
ready for delivery; it was Michou. He at once perceived Isidore, and
followed him with his eyes a long distance; but it was not necessary to
accost him, and he let him pass on, with the idea that he was seeking
the high-road to Issoudun, in obedience to the letter of Jean-Louis.

"The hawk is caught," said he to himself. "Well, let him go in peace,
that he may receive his last shot elsewhere."

During this time, Perdreau directed his steps towards the game-keeper's
house. He easily entered, as the door was only closed by a latch;
Michou, in his isolated abode counting more on his gun, which he always
kept loaded at his bedside, than on the protection of bolts.

Isidore knew that each night Jeannet came to eat and sleep in the
little house; but he also knew that he worked until late in the night,
and that there was no risk of meeting him at this early hour.

As he expected, he found the idiot Barbette alone in the house. The
poor girl was preparing the soup Jean-Louis was accustomed to eat on
returning home, and near her was her dog, who never left her, not even
at night, when both went out together to sleep with the sheep.

She knew Isidore, as she had seen him roaming around the country.
Except to say good-morning and good-evening, she scarcely knew how to
speak, and therefore showed neither astonishment nor fear, as is the
case with children deprived of reason, who are not conscious either of
good or evil.

Isidore sank into a chair without speaking; Barbette nodded to him, and
continued stirring her stew-pan.

"What are you making there?" asked Perdreau, after a few moments'
silence.

The idiot burst out laughing, as though the question was very funny.

"Soup," she replied, still laughing loudly.

"Is it for your uncle?"

"No, my uncle has dined."

"Who is it for, then?"

"For the other one."

"The other one? Is it for Jean-Louis?"

"Yes."

"You are very sure?"

"Yes, yes!" said she, laughing louder than ever.

"Very good," muttered Isidore between his teeth. He suddenly arose, and
gave the dog a furious kick.

Barbette uttered a shrill scream. Her dog was her only friend; she
threw herself between Isidore and the poor beast, which she clasped in
her arms.

During this movement, which was very quick, the wretched Perdreau
sprang towards the stove, threw into the soup a paper of white powder,
which he had kept hidden in his hand, and disappeared in a second, like
one who feels his clothes catching fire.

Soon all was again quiet and silent. Little Barbette understood
nothing, except that the wicked man who had beaten her dog without
any cause had left, and that she could return to her cooking. She
recommenced stirring her soup, laughing softly to herself, but taking
care, however, that her dog was close to her side.

Michou entered about a quarter of an hour later. He was fatigued with
his day's work, and thought no more of Isidore, whom he believed far
away. Besides, if he had given him a thought, the idea would never have
entered his head to question Barbette, who was not in a condition to
render an account of anybody or anything.

The game-keeper had his bed and Jeannet's also (straw mattresses, laid
on trestles) placed in a recess at the end of the room, so that, upon
retiring, they could draw the curtains, and be as private as though in
another room. He undressed quietly, and stretched himself upon the bed
to take his much-needed rest, knowing well that Jean-Louis often came
in late, but made so little noise he was never disturbed.

A long time passed. Michou was sleeping soundly, when he heard Barbette
call him.

"What do you want?" he asked, raising himself up in his bed.

"Uncle," said the poor idiot, "Jean-Louis has not returned."

"Well, what of that?"

"I am hungry," she replied, for she never ate supper until her work was
finished.

"Eat," said Michou. "What is there to prevent you?"

"Can I eat Jean-Louis' soup?" she asked.

"Faith," thought the game-keeper, "he must have supped with the
Luguets. Yes," said he aloud, "eat, and be off to bed."

Barbette did not wait to be told twice. She emptied the soup into a
bowl, swallowed half of it with a good appetite, and gave the rest to
her dog.

Then she went out, fastening the latch as well as she could, and Michou
turned over in his bed, where he was soon asleep again, and nothing
else happened to disturb him, as Jeannet that night did not return home.


XVIII.

The night was terribly cold, and the following morning the sky was dark
and heavy from the snow that fell unceasingly; so that our superb wood
of Val-Saint, so delightful in summer, looked horrible and desolate
enough to make one think of death and the grave, all around was so
still and quiet in its white winding-sheet. Michou, who had nothing to
do after he sent off the workmen, rose later than usual, and was rather
astonished to see Jeannet's bed still vacant. It was the first time the
dear boy had slept away from home without giving warning. He knew him
too well to think that it was from want of attention: what could have
happened?

He thought again of Perdreau, whom he had seen roving around the
premises the night before; and for the first time in his life the
game-keeper felt a thrill of terror.

"The good-for-nothing is capable of anything," thought he; "he may have
watched for Jean-Louis in some out-of-the-way place to harm him."

But after this reflection, he reassured himself by thinking of
Jean-Louis' extraordinary strength and great height, which surpassed
Isidore's by at least a head.

"That puppy has no more nerve than a chicken," said he. "Jeannet could
knock him down with one blow; and as for drawing a pistol, he would be
afraid of the noise."

However, good Jacques hurried with his dressing, so that he might go to
the Luguets', to inquire after Jean-Louis. While doing so, he looked
at his big silver watch, which hung on a nail by his bedside, and saw
with astonishment that it was nine o'clock.

"This is something strange!" said he; "it is the first time in ten
years I have slept so late."

He went to the door, but, as he put out his head, he was driven back by
a whirlwind of snow which struck him in the face, and at the same time
a man presented himself upon the threshold.

"M. Michou," said the new-comer, who was no other than the
letter-carrier of the commune, "it is unfortunate you have some
correspondent in this awful weather."

"That is true! You are not very lucky," replied the game-keeper; "for
this is the first letter you have brought me in two years."

It was from Jean-Louis, and contained but a few words:

"M. JACQUES: Do not be uneasy about me. I am in good health, but I
will not return before three days, as I am going to Paris on important
business.

  "Your ever-faithful
                  "JEAN-LOUIS."

"What the devil can that child have to do in Paris?" thought Michou.
"Never mind, this letter is a great relief; I would rather know he was
off there than here."

He gave the carrier a warm drink, and conversed with him some time
before the hearth, upon which burned a good armful of vine-branches.
Then, when he had taken his departure, the thought of Barbette suddenly
entered his head.

"What is she doing?" said he. "The poor child has forgotten my
breakfast; I suppose she has also slept late."

He opened the door; the snow was not falling quite so thick and fast,
and the sky appeared less sombre.

He left the house, and went to the sheepfold, to see what had become of
his idiotic niece.

Alas! If you have listened to me until now, you can well guess what had
taken place in that gloomy night! And yet, upon entering the enclosure,
nothing at first foreboded the misfortune which was about to startle
the good game-keeper. The sheep bleated and tumbled pell-mell, climbing
on one another's backs, browsing contentedly upon the hay scattered
here and there; but down at the end of the sheepfold, in a little
corner, poor Barbette was extended, stark dead and already cold, the
mouth half-opened and the face rigid from its terrible struggle. Close
to her, with his head laid across her feet, her dog also slept, never
more to be awakened.

It was evident the innocent child had suffered fearfully. Her poor body
seemed longer by three inches than before, as though the limbs had been
stretched in her dreadful death-struggle. Her little, shrivelled hands
still clutched bunches of wool that she must have torn from the sheep
in her agony. With all that, she looked tranquil and at peace, as if an
angel of the good God had come at the supreme moment to bear away her
soul, exempt from sin.

Michou fell on his knees beside the little dead body. He tried to raise
her, but she was so stiff he had to move her like a wooden statue.
Certainly, many hours must have elapsed since her death; the dog, also,
was frozen to the touch, and as hard as stone. There was no doubt these
two creatures, so attached to each other during life, had met together
a violent death. Nothing more remained to be done but to make the
necessary declarations and hold the inquest usual in such cases. The
good man bent over the agonized face of the child a few minutes; one
or two tears fell upon his gray beard, and, while wiping them off with
his coat-sleeve, he recited a Pater and a De Profundis; then he brought
several planks and bundles of straw, which he placed around the poor
corpse, so that the sheep should not injure it while playing around.
He left the dog lying on the feet of his mistress, Barbette; and mere
creature, without soul, as the good God had made him, he deserved this
respect, having died faithful as he had lived.

Jacques Michou left the sheepfold, his otter-skin cap in his hand, and
on the threshold turned again and made another sign of the cross. His
old heart was heavy with pain from the shock; but he did not dream
for an instant of what we know, and at that you must not be too much
astonished. The good man was perfectly honest, and could not at first
conjecture that a great crime had caused this extraordinary death.
He rather imagined that Barbette, who had been given to wandering
around like all innocents, had gathered some poisonous weed, or drank
by mistake from a vessel in which remedies were prepared for the
sheep when afflicted with the mange, which are always composed of a
decoction of tobacco or other noxious preparation; which cures, if
applied externally, but is certain death when taken internally, if the
directions are not followed. Thus plunged in sad and bitter meditation,
he arrived, almost before he knew it, at the village of Val-Saint, and
thought to continue still further, to warn Dr. Aubry. "He will be able
to tell me," thought he; "with his learning he can say what killed the
poor child."

Just then he raised his head, and saw that he was before the notary's
house, and recognized the doctor's horse and wagon before the door.

"This is lucky!" thought he. "I will find out all the sooner."

He entered without having to knock, probably because M. Aubry, who was
always absent-minded, had neglected to close the door, ordinarily shut
tight; so that the game-keeper found himself standing in the middle of
Perdreau's dining-room before any one had given notice of his entrance.

Isidore was there, so wan, and haggard, and wild-looking, you would
have doubted, at the first glance, whether it was himself or his
shadow. There was nothing terrifying in Michou's aspect; he appeared
sad and quiet, and only wished to meet the doctor, that he might relate
his lamentable story. But criminals see in every one and everywhere
justice and vengeance ready to fall upon them. Isidore no sooner
recognized the honest game-keeper, than he uttered a cry of terror, and
endeavored to escape.

That movement, the terrified face, and, still further, we must believe,
the inspiration of the good God, made Michou divine, in the twinkling
of an eye, what he had not even suspected the moment before. You will
understand me if you will only recall some remembrances of the past;
for surely you must once or twice in your life have experienced the
same effect. An event takes place--no one knows which way to turn; all
is dark; suddenly a light breaks forth, shedding its brilliant rays on
all around, and in an instant everything is clear to the mind: is it
not so? To explain how this great secret fire is lighted I cannot, but
to affirm that it happens daily you must acknowledge with me, no matter
how poor your memory may be.

The presence of Perdreau the evening before in the neighborhood of
the wood of Montreux, his sombre and agitated look at the time, the
preceding letter of Jean-Louis, finally, that soup, destined for
another than Barbette, and eaten by her--all this passed in a second
before the eyes of the game-keeper, like so many actors playing in the
same piece. As the truth, in all its horror, flashed before him, his
face became terrible, and Isidore, whose eyes, starting from his head
with terror, glared fixedly upon him, saw this time, without mistake,
his judge and the avenger of his crime.

The two men looked at each other a moment. Isidore advanced a step,
in the vague hope of reaching the door. Michou stepped back, his arms
crossed, and barred his passage.

"Let me go out," at last gasped Isidore between his closed teeth.

"Wretch!" said the game-keeper in a deep voice, "whom did you come to
poison at my house last night?"

"Michou, you are crazy!" replied Isidore; "let me out, or I will call."

"Call as loudly as you please," answered Michou, standing straight
and firm with his back against the door; "call Dr. Aubry, who must be
somewhere about. You will tell him that I have come in search of him to
prove the death of Barbette, whom you killed, cowardly villain that you
are!"

"Barbette! What do you mean? You are drunk, Michou," stammered
Isidore, becoming each moment more and more livid.

"Neither drunk nor crazy, you know well, accursed wretch," replied
Jacques. "Your insults do not harm me. Ha! you were not very skilful in
your crime, but you were also mistaken. Jean-Louis is safe and sound;
you only killed a child deprived of reason, and you will finish on a
scaffold; for if I were allowed to kill you with my own hand, I would
not, so as not to stain the hand of an honest man."

"Michou," said Isidore, his teeth chattering with fear, "have mercy on
me; I will explain myself later. I am sick.... My father is dying....
You are not cruel.... Let me go out."

"Ha! ha! you are a coward.... Faith, I am glad of it; it takes from me
the slightest compassion for you. Traitor! scoundrel! you were not so
much afraid yesterday, when you thought of killing a brave, defenceless
boy. To-day it is not repentance that makes you tremble, but the
justice of men, who will not spare you. You feel them on your heels;
you are not deceived. I have you; try to stir."

And he seized him by the arm with so vigorous a hand, the wretch felt
his bones crack.

"You hurt me; let me go!" yelled Isidore, writhing under that iron hand.

"Shut up! Avow your crime; did you come, yes or no, to poison
Jean-Louis?"

"He had provoked me. I was wild, I was mad--let me go...."

"You avow it, then; what poison was it?"

"I don't know; I know nothing further.... Michou, in the name of God,
let me go...."

"Do you dare pronounce the name of God?" cried Michou, grasping
him still more firmly. "Do you believe, then, in him, whom you have
blasphemed since you were able to speak? You don't know what poison you
used? After all, it matters little; M. Aubry will know--yes, he and the
judge also. The case is clear, and, if I could drag you myself before
the police, I would only leave hold of you at the door of the prison."

Isidore, prostrated and speechless from pain--for Michou, whose
strength was trebled, crushed his arm with redoubled force--fell to the
ground in the most miserable state that can be imagined.

"There," said Michou, pushing him aside with his foot, "if I did not
still respect the mark of your baptism, I would wish to see you die
there like a dog. Ah! you can weep now! See to what your life of
debauchery and idleness has brought you; but you are not capable of
understanding my words. Listen; it is not you that I pity, but the
remembrance of an honest girl, who, to the eyes of the neighborhood,
was your betrothed, the unfortunate creature! In the name of Jeanne
Ragaud, I will save you from the scaffold that you deserve; but on one
condition...."

"Speak, speak! I will do whatever you wish," cried the wretch, raising
himself upon his knees. "I promise you, Michou; but save me!"

"Miserable coward!" said the game-keeper with disgust, "your prayers
and your tears cause me as much horror as your crimes. You have not
even the courage to play the part of a murderer! But what I have said
I will do. Get up, if you have still strength to stand on your legs.
Mark what I say. You must disappear. I give you, not three days, like
Jean-Louis, but two hours, in which I will go and remove the body of
your victim, and warn the police. In two hours I will have declared
on oath that Barbette was poisoned by you, and the proofs will not be
wanting. Do what you please--hide yourself in a hole or fly. In two
hours, I repeat, the police will be on your track, and, if the devil
wishes to save you, that is his affair."

"Thanks," said Isidore, rising.

"Your thanks is another insult," said Michou. He opened the door
himself, and pushed the wretch outside with such a tremendous blow of
his fist that he stumbled and fell across the threshold.

Owing to the bad weather, the village street was deserted. Michou
saw Isidore disappear with the quickness of a deer. He closed the
door again, and sat down, resting his head upon his hands, to gather
together his ideas.

"My God," said the excellent man, raising his eyes to heaven with the
honest look of a Christian, "perhaps I have done wrong, but thou art
powerful enough to repair the effect of my too great mercy, and I have
saved from a disgrace that could not be remedied thy servants, the poor
Ragauds."

All this had not taken much time, and Michou was meditating upon the
events of that terrible night, when he felt some one strike him on the
shoulder; it was M. Aubry.

"It is you, M. Jacques?" said the doctor. "What are you doing here, old
fellow?"

"I was waiting for you, monsieur," replied he quietly, for he had
entirely recovered his self-possession. "Is any one sick here?"

"Eh?" said the doctor. "It is the old man, who was seized with a fever
yesterday, and is now delirious. His brain is affected. It is an attack
which I anticipated; I don't think he will recover."

"So much the better!" said Michou.

"What do you say? So much the better? It can be easily seen he is not
in your good graces. Faith! I must say, if I were not his physician, I
would think the same. I don't generally believe all the gossip floating
around; we can take a little on credit, and leave the rest; but, in my
opinion, M. le Marquis did not place his confidence within the pale of
the church when he gave it to that old ape; he may yet have to repent
of it. Well, and you--what can I do for you?"

"Come with me to the wood of Montreux," said the game-keeper, "and I
will tell you on the way."

"Is the case urgent? Between ourselves, Michou, if your patient is
not in danger I would like to put it off until to-morrow. My carriage
is open, and Cocotte is not rough-shod. It is beastly weather to go
through the forest."

"Alas! monsieur," replied Jacques, "the patient who requires you can
wait until the last judgment, for she is dead. But I must carry you off
all the same, as this death does not seem natural to me, and I wish
your opinion."

"Let us be off," said M. Aubry, without hesitating; "you can tell me
the whole story as we go along."

Which Jacques Michou did, whilst Cocotte, with her head down, trotted
along, not very well pleased to receive the snow full in her face.

The poor beast excepted, neither of the travellers in the wagon felt
the horrible weather. The doctor, while listening to the game-keeper,
looked serious and severe, which was not at all his usual custom.
Michou had nothing to hide. He related every detail of the mournful
story, without omitting any fact or thought necessary to enlighten M.
Aubry. When he came to speak of his terrible explanation with Isidore
and the wretch's crime, the doctor swore a round oath, which marked his
disapproval, and Cocotte received such a famous cut with the whip, she
started off on a furious gallop.

"I did not think you were, at your age, such a snivelling, sentimental
baby as that," said he in a rage. "What were you dreaming about? To
have had your hand on the villain, and then to let him go! You deserve
to be locked up in his place!"

"Monsieur," replied Michou, "what I did I would do again. Have you
thought that it would also have been a frightful trial for the Ragauds?
Would they not all have been called upon to testify? And think for a
moment what a disgrace it would have been for that unfortunate young
girl, who was on the eve of marrying the scoundrel. No, no, M. Aubry,
in the bottom of your soul you cannot blame me. Believe that the good
God will bring it all right; but such a scandal in our province, an
execution, perhaps, in the square of Val-Saint--what shame, what
misery!"

"Jeanne Ragaud and her family owe you a fine taper," replied the
doctor, a little softened. "There is some truth in what you say; but,
for all that, I would have been better pleased to have seen that
dangerous animal caged!"

"Be easy," replied Michou; "he will never hurt any one else unless
himself. Without wishing to excuse him, I am inclined to believe he
was out of his mind--pushed to extremity by the great danger in which
Jeannet's discovery had placed him. When a man is accustomed to crime,
monsieur, he bears the consequences more boldly. I saw Isidore Perdreau
so completely demoralized, his crime was written on his brow, where I
read it at the first glance, and which any one else could have done as
easily in my place. So be convinced, neither God nor man can blame me
for letting him go, and I certainly do not regret it."

"All very well," said the doctor; "but that would not prevent me from
acting very differently if I should catch him this evening."

"Nor I either," replied Michou; "for if he should fall under my hand
this evening, I would see clearly that the good God did not wish him to
be saved, at least in this world."

As he finished speaking, they stopped before the sheepfold, and the
doctor, together with Michou, entered, their heads uncovered. All was
as Michou had left it, only that the cold and the hours which had
elapsed had rendered the little body still stiffer than at the moment
of discovery. The effects of the poison began to appear, as great black
spots were visible on the face of the dead girl, which gave her such a
suffering and pitiful look, the tears fell from their eyes.

M. Aubry had not to examine very much to be convinced that the poor
idiot had been poisoned by taking a dose of arsenic capable of killing
three men. As this poison is infallible against rats, nearly all the
country people obtain permission to keep a small quantity on hand; and
nothing had been easier than for Isidore to take a little from his
father's own kitchen, where the servant complained of the ravages of
the mice among the cheeses and other provisions. Thus, step by step,
everything was terribly brought to light, and yet with much simplicity,
as is always the case with events incontestably true; therefore, it
was easy for M. Aubry to prepare his statements, affirmations, and
declarations according to his conscience, in the report which he read
before the official authorities.

One very sad thing, but which they scarcely thought of at the moment,
was to give a rather more decent bed than the straw of the sheepfold
to the poor innocent victim. But this they could not do, as they were
obliged to let her lie as she was until the arrival of the district
attorney, the sheriff, and the chief of police.

Michou would willingly have watched by her side, but this was not
possible either. M. Aubry aided him to construct a solid barrier
of planks; then they covered the body with a blanket; and on the
breast the game-keeper placed, with profound respect, a cross made of
branches. This devout duty accomplished, Jacques Michou locked the
sheepfold, put the key in his pocket, and left with the doctor to warn
the authorities.

You can imagine that in all this coming and going much more time had
elapsed than the two hours accorded to the fugitive. Michou, who
desired it from the bottom of his heart, for the good reasons we
already know, and which he did not regret, was not sorry at the delay.
M. Aubry, on the contrary, growled and stormed, whipped Cocotte with
the full strength of his arm, and tried to hurry up affairs with the
greatest diligence. But impossibilities cannot be performed, and, with
all his efforts, the usual formalities in these sad circumstances were
not fulfilled until late in the afternoon.

Then the news spread from mouth to mouth as rapidly as the waves of our
river during an inundation. The curious assembled in the public square,
where the servants of M. le Marquis, who never were bothered with too
much work, were the first to appear. They talked, they gesticulated,
said heaps of foolish things, mixed with some words of common sense.
Our master learned from public rumor that young Perdreau was suspected,
and that he had disappeared. It can be easily understood that he was
indignant at such a calumny, and generously offered to guarantee his
innocence. Mademoiselle wept, Dame Berthe imitated her, and these
two excellent ladies wished immediately to rush off to Jeannette,
to console her in this great trial. But poor mademoiselle had to be
content with her benevolent wishes, for neither coachman nor footman,
nor even a simple groom, could be found; all had run off to the wood of
Montreux in search of news.

As they were obliged to pass Muiceron to reach the wood, you may
well imagine that more than one of the hurried crowd lagged behind
to talk to the Ragauds, and thus they, in their turn, heard of the
terrible affair. The consternation was unparalleled, for there, as at
the château, no one would believe the wicked rumors afloat concerning
Isidore. Jeannette, who cared but little for her intended husband, and
had desired to be freed from her engagement, was indignant as soon as
she thought he was in trouble, and defended him warmly, which made
people believe she loved him devotedly. The truth was, this little
creature's soul was generous and high-strung, and, like all such
natures, she defended him, whom she willingly would have sent off the
night before, only because she thought he was unfortunate.

But days passed, and each one brought new and overwhelming proofs of
the truth. The police searched the neighborhood in vain, and soon
all hope of seeing Isidore reappear (which would have pleaded in his
justification) faded from the eyes of those who wished to defend him.
M. le Marquis, after having conversed with M. Aubry, Michou, and the
judicial authorities, was overcome with grief, and acknowledged that he
could not conscientiously mix himself up with the affair. As for old
Perdreau, he never recovered his consciousness, and died shortly after.
They placed the seals on his house, where, later, they discovered
the documents and correspondence which revealed his wicked life; and
now you can judge if there was anything to gossip about in a commune
as peaceable and tranquil as ours. In the memory of man there had
never been such a terrible event, and nothing will ever happen again
approaching to it, I devoutly wish.

Mademoiselle, who was not very well, was seriously injured by all this
trouble; and as M. le Marquis loved her dearly, and, besides, heard the
rumbling of the revolution in the capital which he had so long ardently
desired, packed up, and was soon off, bag and baggage, for Paris,
where he hoped to distract poor mademoiselle, and drive off mournful
recollections.

                            TO BE CONTINUED.




THE LITTLE CHAPEL.


    It stands within a narrow, quiet street,
      And well-worn steps ascend at either side,
    Where, all day long till twilight, pious feet
      Softly and silently forsake the tide
    Of feverish life, to rest a little space
    Within its calm, and gaze upon his face.

    The dead Christ, lying on his Mother's breast,
      May not uplift those lifeless, closed eyes:
    O helplessness divine! O sweet behest!
      Rigid and white beneath the cross he lies,
    That here, before this holy altar-stone,
    Our miserable pride be overthrown.

    The dull, gray walls with simple Stations hung,
      The stainèd windows, blending liquid rays
    Of red and gold in lucent amber, flung
      Across the chancel like a hymn of praise
    From spirit-voices flowing--all of these
    Make endless peace and wondrous harmonies.

    And when at evening hour the solemn strain
      Of some quaint _Tantum Ergo_, strange and sweet,
    Tunes the full soul to perfect chords again,
      And from the beaten pathway weary feet
    Turn heavenward once more, unchained and free,
    It is a dear and blessed place to be.

    Slowly the heavy waves of incense rise,
      Parting amid the arches overhead.
    Start, fervent tears of peace from burning eyes!
      Mount, happy prayers! Despair, lie prone and dead!
    Open, ye perfumed clouds, and give them room,
    While _Benedicite_ pierces the gloom.

    It is a quiet spot--the busy feet
      Of toil and turmoil pause before its gates,
    And turn aside, with reverent steps, to greet
      The Holy One of Ages--him who waits,
    With patient hands outstretched, to love and bless
    The lowliest soul that craves his tenderness.




PHILOSOPHICAL TERMINOLOGY.


III.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE CATHOLIC WORLD:

In my last letter, while criticising an incorrect definition of the
word _act_, I made the remark that "the gravity of bodies is not
a _power_, as some unphilosophical scientists imagine."[268] When
writing these words, I had to confine myself to a mere statement of
the scientific error; but it occurs to me that in an age in which
most of the so-called men of science are so little acquainted with
philosophy as to mistake effects for causes, and yet so proud of
their achievements as to aspire to the leadership of the public mind,
some precautions must be taken, lest our philosophical terminology be
infected with such improprieties as are now too leniently tolerated
in the language of science. It is the abuse of one word that does the
greatest mischief in the department of physics. This word is _force_.
Its frequent misapplication tends to confound and falsify the whole
doctrine of physical causation. It is therefore of great importance,
even in a scientific point of view, to determine within what limits the
use of such a word should be restricted in accordance with the laws
of philosophical terminology. Such is the main object of my present
communication.

The theory of physical causation deals with natural causes, powers,
actions, forces, movements, and the results of movements. When these
terms are properly defined, all relations between agents and patients,
between causes and effects, and consequent phenomena, can be easily
expressed with philosophical precision; but when the causes, the
powers, the actions, and the movements themselves are all confounded
under one common name of _force_, as it is now the fashion in the
scientific world to do, no one need be surprised if such a course
ends in philosophical inconsistencies. To show what great proportions
this evil has taken, innumerable passages of modern writers might be
adduced. But, not to perplex the reader with conflicting quotations
from different sources, I will give only a few extracts from one of
the best representatives of modern science. I have before me the
_Correlation of Physical Forces_, by Mr. Grove. It is a well-known
little work, much esteemed by physicists, and one which certainly
transcends the average merit of many modern productions of the same
kind. Now, what is Mr. Grove's notion of cause, of force, of power,
as compared with one another and with the phenomena of nature? The
following passages will show. He says:

"In each particular case, where we speak of cause, we habitually refer
to some antecedent power or force; we never see motion or any change in
matter take effect, without regarding it as produced by some previous
change" (p. 13).

Here _force_, _power_, and _cause_ are taken as equivalent; moreover,
_motion_, or a change in matter, is considered as "produced" by a
previous change; which implies that a previous change or movement
is the efficient cause of a subsequent change or movement. Hence,
according to such a terminology, movement, force, power, and cause
should be accepted as synonymous. But philosophy cannot admit of such a
wholesale confusion.

"A force," says he, "cannot originate otherwise than by devolution from
some pre-existing force or forces.... The term 'force,' although used
in very different senses by different authors, in its limited sense may
be defined as that which produces or resists motion.... I use the term
'force' as meaning that active principle inseparable from matter, which
is supposed to induce its various changes" (p. 16).

Here _force_ is again confounded with _power_ and with _cause_,
inasmuch as "active principles" are _powers_, and "that which produces
or resists motion" is a _cause_. We are told at the same time that
the active principle is not a primordial and essential constituent of
material substances, but an accidental result of devolution from other
active principles residing in other substances. Philosophy cannot admit
of such a phraseology; for, as the active principle of a substance is
a constituent of its nature, if the active principle of any substance
were thus communicated to it by accidental devolution, such a substance
would have no definite nature of its own, and would be nothing; and, in
spite of this, it would also be capable of becoming anything, according
as its active principle might originate from different pre-existing
forces. Now, we know that the first elements of any given substance
have a definite nature, and a definite active principle independently
of devolution from other substances; and that, according to the results
of a constant and universal experience, they are not liable to exchange
their nature for anything else, but keep it permanently and unalterably
amidst all the vicissitudes brought about by the interference of
surrounding bodies. It is, therefore, plain that the "active principle
inseparable from matter" cannot originate in devolution from other
pre-existing forces. But let us proceed.

"The position which I seek to establish in this essay," says Mr.
Grove, "is, that the various affections of matter which constitute the
main object of experimental physics--viz., heat, light, electricity,
magnetism, chemical affinity, and motion--are all correlative, or have
a reciprocal dependence; that neither, taken abstractedly, can be said
to be the essential cause of the others, but that either may produce,
or be convertible into, any of the others" (p. 15).

Every one, of course, will admit that heat, light, electricity,
etc., are "correlative." I also admit that they are not "essential
causes" of one another; but the fact is that they are no causes at
all; since heat, light, electricity, etc., are only modes of motion
and "affections of matter," as the author acknowledges, and are
therefore to be considered as mere phenomena or effects, of which the
one can be the condition, but not the cause, of the other. I know
that the popular language admits of such expressions as "heat causes
dilatation," "light causes an impression on the retina," "chemical
affinity causes combination," "movement causes a change of place."
But these and other similar expressions, though used by scientific
writers, and even by philosophers, are by no means philosophically
correct. We shall see presently that substances alone have efficient
powers, and therefore no mode of being and no affection of matter can
display efficient causality. Hence light, heat, electricity, and the
rest, are neither efficient causes nor efficient powers; and, inasmuch
as they are affections of matter, they cannot even be called _forces_
in a philosophical, but only in a technical, sense, as we shall explain
hereafter.

As to the mutual "convertibility" of these various affections of
matter into one another, I would observe that, although the expression
may be correctly understood, yet, as interpreted by Mr. Grove and
by other physicists, it cannot be admitted. What do we mean when we
say that progressive motion, for instance, is converted into heat?
We mean that in proportion as the progressive movement of a body is
resisted and _extinguished_, a correspondent amount of heat, or of
molecular calorific vibrations, is _produced_ by mutual actions and
reactions. In this sense the conversion of one mode of being into
another is perfectly admissible, no less indeed than the passage from
a state of rest to one of movement. But Mr. Grove does not understand
it so. He thinks that the progressive movement of a body is never
extinguished, but only transformed by subdivision into molecular
calorific vibrations; and, therefore, that the same accidental entity
which was to be found in the progressive movement is still to be found
_identically_, though subdivided, in the calorific motion. Let us hear
him:

"It is very generally believed that, if the visible and palpable
motion of one body be arrested by impact on another body, the motion
ceases, and the force which produced it is annihilated. Now, the
view which I venture to submit is that force cannot be annihilated,
but is merely subdivided or altered in direction or character" (p.
24). "_Motion_ will directly produce _heat_ and _electricity_, and
electricity, being produced by it, will produce magnetism" (p. 34).
"Lastly, _motion_ may be again reproduced by the forces which have
emanated from motion" (p. 36).

Such is Mr. Grove's theory of the "convertibility of forces." It
is nothing but a wrong interpretation of the old theory of the
"conservation of _vis viva_" by the modern conception of "potential
energy," which admits "forces stored up" in bodies, and ready to show
themselves in the form of velocity, heat, light, or any other kind of
movement. This notion and others of a like tendency constitute the
marrow of the new physical theories, and are the pride of our men of
science. Let us hope that a time will come when these able men will see
the vanity of such fashionable doctrines, and blush for their adoption
of them in their scientific generalizations.

The conservation of _vis viva_ is, within certain limits, that is
with regard to ponderable bodies impinging on one another,[269]
an established fact; but its interpretation as given by advanced
physicists is a huge blunder. "It is very generally believed," says Mr.
Grove, "that if the visible motion of one body be arrested by impact
on another body, the motion ceases." Of course, it is believed; and,
what is more, it is demonstrably true, whatever Mr. Grove may say to
the contrary. Yet it is not true, nor is it very generally believed,
that "the force which produces it (the motion) is annihilated." When
the movement of a body is arrested, its velocity is _extinguished_;
but that velocity was not the force which _produced_ the movement.
When a stone falls to the ground, its movement is produced, not by
its velocity, but by the action of the earth on it. Velocity is only
the formal principle of movement, and is itself included in movement
as a constituent, not as an efficient power. To say that velocity
produces movement is, therefore, to confound formal with efficient
causation, and to admit that movement produces itself. This is one of
the conclusions for which I hope, as I said, physicists will blush
hereafter.

But the force, we are told, "is not annihilated, but merely subdivided
or altered in direction or character." This cannot be. The word
_force_ here means a quantity of movement, which is nothing but
the product of the velocity into the mass of the body. Now, the
velocity of a body is not subdivided when the movement is arrested,
but is really extinguished. I say _extinguished_, not _annihilated_;
because annihilation, as well as creation, regards substances, not
accidents. Velocity is an accident; it is therefore neither created nor
annihilated, but originates in a determination produced by an agent,
and ends by exhaustion or neutralization under the influence of an
antagonistic agency. I say, then, that the movement of the body, though
not annihilated, is extinguished and not subdivided. It is impossible
to conceive of divisions where there is nothing divisible. On the other
hand, nothing is divisible which has no extension and no material
parts. Now, where are the material parts or the extension of velocity?
Velocity in each primitive particle of a body is a simple actuality,
which can increase or decrease by degrees of intensity, but cannot be
taken to pieces in order to be apportioned among the other particles of
the body, and therefore the pretended subdivision of velocities is a
mere absurdity.

Nor does it matter that force can be "altered in direction or
character." We must not forget that _force_ is here a sum of
velocities, and accordingly cannot change direction or character
unless such velocities are intrinsically changed. But they cannot be
changed with regard to either character or direction without some new
degree of velocity being produced or extinguished by some efficient
cause. For the character of velocity is to actuate the extension
of the movement in proportion to its own intensity. This, and no
other, is its character; and, therefore, velocity cannot be altered
in character without its intensity being increased or diminished by
action. And the same is to be said of the change of direction, which
cannot be conceived without action. Now, if action can modify motion,
and diminish to any extent its velocity, it remains for our scientists
to explain how a certain action cannot stifle movement and velocity
altogether.

They will say that the "indestructibility of force" is the only
hypothesis consistent with the theory of the conservation of _vis
viva_, and consequently that the two must stand or fall together.
But the truth is that the conservation of _vis viva_ needs no such
hypothesis, since it depends on a quite different principle, viz., on
the equality of action and reaction.

When two billiard-balls impinge on one another, they act and react.
Their molecules urge one another (by their mutual actions of course,
not by their velocity), and become compressed. All the work they do up
to the _maximum_ of compression is styled _action_. But reaction soon
follows; for, as compression brings the neighboring molecules into an
unnatural position where they cannot settle in relative equilibrium,
the molecular exertions tend now to restore within the bodies the
original molecular distances; which work of restoration is properly
called _reaction_.[270] And since reaction must undo what the preceding
action had done, hence the amount of the reaction must equal the amount
of the action, and thus no energy is lost; for the same quantity of
movement is produced in one ball as is extinguished in the other.

I do not wish to enlarge on this topic, which is of a physical rather
than metaphysical nature. I only repeat that the mistake of our
physicists lies in supposing that the quantity of movement which is
lost by one body still exists in nature, and passes _identically_ into
another body; whilst the fact is that the quantity of movement lost by
the first body is altogether extinguished, and the quantity acquired by
the second body is a new production altogether. To send an accidental
mode, such as velocity, travelling about from one substance to another
without support, as an independent and self-sufficient being, may be a
bright device of modern progress; but when the time comes for repenting
of other scientific blunders, this bright delusion will, I am sure, be
reckoned among the most grievous philosophical sins that science will
have to regret and to atone for in sackcloth and ashes.

These remarks go far to show that the terminology of our modern
scientists concerning physical causation is philosophically incorrect.
I have more to say on this same subject; but to make things plainer
I wish to give beforehand what I consider to be the true distinction
between cause, power, action, and force, as implied in the causation
of natural phenomena. To do this in the most simple and intelligible
manner, I lay down the following propositions:

I. It is a principle philosophically certain that the substance of all
natural things has been created by God for his extrinsic glory--that
is, for the manifestation of his power and other perfections.
Accordingly, every created substance has received a natural aptitude
and fitness to manifest in some manner and in some degree the power and
perfection of its Creator.

II. Therefore, every creature naturally, _per se_, not accidentally,
but by the very fact of its creation, is destined to act; for
manifestation is action, and consequently possesses permanently and
intrinsically such an _active power_ as is proportionate to the kind
and degree of the intended manifestation. In other terms, every created
substance is destined to be the _efficient cause_ of determined effects.

III. The power of created substances is finite, and its exertion is
subject to definite laws. All finite power, according as it is exerted
under more or less favorable conditions, gives rise to effects of
greater or less intensity. Hence different effects may proceed from one
and the same cause, and equal effects from different causes, acting
under different conditions.

IV. The exertion of power is called _action_, and its intensity, in the
material world, depends on the distance of the agent from the patient.

V. The amount of the exertion, or the quantity of the action, is
measured by its true effect, which is the only true exponent or
representative of the degree of the exertion; for, all matter being
equally indifferent to receive motion, the amount of its passion must
always agree with the amount of the action received; and thus the one
is the natural and necessary measure of the other.

VI. The amount of the exertion, as measured by the effect it is able
to produce, is what in the scientific language can be styled _force_
properly.

VII. The amount of the effect, as measuring the amount of the exertion
from which it arises, or by which it is neutralized, is again called
_force_, but improperly, and only in a technical sense, as it is in
fact a mere measure of force.

These propositions are so logically connected with one another that,
the first of them being admitted, all the others must follow. I might,
therefore, dispense with all discussion with regard to them; yet, to
help the scientific reader to form a philosophical notion of forces, I
will endeavor to throw some additional light on my sixth and seventh
propositions.

And, first, I observe that since forces can only be measured by their
effects, the mathematical expression of a force always exhibits the
quantity of the effect which such a force is competent to cause; and
as such an effect is a certain quantity of movement, hence forces are
mathematically expressed in terms of movement. So long as physicists
preserved their old philosophical traditions, a distinction was kept up
between force and movement. A quantity of movement was indeed called _a
force_, inasmuch as it was the true measure of the action from which it
had originated, or by which it could be destroyed; but such a _force_
was not confounded with the action itself. The action was called _vis
motrix_, a motive force, whilst the quantity of movement was called
_vis_ simply, and was not considered as having any efficient causality.
Thus before Dr. Mayer's invention of "potential energies," the word
_force_ was used with proper discrimination: 1st, as a quantity of
action actually producing movement; 2d, as a quantity of action
actually opposed by a resistance sufficient to prevent the production
of movement; 3d, as a quantity of movement and a measure of action.

A quantity of action followed by movement was called a _dynamical_
force, and was measured by the quantity of movement imparted in the
unit of time. Its mathematical expression in rational mechanics
was, and is still, a differential coefficient of the _second order_
representing the product of the mass acted on into the velocity which
the action, if continued for a unit of time, would communicate to it.
As instances of _dynamical_ force, we may mention the action of the sun
on the planets, of the planets on their satellites, of the earth on a
pendulum, on a drop of rain, etc.

A quantity of action not followed by movement was called a _statical_
force, and was measured by the quantity of movement into which it
would develop, if no obstacle existed. Its mathematical expression in
rational mechanics is a differential coefficient of the _first order_
representing the product of the mass, whose movement is neutralized
into its virtual velocity. By _virtual_ velocity we mean the velocity
which the mass would acquire in a unit of time, if all resistance to
the movement were suddenly suppressed. As instances of _statical_
force, we may mention the action of a weight on the string from which
it hangs, or on the table on which it lies.

A quantity of movement, or the dynamical effect of all the actions to
which a body has been subjected for any length of time, was called
a _kinetic_ force. As kinetic forces cannot be destroyed except by
actions producing equal and opposite quantities of movement, hence
every kinetic force can be taken as a measure, not only of the amount
of action from which it has resulted, but also of the amount of
action by which it can be checked. The mathematical expression of a
_kinetic_ force is the product of the moving mass into its actual
velocity. As instances of this force, we may mention _the momentum_ of
a cannon-ball, of a hammer, of wind, falling water, etc.

To obviate the many abuses which this notion of kinetic force has
engendered, and to cut the ground from under the feet of those
blundering theorists who reduce all forces to movement, it is important
to remark that kinetic force could be defined as "that quantity of
action which a moving body can exercise against an obstacle until its
velocity is exhausted." This definition would change nothing in the
mathematical expression of kinetic forces; for the quantity of the
action which a moving body can exercise against the obstacle is exactly
equal to the quantity of movement, or momentum, by which the body is
animated. The only change would be in the terminology, which, instead
of technical, would become philosophical. As instances of kinetic
force thus defined, we might mention _the quantity of action_ of a
cannon-ball, of the hammer on the anvil, of the wind on the sails, etc.

The division of forces into dynamical, statical, and kinetic has been
long recognized by all competent judges as very good and satisfactory.
But our men of progress, in the innocent belief that, before they
appeared on the scene, everything in this world was darkness, have
changed all that. All forces are now stated to consist in nothing
but "mass animated by velocity." Dynamical forces are rejected, it
would seem, because they imply what modern science cannot, or will
not, understand--_i.e._ real production (they call it _creation_) of
movement. On the other hand, statical forces are not masses animated
by velocity, and thus are set aside because they originate no real
movement. Such is the consistency of our progressional friends.

Yet so long as all effect will need a cause, there can be no doubt that
statical forces must be real forces. Two weights balancing one another
at the ends of a lever certainly act on one another, as every one must
admit who observes the change produced by taking away one of the two.
A weight which actually prevents another weight from falling surely
exerts a positive influence on it, and therefore displays power and
brings forth an amount of action. So also, when a weight is at rest on
a table, gravity does not remain dormant with regard to it, but urges
it toward the table with unyielding tenacity. Hence the table must
continually react in order to keep the body at rest. It is evident,
therefore, that the weight, while at rest on the table, exerts its
powers and is engaged in real action; for nothing but real action can
awaken real reaction. Again, when we try to raise a weight, we feel
that we must overcome a real resistance; and when we support a weight,
we feel its action upon our limbs. Hence pressure is a real force,
though it be not mass animated by velocity; and the same is evidently
to be said of traction, torsion, flexion, etc. It is, therefore,
impossible to ignore statical forces.

That dynamical forces are likewise indispensable in science I think
it would be quite superfluous to prove. Rational mechanics is wholly
based upon them, and no phenomenon in nature can be explained without
them. If modern science finds it difficult to understand the production
of local movement, let her consider that, after all, it would be less
damaging to her reputation to confess her philosophical ignorance than
to deny what all mankind hold and know to be a fact.

From this short discussion we may safely conclude, with the old
physicists, that there are in nature dynamical and statical as well as
kinetic forces, and that the word _force_ should be uniformly used in
philosophy as expressing a quantity of action measured by the quantity
of its effect, or by something equivalent. But we have not yet done
with our advanced theorists.

It is curious that, after having reduced all forces to "mass animated
by velocity," they have not hesitated to introduce into science a
force which is neither mass animated by velocity nor a common statical
force, but something quite different, to which they gave the name of
"potential energy." The first to imagine this spurious force was, if
I am not mistaken, the German Dr. Mayer, one of the great leaders of
modern thought, who, considering that a body raised from the floor
would, if abandoned to itself, fall down and acquire a momentum
calculated to do an amount of work, conceived the raising of the body
as equivalent to a communication of latent energy destined to become
visible at any time in the shape of movement as soon as the body
is left to itself. Such an energy, as still unevolved, was called
"potential energy."

"If we define 'energy' to mean the power of doing work," says a
well-known English professor, "a stone shot upwards with great velocity
may be said to have in it a great deal of actual energy, because it has
the power of overcoming up to a great height the obstacle interposed by
gravity to its ascent, just as a man of great energy has the power of
overcoming obstacles. But this stone, as it continues to mount upwards,
will do so with a gradually decreasing velocity, until at the summit
of its flight all the actual energy with which it started will have
been spent in raising it against the force of gravity to this elevated
position. It is now moving with no velocity--just, in fact, beginning
to turn--and we may suppose it to be caught and lodged upon the top
of a house. Here, then, it remains at rest, without the slightest
tendency to motion of any kind, and we are led to ask, What has
become of the energy with which it began its flight? Has this energy
disappeared from the universe without leaving behind it any equivalent?
Is it lost for ever, and utterly wasted?... Doubtless the stone is
at rest on the top of the house, and hence possesses no _energy of
motion_; but it nevertheless possesses _energy_ of another kind _in
virtue of its position_; for we can at any time cause it to drop down
upon a pile, and thus drive it into the ground, or make use of its
downward momentum to grind corn, or to turn a wheel, or in a variety of
useful ways. It thus appears that when a stone which has been projected
upwards has been caught at the summit of its flight and lodged on the
top of a house, the energy of actual motion with which it started has
been changed into another form of energy, which we denominate energy
of position, or potential energy, and that, by allowing the stone
again to fall, we may change this energy of position once more into
actual energy, so that the stone will reach the ground with a velocity,
and hence with an energy, equal precisely to that with which it was
originally projected upwards."[271]

Such is the theory. It is scarcely necessary to say that the whole
of it is a delusion. First, the velocity imparted to the stone is
not a working power, but only a condition for doing work, as I shall
presently show; and, therefore, it cannot be styled "energy."

Secondly, when the stone is caught at the summit of its ascent, and
(according to the strange phrase of the author) _is moving with no
velocity_, it possesses nothing more than it possessed when lying on
the ground. Its elevated position is only a new local relation, which
confers no power, either actual or potential. It is indeed possible to
let the stone drop down; but then its fall will be due to the action
of the earth, and consequently to extrinsic causation, not to anything
possessed by the stone on account of its elevated position.

Thirdly, the words "potential energy" cannot be coupled with one
another without absurdity; for "energy," according to all, means _power
to act_, whilst "potential" means _liability to be acted on_. Hence
"potential energy" would mean either a power to act which is ready to
be acted on, or a power which is to be acquired by the body through
its being acted on. The first alternative confounds act with passive
potency, and action with passion; the second assumes that the velocity
to be acquired by the body is a real working power, which it is not.

Fourthly, it is against reason to admit that "the energy of actual
motion is changed into another form of energy." For where is the
causality of the change? The only causality concerned with the
modification of the upward movement of the stone is the action of
gravity; and this, being directly antagonistic to the ascensional
velocity, tends to destroy, not to transform, it.

Fifthly, a stone created originally on the brink of a precipice would
be ready to fall into it, although it has never been thrown up; on
the contrary, a stone thrown up to such a height as to reach the
limits of the moon's effectual attraction would never come down again,
notwithstanding the enormous amount of pretended "actual energy"
expended in the mighty ascent. Hence the upward flight has nothing
whatever to do with any so-called "potential energy." It is, therefore,
a gross delusion to hold that by allowing the stone again to fall, "we
may change the potential energy into actual energy," it being evident
that the actual velocity of the falling stone is not a result of
transformation, but the product of continuous action.

We cannot, then, adopt the phrase "potential energy" in metaphysics.
The phrase means nothing; for there is nothing in nature which can be
designated by such a name. _Energy_ is synonymous with _power_; and
power cannot be in a potential state. To be in potency to receive any
amount of velocity is not energy, but passivity. On the other hand,
the power of doing work is not a mere _force_, as assumed by the
modern theory, but is something much higher and better. Forces are
only variable quantities of action; the power, on the contrary, in one
and the same body is always the same, and yet is competent to do more
or less work, according as it is exerted under more or less favorable
conditions. The stone that is hurled against a pane of glass exerts, in
breaking it, the very same power which it exerted before being hurled;
only the conditions of the exertion are quite different, inasmuch as
its velocity brings it against the glass at such a rate that, before
its movement can be checked by the action of the glass, the stone has
time to outrun it, dashing it to pieces. Yet it is _by its action,
not by its velocity_, that it does such a work. Of course, its action
is proportional to its velocity, and its work is proportional to the
square of its velocity; and thus the velocity serves to measure both
the work and the action, but it does not follow that the velocity is
the active power. Velocity is an accidental mode of being; and _nothing
accidental is active_. This important philosophical truth can be easily
established as follows:

In all things the principle of being is the principle of operation, as
philosophers agree; whence the axioms, "By what a thing is, by that
it acts," and "Everything has active power inasmuch as it has being."
Now, all substance has its being independently of accidents; therefore,
all substance has its active power independently of accidents. On the
other hand, accidents give to the substance a _mode_ of being, and
nothing more; therefore, they also determine its _mode_ of acting, and
nothing more. But as to be in this or that state presupposes _being_,
so also to have a power ready to act in this or that manner presupposes
_power_. Hence no accident gives active power to the substance of which
it is the accident; or, in other terms, accidents are nothing more than
conditions determining the mode of application of the active powers
that pre-exist in the substance.

Again, all natural accidents[272] are reducible to three classes;
as some of them are _accidental acts_ produced by some agent and
passively received in some subject, others are _intrinsic modes of
being_ resulting from the reception of such accidental acts, and,
lastly, a great many are _mere relativities_ or relative modes. Now,
that relativities can act no one has ever pretended to assert. That
intrinsic modes of being can act, is implicitly assumed by all who
consider velocity as an active power; for velocity is an intrinsic
mode of being. Yet if we ask them whether the _existence_ of things is
competent to act, they will certainly answer _no_; and they will be
right. But, I say, if existence cannot act, still less can a mere mode
of existing act. For a mode of existing is a reality incomparably less
than existence itself. Accordingly, since they concede that not the
existence, but the thing existing, is a principle of action, they must
also _à fortiori_ concede that the thing modified, and not its mode, is
a principle of action. Finally, with regard to the accidental act, it
is evident that its reception in the substance cannot impart to it any
new activity, since its formal effect simply consists in a new mode of
being, which, as we have just seen, is not active. It is clear, then,
that no natural accident has active power.

Omitting other reasons drawn from theoretical considerations, and
which might be usefully developed in special metaphysics, I will only
add an _à posteriori_ proof, which physicists will probably find
more congenial to their habit of thought. It consists in the fact
that bodies act on one another without being animated by velocity,
or without their velocity having any share in the production of the
effect. Thus a book at rest on a table acts on the table; and a liquid,
or a gas, at rest in a jar acts on the jar. On the other hand, the
earth, though not at rest, attracts bodies, not by its diurnal rotation
or by its annual revolution, but by a power dependent only on its mass;
and the same is to be said of the sun and the planets. This shows that
the power from which the motive action of bodies proceeds is not
their velocity; whence it follows that velocity is only an affection
of bodies, and has no bearing upon the active powers of the same, but
only on the mode of their application. Now, since all the accidents
which have been supposed to involve active power can be resolved into
kinds of movement, it must be owned that such accidents have no real
activity; for all kinds of movements consist of velocity, and velocity
does not act.

Hence, whatever scientists may say to the contrary, heat, light,
electricity, etc., are not efficient powers, but modes of movement, on
which the mode of acting of bodies depends. When heat was thought to
be a subtle imponderable substance, philosophers could consistently
call it an efficient power; but since it is now decided that heat is
only "a mode of motion," how can we still attribute to it what is the
exclusive property of substances? If heat is only a mode of motion, a
bar of iron, when hot, has no greater powers than when cold; it has
only a greater movement. So also, if light is only a mode of motion,
luminiferous æther has no greater power when undulating in the open
air than when at rest in a dark room. In the same manner air, when
perfectly still, has the same powers as when actually propagating any
variety of sounds. When, therefore, physicists speak to us of such
movements as powers, let us not be imposed upon by their phraseology,
if we wish to be consistent in our reasonings, and avoid useless and
troublesome disputes.

Yet it was to be expected that our physicists in their technical
language would confound heat, light, and other modes of movement
with forces and powers. The correlation between such movements and
the actions of the bodies subjected to them is, in fact, such as to
allow of the former being taken for measure of the latter. Thus a
given amount of mechanical action may give rise to a definite amount
of heat, and _vice versa_; hence the one can be technically considered
as the equivalent of the other, inasmuch as the one is the measure
of the other. But does it follow that action and heat belong to the
same category? Certainly not. It is not the action itself, but its
mechanical effect, that should be taken as the true equivalent of
the heat generated. And when we are told that "heat is expended in
generating mechanical movement," we must not fancy that calorific
movement _causes_ another kind of movement, as the phrase seems to
imply, but only that, while the calorific movement is diminished by
a given cause, the same cause generates the mechanical movement. We
should always bear in mind that the language of modern science, though
correctly expressing the correspondence of effects to effects, is very
far from expressing as correctly the relation of effects to causes.
Physicists should learn to distinguish between efficient causes and
conditions determining the mode of their causation. Heat is one of such
conditions, and to call it a _force_ is to endow it with efficient
causality; for the term _force_ always conveys the idea of causation.
They should either cease to describe heat as a force, or, if this
cannot be done, explain more explicitly than they do the technical
restrictions modifying the philosophical meaning of the word. We can
hardly expect that they will follow our advice; but, at any rate, it is
to be hoped that philosophers at least will take care to follow it,
and guard against the corruption of their own terminology.

Besides heat, light, electricity, and magnetism, there are many other
modes of being technically called _forces_. Centrifugal force is one
of them; for, in fact, centrifugal force, in spite of the name, is
nothing more than "that quantity of movement which is extinguished by
centripetal action in the unit of time."

The force of inertia--_vis inertiæ_--is another technical or
conventional force. For it is plain that inertia cannot act; and
thus it is impossible to conceive any true force of inertia. But,
technically, _vis inertiæ_ means "the quantity of the effort by which
a body, when enduring violence from without, resists compression,
traction, or any other alteration of its molecular structure." This
effort proceeds, not from inertia, but from the active powers residing
in the molecules of the body; and yet it has received the name of _vis
inertiæ_, because it develops itself in the lapse of time during which
the body, _inasmuch as inert_--_i.e._ incapable of leaving its place
before the whole mass has acquired a common velocity--is still loth
to start, and thus compelled to struggle against the invading body.
Philosophers, by keeping in sight this definition of _vis inertiæ_,
will be able to solve many sophisms of modern scientific writers.

Again, the weight of a body is called a _force_, and is represented
by the product of the mass of the body into a velocity _which it has
not_, but which it would acquire through the action of gravity in a
second of time, if it were free to fall. If the mass be called _M_,
and the velocity which it would acquire _g_, the product _Mg_ will
represent the weight of the body. Now, when the body is at rest on a
table, the pressure exercised by it on the table is said to be _Mg_.
Does this mean that _the weight_ of the body acts on the table? Not at
all; for the body does not act by its weight, which is not an active
power. The truth is that the table by its resistance prevents the body
from acquiring the momentum _Mg_; and since this resistance of the
table must be equal to the pressure exercised on it by the body, hence
the pressure itself is also equal to _Mg_; and thus a true force--a
quantity of pressure--is technically identified with the weight of
the pressing body. This identification tends to give a false idea of
the nature of the fact, and therefore should be carefully avoided in
philosophy.

Modern physicists have laughed at a philosopher of the old school
(Arriaga), who, as late as 1639, "was troubled to know how, when
several flat weights lie upon one another on a board, any but the
lowest should exert pressure on the board." It would have been more
prudent on their part to ask themselves whether the question was
one which the modern school could answer at all. If we ask how two
equal weights can exert equal pressures on the board from _unequal_
distances, what can they answer? If they wish to be consistent with
their notions, they can only answer that "the actions are transmitted
from one weight to another till they meet the board." Now, this is a
great philosophical blunder; for actions are accidents, and therefore
cannot travel from one subject to another. Neither action nor active
power are ever transmitted; not even movement is properly transmitted,
but only propagated by a series of successive exertions from molecule
to molecule. Were we to admit in philosophy any such transmission, we
would soon be entangled in innumerable contradictions.

Mechanical work also is often styled a _force_, though it is nothing
but the process by which a _force_ is exhausted. The notion of _work_
is very simple. A body moving through space against a continuous
resistance is said _to do work_. Work is therefore so much the greater
according as a greater _mass_ measures a greater _space_ under a
greater _resistance_; and thus the work which a given body can perform
may be represented by the product of three factors, viz., the mass,
the mean resistance, and the space measured. This is the philosophical
and analytical expression of _work_; and mathematicians show that this
expression in all cases (viz., whether the resistance be constant or
variable) is equal to half the product of the mass into the square of
its initial velocity. Now the question comes: Is _work_ a force? It
is not difficult to anticipate the answer. Since the adoption of the
so-called "living forces," or _vires vivæ_, of Leibnitz, physicists
have called _vis viva_ the sum of the works of two conflicting bodies;
and consequently the work done by either of the two was said to be
one-half of the _vis viva_. But, with all the respect due to the memory
of Leibnitz, I would say that neither the work nor the so-called _vis
viva_ is a force in the philosophical sense of the word. When a mass,
_M_, animated by a velocity, _V_, encounters a resistance and begins
its work, its momentum is _MV_. This momentum, while the work is
being done, is gradually reduced till it is finally destroyed by the
resistance. The resistance is, therefore, equal to the momentum _MV_.
But the resistance, according to the law of impact, is always equal to
the exertion of the impinging body. And therefore the amount of the
exertion of the impinging body is also equal to _MV_; that is to say,
the force by which the work is done is an ordinary dynamical force
represented by the usual dynamical momentum, and not by the amount of
the work done.[273]

And here I must close this rather long excursion into the field of
mechanics. But I cannot conclude without calling the reader's attention
to the reckless tendency of the phraseology which I have above
criticised. It seems as if the object of a class of scientific writers
in these late years has been to banish from science all secondary
causes, no doubt as a preliminary step (in the intention of the most
advanced among them) for the banishment of the First Cause itself. The
words _cause_, _power_, _force_, and others of the same kind, have
indeed been maintained, as they could not be easily dispensed with;
but they receive a new interpretation: they have become "kinds of
motion," and have been identified with the phenomena--that is, with
the effects themselves. Thus "movement" is now everything; its boasted
"indestructibility" makes it independent of all secondary causes; and
we are told that the existence of "essential causes" can no longer be
proved by the phenomena, and that "science" has the right to reject
them as metaphysical dreams. Let us hear Mr. Grove again:

"Though the term (force) has a potential meaning, to depart from which
would render language unintelligible, we must guard against supposing
that we know essentially more of the phenomena by saying that they are
produced by something, which something _is only a word_ derived from
the constancy and similarity of the phenomena we seek to explain by it"
(p. 18).

And again: "The most generally received view of causation--that of
Hume--refers to invariable antecedence--_i.e._ we call that a cause
which invariably precedes, that an effect which invariably succeeds"
(p. 10).

And again: "It seems questionable not only whether cause and effect
are convertible terms with antecedence and sequence, but whether, in
fact, cause does precede effect.... The attraction which causes iron
to approach the magnet is simultaneous with, and ever accompanies,
the movement of the iron" (p. 13). Yet he adds: "Habit and the
identification of thoughts with phenomena so compel the use of
recognized terms that we cannot avoid the use of the word 'cause,' even
in the sense to which objection is taken; and if we struck it out of
our vocabulary, our language, in speaking of successive changes, would
be unintelligible to the present generation" (_ib._)

And lastly: "In all phenomena, the more closely they are investigated,
the more are we convinced that, humanly speaking, neither matter nor
force can be created or annihilated, and that _an essential cause is
unattainable_. Causation is the will, creation the act, of God" (p.
218).

It is not Mr. Grove alone that entertains such views; I might quote
other English authors, and many German, Italian, French, and American
writers whose opinions are even more extravagant. But a theory
which pretends to ignore efficient causality, no matter how loudly
trumpeted by scientific periodicals, no matter how pompously dressed in
scientific books, no matter how constantly inculcated from professorial
chairs, in the long run is sure to fail. It bears in itself and in its
very phraseology its own condemnation. It is vain to pretend to explain
away its inconsistencies by alleging that "the habits of the present
generation compel the use of recognized terms;" the simple truth is
that the abettors of modern thought reap in their inconsistencies the
reward of their vanity. Mankind will never consign created causality to
the region of dreams, and we would remind our scientific friends who
have not received a thorough philosophical training of the old adage,
"Let the cobbler stick to his last."

                        A FRIEND OF PHILOSOPHY.

FOOTNOTES:

[268] CATHOLIC WORLD, November, 1873, page 187.

[269] This limitation is necessity. A stone thrown up vertically soon
loses its _vis viva_ without compensation. The case is one in which
there is no impact. An imponderable body, as luminiferous æther, if it
forms, as it is most probable, an unresisting medium, acquires _vis
viva_ without interfering with the _vis viva_ of the celestial bodies.

[270] Physicists sometimes give the name of action and reaction to the
opposite efforts of two conflicting bodies. But, properly speaking, the
two efforts are two actions; the reaction only begins at the end of
compression, and takes place mostly within each body separately.

[271] Balfour Stewart, _Lessons in Elementary Physics_, P. 101.

[272] I say _natural_ accidents. The species of bread and of wine in
the Holy Eucharist are _supernatural_ accidents, and have no less
active power than the substances themselves. The reason is that
they imply in their constitution "the act and the activity of the
substance"--_actum et vim substantiæ_--as S. Thomas teaches, and "all
that which belongs to matter"--_omne illud quod ad materiam pertinet_.
See the _Summa Theol._, p. 3, q. 77, a. 5.

[273] In the _New American Cyclopædia_, edited in 1863 (_v.
Mechanics_), after the statement that "to overcome all the inertia of a
body moving with a certain velocity, or to impress on it at rest such
a velocity, the same whole quantity of action must in either case be
exerted and expended upon the body," we are given to understand that
this quantity is equal to half the product of the mass of the body into
the square of the given velocity. From what we have just shown, it is
evident that this conclusion is false.




LATE HOME.


    Mother, I come! Long have thine arms, outspread
    In mercy and maternal majesty,
    Been waiting to receive me. Long have I
    Heard thy low, summoning voice in wistful dread:
    A truant child, who yearned, yet feared, to tread
    The threshold of its home, while still on high
    Blazed the broad sun within the noonday sky;
    But, when the shadows of the evening came,
    And darkness fell, was fain to seek the flame
    Of its own hearthstone and its mother dear,
    And meet her greeting, loving, if severe,
    Her frown, which could not hide the secret tear,
    Her gaze compassionate, though sad and stern,
    Her fond forgiveness of that late return.




GRAPES AND THORNS.


BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE HOUSE OF YORKE."


CHAPTER IX.

THE VERDICT.

The arrest was made in September; in November the trial came on. It
would have been earlier, but that witnesses were to be summoned from
England. It was understood in Crichton that everything was very soon
to be in readiness, and that the trial would be a short one; one side
announcing confidently a speedy acquittal, the other intimating,
by a grave but equally confident silence, their belief in a speedy
conviction.

"Dear Mother Chevreuse!" sighed Honora Pembroke, who trembled with
terror and apprehension as the day drew near, "how far from your heart
is all this bitterness! How far from your wish it would have been to
see a man hunted like a beast of prey, even if he had done you a wrong!
How far from your peace is all this excitement!"

Far, indeed, would such an inquisition, however necessary to the ends
of justice and the good of society, have been from that sweet and
overflowing heart, where love, when it could not make the wandering
steps seem to be searching for the right path, uprose like a flood,
and washed out those traces of error from remembrance. Far enough,
too, was all this trouble from the changing form that had once held
so much goodness. One might guess how Nature had taken back to her
motherly bosom the clay she had lent for mortal uses, and was slowly
fitting it, by her wondrous alchemy, for immortality; purifying the
dross from it, brightening the fine gold. While this tumult went on
overhead, the crumbling dust of that temple whose ruin had brought
such sorrow and disaster was slowly and sweetly going on its several
paths to perfection; stealing into violets, into roses, into humble
grass-blades, into mists that gathered again in drops to refresh its
own blossoms and foliage!

Who can say what countless shapes of constantly aspiring loveliness
the dust of the saint may assume before uniting once more and for ever
to form that glorified body which is to hold, without imprisoning, the
beatified spirit, and transmit without stain the sunshine of the Divine
Presence?

Yes; far enough from such a progress was the feverish trouble resulting
from this sudden and violent dissolution. Friends went to cover anew
with flowers and green that grave over which the snows of coming
winter had let fall a pure and shining mantle; but the tears they
shed were bitter, and their flowers withered in the frost. Voices of
those she loved recalled her virtues, and repeated her wise and tender
sayings; but they, like all the world, found it easier to admire than
to imitate. At humble firesides, where families gathered at night,
shivering half with cold and half with fear, they blessed and mourned
the hand that had helped them and the voice that had sympathized
with and encouraged; but their blessing was so encumbered with human
selfishness that it cast the shadow of a malediction. Pure indeed must
be that love in whose footprints hatred never lurks!

On the day the trial began F. Chevreuse lost courage. More fatigued by
constant physical labor than he would own, he was still more exhausted
in mind. A devouring anxiety had taken possession of him. If he was
less sure of Mr. Schöninger's innocence than he had been, no one knew
it. Probably he entertained no doubt on that subject. But he was
certainly less confident that the accused would be able to free himself
entirely from suspicion. He could no longer be ignorant of the fact
that there was a very damaging array of testimony against him.

"I must be allowed to be childish for once, if it is childishness,"
he said. "I cannot perform my duties till this is over. If a priest
is needed, go to F. O'Donovan. Don't let any one come near me but Mr.
Macon. Above all things, don't let any woman in."

We pardon this last request of F. Chevreuse, for he was not in the
habit of speaking slightingly of women; and it must be owned that few
of them have the gift of silence or of ceasing to speak when they have
no more to say.

Mr. Macon was precisely the friend he needed in these
circumstances--quick-sighted, clear-headed, prompt, and taciturn. He
was, moreover, a man of influence, and could obtain information in
advance of most persons.

"Make yourself quite easy, F. Chevreuse," he said. "You shall know
everything of consequence within ten minutes after it has happened in
the court-room."

The gentleman had in his pocket a package of small envelopes, all
directed plainly to F. Chevreuse, and each one containing a slip of
paper. When he seated himself in the court-room, a boy stood beside him
ready to run with his messages.

In the priest's house, F. Chevreuse had shut himself into his mother's
room. A bright fire burned on the hearth, the sun shone in through
the eastern window, and at the other side could be seen a window
of the church with the cipher of the Immaculate Mother, white and
gold-, in the arch of it, sparkling as if it had just been
traced there by Our Lady herself. All was still, the length of the
house being between him and the street, so that only a faint hum of
life reached his ears.

"It is hard to believe that misfortune is to come again," he muttered,
glancing at the quiet brightness of the scene. "And I will not believe
it. I will not think of it. In the name of God, all vain and evil
thoughts begone!"

He drew a table near the fire, placed several books on it, and, seating
himself, began in earnest to translate a book which he had been
fitfully at work upon in the brief pauses of nearer duties. It was
a relief to him to look thus into the mind of another, and escape a
while from his own. "I am fortunate in having this to do," he thought,
looking at the bright side of the situation.

The habit of concentrating his thoughts on the subject in hand did
much for him; and when Mr. Macon's first message arrived, it found him
bending with interest over the written page whereon he had rendered
well a happy thought.

"That is better than the original," he said to himself. "The English
is a large, loose-jointed language, sprawling slightly, but it is a
sprawling Titan. It is rich and strong. For such a work as this, the
French is a trifle too natty and crisp. Come in!"

The door opened, and his messenger stood there. Instantly all rushed
across the priest's mind again. He stretched his hand for the note the
boy offered him, and tore it hastily open. It was short:

"Nothing but preliminaries so far. The court sits again at two o'clock."

F. Chevreuse glanced at the clock, and saw that it was already
noon. Two hours had passed like ten minutes while his mind was thus
abstracted.

"Were there many people about the court-house?" he asked.

The boy had been instructed to give his notes without saying anything,
and to speak only when spoken to; but he had not been told how much to
say when he was spoken to. The temptation to relate what he had seen
was irresistible.

"Oh! yes, father," he said, his eyes glistening with excitement. "There
was such a crowd that I could hardly get out. I had to hold up the
letter, and say it was for you. Then they made way."

F. Chevreuse dropped his eyes, and his face grew more troubled. "Mr.
Schöninger was not in court?" he asked.

"No, sir!" The boy hesitated, and had evidently something more to say.

"Well?" said the priest.

"Somebody threw a crucifix in at his cell-window to-day, and he broke
it up and threw it out again," the messenger said eagerly.

The priest's face blushed an angry red. "Have they no more reverence
for the crucifix than to use it as a means of insult, and expose it in
turn to be insulted?" he exclaimed. "Was it done by a Catholic? Do you
know who did it?"

F. Chevreuse was putting on his overcoat and searching for his hat, to
the great terror of the indiscreet tale-bearer.

"I don't know who did it," he stammered. "I guess it was some boys. But
that was this morning; and now the police drive everybody away from
that side of the jail. I am sure they won't do such a thing again,
father."

The priest perceived the boy's distress in spite of his own
preoccupation. "Never mind, Johnny," he said kindly, and tried to smile
as he laid his hand on that young head. "You did no harm in telling me;
I ought to know if such things happen. Come, I am going out, and our
roads are the same for a little way. You are going to dinner? Well,
thank your father for me, and say that I shall go only to the jail, and
directly home again."

"And what has he gone to the jail for?" Mr. Macon inquired in surprise
when he received this message from his son.

The boy answered truthfully enough, but with a somewhat guilty
conscience, that he did not know, and sat down to his dinner, which he
was unable to eat. His round cheeks were burning like live coals with
excitement, and his heart was trembling with the thought that it was he
who had sent the priest on that errand.

"You must learn to bear excitement better, my son," the mother said.
"It will never do for you to be in court every day, if it is going to
make you lose your appetite."

Thus admonished, Johnny called back his courage. "Oh! I'm not excited
at all, mother," he said, with a fine air of carelessness. "It is only
that I am not hungry. Why, all the men in the court-house, except the
judge, were more excited than I was; weren't they, father?"

The father and mother exchanged a glance and smile. They were rather
pleased with the self-confidence of this doughty young lad of theirs.

Meantime, F. Chevreuse had reached the jail, and learned that the story
he had heard was quite true. Some boys, encouraged, it was thought, by
their elders, had flung a crucifix into the Jew's cell-window, which
was not far from the ground, and it had been tossed out to them, broken
in two. The prisoner had complained that missiles were being thrown in,
when the police had received instructions to keep the place clear.

"I have not allowed any visitors in the corridor for several days," the
jailer said. "People crowded here by scores. But you, of course, can
always go in. They are just carrying in the dinner."

"I am not sure that I wish to speak to him," the priest said with
hesitation, but after a moment followed into the corridor. The waiter
set the tin dishes containing food into the different cells, through a
hole in the door, and retired. The jailer stood near the outer door.
F. Chevreuse approached Mr. Schöninger's cell, not with the eager
confidence of his first visit, but with an apprehension which he could
not overcome. Other footsteps prevented his own from being heard, and
he stood at the grating, unseen and unsuspected by the inmate of the
cell.

Mr. Schöninger sat on the side of his bed, his face partly turned from
the door, looking steadfastly out through the window. A silent snow had
begun to fall, tossed hither and thither by the wind. The jail was near
the Immaculate Conception, F. Chevreuse's new church, and the stone
Christ that crowned the summit of the church was directly opposite the
window of the cell. It stood there above the roof of the building, with
the sky for a background, its arms outstretched, and now, in the storm,
seemed to be the centre toward which all the anger of the elements
was directed. The myriad flakes, tumbling grayly down, like flocks
of rebel angels being cast out of heaven, buffeted the compassionate
face as they passed, and, after falling, seemed to rise again for one
more blow. They rushed from east, west, north, and south, to cast
their trivial insult at that sublime and immortal patience. A small
bird, weary-winged, nestled into the outstretched hand, and the wind,
twirling the snow into a lash, whipped it out, and sent it fluttering
to the ground. Nothing was visible through the window but that solitary
form in mid-air stretching out its arms through the storm.

On that Mr. Schöninger's gaze was immovably set, and his face seemed
more pale and cold than the stone itself. His hands were folded on his
knees, the rising of the chest as he breathed was scarcely perceptible,
and not a muscle of the closely-shut mouth stirred. His large, clear
eyes, and the eyelids that trembled now and then, alone relieved the
almost painful fixedness of his position.

Whether, absorbed in his own affairs, the direction his eyes took was
merely accidental, or whether the statue itself had drawn and held that
earnest regard, was not easy to decide. But a Catholic, ever ready
to believe that images, whose sole purpose is, for him, to recall the
mind to heavenly contemplations, will suggest holy thoughts even to
unbelievers, must also necessarily hope that no eyes will for a moment
rest on them in entire unconsciousness.

F. Chevreuse, after one glance, drew noiselessly back. Mr. Schöninger's
strong and resolute calmness, which hid, he knew not what, of inner
tumult or repose, disconcerted him. Besides, he had not forgotten that
those white hands, so gently folded now, had within a few hours broken
in pieces the symbol of man's salvation, and flung them from him in
scorn. He would offer no explanations nor assurances to one who seemed
so little in need of them. Sighing heavily, he turned away, and sought
refuge again in his own home.

Yet a faint gleam of light had penetrated his sombre mood from this
visit, and, when he had closed the door of his room, he stepped hastily
to the window looking toward the church, and glanced up at the statue
above him. It had been wrought in Italy, and brought to America in
the good ship _Cometa_, and had on the voyage come near being thrown
overboard to lighten the ship during a storm. Bales and barrels of
merchandise had gone by the board, costly oils had floated on the
waves, costly wines had perfumed them, but the heaviest thing in all
the freight, the stone Christ, had been left undisturbed in spite of
the sailors. The captain was a rough man, and cared little for any form
of religion; but somewhere within his large, rude nature was hidden,
like a chapel in a rock, a little nook still bright and fresh with his
youth and his mother's teachings.

"If Jesus Christ did really walk on the sea without sinking, then he
can keep this image of himself from sinking, and us with it," he said.
"I'll put it to the test. If the ship goes down, I'll never believe in
any of those old stories again."

And he held to his resolution through a terrific storm, in spite of
a crew on the brink of mutiny, and finally sailed into port with the
sacred image, which had, he believed, miraculously preserved them. And
ever after, as they sailed, a little image of Christ sailed with them,
fixed in the bows; and at night, during storms at sea, the sailors,
albeit no Catholics, would bow their heads in passing it, and mutter a
word of prayer for aid; and one old sailor, to whom for thirty years
the land had been strange and the sea a home, used to tell how, on one
terrible night of that long storm when the stone Christ had been their
sole freight left, the crew, lashed to mast and spar, and looking every
moment for destruction, had seen a white form glide forth from the
hold, and, standing in the bows, stretch out its hands over the waves,
which, with the gale, sank away to silence before them, leaving only
the gentle breeze that had wafted them on their way home.

"I leave him to you, O shadow of my Lord!" the priest said. "Speak to
him! call him so that he cannot resist you!"

He then returned to his work, somewhat relieved. "No trial is
insupportable to him who has faith," he thought. "And may be all this
trouble has come upon him in order that he might lift his eyes and
behold that Christ whom he has denied standing with arms outstretched
to receive him."

But notwithstanding this faint comfort, the second message did not find
F. Chevreuse so absorbed as the first had. He could with difficulty
command his thoughts, and was constantly lifting his head to listen for
an approaching step, or starting at a fancied knock at the door.

Near the close of the afternoon the boy came, when the light was so dim
that the note could be read only by taking it to the window.

"They have opened the case a long way off," Mr. Macon wrote. "They have
proved that Mr. Schöninger has a lawsuit in England which involves a
large fortune. It costs him every dollar he can raise, his opponents
being an established family of wealth and influence, who have for years
been in possession of the property he claims. They have proved that
during the year ending last April his lawyers received from him fifteen
hundred dollars in quarterly payments, and that in April they wrote
that, without larger advances of money, it would be impossible for them
to carry on the claim. In May, then, he sent them five hundred dollars,
in June five hundred more, and on the first of September a thousand
dollars. That closes the business for this afternoon."

"And what is the impression made?" F. Chevreuse asked Mr. Macon, when
that gentleman called on him in the evening.

"The impression, or rather the conviction, is that Mr. Schöninger
was in a condition to make a man desperate in his wish for money. An
immense fortune might be secured by expending a few thousands then, and
would certainly be lost if he had not the few thousands. They brought
in a crowd of small tattlers to show that about the time he received
this letter, and after, he was in great distress and agitation of
mind; that he lost his appetite, and was heard walking to and fro in
his chamber at night. Furthermore, it is evident that the money was
obtained in some way after the first of May, though it was not all sent
at that time. People naturally ask where the money came from, since he
was not known to have any in bank, and was supposed to have sent before
all he earned above what was necessary for him to live on."

"Poor fellow!" said F. Chevreuse pityingly. "What a trouble there was
all the time under that calm exterior! For I never saw him otherwise
than calm. Why, people might comment on my walking my room at night. I
frequently walk so when I am thinking, and always when I say my beads."

"I do not imagine that Mr. Schöninger was saying his beads," Mr.
Macon said rather dryly. "He was undoubtedly in trouble. He certainly
had always an air of calmness, but to my mind it was not an air of
contentment. He gave me the impression of a person who has some secret
locked up in his mind. This affair of the contested inheritance
explains it."

"Poor fellow!" F. Chevreuse said again, and leaned back in his chair.
"He has got to have all his private affairs dragged up for discussion,
and his looks and actions commented on by the curious. That is the
worst of such a trial. A man fancies that he has been living a quiet,
private life, and he finds that he has all the time been in a glass
case with everybody watching him. The simplest things are distorted,
and a mountain is built up out of nothing, and that without any wrong
intention either, but simply by the curiosity and misconceptions of
people."

Mr. Macon said nothing. He respected the priest's charity, but,
for himself, he reserved his decision till the judge should have
pronounced. He was not enthusiastic for Mr. Schöninger, nor prejudiced
against him; he simply waited to see what would be proved, and had no
doubt that the truth would triumph.

On the second day the trial progressed rapidly, approaching a vital
point. Mr. Schöninger had not slept the night before the death of
Mother Chevreuse, but had been heard walking and moving about his room
till morning. Miss Carthusen, whose chamber was next his, gave this
piece of information, and added that the next morning the prisoner
looked very pale, and scarcely tasted his breakfast. She spoke with
evident reluctance, and subjoined an explanation which had not been
asked. "I noticed and remembered it, because I had heard of his suit in
England, and was afraid it might be going against him."

She glanced nervously at the prisoner, and met a look wherein a softer
ray seemed to penetrate the searching coldness. Perhaps he was touched
to learn that one for whom he had cared so little had, without his
suspecting it, sympathized with him, and been kindly observant of his
ways.

On being questioned, she said that Mr. Schöninger had not come home the
next night. They had expected him, because he usually told them when he
was to be absent; but did not think very strange of it, as he was due
early the next day at the town of Madison, where he went every week to
give lessons, and where he sometimes went overnight. The last she saw
of him that night was at Mrs. Ferrier's. They had a rehearsal there,
and he had excused himself early, saying that he had an engagement, and
left alone before any of the company.

Being further questioned, she admitted having seen that he took with
him from his boarding-house the shawl that he habitually wore on chilly
evenings.

A shawl was shown her, and she was asked if she recognized it.

"It was not easy to recognize any one among all the gray shawls
there were in the world," she replied rather flippantly, "but Mr.
Schöninger's was like that; she should think it might be his."

As she went out, the witness passed quite near the prisoner, and
looked at him imploringly; but he took no notice of her. She paused
an instant, then, bursting into tears, hurried out through the crowd,
clinging to the arm of her adopted father. Lily Carthusen found herself
far more deeply involved than she had intended. In a moment of pique
and jealousy she had entertained and encouraged this accusation, and
even insinuated that she could tell some things if she would; but it
was one thing to suspect privately, and make peevish boasts which
attracted to her the attention she so dearly loved, and quite another
to face the terrible reality where a man was being tried for his life
and she swearing against him.

Yet even while grieving over her haste, and repenting it after a
fashion, her anger rose again at the remembrance of that cold glance
which had averted itself from her when all in the court-room could have
seen that she mutely begged his pardon for what she had been obliged to
say.

"I hope this will teach you to guard your tongue a little," her father
said in deep vexation, as he extricated her from the throng. "It's
about the last place for a lady to come to. And, moreover, I hope it
will cure you of concerning yourself about the pale looks and bad
appetite of young men who do not trouble themselves about you."

"Oh! yes, papa," says Miss Lily; "since I've had a bad time, be sure
you add a scolding to it. It's the way with you men."

Mr. Carthusen wisely kept silence. He had learned before this that the
young woman who called him father had a remarkable talent for retort.

Where, then, did Mr. Schöninger spend the night the priest's house was
entered? Not in Madison; for he had driven himself there early in the
morning. He had waked a stable-keeper at four o'clock in the morning to
give him a horse and buggy to drive to Madison. The man had wondered
at the prisoner taking so early a start, even if he had to begin his
lessons at eight o'clock, and had thought that something was the matter
with him. He looked pale; and several times, while harnessing the
horse, the witness had glanced up and seen him shivering, as if with
cold, though it was a beautiful May morning. Mr. Schöninger had seated
himself on a bench near the stable-door while waiting, and leaned his
arms on his knees, looking down, and had not uttered a word before
driving away, except to say that he would be back at seven o'clock in
the evening. He looked like a man who had been up all night.

Being questioned, the witness testified that the prisoner wore at the
time he saw him in the morning a large gray shawl, such as gentlemen
wear; and, on still further questioning, he said that he had observed
there was a little piece torn out of one corner. He had noticed and
remembered this, because the shawl hung over the wheel when Mr.
Schöninger started, and he had stopped him to tuck it up. His first
passing thought had been that it was a pity to injure a new shawl;
his second, on seeing the torn corner, that, after all, the shawl was
not a new one. He would not, perhaps, have remembered such trivial
circumstances but for what he heard immediately after. Some one came
in and told him of Mother Chevreuse's death. It occurred to him that
Mr. Schöninger must have heard of it already, and that it was that news
which had made him so sober and silent. He recollected, too, having
heard that F. Chevreuse and the Jew were quite great friends, but that
the priest's mother did not like they should have any intercourse. He
had observed, too, that Mr. Schöninger's boots were muddy, and wondered
at it a little, as the roads were not bad, and as the prisoner had
always been nice in his dress.

When Mr. Macon visited F. Chevreuse the evening of the second day, he
found the priest looking quite haggard.

"You have written me the bad, and the worst of the bad," he exclaimed
the moment the door was shut on them. "There must be something to
counterbalance all this nonsense!"

"On the contrary, there is something to add," Mr. Macon replied.
"Johnny couldn't get through the crowd at the last. They would not make
way for him."

"Well?" the priest asked sharply.

They had seated themselves before the fire, and the red light of it
shone up into one face turned sideways, and full of shrinking inquiry
as it looked into the other face, whose downcast eyes seemed to shun
being so read.

"Mr. Schöninger was somewhere wandering about the city all that night,"
Mr. Macon said. "He was seen and recognized by two or three persons,
all of whom noticed something odd in his manner. He was seen in the
lane back of the house here as late as eleven o'clock, and appeared
to be going toward the river, but came back to the street on finding
himself observed. He was not at his boarding-house nor at any of the
hotels that night. Moreover, the measure taken of the tracks near your
house corresponds with the size of the boots he wore."

"I don't want to hear any more!" exclaimed F. Chevreuse passionately,
and hid his face in his hands.

His companion glanced quickly at him, then looked into the fire, and
remained silent.

After a moment, the priest lifted his face.

"You don't mean to say that the case is going against him?" he asked in
a low voice that expressed both fear and incredulity.

"It looks a little like that now," was the quiet reply. "But we do not
know what to-morrow may bring forth."

"I believe Jane was called to-day?" F. Chevreuse remarked after a
moment.

The other nodded his head.

"I hope she behaved well?" he added painfully.

Another nod. "Yes; as well as one could expect her to."

"The Ferriers, too, and Lawrence?"

"Yes; but their testimony was not of any great consequence."

The testimony of the Ferrier family was, however, entirely favorable
to the prisoner, and they had mentioned him with such respect and
kindness as to visibly affect him, and to create a sort of diversion in
his favor. The wealth and style of the party, the manner in which they
took possession, as it were, of the court-room, with several gentlemen
clearing the path before them, made an impression. When they went
out, the prisoner looked at them with a faint smile as they passed.
Annette smiled in return, and Lawrence bowed with scrupulous respect
and friendliness; but Mrs. Ferrier, rustling in voluminous silks, down
which her rich sables slipped loosely, leaned over the bar, and, in the
face of the whole court and crowd of spectators, shook hands with Mr.
Schöninger, and, in a voice audible to the whole company, made with him
an appointment which hovered strangely between the tragical and the
absurd.

"Come to my house the minute you are out of this terrible place," she
said. "Don't go anywhere else." Then she flounced out, wiping her eyes,
and tossing her head disdainfully at the judge, the lawyers, and the
crowd, whom she held to be, severally and collectively, to blame for
these unjust and impertinent proceedings.

"You know, mamma," Annette said, "the judge has to listen to everybody,
and it isn't his fault if people are accused. And Mr. Wilson is obliged
to make out his case, if he can, and to ask a great many questions.
Some things that seem to us trivial may have a good deal of importance
in a case like this. You must remember that a law-court is quite
different from a drawing-room, where people cannot be too inquisitive
without being checked."

"I shall take care that none of them come to my drawing-room again,"
retorted the mother with spirit. "To think of that Mr. Wilson, who has
been at my house to dinner, telling me to try to remember something
that he knew I had forgotten or didn't want to tell! You may depend
upon it, Annette, that man has a spite against poor Mr. Schöninger.
It is as plain as day that he is raking up all he can against him. I
shouldn't be surprised if the scamp were to hire men to tell lies about
him. He looks capable of it. And then, to question me about what Mr.
Schöninger had over his shoulder when he came to my house, and what
time it was when he went away, and to show me that trumpery old gray
shawl--if that is the majesty of the law, I don't want to see any more
majesty. The object--and a most ridiculous and slanderous object it
is, too--is to find out if Mr. Schöninger, as fine a gentleman as ever
lived, broke into a priest's house, and murdered a lady and a saint,
and stole a little package of dirty one-dollar bills. That's what they
pretend to want to find out; and why don't they find it out in the
proper way? It needn't take 'em long, I should think. But no! they must
poke their noses into people's private affairs, asking every kind of
impudent question, and making you say things twice, and then asking
if you are sure, and then telling you that it's no matter what your
opinion is about things; as if I hadn't a right to an opinion! They
want to make money, and dawdle out a case as long as they can--that's
what they want. And as for the curiosity of women, it's nothing! It
takes a man to cross-question."

"O mamma, mamma!" sighed Annette, with smiling indulgence.

"Oh! yes; it's always 'O mama!'" exclaimed Mrs. Ferrier excitedly.
"But I have common sense, for all that. And if I'd had the slightest
idea how they were going to act, I would have thought out a good story
before I came, and stuck to it through thick and thin."

"Why, mamma!" cried the daughter in dismay, "you were sworn to tell
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. If you had said
anything else, you would have committed perjury."

Mrs. Ferrier looked at her daughter in astonishment not unmingled with
alarm. "I didn't swear any such thing," she said, the tide of her
eloquence somewhat checked.

"Why, yes, mamma, we all took the oath. When we held up our hands and
kissed the book, that was the time."

"I never uttered a word," averred the mother with decision.

"But the clerk said the words for us, mamma, and we held up our hands
to denote, I suppose, that we acceded to all he said."

"I heard him mumble over something, I didn't know what it was," said
the lady slightingly. "And so somebody else swears for you, like
sponsors at a baby's baptism! Well, if he does the swearing, then the
perjury is his."

"Good gracious, mamma!" cried Annette, "I hope you haven't been telling
any lies!"

Mrs. Ferrier looked at her daughter in dignified reproof. "No, Annette;
I'm not in the habit of telling lies, and I haven't told any to-day.
And I hope I haven't told any truths about that poor struggling
creature, who is, for all the world, like a sheep among wolves. I could
never bear to see even a wolf hunted, much less a man."

The three were driving home, Lawrence seated opposite the ladies. While
Mrs. Ferrier was talking, he leaned forward, with his arms on his
knees, and softly smoothed the fur border of her velvet mantle. He had
those little caressing ways when any one pleased him. A faint smile now
and then touched his lips at some simple or energetic expression of
hers, but his face was so averted that she did not see it, and it would
appear that her simplicity did not displease, though it might amuse him
a little.

Presently he relinquished the mantle border, and began, with delicate
approach, to touch the wrist lets, stroking the dark fur softly, and
pushing his finger-tips into it; and at length, when her attention,
fluttering abstractedly toward him now and then, had become fixed on
him, and she held herself still, and looked, with a half-surprised
smile of pleasure, to see what sweet and childish thing he was doing,
he took her two plump and well-gloved hands in his, and looked up at
his wife. "There's no danger of her telling anything but the truth,
Annette," he said. "She is too good and honest for anything else." And
he actually bent his handsome head, and kissed Mrs. Ferrier's hands,
first one then the other!

There was a momentary silence. Annette, startled by this unexpected
delight, could only look at her husband with tearful, shining eyes.

"I tell you, Annette, she doesn't make half as many mistakes as--as I
do, for instance."

He dropped his face, relinquished the hands he had kissed, and began
again to play with the border of Mrs. Ferrier's cloak, leaving the two
women to their talk.

But we have left F. Chevreuse and Mr. Macon.

"That hateful shawl, who raked that out?" the priest asked after a
while, questioning in spite of himself.

"The whole turns upon that," Mr. Macon said, rousing himself from the
brown-study into which he had fallen. "It seems that Miss Carthusen
went up to the convent to make the acquaintance of the Sisters, and,
while there, saw a shawl thrown over a lounge in the parlor. She
examined it while waiting for the Sisters to come in, and found the
corner torn. She mentioned the fact to that Renford, who is an amateur
detective. The fellow's great ambition is to become a second Vidocq;
he immediately offered to undertake the case, with the provision that,
if he should succeed in finding the criminal, he should be regularly
employed as a detective."

"Where did the Sisters get the shawl?" demanded F. Chevreuse. "Have
they got to be dragged in?"

"It would seem that everybody is to be dragged in," Mr. Macon said. "My
wife got the shawl, she doesn't know where, when she was collecting for
the convent. That is, they say that she brought it; though she cannot
recollect any person giving her such an article, nor recollect even
having seen it among the packages. But her carriage was piled full that
day, and she had called, perhaps, at twenty houses; so it would not be
strange if she should forget."

"So those poor nuns have had to go into court!" said F. Chevreuse, much
distressed by the news. "Which one went?"

"Oh! it wasn't a Sister; it was Anita," said Mr. Macon. "My wife went
with the child, and stood by her all the time. It was Anita who took
all the things from the carriage while my wife was talking with Sister
Cecilia in the garden; and the girl counted and examined every package."

"She must have been terrified to death, that poor little lamb!"
exclaimed F. Chevreuse, rising to walk about the room. "I think I
should have been there with her. I would have gone if I had known.
You keep too much from me, Mr. Macon. I known that you and others do
this from kindness; but you must remember that it isn't for me to be
cowardly and shrink like a baby. I'm not sure but I should feel better
to be in the midst of it all than to be shut up here suffering the
torments of suspense."

"You had a great deal better have nothing to do with it," his friend
said decidedly. "You are not needed. F. O'Donovan was in court with
Anita and my wife, and there was a body-guard of Catholics all about to
make room for them going and coming. It was hard for the poor child;
but what she felt most was not being in a crowd, and obliged to speak
in public; she did not appear to think of that; but the thought that
what she must say might bring trouble on any one almost overpowered
her. She excited a great deal of sympathy. While she spoke, you could
have heard a pin drop in the room."

"After all," F. Chevreuse said, catching at a consolation, "it won't
hurt any of them to see one of God's snow-drops; and she is no more
tender than many a martyr of the church has been."

Mr. Macon's brief story did not give any idea of the sensation
produced in court by the appearance of this child, who was as strange
to such a scene as if she had been, indeed, a wild flower brought from
some profound forest solitude. Her beauty, the dazzling paleness of
her face, from which the large eyes looked full of anguish and fear,
the flower-like drooping of her form as she leaned on Mrs. Macon's
supporting arm--all startled the most hardened spectator into sympathy.
Careless and callous as they might have been, feeding on excitement as
a drunkard takes his draught, ever stronger and stronger as his taste
becomes deadened, each one seemed to realize for a moment how terrible
a thing it is to see a human life at stake, and to have influence to
destroy or to save it. If she had been a relative or personal friend
to the accused, the impression would have been less deep; but the
fact that she would have shown the same painful solicitude for any
one of them may have stirred in their consciences some sense of their
own heartlessness. They made way for her, and listened in breathless
silence to hear what she would say. Her very distress lent a silvery
clearness to her voice, usually so low and soft, and every word was
heard as plainly as the notes of a small bird chirping when its nest is
attacked.

"All I know, your honor, is this: Mrs. Macon drove about Crichton to
ask for things for the convent; and Mother Ignatia let me go out to
bring in the parcels she brought, because it pleased me. I always
set down on a slip of paper a list of the articles, and the day of
the month she brought them, and some of the Sisters helped me, and
looked on. But this time no one but me did anything, for it was the
day after Mother Chevreuse was killed, and everybody was in great
trouble. Mrs. Macon said, when she came, that she had spent the night
before at Madison with her sister there, and started early in her
phaeton to beg for us, and had heard nothing of the news till she
reached Crichton late in the afternoon. Then she drove straight to us;
and, when she got out of the phaeton, she ran to Sister Cecilia, and
they threw themselves into each other's arms, and began to cry. We
were all crying, but I went to take the parcels out of the phaeton,
because I wanted to do something. And I made a list of them, because
I always had, and I carried them up-stairs. And I knew just how
everything looked, because I tried to think of my work and not of
Mother Chevreuse. And I do know surely that the gray shawl which was
laid over our lounge was brought that day. I saw the piece torn out of
the corner, and, when they arranged it for a cover, they turned the
torn corner behind. That is all, your honor, except that Miss Carthusen
came to the convent one day, and, when I went into the parlor, she was
examining the shawl, and she said she did it because there was one like
it missing out of their house. And I hope," said this simple creature,
rising, in her earnestness, from Mrs. Macon's arm, and leaning
imploringly toward the judge--"I hope that what I have said will not
hurt anybody nor be used against anybody. And I ask Mr. Schöninger to
forgive me if what I have said displeases him; for, if it should do him
harm, I shall be unhappy about it as long as I live."

No one said a word as the girl was led, trembling and half fainting,
out of the court-room. The prisoner regarded her with astonishment
while she spoke, and when she turned toward him her pitiful face, and
made her appeal for forgiveness, he bowed, and a slight involuntary
motion of his hands looked as if he would fain have supported her
drooping form. Never had he seen so simple and so impassioned
a creature. An angel taking its first flight out of the white
peacefulness of heaven, and looking for the first time on the miseries
of earth, could scarcely have shown a more shrinking and terrified pity
than had been displayed by this young girl, drawn from her peaceful
convent home to the arena where crime and justice struggle for the
mastery. And yet that pure and tender child had given him a terrible
blow. Perhaps he felt that her testimony was important, simple as the
story she told seemed to be; for his face grew deathly pale, and for
the first time during the trial he lost that air of scornful security
which he had sustained so far. Averting his face slightly, he seemed
to be studying out some problem, and, as he thought, the faint lines
between his brows grew deeper, and those sitting near him could see the
veins in his temples swelling and throbbing with the stress of some
sudden emotion.

The next morning F. Chevreuse went out to make sick-calls after his
Mass was over, and returned quite convinced that his friends had been
right in advising him to remain in-doors. Everybody he met gazed at
him, as if trying to read in his face what thought or feeling he might
be striving to hide; people turned to look after him; and groups
of excited talkers became silent as he approached, only to resume
their conversation with increased vehemence when he had passed. He
had been obliged to check the wordy sympathy of some and the angry
denunciations of others, who thought to please him by wishing ill to
Mr. Schöninger; and more than once his heart had been wrung by some
loud lament over his lost mother.

"You were right," he said to F. O'Donovan when he went in. "I will not
go out again unless there is need of it."

"Then I give you as a task this forenoon to translate ten pages of that
book," his brother priest replied. "It is needed, and should be ready
for the early spring sales."

F. Chevreuse laid aside his wrappings with alacrity, glad to have a
task assigned him. "But I would like to go into the church a minute,"
he said, making this request with the humility of a child. "Not to
pray," he added quickly, as if afraid of receiving too much credit for
piety; "I want to go into the gable, and look down to the court-house."

He stopped for permission, and his face was so worn and troubled
that his friend checked the slight smile that unconscious display of
obedience had provoked.

"Go, by all means, but do not stay long," he said. "The day is very
cold. And, besides, it will do no good to watch there."

What he called the gable was a long, low attic running the whole length
of the church, and lighted by a small gable window at each end. A steep
stairway led up to a chamber over the altar; but from that the ascent
was made by long ladders, very seldom used. The window over the altar
gave a fine view of all the eastern and northern part of the city, and
looked directly into the square in front of the court-house.

F. Chevreuse toiled wearily up, feeling himself grown old, and stood
in the long, dusky room. The floor was covered with wood-shavings left
by the builders, and spiders had hung their webs in thick festoons from
beam to beam. One side of the southern window, at the further end of
the church, was gleaming brightly, where the sun had begun to come in,
and the rafters near it glowed as if kindling with fire; but the north
window, that felt scarce a touch of sunshine in the winter-time, was
covered deeply with frost, piled layer on layer through the cold night.

He put his face to the frame, and breathed on it till the glittering
coldness melted, and a drop of water ran down, then another, and
presently there was a clear spot in the glass. He wiped this dry with
his handkerchief; then, covering his mouth and nose, that his breath
might not freeze over the improvised loophole into the outer world,
he leaned closer and looked out. For the large panorama of the city,
spread out under a clear winter sky, and shot through by the two
sparkling rivers, he cared not. Only one spot attracted his attention,
and that was the court-house and the square in front of it. Looking
there, he drew back, winked to clear his eyes, which had, perhaps,
been dazzled by the sharp and tangled lights and shadows of the place;
then looked again. The square should have been white with half-trodden
snow, and dotted by passers here and there; instead of that, it was
entirely black. But the blackness was not of the soil nor pavement;
it was the swaying blackness of a crowd. They thronged the streets,
pressing toward the square, and stood on the steps of the court-house,
struggling to enter. Even at that distance he could see that policemen
were forcing them back.

F. Chevreuse turned hastily away from the window, and descended to the
church, heartsick at the sight. He threw himself one moment before
the altar, then went into the house. As he entered, Jane, who was on
the lookout, hid herself in her room till he had passed through the
kitchen. Since the trial began, they had not met. She felt sure that
he did not approve entirely of her conduct, and he allowed her to be
invisible without asking any questions.

F. O'Donovan looked at him anxiously as he re-entered the sitting-room;
and, when he went and leaned on the mantel-piece, hiding his face in
his hands, approached and touched him kindly on the shoulder.

"It isn't your way, Raphael, to break down so," he said in that sweet
voice of his, still sweeter with pity and tenderness.

That name, the name of his boyhood, when he and O'Donovan were at
school together; when he was so overflowing with happiness that he
could never be still, but had to be for ever at work or at play; when
he knew no more of care than what the getting of his lessons involved,
no more of sin than the little faults he recounted at his confessor's
knees and forgot the next moment, and no more of sorrow than the
changing of one beloved professor for another who speedily became as
dear. O'Donovan, the beautiful boy, the youngest at school, had been
his pride and idol in those days. He turned to him now, and, in the old
way the English boys used to mock at him for, kissed his friend and
school-fellow on both cheeks; at which the Irishman laughed a little
and blushed a good deal.

"You're not much changed from the boy you were," said F. Chevreuse.
"You had always a way of seeming to coax, while you were really
commanding. Well, you're almost always right. How the wind whistles!"

It was a cutting north wind that broke multitudinously against the
church, and seemed to splinter there into separate sharp voices. They
went up from the narrow passage between the church and the house, they
rang from the chimneys, and sighed and whimpered about the feet of
the stone Christ, as if some wounded creature, invisible to man, had
crawled there to seek for pity.

"What a day!" repeated F. Chevreuse, looking out. "December is
certainly an ugly month, and January is a worse one. February would be
worst of all, but that it is so near spring you can snap your fingers
in its face."

He seated himself at the table, drew the books towards him, and glanced
round at the fire, as if to assure himself that there was something
shining in his vicinity, then took up a pen, and laid it down again,
shivering, not because he was cold, but because he knew there was so
much cold about.

F. O'Donovan, seated near the window, with his finger between the
leaves of his Breviary, to keep the place, had observed his every
movement. He dropped the book on his knee, and spoke in a gentle,
dreamy way that was the very essence of soothing.

"Yes, this is now for a while one of the cold spots on the earth;
but we have only to climb a little, in spirit or in memory, to have
a different idea of December and everything else. How many years
ago to-day is it that you and I saw oranges ripening in the sun in
December, and roses blooming, and people pushing back their cloaks
for the heat? It is an anniversary, for I have some little reason to
remember the date. We were in Rome. I had been shivering in a bare,
sunless room at the Propaganda, when I looked up and caught a glimpse
through the window of a bit of miraculous blue sky over the roof of San
Andrea's. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and time for a walk.
I called you, and we started on a little exploring expedition; for we
had neither of us seen much of Rome at that time. We muffled ourselves
well, and went out into the Piazza di Spagna. I recollect you saying,
as we came to those great stairs, that they must have been modelled by
some one who had Jacob's dream-ladder in his mind. You said, too, that
one reason why Rome is so much more beautiful than any other city is
not because it is more artistic, but more natural. Each part grew for
itself, instead of being cramped by some dominating idea that spoilt
all in trying to direct all. You were delighted with the perfectly cool
way in which a whole street would go up-stairs or down-stairs. Well,
there was the whole side of a piazza going up-stairs. We went up, past
the group of models, you know, who stand there to be stared at; the
bearded old man who stands for S. Peter or Moses, the brigand and the
brigand's wife, and the little brown gypsies. The calendar said it was
December; yet in the piazza below the air said it was April. When we
paused at the first landing, and began to wish we had left our cloaks
at home, it was May, and up in front of the Trinita de' Monti it was
mid-June. The fruit-sellers left their large baskets of oranges in
the sun while they sat in the shade and waited for customers; there
were baskets of flowers, with heaps of half-open roses on the stone
rail of the balustrade, and streams of rich verdure flowed wide or
trickled brightly between the gray sweeps of stone. In the east was
that unimaginable blue that can only be compared to a gem; in the west,
a dazzle of unclouded sunshine; and between the two, Rome floated in
a silvery mist. You leaned on the balustrade, and--wretch that you
were!--your first thought was a pagan one. You said that the goddess
of beauty had sunk into the midst of the city, and left her drapery
of cloud clinging all about it, and that, when she should withdraw,
there would be a vision in the sky, but Rome would be nothing but
ashes. That was the best image that Raphael Chevreuse could find,
with the city before him all a-bubble with the domes of Christian
churches. You may recollect that I gave you a very pretty lecture on
the subject. Then you pointed out to me a pillar of smoke wreathing
slowly up into the sky, showing between the bold front of the Pincian
Hill and the twin cupolas in the Piazza del Popolo, with the distant
forest and mountain for a background, and you said that we were nothing
but cloud-people living in a cloud, and that the only realities were
Moses and the Israelites out there offering up sacrifice in the wilds
between Egypt and Chanaan. Well, December being too hot for us then,
we walked off toward Santa Maria Maggiore. Do you remember the great
orange-tree, as large as an apple-tree, that showed over the convent
walls, and how thickly the golden oranges were set among its green
foliage; and the symbol over the convent door of two lions trying to
get at a bird that was safe in the top of a palm-tree;[274] and the
vane that you said could have been thought of nowhere but in Italy--a
rod with a cross at the top and a bird's wing swinging round as the
wind changed? And when we walked on among the ruins, what superstitious
young man gathered dandelions, because gold- flowers always
brought him some happy chance, he said; and then, in the next breath,
looking at those mountains before us, swimming, it seemed, in a sea of
rosy-purple vapors, broke out with a psalm, "Montes exultaverunt ut
arietes; et colles, sicut agni ovium"? You declared vehemently that
the mountains were dancing, and I had to hold you to keep you from
dancing too. A pretty sight it would have been to see a young Christian
priest twirling _pirouettes_ among the ruins of the temple of Minerva!
Doubtless, while we are in the midst of the snows and frost of a
northern morning, the sun is just going down over that same warm and
glowing scene. And, doubtless, too," said F. O'Donovan slowly, coming
to the point he had started to reach, "outside this pain and confusion
there is peace and happiness waiting to come in and give us our soul's
summer in this world even. The storms are short, but the peace is long,
and for ever waiting overhead."

"But life is not long," concluded F. Chevreuse, "and it behooves me to
be about my work."

He drew the books toward him, and began to work in earnest. He had been
comforted in one regard that morning: he would not himself be called
into court, the only points on which he could give evidence being
better known to others. Jane and Andrew had both seen the condition of
his little study, with its bolted window and locked-up desk, after he
left the house that fatal night, and both F. O'Donovan and Mr. Macon
saw it in the morning before he came home. The other point, relating
to the sort of bank-bills he had lost, was of no consequence, as the
bankers could not say what sort of money Mr. Schöninger had paid them.
Every disposition was shown to spare him unnecessary pain, and they
even strained a point for that purpose.

He was not needed, indeed, and the case was being brought rapidly to a
conclusion, as his first despatch showed him.

"Old Mr. Grey, from the pond farm, with his granddaughter, have been
brought in," Mr. Macon wrote, "and by their help the story has been
made to assume form. Mr. Schöninger returned to Crichton that day past
their place. He got into a rough road and broke his harness somewhere,
and went to their house to borrow a rope to mend it. He had a shawl
on his arm when he went up to the door. While the young girl was gone
for the rope, he folded the shawl, and put it into my wife's phaeton
among the other packages. My wife was then with old Mrs. Grey in the
house. Mr. Grey was at work in the garden, and saw what was done. The
girl also saw the shawl on his arm when he came, but did not notice it
afterward. It is likely to go hard with him."

F. Chevreuse had a very red face when he looked over this note. But
he handed it to F. O'Donovan without a word, and resumed his writing
again. If he knew well what he was writing is doubtful. That color
did not leave his face, and now and then he pressed his hand to his
forehead, as if confused.

"Mr. Schöninger has roused himself at last," the next note said. "He
seems for the first time to comprehend that he is in danger. He looks
like a lion. I hope he may prove to have some of a lion's strength, for
his chances are small."

F. Chevreuse handed the paper to his brother priest, who had been out
and come in again, and watched his face while he read it.

"Will you tell me frankly your opinion of this?" he said then.

F. O'Donovan dropped his eyes, having, evidently, no mind to be frank
on the subject. "I cannot have a settled opinion on a question of
which I have heard but one side," he said. "I have been in court this
morning, and talked with some people there, and the chances at present
seem for a conviction. But we cannot tell the strength of the defence
as yet."

In spite of his reserve, there was no mistaking his belief in the
prisoner's guilt.

F. Chevreuse shut his book decisively.

"Since I am not needed here, I may as well go and see the bishop," he
said. "I was to have gone this week to settle important business with
him, but he excused me on the supposition that I would not be allowed
to leave Crichton. Can you take care of my people a few days longer?"

"A week longer, if you wish."

"Four days will be enough--two to go and come, two there. You will know
where to telegraph for me, if I should be wanted. I will go straight to
the bishop's house, and stay there."

"How glad I am that you did not say 'episcopal residence'!" remarked
his companion.

F. Chevreuse was already making his preparations for the journey. He
glanced up rather imperiously from the valise he was packing.

"Why should I say it?" he demanded. "Never used such an expression in
my life. And this reminds me that you have been criticising me before
to-day, calling me superstitious, and I don't know what else. In one
little corner of my mind I have been thinking the matter over ever
since, and have arrived at these conclusions: superstition, being
nothing but erratic faith, should be treated with great tenderness;
and, besides, you will recollect that I was at that time reading the
pagan classics; furthermore, Rome herself was not born in the faith,
but is a converted pagan, and she stands there, a Christian Juno, with
all Olympus kneeling about her feet; and well so, for any form is good
that is capable of holding a Christian soul. Still further, I have
concluded that young O'Donovan, whose hair still looks, across the
room, quite black, should show a becoming reverence for Chevreuse, who
has long since ceased to count his white hairs and begun to count his
black ones. I said an elder soldier, not a better. Did I say better?
Good-by. God bless you!"

And he was off, glad of the noise and speed of the cars, of the
changing faces and scenes, of anything that would help to ease his mind
by a momentary distraction. Yet, in spite of every effort, the thought
haunted him of Mr. Schöninger rousing himself to do battle for his
life. Call up whatever image he would to entertain his mind, that one
intruded. He pictured to himself the first dawn of apprehension in the
prisoner's face rapidly intensifying to a flash of angry terror, the
reddening or the whitening color, the gathering storm of the brows. He
tried to guess what he would do and say, by what grand effort he would
at last fling off in scorn the accusation which he had not believed
could cling to him--if he should be able to fling it off. That doubt
was like a thorn, and he hastily called to mind something to banish it.
He remembered what F. O'Donovan had been saying of Rome, and tried to
recollect something of that old picture-book part of his life, to see
again in fancy its shady streets and sunny piazzas, to enter in spirit
some dim church starred around with lamps, and lined with precious
marbles; but when he had laboriously fashioned the scene, a hand was
outstretched to put it aside like a painted curtain, and again he saw
the Jewish gladiator, alive and alert, fighting desperately for his
life.

"You can see that I have run away to escape disagreeable scenes and
talk," were his first words on reaching his destination. "And now to
business."

It was quite understood, then, that no one was to tell him anything
relating to the trial, nor mention the subject to him; so that when, on
the evening of the third day, he started for home, he knew no more of
the progress or result of it than he had known on leaving Crichton.

There were but few passengers that evening, and F. Chevreuse
established himself in a corner of the car, put his ticket in his
hat-band, that he might not be disturbed by the conductor, leaned back
and shut his eyes, that he might not be talked to by any one else, and
took out his beads to exorcise troublesome thoughts and invoke holy
ones. It was a saying of his that the beads, when rightly used, had
always one end fastened to the girdle of Mary, and were a flowery chain
by which she led the soul directly to the throne of God.

They proved so to him in this case, and one after another the Joyful
Mysteries were budding and blossoming under his touch, when presently
he found himself somewhat disturbed by the voices of two men who were
talking behind him. At first the sound reached him through the long
vista of that heavenly abstraction; but soon the distance lessened, and
then a single word brought him down with a shock.

"He fought hard at last," one said, "but it was of no use. Everything
was against him."

It needed not another word to tell the priest who and what were meant;
but other words were spoken.

"His defence was a mere mass of sentimentality," the speaker went on.
"He owns to having walked the streets the whole night of the murder,
but he says that it was from distress of mind. He had to decide before
the next day whether he would abandon all hope of the fortune for
which he was contending, and lose with it all that he had expended,
or else throw into the chasm the few hundreds he had retained that an
accident might not find him penniless. He declared that the state of
his mind was such that he could not sleep, nor keep still, nor stay
in the house. Now, that part of the story would not have been so bad
if he had not been seen near the priest's house, hanging about there,
and going away when he was observed, and if he had not declared that,
when he went away from Crichton in the morning, he had not heard of
the murder. The tracks were not a strong point, for Newcome makes
everybody's boots just alike, and there are a good many men in Crichton
who have as neat a foot as Schöninger. But the rest of the defence was
nonsense. The shawl was what convicted him. It was his shawl; he owned
it; and the fragment found in Mme. Chevreuse's hand just fitted the
torn corner, thread for thread. I could see that he was confounded when
that came up. He says he left the shawl in Mrs. Ferrier's garden in the
evening, and went for it early in the morning before anybody was up,
and that he found it just where he had left it. He owned, too, that he
put it slyly into Mrs. Macon's carriage. He said he knew her and what
she was collecting for; had heard all about it at Madison. When he left
his broken harness--which, by the way, was not broken, it appears, but
only unclasped somewhere--and went to Mr. Grey's, he took his shawl
over his arm absent-mindedly, and found it a nuisance while he was
going through the woods. Seeing Mrs. Macon's carriage there full of
parcels, some gray blankets among them, it occurred to him to add his
shawl to the pile without putting any one to the trouble of thanking
him. He said that he believed those nuns to be very good women, and
that he felt a respect for them for the sake of F. Chevreuse, who had
been very polite to him. Fancy a Jew taking off his shawl to give it to
a nun, and that to please a priest! The story is too ridiculous, you
see. Oh! it is clear. There never was a clearer case of circumstantial
evidence. No one could have a doubt. But the verdict is too hard."

"You think it should not have been murder in the first degree?"
another voice asked.

"It should not," was the emphatic reply. "It is almost an outrage to
make it so. But people became ferocious the moment it was clear that
he was guilty, and I believe they would gladly have taken him out and
hanged him to the first tree. The fact undoubtedly is that he was
pressed for money, and meant to help himself to the priest's. Mme.
Chevreuse heard him, and started to alarm the house, and I think he
gave her an unlucky push. But nothing of that sort would content the
prosecution nor the people. They must have it that at the very best
he killed her wilfully when he found that she had recognized him. The
female servant testified that there was a candle overturned in the
priest's room, which must have gone out in falling. Madame's first
thought would naturally be to light a candle. Still, that is not sure.
That same servant wished to show that the prisoner had a spite against
the priest's mother, and the Carthusen girl had the same story; but
if people had been calm, their gossip would have made no impression.
Schöninger's lawyer tried to prove that madame's death resulted from
the fall; but there was a bad bruise...."

F. Chevreuse gasped for breath. "For God's sake, stop!" he cried out,
half turning toward the speaker, then sinking instantly into his seat
again.

A perfect silence followed. The priest was struggling with his
feelings, and regretting not having withdrawn before his self-control
gave way, and the gentlemen behind him were recovering the shock of
learning who their neighbor was, and feeling their way to a solution of
the difficulty. One of them had an inspiration. "Let's go and have a
cigar," he said; and F. Chevreuse was left to himself.

But his solitude was full of terrible images, and in that few minutes
all his relations with the Jew had been changed. He would not have
said to himself that he believed the man guilty, and he would have
said that, guilty or innocent, he wished him no harm; but what his
imagination had utterly refused to do in connecting Mr. Schöninger
with his mother's tragical fate the plain talk of this stranger had
accomplished. He could no longer separate the two; and the sight of
the Jew, or the sound of his name even, would, in future, call up
associations intolerable to him.

"You know all, then?" was F. O'Donovan's greeting when they met.

The face of F. Chevreuse showed, indeed, that he had no questions, or
few, to ask.

"The law has decided," he said, "and, for the present at least, I
cannot question its decision. They know better than I how to arrive
at the truth. At the same time, I never will say of a man that he is
guilty till he has himself told me that he is, or till I have the
evidence of my own senses. And now, what have you to tell me about my
people? Is it well with them?"

"It is well," was the echo.

The people had, indeed, settled into their usual quiet mode of life
again with surprising readiness, as often happens to those who, giving
themselves entirely up to an excitement, exhaust its force the sooner.
The conviction and sentence of Mr. Schöninger had not only given them
a satisfying sense of justice vindicated, but had impressed them with
awe. The suddenness of his fall, when they had leisure to contemplate
its accomplishment, was startling. But a few weeks before, he had
walked their streets with a step as proud as the proudest, and there
was not one among them, whatever his prejudices, who was not pleased to
receive his salutation; in a few months longer--months of misery and
disgrace--he would be called on to suffer the extreme penalty of the
law.

Some of them remembered, too, when all was over, the defence the
prisoner had made, if defence it could be called, when he was permitted
to speak for himself. They were bitter words, full of fierce and
haughty defiance and denunciation and at the time their sole effect had
been to provoke still further against him the popular rage; but, for
some reason, there was a thrilling pathos in the recollection of them,
perhaps because they had been uttered in vain, and because they showed
with what horror he contemplated his impending doom.

"You seek my destruction because I am a Jew, not because I am a
criminal," he exclaimed; "and you condemn me without proof. But do not
flatter yourselves that I shall perish so. Do not believe that I shall
fall a victim to your insane and presumptuous bigotry. It may triumph
for a time, but the triumph will be short."

Not a very pleasant sort of address to be listened to by a judge who
had tried to be impartial, and meant to be honest, nor to a jury who
were fully convinced of the speaker's guilt, and who had moreover, as
juries are likely to have, a more than judicial sense of their own
dignity. Yet, for all that, there was not one of them who would have
liked to face again those flashing eyes and that white hand pointing
like a flame where his words should fall. They were rather afraid of
the man, and looked with equal uneasiness toward the execution of his
sentence and the possibility of rescue or escape, or of revenge even,
which he had seemed to threaten.

For the present, however, the prison was strong and well guarded,
and the convict, being in solitary confinement, had no means of
communicating with any friends he might have outside. He was still in
Crichton, the state prison being near the city jail; and still, if he
chose, he could look out from his grated window and see the Christ in
air stretching out arms of loving invitation to him.

                            TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[274] The beasts of prey have triumphed, and the birds have been driven
away.




THE RELIGIOUS POLICY OF THE SECOND EMPIRE.


[The following is the translation of a remarkable memoir presented
to Napoleon III. by one of his Ministers of Public Worship. Its
authenticity is guaranteed under oath by Leon Pagès, and the date
of its presentation seems to be about the year 1860. It furnishes
the key to the religious events of the second period of the reign of
Napoleon III., and shows how a government calling itself Catholic
plotted against, and was gradually destroying the liberty of, the
church. The perfidy and falsehoods contained in the document speak
for themselves. The programme detailed in the second part of the
same was only too faithfully carried out, not only to the ruin of
the emperor, but to that of France also. It began to be put in
practice in the year 1860, and was persevered in until the day when
all power was taken from the hands of its authors and abettors. The
key-note to the whole insidious production is contained in the opening
sentence--viz., that no matter what is done by the Catholic Church,
it must be for the sake of obtaining influence over souls, not for
their spiritual and eternal welfare, but for mere temporal and selfish
ends--for worldly power. To the Catholic reader this one remark will be
sufficient to place him on his guard. We copy from the _Revue du Monde
Catholique_.--_Translator._]


I.

The essential tendency of Roman Catholicism has been, is, and always
will be, the spirit of secular domination, the inevitable result of
transforming a man, the Pope, into the infallible and absolute vicar of
Jesus Christ on earth.

If, before the Revolution of '89, the clergy were Gallican--that is to
say, national--it was because it had sufficiently attained that end
of temporal rule. It was the first order of the state; it possessed
great wealth; it had its own organization, and enjoyed considerable
privileges; its religion was the exclusively dominant one. What else
could it ask, unless it wished to displace royalty itself? The clergy
then was much more French and royalist than Roman, solely because
it had such enormous interests at stake in the soil and in the
constitution of the kingdom.

Again, if we study carefully the so-called maxims and liberties of
the Gallican Church, we quickly recognize that between the kings
and the clergy these liberties constituted a sort of commutative
contract entered into almost wholly at the expense of the Papacy.
The bishops, generously treated by royalty, in return consented to
sacrifice to royalty many of the Roman pretensions, which, however,
were consequences of the spiritual supremacy; and, with more reason,
they allowed the sovereign to settle all matters of purely political
independence. In the Gallican Church, the king rejected Papal
infallibility, because it necessarily implied his temporal supremacy;
and the bishops to whom the doctrine would perhaps in any other
country have been acceptable, rejected it likewise because it would
have disturbed their privileges and their possessions, which they
owed to royalty. It ought to be added that all this was according to
the ancient traditions of the land, which had rendered better service
to the church than any other, and which never desired any foreign
interference in its own affairs. But certainly both the French clergy
and bishops would have gone back to the pope and to ultramontane ideas,
unless their independence, peaceful and magnificent, had been assured
them.

After the Revolution of '89, the clergy, deprived of its possessions,
its privileges, its constitution, reduced to the condition of salaried
functionaries, feeling its utter dependence on the state, felt the
necessity of creating for itself a new influence by detaching itself
from administrations over-neutral in its regard. For a short time it
saluted Napoleon I. as the _restorer of the altar_; then it submitted
to his powerful hand; but it hastened to desert him when conquered,
calling him _the persecutor of Pius VII._ It came to the support of
the Restoration, because of the recollections of the past, and, above
all, because it hoped therefrom the re-establishment of many immunities
which the Restoration did not dare, in opposition to public opinion, to
concede to it. This is the reason that, under the Restoration, it came
to pass that the clergy was more occupied in caring for itself than for
royalty, so much so that it is from this epoch that the first efforts
of return to ultramontanism date their origin. No excuse can be offered
for Louis XVIII. and for Charles X. for having allowed the Concordat of
1801 and the organic articles to remain in force, and for not having
given to the church an indemnity, as they did to the exiles.

Under Louis Philippe, the clergy was not deluded; it understood very
well that a parliamentary and democratic government would never permit
it to work for the re-establishment of its power. Consequently,
and under the pretext that the church, accepting all _de facto_
governments, ought not to mix in the risks and responsibilities of
politics, the clergy proclaimed its absolute neutrality, which was but
another name for a complete separation. Hence nothing is easier of
comprehension that it quickly gave up all Gallican ideas, to rally to
the support of ultramontane doctrines. Isolated, without influence,
without wealth, cramped in its sphere of activity, it had no interest
in upholding the independence of the state against the Holy See, whilst
everything invited it to defend once more the famous thesis of the
Catholic Church, directing kings and peoples, and giving to the clergy
the influence of a class superior to all others. The anti-Gallican
demonstration, aided by the politicians of legitimacy and of the
Catholic party, who had adopted as their watchword _free education_,
began to develop itself rapidly in the episcopate, amongst the inferior
clergy in the seminaries and religious orders, and even in the halls
of the two chambers. Everything was prepared for the solemn return to
Rome, when the Revolution of 1848 burst forth.

The religious party as well as the legitimists, its auxiliary, at first
accepted that revolution because it destroyed the upstart, usurping,
and Voltairian party. It afterwards strove with energy to form a
coalition of all the elements of public order, so as to escape from
the power of the demagogues; it was this same motive which influenced
its votes in favor of the president; it thus struck a blow at the
democratic and social republic. But when it believed that Napoleon
III., who had become successively dictator and emperor, would consent
to play the part of another Charlemagne, _Episcopus ad extra_, it
became devoted to him and enthusiastic. But the emperor had no such
thought; he only wished to attach the clergy firmly to the Empire by
honorable laws ensuring its safety and liberty. By so doing he supplied
one of the greatest social needs, without, however, departing from
a wise public policy; but he had no intention of handing the state
over to the church. The clergy, on its part, easily imagined what he
desired. Hence we see in 1852 (and this must not be passed over) more
earnestness and greater sympathy in that portion of the episcopate
which was notoriously ultramontane. It was that portion which had been
the best initiated by Rome into its projects of encroachment, which
carried them out with the greatest zeal, and which consequently sought
to conciliate the good-will of the sovereign and to engage him to
pursue a course of liberal toleration.

Thus it came to pass that it immediately insinuated how exceedingly
becoming it would be to enter into what was called a compact between
the church and state--viz., the negotiation of a treaty which was to
replace the organic articles.

Now, as has been said at the beginning of this memoir, Roman
Catholicism aiming necessarily at temporal rule, the moment seemed
so much the more favorable to advance in that undertaking, as the
government seemed to give its consent so easily thereunto. The law of
free education already existed. The emperor appeared unwilling to make
use of the prohibitions of the organic law regulating public worship
and of the law concerning religious congregations of men; consequently,
provincial councils were quickly organized and congregations were
multiplied.

The design of gaining possession almost entirely of primary education
was avowed by bringing the influence of the _curés_ to bear on the
various municipal offices, and, by forcing the Christian Brothers to
refuse to receive from their rich pupils any compensation whatever for
attending their schools, which had been built and were supported by
the municipality: in this way the Brothers received from the state a
compensation of 3,000,000, at the expense of the lay schools.

The famous decree of 1852 was then proposed to the emperor, but without
explaining its import. This destroyed the ancient and wise legislation
of the council of state, and allowed the almost unlimited extension of
authorizations to establish congregations of women.

In spite of the lively opposition of the majority of the bishops and
of the secular clergy, the Roman liturgy was then inaugurated and
presented to the emperor as a simple matter of material unity in
Catholic worship; care was taken not to avow that this was a deadly
blow against the customs and constitution of the Gallican Church, the
triumph of Romanism in France, and a tax of more than six millions
on the manufactures and municipalities of the Empire. All this was
necessary in order to obtain a brief from the Pope in 1858 obliging the
clergy to recite in its liturgy the prayer _Domine salvum_, which had
been excluded from the Roman Breviary.

Whilst, on the one hand, the clergy sought to gain possession of the
people through the medium of primary education, which was solicited
for the religious congregations by all the charitable confraternities
(of S. Vincent of Paul, of S. Francis Regis, of S. Francis Xavier,
etc., etc.), through a multitude of foundations of religious charity,
on the other it strove also to enlist in its favor the children of the
higher and middle classes of society through the numerous and immense
educational institutions of a superior character, founded either by the
bishops or by the religious orders of Jesuits, Carmelites, Marists,
Dominicans, etc. Thus the law of 1850, hostile to all state education,
brought forth its fruits.

As to the education of girls, it was and it is almost exclusively
in the hands of religious, from the country infant schools and
protectories up to the most splendid educational establishments of
Paris; on this point it is impossible for the lay element to contend
with the religious element, which, either really or apparently, will
always present far better guarantees to families for morality and
self-devotion. But the point worthy of consideration here is that this
convent education, directed by the inspiration and opinions of the
clergy, is not at all in sympathy either with the existing government
or with public opinion.

This is the reason why the episcopate and Rome have always resisted any
inspection on the part of the state into their institutions, except a
purely nominal one, alleging that these religious congregations could
submit only to ecclesiastical inspection. In the regulations made in
1852 too much was yielded on that point.

It can be affirmed with truth to-day that there is no class of
society which is not to a greater or less degree entangled in the
meshes so admirably laid by the congregations and associations called
_benevolent_ or _charitable_. They gain entrance even into the army,
under the pretext of giving gratuitous instruction and spiritual
conferences; they gather together working-men of every condition; they
establish a kind of freemasonry, and of equality amongst citizens
of every rank; through their trusty friends and adherents they are
represented in all the branches of the government; they have possession
of the child and of the man in his prime of life, of the poor and
of the rich; they are everywhere. This enormous fact becomes a most
convincing proof, if we consider the exact meaning of the name of these
congregations, associations, and works of every kind, and of the end
each of them proposes to obtain. It is almost certain that, directly or
indirectly, the Catholic idea permeates them all; and as the direction
of that Catholic idea belongs more than ever to Rome, the conclusion
is natural that all these means of action so skilfully organized form
a kind of secret government, the helm of which is in the hand of the
Roman cardinals, prefects of the congregations.

The present religious agitation proves the truth of this assertion. The
society of S. Vincent of Paul has thought and acted exactly in the same
way as the convents, seminaries, and religious orders; from one end of
the scale to the other there is but one opinion, and the pamphlet of M.
de Segur can be found in the _salon_ of the nuncio as well as in the
workshop--yes, even on the bench of the lowest primary school.

But it was not enough to have thus securely encircled lay society
with so many arms employed for the benefit of the religious element.
It was necessary to be certain that these arms would always be used
conformably to the end in view--viz., the Roman Catholic supremacy.
The bishops and secular clergy might perhaps grow restless under this
ultramontane domination; they might perhaps, although desiring the
development of religion and of their own personal condition, either
moderate a too quick movement towards, or, for the sake of their own
independence, even oppose themselves to the absorption meditated at
Rome. Therefore, the effort was made, especially since the beginning
of 1852, to crush out even a show of resistance from the bishops and
secular clergy; and the _Univers_, the avowed organ of the Holy See,
whilst praising the emperor and attacking violently the parliamentary
or liberal Catholic party (de Falloux, de Montalembert, Lacordaire,
etc.), undertook to establish a system of ecclesiastical compression,
which in the end triumphed. M. Veuillot became the _lay pope of the
French_; with as much audacity as talent, he set forth the doctrines
of the spiritual and temporal supremacy of the Holy See; he thundered
against the schism of the Gallican Church, and against any compact
which bound the priest to the state.

And at the same time the Papal nuncios in France surrounded the bishops
with an almost intolerable servitude. Near each of them they had
devoted ecclesiastics, who spied into and denounced their actions. Any
bishop suspected of favoring independence or resistance was the object
of those thousands of cunning tricks which Rome has under its command
because of the powers it can either grant or refuse to the episcopate.

Any priest of some eminence who did not go over to the ultramontane
party was made the object of threats and calumnies, which, it was said,
_would break his episcopal cross_. Things came to such a point that a
Minister of Public Worship, frightened at the bold and dogmatic tone
in which a nuncio pronounced his _veto_ on the episcopal nominees, was
forced to make an energetic declaration concerning the rights of the
emperor, and to tell that nuncio to bear it in mind.

At the same time, also, Rome endeavored to render the episcopate
subservient to itself by interfering in the administration of dioceses
by granting the inferior clergy the right of addressing the prefects of
the apostolic congregations on all matters which concerned conscience,
liturgy, or dispensations. So that the bishops, humiliated, and with
their jurisdiction lessened, had no other resource left them to
recover their authority than to show themselves ultramontanes, and so
gain the good graces of the Holy See.

Provincial councils, wherein zealous men domineered, only served to
consummate that ruin of our ancient church and of all opinions which
still bound the French clergy to their native land.

More yet was wanted. The better to secure the dependence of the
episcopate, the gradual substitution of the regular for the secular
clergy was dreamt of. This was the reason why monasteries of religious
congregations were multiplied, under the pretext that there was need of
auxiliary priests to help the _curés_ and their assistants. They built
churches, took possession of the pulpits and confessionals, directed
the different confraternities; they thus set aside and banished the
parochial clergy. In a few years, things going on in this manner,
what would hinder the Pope from saying to the bishops: "You have no
further need of seminaries to recruit your clergy; look at the numerous
religious houses, from which you can take your _curés_ and assistants."
And then what would happen? The clergy of France would no longer
possess any national character whatsoever. It would be exclusively a
Roman army, under the command of the generals of each congregation.
Episcopal authority would be completely annihilated, and the church in
France would be under the absolute command of the Pope. In that case,
only the most violent struggles--a veritable civil war--could alone
save the concordat and the independence of the state!

Nay, even now the Pope, abusing the liberty granted, affects to look
on France as a province of his Catholic empire. He freely promulgates
the acts and laws of his personal administration, and rules here,
just as directly as he would at Ancona or Perugia, the affairs of the
episcopate and of the church according to the famous ultramontane
formula: "The clergy of France is first Catholic, then French."

Nothing better proves the exactness of these views than the study of
the causes and the progress of the existing religious agitation about
the Italian question. The greater part of the episcopate cared but
little for internal demonstrations; the Pope brought the energetic
appeal of two encyclical letters to bear upon them. Each bishop was
harassed, forced, menaced in the name of his Catholic conscience, in
the name of his obligation of obedience to the Pontiff. Three months
were required to wring from each and all the wished-for pastoral
letter. And what do the leaders of the ultramontane party say to-day?
"The French Church has spoken," cries the Bishop of Poitiers; "she is
unanimous."

Yes, by dint of the most violent siege. It began by bending the
episcopate under the imposed doctrine of the infallible superiority of
the Pope. That subjection was accomplished by all the stratagems of
the administrative power of Rome over spiritual matters and diocesan
affairs; and when, in consequence, it was certain that there would be
no resistance on any question whatsoever, even were it the political
question of the Romagna, they boast that the free opinion of the
Catholic world has been given; they place the Pope under the protection
of the universal church, which is judged to have spoken and acted
freely. This is a strange use of power and of trickery!

To recapitulate. Rome, as it never goes out of the path leading to its
end, has wished and wishes to create its own supremacy in France, which
has been so long prevented by royalty allied to the French clergy.

It has found a clergy not attached to the soil and to the state by
great interests of wealth and influence.

Profiting by the situation, it has wished to reduce the clergy into
bondage after a precise fashion by the intrusion of all of the
doctrines of the ultramontane church, and, to obtain its end, has
employed all the powers of polemics, of spiritual administration, and
of the regular clergy.

The clergy conquered, it has marched on to possess itself of all
classes of society through the medium of educational institutions, of
confraternities and congregations of every kind, and has established an
organization as vast as it is formidable.

Henceforth Rome rules the clergy and the Church of France, and, through
the clergy and the church, it means to rule the country.


II.

Such is a true picture of the religious situation.

However, if the French clergy seem unwilling to oppose any further
external resistance to the doctrines, plots, and encroachments of Rome,
it must not be forgotten that very many of its members in conscience
are far from approving what they call the excesses of ultramontanism,
because they fear for their own safety and for that of the true
religion.

A great part of the episcopate realizes the fact that the effort is
being made to reduce them to the condition of simple vicars apostolic,
whose jurisdiction could be recalled, and to suppress the _proprium
jus episcopûm_. They foresee that the nation will never go back on the
civil and political progress made in order to place itself under any
theocracy whatsoever.

Consequently, they are not convinced of the strength of the proposed
ultramontane arrangement, which may be set forth in these terms: "Be
no longer a French episcopate; acknowledge your absolute dependence on
the Pope; and, in recompense, we will have _all_ together the religious
government of France." Such a plan would expose religion to many and
inevitable conflicts, in which it would be either swallowed up by
worldly views, or would be gravely compromised.

As a rule, we may also add that the clergy has no idea of separating
itself from the emperor, who is the highest guarantee of social order,
and whose religious loyalty it well knows.

Finally, to sum up all, it clearly sees that it must live and die in
the bosom of France, where it was born; and that, if it does not enjoy
the advantages it did in times past, it yet receives from the state
whatever constitutes its sphere of activity, its security, and its
existence. For the national clergy to quarrel angrily and irrevocably
with the emperor and with the nation is a thing easier said than done,
the more so as it hates the religious orders, and has no other support
whatsoever for its own independence except the laws and good-will of
the government.

It sees only too well what would become of it if the government,
judging it irrevocably hostile, should all at once suppress all
sympathy towards it, should cut off from it all sources of liberality
and of toleration, and should brand it before the country as alien to
the national feelings and blindly obedient to ultramontane passions.
Here is the key-note to the disagreements which now exist amongst the
clergy. The dispute and the declaration of 1682 are buried in the past.
The controversy is not a theological one at all. It is exclusively one
of our own day, exclusively political, exclusively social; and, if the
ultra-montanists of to-day are the same as those of past times, the
present Gallicans are by no means like those of the time of Louis XIV.
We must live either in our own age or the life of the middle ages; we
must be either French or Roman. Such is the true state of the question.

Under such circumstances, what is to be done?

Must we, by abruptly changing our whole system of government, expel the
religious congregations of men, modify the law concerning education,
apply all the organic articles, and reach such a point that the law,
fully carried out, will look very much like persecution? No; for then
the sincerity of the sovereign might be called into question on account
of his passing so quickly from a generous and affectionate protection
to all the rigors of prohibition; it would inflict a deep wound on the
entire clergy and on a vast multitude of honorable Catholics; it would
give rise to the suspicion that, in spite of all to the contrary, a
return was being made to Voltairian prejudices; and perhaps it would
necessitate a defence against an anti-religious reaction which would
consider all its excesses justifiable.

The measures to be taken ought not to surpass the limits of the abuses
to be suppressed, and to be carried out in behalf of the respect due
to the supreme power, for the welfare of public tranquillity and of
religion well understood. Besides, it is well known that public opinion
acts as a kind of police over the faults of the clergy. As often as the
clergy departs from its true sphere of action and strives to encroach
upon the powers and independence of society, it creates a circle of
resistance and opposition which subdues it. To-day men are frightened
at what they think are the outbursts of revolutionary passion, but
which in reality are only the energetic manifestation of public opinion
rebelling against the wishes of those in favor of theocracy. Preserve
the uprightness of the religious sentiment of the nation; use no
violence; borrow from our public law what is necessary to put a stop
to insupportable encroachments; in this way separate the course of
religion as sincerely practiced from the arrogance and calculations of
the Roman propaganda--such, I think, is a course of action well adapted
to the necessities of the hour, and will obtain the approbation of the
country.

Taking these general notions for a basis, perhaps the following
measures would be most opportune:

1st. Except in cases of local necessity, which is to be well proven,
to tolerate no other new establishment of religious communities of
men, whether it be a question of conventual houses, churches, chapels,
even under the pretext that they are to act as auxiliaries in the
sacred ministry, or whether it be a question of institutions for public
instruction and works of public charity. The hospitality so generously
granted by the emperor to communities of men, although prohibited by
law, will, in this way, remain inviolate. "You are numerous enough, and
France has not been given to you to drain;" this is a sensible answer,
which cannot incur the reproach of exclusion. Besides, why will not
those who force themselves into the religious communities enter and
recruit the ranks of the secular clergy, the parochial clergy? Where
is the necessity of increasing the regular clergy which belongs to the
Roman government? There are at present in France 68 associations or
congregations of men, 19 only of which are authorized as teaching and
charitable communities. They have under their charge 3,088 institutions
or schools, they number 14,304 religious and have 359,953 pupils.

2d. Henceforth exercise the greatest severity in granting permission
for the establishment of congregations of women, only granting the
same when the actual undeniable necessity of public charity or
primary education requires it; demand certain proofs that they have
sufficient resources for their support; do not easily grant permission
for the conversion of local communities into communities subject
to a superioress-general, which inundate France with their annexed
establishments. True it is that _de facto_ congregations cannot be
stopped; but, as they are not recognized by law, they know that every
one of their members remains subject to the common law; and the _de
facto_ congregation, which collectively has no civil existence, can
therefore neither receive gifts nor legacies, neither can it act as
a corporation. At present there are in France 236 communities of
woman subject to superioresses-general, which have, besides the 236
principal foundations, 2,066 secondary or annexed establishments;
and about 700 congregations or communities under local superioresses
(each of these last forms a distinct establishment, governed by its
own superioress, and independent of the establishments of the same
religious order established elsewhere); to which we must add about 250
religious associations of women not yet recognized, but existing _de
facto_.

3d. As to what concerns the _authorized_ communities of men or women,
let the council of state exercise the greatest severity in the matter
of gifts, legacies, and charitable donations it permits them to
receive. Here we must consider not only the condition and protests of
families demanding a reduction of such donations, but we must also
examine into the necessities of the community so rewarded. There is
no reason why we should procure for them the means of a useless or
abusive extension, by authorizing them to receive what is necessary
to defray expenses they ought never to have incurred. Communities
once established will remain what they are, if the fruitful source of
liberality which they provoke and seek for be wanting to stimulate
the natural tendency of these communities to extend themselves
indefinitely. The spirit of rivalry which exists amongst them, the lust
of propagation and of power, all drive them on towards an incessant
development. Once entered on this path, they must have money, and
they put their wits to work to find out and appeal for help, for
donations, and for alms. If the regulations concerning such gifts and
legacies were more severe, if the principle were established that
such liberality, which is only an encouragement to the extension of
expenses and of establishments, would no longer be tolerated, an abrupt
stop would be put to the excess of which we to-day complain.

It must be confessed that these congregations, authorized or
non-authorized, have always the means of evading the law and of
receiving gifts secretly. This cannot be prevented when the affair is
conducted cunningly, and the congregations are not without skilful
counsellors or numerous adherents ready to aid them in everything. But
even in this case, the amount of these evasions or of manual gifts
which deprive families of the livelihood obtained for them by their
author is easily appreciable. Whence, for example, have the immense
resources of the religious orders, vowed to poverty, proceeded, which
they must have consecrated to their numerous and vast establishments?
The real estate of the Jesuits surpasses twenty millions. How did they
buy or build them? Certainly from private donations. Now, this being a
fact, does it not follow that there is an obligation on the state not
to tolerate any new establishments, which would necessitate new appeals
to private charity, and the certainty that by such a prohibition it
would act wisely?

4th. Maintain, as far as possible, without destroying the liberty
of choice in the municipal councils, _lay_ primary education. If,
through the intelligence and firmness of the prefects, a stop be not
put to the incessant plottings of the clergy, forcing the townships to
entrust their schools to the Christian Brothers, there will be soon
no lay teachers, except in such poverty-stricken localities as the
brothers disdain to take. Here we must remark that an effort is being
made to multiply congregations of so called _Little Brothers_, who
install themselves in isolated country places, whilst the Christian
Brothers can only form an establishment in which _three brothers_ will
be in the same school. Townships not having resources and population
sufficient to receive the Christian Brothers will then be attended
to by these _Little Brothers_, called after Lamennais, S. Viator,
Tinchebray, etc., and so it will come to pass that lay teachers will
be entirely suppressed. As these teachers to-day, modest and useful
public officers, are devoted to the emperor, and render notable service
in the rural districts, considering that universal suffrage is the law
of the land, we would be very much weakened if all primary instruction
passed into the hands of congregations which depend more on Rome than
on France. Nay, more, it would be wise henceforth not to recognize as
places of public utility any congregation of men for primary education.
There are at present in France 49,639 _lay_ schools for boys and girls,
attended by 2,410,517 children; and 14,602 _conventual_ schools,
attended by 1,342,564. Moreover, we must remark that in the academies
of young girls directed by congregations, in the free primary schools
entrusted to them, as well as in the secondary schools wherein their
influence reigns, we meet histories compiled to glorify monarchies
of divine right, to exalt religious supremacy, to lower indirectly
the civil and political principles acquired since 1789. Truly these
establishments, so numerous, are, to a greater or less degree, real
branches of the legitimist and Catholic party. On the contrary, it
is in our imperial lyceums, in our municipal colleges, in our lay
schools, that we find a more robust and popular instruction given,
which fosters the national sentiments in the hearts of the children.
Where is it that you hear the cry cordially given, _Vive l'Empereur_?
Certainly not in the congregational establishments.

5th. Uphold with energy state education, because it is the true
national education; place its institutions, by a sufficient budget, in
a condition to enlarge their capacity, to perfect their staff and their
means of instruction--this is the key to the events of the future. The
Catholic legitimist party understood this only too well in demanding
under Louis Philippe, with so much ardor, liberty of education,
monopolized by the university, and in 1850, under the presidency,
in having the law on public instruction passed. Later, under the
dictatorship, it had the hardihood to dream of the total abolition of
state education, in order to hand it over to the clergy and to the
congregations; but the emperor, fully instructed on the intent of such
a measure, refused his consent. But it remains a fact, however, that,
thanks to the law of 1850, granting to every French citizen liberty to
teach, the Catholic legitimist party has been enabled to perpetuate in
the young generations that division of castes and of ideas which would
have disappeared under the system of a united university education.
It has been enabled, through the pupils brought up in congregational
houses, to give continued existence to its own social and political
doctrines. This is a great evil, no doubt; but, great as it is, it is
impossible to think of suppressing the law which guarantees the liberty
of the family. That would necessitate an immense struggle, a bloody
one, and one contrary to justice. There remains, then, but this one
escape, as equitable as it is prudent; everything concurs in it: let us
strengthen and favor state education, which fits one for any career in
life, which is the most solid and most patriotic, whilst, at the same
time, let it be made religious, moral, and paternal.

6th. As far as it can be done without forcing things too far, let
us put in execution the organic regulations, which place salutary
checks on the encroachments of the Papal power over the clergy and the
state; in other words, let us tolerate no new attack against our civil
legislation and our political constitution, whether in writings or in
the pulpit.

Place the office of the nuncio in France under the same regulations
as any other embassador of a friendly power, and do not allow him to
correspond at all, in the Pope's name, with the French bishops, nor
allow him to perform any act of jurisdiction, nor allow him to have the
least say in the choice of bishops.

With a firm hand prevent any act of the court of Rome from either being
received, published, or distributed in France without the authorization
of the government.

Choose resolutely the bishops from pious and honorable ecclesiastics,
but such as are known for their sincere attachment to the emperor, and
to the institutions of France.

Suppress all religious journals, the need of which no one dreamt of
before the invasion and agitations of the ultramontane party. The
clergy has its discipline, its bishops, its priests, its pulpits, its
mandates, its pastoral letters, and a complete government. There is no
necessity at all of adding the polemics of the press to the ordinary
means of publicity for this ecclesiastical government. Besides, the
whole of that press has always been the instrument for spreading
the doctrines and designs of the Roman theocracy, or parliamentary
Catholicism. To-day it supplies the most energetic nutriment towards
a religious agitation. Suppress this focus of excitement, which is
spreading into every presbytery, and the clergy will remain quiet. The
_Univers_ has upset the heads of all the younger clergy by preaching
religious supremacy, and the harm done by it will not be effaced
for many a long year. To impose the protection of the church on the
state; to sap all civil and political liberties; to undermine all lay
institutions; to attack incessantly every European alliance, except
that with Austria and the Catholic states, thus to introduce, above
everything else, and everywhere, the influence, the ideas, and the
power of Rome--such is the work of religious journals supported by the
legitimist party.

Encourage, finally, the public study of the ancient French liberties,
and profess everywhere and with spirit the conservative principles of
the independence of the state alongside of that of the Papacy.

7th. Moreover, persevere in a course of loyal protection for the true
interests of religion and of deference towards the clergy. Nothing
would be wiser, and, at the same time, nothing more just, than to
increase the honor paid to the inferior clergy, who in almost the whole
of France experience the direst privations. In this way they would
be attached to the government. If the episcopate, through weakness
or any other motive, abandoned the emperor, he would be compelled to
conciliate the inferior clergy, who ask nothing better than to have
a little more ecclesiastical independence, and who sometimes suffer
from episcopal despotism. At all events, it is of great importance that
the religious part of the nation be amazed at the noise occasioned by
these Roman quarrels, or remain indifferent concerning them, seeing
the national worship always tranquil, protected, and honored. For this
reason it is very useful that the grants of the budget be increased
towards the construction and repairing of churches, presbyteries, and
diocesan buildings.

8th. Finally, perhaps it would be opportune for the government to
turn its attention to those large lay associations, such as those
of S. Vincent of Paul, of S. Francis Xavier, etc., which, by their
administration and the nature of their works, are really in the
hands of the clergy and of the legitimist party. The conferences
of S. Vincent of Paul to-day are more than nine hundred in number;
they penetrate every rank of society, and even into the lyceums and
colleges, where they affiliate even the children under the title of
_aspirants_. They are connected to a principal conference in each
department of the country; they are governed by a general council of
that society, which has presented to the Holy Father at Rome a report
on the general condition of the French conferences. It is a formidable
association, which, as it has at its disposal so many members and
such resources, forms, as it were, a secret and complete government.
Our laws do not at all admit the independent organization of such
associations. Recognizing the charitable and Christian end of the
Society of S. Vincent of Paul, the benefits which undoubtedly are to
be attributed to it, the excellent spirit of many of its members, it
is impossible not to perceive the intentions of the men who have
the privilege and inspiration of its government; it is impossible,
also, not to grow uneasy at the existence of so vast and so skilful
an organization, through which thousands of citizens can receive such
or such an impulse, or such or such a word of command. Disinterested
benevolence can easily pass to such a society of propagandists; and
charitable societies, in order to exist and to do good, have no need
of going beyond their own district, nor of affecting a spirit of
affiliation and of a cemented union, which up to the present time has
only existed in secret revolutionary societies. Is it not to be feared
that they will in some sort replace the ancient Catholic associations
of the Restoration, which were then named "Jesuits in short-tailed
coats, or the Congregation"?

There can be no doubt at all that there is no one who now enters
these societies solely for love of charity or to satisfy his taste
for religious exercises; they are so numerous, so well filled up from
all ranks of society, that a powerful, compact interest is thereby
established which offers inducements for the welfare of families and
for any career in life. The Society of S. Vincent of Paul, which, as
we have seen, initiates the children in our lyceums and colleges, has
entered into the polytechnic school and into every branch of the civil
administration. It is developing in the army, in the magistracy, at the
bar; everywhere, in fine, it manifests its secret influence, and unites
all its members by the bonds of mutual support. To be a member of the
Society of S. Vincent of Paul to-day is not merely to make an act of
religious adhesion; it is to enter into a secret world, strongly
organized, acting on all sides upon the opinions and the affairs of
society; it is to gain active and influential protectors, and to secure
for one's self all the avenues leading to success in the different
chances or walks of life. The democrats would have desired to establish
a republican unity of interests. The clerics and ultramontanes, allied
to the legitimists, _have_ established the mutual support of the S.
Vincent of Paul Society. What an immense lever this could become in
hostile hands to move political ideas! Yes, we must repeat, the power
of these associations is such that men enter them for purely temporal
motives. They influence the determinations of families more than one
dreams of; and it is a very strange spectacle to see a considerable
number of our civil officers enrolled under their banners, whilst their
children, avoiding the state institutions, receive their instruction
from the Jesuits, the Carmelites, the Marists, the Dominicans.

This memoir has been composed in a spirit of pure frankness and truth.
We have wished to dissemble nothing. Yet if the matters treated of in
this memoir be serious, we know full well that they do not constitute
a fatal danger for the country. We can face them coolly. The material
and moral power of the government of the emperor is immense. The
majority in France cares very little for clerical pretensions, and
will never bow before the theocratical doctrines of Rome nor before
the intrigues and lamentations of the coalesced political parties. The
country has too much trust in the national interests, and too great
faith in the principles of modern society, not to crush, by the very
manifestation of its opinions, all this laborious restoration of men
and of the theories of the past. But as these are elements of agitation
and disorder, it is the duty of a provident government to watch
attentively. "Prudence begets safety."




GRACE SEYMOUR'S MISSION.


                               CONCLUDED.

September was painting the leaves in the wooded valleys of
Gloucestershire, and the fields were just bared of their golden crowns.
A noble mansion, where generations of Howards had reigned, was waiting
for its little lord to come from beyond the seas. In old days, the
Howards had been among the truest and bravest of the champions of
the old faith; even now their head branches had not thrown off their
allegiance to the church, but the glory of the martyr had paled before
the renown of the statesman and the fame of the soldier, in the eyes of
at least this offshoot of the great Catholic house. Since the reign of
James I., these Gloucestershire squires had been the main stay of the
Low-Church party, and the family tradition had remained the same to the
days of Elizabeth Howard, little George's mother.

One bright day a rather awkward travelling-carriage drove up to the
oaken door of Howard Hall, and George Charteris, with his little
cousin, dashed up the steps. Grace and her father followed; they were
but visitors, with no authority and no influence. Only one day did they
remain there, the young lawyer escorting them back to London; the child
was left to the care of the elder Charteris and his family.

The young man had not let time pass without making good use of it, and
he had already been once refused by the beautiful girl, whose influence
over him seemed so strange and unaccountable to himself. Her father had
said he was well satisfied at his child's conduct, as she was not one
to speak hastily and then repent her words; but George Charteris did
not give up all hope.

Grace and Mr. Seymour lived very quietly, even poorly; the guardian
of their little George allowed them a scanty sum out of the estate,
on his own responsibility, and on the condition that it should be
subject to the child's good pleasure when he should have attained his
majority. Mr. Seymour had serious thoughts of going abroad to study for
the priesthood, and Grace's peculiar religious state had suffered no
alteration since her departure from America.

Among the new convert's self-imposed tasks of charity was a weekly
visit to one poor family, whose drunken son was their shame and endless
burden. Dependent upon him for a precarious living, his old parents,
both crippled by an accident on a farm where years ago they had been
employed, lodged in a miserable den, which, through a large-heartedness
that is oftener seen among the poor than the rich, they had shared
with two sickly orphan children, the only ones left of a family of
seven, carried off with father and mother by the small-pox. Whatever
the drunken man brought home was shared with these desolate little
ones; whatever was given in charity was brought to feed them and keep
in them the little life they had ever had. Four more helpless beings
perhaps hardly existed, and all dependent upon one whose conscience
was dead, and whose animal nature hideously survived the paralyzation
of his soul's organism. Mr. Seymour and his daughter came upon them by
the merest chance, and ever after remained to them the firmest friends,
the most gentle benefactors, they had ever dared to dream of. But the
zealous convert was anxious to do a greater good than the mere corporal
works of mercy implied by his visits to these forlorn creatures. In
moments when his demon was not on him, the unhappy son of these poor
people sometimes listened to Mr. Seymour's earnest appeals to his
buried conscience. With good results for a few hours the poor family
had at first to be satisfied; then, as they hoped their infatuated
son would gradually reward the efforts of his kind adviser, he would
suddenly grow more brutish than before, and more irreclaimable. His
companions would jeer at the "gentleman missioner," in those days when
gentlemen were the worst preachers because the worst violators of
temperance; and the old people would sometimes tremblingly speak to
their benefactor of danger and of trouble to come, if he persisted too
openly in his religious and moral advice.

But the zeal that burnt within Edward Seymour was no faint light to be
extinguished by the first tainted breath of danger-fraught opposition;
bravely he spoke and advised and remonstrated, waiting only for a few
preliminaries to be arranged, in order to leave for a quiet scene,
where in prayer and study he was to prepare himself for tasks as
dangerous and as thankless as were his present occupations.

Meanwhile, his daughter, the domestic angel of his silent, shrine-like
home, thought and read and pondered deeply, her love for her one
companion in life bringing to her heart a longing desire to be at
unity with him, to be a sister and a sharer in his faith, and, above
all, a partaker in his sacrifice. For she could not bear to see him
suffer in earthly comforts, and not feel that she, too, bore a part
of his burden; she longed to believe as he did, if only to suffer as
he did; for as long as she stood aloof from his inner life, she felt,
after all, but as one who should watch sympathizingly on the shore
while another human being was battling with the crested, storm-tossed
waves beyond. Once or twice, with her father, Grace had gone to a
quiet service in a lowly house, where a priest made a temporary chapel
whenever he could spend a few days in town. His coming was a joy to a
faithful knot of friends, and before his impromptu altar many ranks
and stations in life were represented, from the brilliant owner of
lordly estates to the poor Irish artisan and the old women who reigned,
then as now, over the London apple-stalls. Among the silent, earnest
worshippers of this "tabernacle in the desert" was one whose thoughts
had been singularly attracted towards Grace. He saw her sit by her
father's side, grave and attentive, a sad, wistful look on her pale
face, never joining in the simple devotions which evidently were so
familiar to her companion, but often fixing her hopeless, passionate
gaze upon his faith-illumined features. Sometimes Grace would suddenly
feel, like to the rush of a falling star through the purple sky of
night, a glimmering perception of at least a possibility of truth
existing in this persecuted religion. Perhaps the very persecution
roused her pity and her sympathy, and held within itself a fascination
uneasily resisted by a noble mind.

Had the faith of her father been presented to her under its gorgeous
exterior of uncurtailed ritual and acknowledged supremacy, her heart
might have turned away from the glittering triumph; but now, were the
followers of this condemned Catholic faith not exiles and wanderers,
threatened with prisons and fines, hunted down by prejudice and
malignity, oppressed with the worst oppression--social and political
ostracism? How could her heart help going out towards them, and crying
blindly in the darkness that it felt for them and pitied their woes and
admired their self-sacrifice?

The day we have alluded to was one of those on which such awakenings
were stirring in her soul, and the fight between the world and God was
beginning for the holding of this stray prize, whose purchase had been
made, centuries ago, upon the cross of Calvary.

The good priest, who knew of her state through his conversations with
her father, took care to infuse a little wholesome and clearly-defined
doctrine into the short discourse he gave after Mass. It was not
without its effect, and Grace's eager, thoughtful air did not escape
the notice of her silent observer, who was not long in persuading the
pastor to make him acquainted with Mr. Seymour and his daughter.

He was a young, tall, athletic man, a thorough Saxon, with blue
eyes that were truth itself, and a lion-like form that seemed
the very embodiment of unconquerable endurance and indomitable
bravery. One thought instinctively, on looking at him, of the word
"standard-bearer," as if that, and that alone, were a description meet
for him, moral and physical in one; the only adequate word wherewith
to blazon forth his glorious perfection of man and child combined. As
reverent towards God, as loyal towards women, as though he were of
those who "always see the Father's face," he was as uncompromising, as
frank, as firm towards the world of daily shoals in whose treacherous
midst he lived as if temptation were a mythic fear, and the possibility
of sin a sealed book to his heart. The child of persecution, the royal
offspring of danger that could not appall and repression that could not
crush, Edmund Oakhurst was like the mountain-bred hunter who, reared
amid the sterile crags of unscalable Alps and sea-girt coasts, leaps
from rock to rock, regardless of chasm and torrent, and angry tides
rolling over the stone where a moment ago his venturesome but ever-sure
foot had lightly rested. The eagles might scream round his head, the
sea roar at his feet, the sky darken and the frail bark toss, he cared
little, for a brave heart and a bold hand, with God for a guide--are
they not equal to resisting the world's treacherous assaults? Such is
a slight sketch of the young man who now stood before Grace, bashful
yet bold, and looked up into her eyes with such wondering questions
mutely brightening his own. Her father was pleased with the stranger,
and together they soon fell into a conversation on the position of the
faith in America, and of the contrast between its present state and
that of triumphant supremacy it had enjoyed in that hemisphere when
Spain was the queen of nations.

The young man went home with Mr. Seymour, and it was evening ere they
parted. Grace was silently entranced. The faith that had such children
as that, and could draw to itself such an one as her father, must it
not have some unsuspected vitality which could be none other than
_truth_? Often and often their new friend came again, and each time
he came the young girl felt a solemn enthusiasm for all things great
and noble distil from his every word and glance, and wrap her round
in a bewildered dream, the voice of which seemed to sing for ever in
her ears, "Go and do thou likewise." Lights broke in upon her from
unexpected places; books she had laid down in hopeless reverence,
deploring that to her their spiritual beauty was incomprehensible,
yet sure that their beauty of language must be the veil of the hidden
shrine, she now took up again, and, reading, began to understand. Her
father, whose labors among the poor Edmund Oakhurst now joined, was
too silently happy to notice, save by gentle, unobtrusive aid, the
renovating work going on in his child's soul, and seemed to brighten
under this new and blessed influence. Soon his daughter spoke openly
to him, and, not many months after the quiet meeting at the chapel,
she was under instruction. He delayed his already formed plans, to be
at her side at this moment, and, together as ever, the two prayed and
read and studied, till life seemed to Grace too full and happy for
earth.

George Charteris had ceased visiting his relations much, especially
after having once or twice met Edmund Oakhurst. The contact with his
accustomed circle of by no means very intellectual or very sensitive
friends had soon worn off the interest his better nature had once
taken in the thoughtful, earnest life of the convert and his daughter.
He, however, very good-naturedly continued to write to them, giving
accounts of little George's health and general goings-on.

One night Edward Seymour and his young friend sat alone by the dying
fire, while the cold drizzle without veiled the window, and the
damp seemed to soak in through every chink and cranny in the poorly
furnished room. Both men wore their great-coats, but they hardly seemed
to notice the cold.

"It is nearly eighteen months now since we came," said Mr. Seymour,
"and I am not off to France yet. However, in less than a month that
last step will be taken, and I shall be at peace."

"And the favor I have asked you will be mine--so you assure me,"
hesitatingly answered Oakhurst.

"I only bid you try yourself, and see if I am not right," said his
friend. "Nothing would make me happier; and as to her, I have already
told you that she believes it was through your influence that God made
the truth plain to her."

"But if she should think that I take her at a disadvantage; or if she
should marry me because, being unprotected, she would be grateful for
a home--or rather, a husband, for the _home_ is hers--or, worse than
all, suppose she thought I was so poor as to need the little she has to
give?"

"My dear boy, these are groundless fears. She thinks of nothing but of
God and of his leadings in these matters; she never _has_ looked at
things from her childhood up with the world's eyes, and I think the
mere idea of the possibility of a man's marrying for money would be to
her absolutely monstrous and ridiculous. Remember how quiet and lonely
her life at home always was, and say if she _could_ be so worldly-wise?"

"It is true. After all, I wrong her; it is unworthy of me to dream of
such things; only I feel so utterly beneath her in mind and soul, so
simple in the deep things she hides in her heart, so unlearned in the
marvellous paths through which she has been led."

"My son," said Seymour gravely, "do not wrong yourself. I never dreamed
that I was worthy of her mother, but I knew that, all unworthy as I
was, God had chosen me for her guardian; so it is now with you, for
she is her mother over again. But whenever was a treasure given to the
worthy only? Think you Mary was worthy of being the mother of Jesus, or
Joseph of being the spouse of Mary? Are any of us worthy of being sons
of God and heirs of heaven? Above all, am I worthy to be a priest of
the Most High? But the question lies not there; it lies in God's will,
God's decrees, God's call to us, his children. Is the slave worthy to
bear the priceless crown, whose gems flash in his dark hands, in some
eastern procession? But the king has deputed him to bear it, and his
obedience stands for worthiness."

"Mr. Seymour," said the young man earnestly, "you are right, and, if
it be my blessed lot to be your child's guardian, God will give me
grace to find favor in her sight first, and never betray her trust in
me for ever after. I will ask her."

He did ask her a few days later, in simple, manly phrase, and she
answered him in silence. Her heart was too full for speech, and he
loved her too well to dispute her first, though unspoken, behest. But
after a few moments, she knelt down, and hand-in-hand they prayed,
without telling each other why and for what, and yet each seemed to
know.

In the evening of the same day Mr. Seymour and his friend were to go
to the cottage of a poor family, where sometimes a little, informal
meeting used to take place--a forerunner of the crowded temperance
gatherings our more fortunate age can boast.

Once more the father and daughter stood close together, waiting for
Edmund Oakhurst. The pale moon looked in at the narrow casement, the
street was slippery with recent rain, and the wind was damp and cold.
Within burned one low candle on the table before the fireplace, where
the coals were blackening into ashes, and every now and then throwing
out a tongue of dim, red flame, only to make the black emptiness more
noticeable.

"I will have the fire all right when you come back, darling," said
Grace, "and some hot wine and water ready for you. Mind you keep that
cloak well about you. O my love! I cannot bear to think we have so few
days before us still!"

"Almost a few weeks, Grace," said her father cheerfully.

"It seems to me as if they were days," reiterated the girl; "but I
know it is right. My mother would say so, if she could speak to us from
her home in the spirit-land. Kiss me, my father, my own!"

There was almost a despairing wail under that quick exclamation.
Seymour felt strangely moved, but, unwilling to weaken his child's
fortitude, he kissed her and soothed her in the most cheerful way he
could, yet tenderly keeping her hands clasped in his. Edmund Oakhurst
was not long, and the two men were soon ready to start. Grace took the
candle, and led the way down the dark stairs. She motioned her lover to
go out first, and then, detaining her father, said in a voice broken by
uncontrollable emotion:

"My own precious father, bless me before you go."

He caught her in his arms, and laid one hand on her head, murmuring,
"God bless you for ever, my child, as your father does now. Don't give
way, my love, my little treasure, and think of me while I am gone. We
will have a nice evening together when we come home, my pet." And he
gave her a fervent, solemn kiss, and pressed her hands to his heart.

In silence she let him go, but a passionate prayer burst from her lips
as soon as he had crossed the threshold. She shaded the flickering
light with one hand, while she stepped forth and strained her eyes
after him as far as sight could follow. When he disappeared behind
a corner, a sob broke from her, and she turned wearily to go up the
stairs. A cloud scudded across the face of the moon, and the shrill
laugh of a woman sounded clear and cutting down the street. Grace
went back to the little room, where the fire was sullenly going to
sleep, waking up now and then in a fretful, spectre-like glare and
a weird rustle, then leaving utter darkness behind once more. The
girl shuddered; she knew not what ailed her. Thoughts came in upon
her, maddening her, and she paced up and down the small enclosure
with rapid, unsteady steps. She had never felt like this before;
when her mother lay dying, she had stepped lightly and softly, her
mind clear, her loving heart calm, though crushed. What meant this
fever, this horror of something vague, this dread that made her heart
beat as the wind creaked the wooden stairs and shook the ill-fitting
casement? A crucifix hung on the wall, a Bible lay on the table; to
both she looked for comfort and peace, but the one seemed alive with
ruddy blood-stains, and the other opened at these words: "I said, In
the midst of my days I shall go to the gates of hell; I sought for
the residue of my years.... I hoped till morning; as a lion so hath
he broken all my bones: from morning even to night thou wilt make an
end of me."[275] Grace closed the book with pale cheeks and scared
expression, and flung herself on her knees before the burnt-out fire.
She sank to the ground, and a kind of mist seemed to dull her senses;
yet it was not sleep. A child awoke in the room overhead, and began its
wailing, peevish cry; otherwise the stillness was intense. The moon
climbed the sky so that its light went beyond the range of the low
window; the radiance came, however, wan and misty, up from the street.
The clock in the passage ticked, and Grace found herself unconsciously
counting its pulses; and when she tried to break off, a spell seemed
upon her that compelled her to count on. Again she paced the room,
and then, as if impatient of this unaccountable restlessness, she
began to make things ready for her father's return. This occupied her
some time, and she lingered over the homely task as if in it lay a
talisman to shield her against this nameless fear, this importunate,
impalpable horror, that seemed to her almost a _presence_. She said
aloud, to cheat her own belief, "I must be ill; this is fever;" but her
mind was pitilessly alive, and refused this interpretation. She sat
down to read; philosophy would surely drive away the unholy phantom.
But the pages grew dim before her eyes, and, though unclosed, those
eyes saw nothing of what was before them. Twenty times she rose up
to look at the passage clock; the time lagged, she thought, as if it
dreaded to become the present. The fire burnt brightly again, and hot
wine and water were ready on the table. A few flowers that stood in a
common cup on the mantel-piece she took down and laid gracefully in a
shallow saucer, placing it on the table, in green and scarlet contrast
with the white, transparent flagon, and the quaint old silver ewer.
Then she thought, as if forcing her mind to leave her unnamed dread
behind, of the many vicissitudes this piece of Howard plate had seen;
of the drinking bouts of old at which it had figured in the days of the
reckless cavaliers; of the mediæval honors it might have won at jousts
and tournaments; for its date was carved on a small shield up-born by a
griffin and a monk, and went far back into the XVth century. But this
speculation was disturbed by sounds of horrid revel in the street, and
Grace shiveringly met the old horror face to face again. Something
half human seemed to brood over the place; the room seemed tenanted,
and, though brave, the girl was thoroughly unnerved. She opened the
door, the clock ticked, and she saw it was growing late. From the
impatience of two hours ago she rushed back into a shrinking dread
of the lateness of the time, now it had come. Her father was still
away--why? Had he not looked forward to a quiet evening after his work
of charity was done, and would he not have hurried home, that she might
not have to wait long after the usual hour? The shadowy terror that
all the time had obstinately kept _his_ form as a sort of centre round
which it could turn and play in fantastic dreams and ever-changing
pictures, crept nearer to her heart now, and strangled it with a more
certain fear, a more defined vision. Then a cold wind seemed to blow
all round her, and she looked up. It was only the open door into the
passage that was swinging on its grating hinges, and letting in a rush
of air from the outside. Yes; but whence was the cold air that wrung
the frail door? Was not that a sound on the stairs? Her first impulse
was to rush out, and meet her father; her second, a scarcely shaped
wish to prolong the yet doubtful present. Irresolutely she stood and
listened; there were voices on the stairs--whispers.

Then a slow tread came lingeringly up, and through the half-open door
she saw Edmund Oakhurst. She knew it all now. Had he rushed up with
maddening speed, as if human feet were not swift enough for his errand,
she might have hoped. As it was, she saw it all; and when he spoke, she
only answered: "Yes."

He stood silent then, and, taking her hand, waited for her to ask him
where she must follow him. She passed her other hand over her forehead,
and then pointed to the table, with a sort of pathetic smile that wrung
her lover's heart.

"He was to have had a nice evening, he said," she murmured in a dreary
tone. Oakhurst hardly knew whether or no to answer.

"Come, show me," she said again, taking her shawl, and wrapping it
round her, and then, taking the crucifix from the wall, she kissed it
and passed it to Edmund.

"My only father now," she whispered to herself. They went down the
old stairs in silence, the frightened landlady standing at the door,
trembling like an aspen-leaf.

"Tell me," said Grace when they were in the street, "how was it? Did he
fall?"

"Yes, he fell," answered he, hesitating; she saw it.

"You can tell me all," she said dreamily; "he was getting
short-sighted; from study, you know. Did he stumble? Or was it
something struck him?"

"Yes, he was coming out of the house--standing near the door--it did
not hurt him much, and he was insensible."

"And was it all over at once?"

"Before we could get him to the hospital."

"Was there a doctor?"

"One came, and accompanied him to the hospital. But he said nothing
could be done."

"Did he speak?"

"Not once; but he opened his eyes and looked around, as if seeking
something. I said 'Grace,' and then a light came to his eyes, but
otherwise there was no recognition. I hardly think he knew me."

"I had his blessing before he left me, thank God!"

Silence fell upon them, and Grace sobbed softly now and then. She
thought of the grave under the elms, and of the meeting of those
two--those to whom she owed her being--and then of her own lonely
heart left behind to drag out its weary vigil. Her self-possession
was returning, and when she reached the hospital, it was no wailing,
unconscious maniac whom they led to the couch of the calm sleeper, but
a grave, silent woman, wrapped in the majesty of sorrow, armed with
the shield of peace. She stood a few moments steadfastly by the bed,
then dropped on her knees, and kissed the white, still hand. A gash had
scarred the high, broad forehead, but its horror had been obliterated
as much as possible, and she felt no shrinking. Her long, piercing gaze
had made her more strangely calm; a half-smile came to her lips as
she thought of the shuddering girl who had stood in formless terror,
trembling at every shadow, a few hours since; she could hardly believe
that it was herself, so much had the reality of awful grief sobered in
her the wild instincts of dimly perceived danger. The blow had come,
and with it the grace; the balm had been poured in almost by the same
hand that had dealt the wound, and the burden laid upon her had found
more than strength enough whereon to rest and weigh. Crushed she might
be, but had not the same silent teacher she gazed upon now been as
crushed as she by a widely different yet kindred loss, and had not his
soul risen again from under the flail with ten times more sweetness in
its fragrance, and more strength in its tempered fibre?

She turned and whispered to Edmund. He inclined his head, and, speaking
authoritatively, said to the bystanders that the body must be, at
Miss Seymour's wish, carried to her lodgings. She then left, and he
accompanied her home, promising to return with her father's corpse.

In a short time muffled steps and hushed voices were heard, and the
strong man was borne again to the home he had left so cheerfully only a
few hours before. Edmund and Grace were alone. All night through they
watched, and a few candles burned round the sleeping form. Towards the
gray of the morning, when common sounds began to be heard again, and
the city woke up once more to its never-intermitted round of strange,
wicked, checkered life, the girl, rising and kissing the brow of her
dead father, turned to Edmund with a sad look of inquiry.

"Edmund," she said slowly, "you never told me what struck him."

"An iron bar," he answered, with a frightened, startled look. She gazed
full in his eyes.

"I do not believe," she said calmly, with sad reproach trembling in her
voice, "that you have told me untruly, for that you could not do; but,
through kindness and compassion, I _know_ that you have not told me
_all_."

"What more is there to tell?" he stammered.

"You know," she answered; "for God's sake, tell me!"

He looked at her with strange meaning. "You do not know what you are
asking, Grace. I had hoped, if I had had my way, to keep from you
much that would cause you unnecessary sorrow; and you could have left
town, and even the country, so as to more completely take from you all
association with this terrible grief. But you seem to pierce every
veil, and I am not practised at concealing. But, O Grace! it will
break your heart! It well-nigh breaks my own to think of it!"

"I know there is something very dreadful in the background," she said;
"but I have prayed all night for strength to bear it, and I wish to
know it now. Do not hide one thing from me, as you hope for heaven,
Edmund."

He paused, and then, thinking that it would be best to get the shock
over at once, said, intently watching her the while: "Grace, your
father was called of God to be a priest. But God made him a martyr
first; for such a murder _is_, in truth, a martyrdom."

She quivered from head to foot, but, recovering herself, she said: "I
had suspected something like that."

"How, Grace?"

"I thought I heard some whispered words that were hushed as soon as I
went in to that awful place where he lay, and I had seen you flush, and
blanch, and hesitate when I questioned you. It was God's will. Tell me
everything. But who"--and her voice broke here--"who could have been so
lost as to hate _him_?"

"You know, when we left you," hurriedly began the young man, "we went
straight to that meeting. Some were there who are as good as cured, and
some others came from curiosity, or brought by their friends. A few
were not sober. Your father said some prayers, as usual. Then he spoke
to the men, as you know he can speak, very simply, very earnestly.
There was a disturbance at the door. While he was speaking, half a
dozen men, furious with drink, and roaring and swearing like demons,
tried to get in. A few opposed them, and in the struggle the rickety
door came down, and the long, old-fashioned iron hinge came loose from
the rotten wood. One of the men took it up--it was Drake, the son of
those poor old <DW36>s. Another, who was of our men inside, wrenched
it from him, and your father came down near the door to try and quiet
the men. Those of the better sort grouped round him, fearing violence
from the men in the front. I was close to him. I saw a man stoop, and
the next minute Drake passed something to a comrade of his, who stole
behind us, while he himself made a rush at me. I was still grappling
with him, when there was a cry. The men sprang apart, and I heard your
father say, 'O God!' just as he fell. I flung Drake to the ground with
such force that he was stunned, and his head sounded dead on the stone
floor. The men on our side had already caught the murderer, with the
long iron hinge in his hand. It had struck your father on the back
of the head, near the ear, and the scar on the forehead was made by
falling forward. The police did not come till it was all over, and then
they marched off Drake and the other man--Eldridge is his name, so I
was told afterwards. I heard Drake say, with a horrible oath, that it
was lucky for your father he had escaped so long; and the murderer
grinned as he heard this remark. They seemed sober enough the minute it
was over. Drake recovered very soon. The other men seemed stupid with
horror. Grace, was it not a martyrdom?"

"Edmund," she answered solemnly, "it was the noblest death he could
die, the only one befitting him. Die for the good of others! die for
the spread of holiness, for the honor of principle! die that God
might be better known and better served!--it was what he lived for; it
was what he would have chosen to die for, had he had the choice. O my
father! half my soul has gone with him, and my life shall be one eager
longing to be made worthy to follow him. Edmund, is it not grand, is it
not heroic? Has he not a glorious crown wherewith to meet my mother in
heaven?"

Edmund could not help wondering at the quaint suggestions, which, to
his less imaginative nature, seemed even extravagant; but when was
enthusiasm ever less than extravagant, and when was it more meet than
in this case of a glorious, God-ordained death?

After a pause, Grace resumed:

"If I had known this sooner, I should have gone to Drake's parents. I
shall go now. You watch while I am away."

And before Edmund could speak, she was gone.

They were sitting over the embers of a mere apology for a fire, these
two forsaken <DW36>s, with the little, starveling children cuddled
together like frightened rabbits at their feet. When the door opened,
and Grace appeared, pale and worn, they shivered, and leaned one upon
the other, as if they would gladly have fled from her, had they been
able. They were dumb, and seemed to have no instinct but fear within
their bosoms. The children stared with great round eyes, and crept
further away. Grace went up, and knelt down before the old couple,
taking the woman's fingers in her own, and saying softly:

"You are not afraid of me? Did you think I was angry? I have come to
tell you I am not, and _he_ would not be, could he speak to you. Won't
you say something to me?"

The old woman said something, but her teeth chattered so it was
unintelligible. The old man gave a feeble, idiotic laugh, and, for the
moment, Grace was startled. But she soon saw that horror had turned his
brain, and that he was now beyond the possibility of suffering. His
wife seemed verging on the same state. Grace took out some money, and
put it into the poor old crone's hand. "You shall live on here, just
as usual," she said. "I will help you; never mind. Take care of your
husband, and remember I am not angry with you."

The old woman mumbled something under her breath, but appeared quite
stupefied yet. "God bless you!" said Grace sadly, turning from this
unsatisfactory couple, and going gently up to the children.

"Can you tell me where Eldridge lived?" she said. "And if he has a
family?"

The children, also, seemed deaf and dumb for a time; but at last the
promise of a silver piece drew forth from the recesses of their memory
the address of Eldridge's wife. It was not far off. Grace left the
hovel, and took her way down courts and by-streets till she reached
the house where the murderer's wife lived. Up many stairs, and through
many passages, inquiring her way, Grace went, and at last knocked at
the right door. Only a sound of sobbing was heard within. She said
to herself, "This is no hardened woman;" and at once her resolve was
formed. She gently opened the door; a woman sat by the dingy window,
her head buried in her hands, and bent down to her knees. She rocked
herself to and fro, and moaned at regular intervals. A child lay in a
cradle near her, but she did not heed it. The bed stood at one end of
the room, tossed and untidy; the poor little utensils of the wretched
home were flung about in disorder, and some dark stains on the deal
table gave out a strong, sickening odor.

Grace went up to the woman, and touched her on the shoulder. The woman
looked up. Her face was wild and sad, the hair strayed over the cheeks
and forehead, matted with tears, and the expression was awful in its
utter despair. Grace said:

"You are very unhappy; I am come to comfort you, if you will let me."

"Who are you?" said the woman vacantly.

"A friend to all who are in trouble," answered Grace, with a sob in her
voice; "and I thought, if I came to you, it might relieve you."

The woman seemed to try and gather her faculties together. "I do not
remember you. The visiting ladies is not like you."

"But you will let me visit you? Perhaps I can do you more good than
they can."

"No, no; you are very kind, lady, but 'tan't no use."

"I know what your trouble is, but there is comfort even for that
sorrow. He may repent; have you any influence over him?"

She shook her head. Grace pointed to the cradle.

"And has that no influence upon him? To-day, when he is sober, it may
have. Take the baby, and go and see him. If you do him good, it will
make you happier; if not, you will have done your duty."

"Duty!" flashed out the miserable woman. "What have I ever done but my
duty, and to him as used me more as a beast than a woman?"

"Hush! hush! God may touch him yet. Do not despair!"

"Not despair! Lady, it's easy for you as is a lady to say sech things!
God be merciful to me, I'm driven mad with despair!"

"Will you tell me what it is that troubles your poor heart?" said
Grace, who saw that the unhappy woman must speak out or die.

"Won't I?" was the answer, fearfully prompt. "I married that man three
years ago down in Devonshire, and I a farmer's daughter, with a home as
never knowed the want of anything. And he fooled me with his handsome
face and talk of Lunnon, and his fine trade there. Trade, indeed! It
was the devil's trade, if any! And because I listened and liked him,
my father he swore he'd disown me. I ran away, and we was married at
the nearest church. First night, he came home drunk. He never left off
being drunk, and often I thought I'd leave him; but father, he wouldn't
have taken me back, and I didn't want for to be called names! Here in
Lunnon we lived sometimes here, sometimes there, worse than this often,
and he always drunk. He had heaps of money now and then. I know, lady,
where it come from; but he never gave me any, and I don't know as I
could have touched it if he had. But for days he left me, and I had to
beg or starve; he would not have cared if I'd done worse. Then come
home drunk, and swear because there was nothing to eat. He beat me and
kicked me, and, when he come home, wouldn't let me sleep at night.
Other men came, too, and spoke about bad things in whispers; but I
heard. They would drink here till they all slept heavy on the floor,
and the brandy spilt over their clothes. Then baby was born, and I felt
as if I could kill it first; for why bring it up to be like its father?
Three days after it came, my husband struck me terrible, and I nearly
died. He gave brandy to the child, and I in a faint. Baby was like to
die, and I were glad of it. And so it went on--baby better, but me
worse, and drink, drink, till he sometimes went tearing mad, swore he
saw devils, and called for more drink and more. A few months ago, Drake
came--a man my husband knew--and he and the other laughed and said
'some one' shouldn't trouble them long. They had money, in gold, last
time I saw Drake. That was four days back. Then my husband, he came
home drunk still, and every night it was the same, till last night,
when he did not come home at all, but left me not one half-penny, for
he had drunk the last in that brandy he spilt on the table."

The woman paused and shuddered.

"My God, my God!" she moaned, "that I should come to this, with my
father's home, so peaceful-like, and me not daring to go back. Well,
the last I heard of that man were when, at twelve o'clock last night,
a neighbor rushed in and says to me, says she, 'Mrs. Eldridge, your
old man's been and done it!' And as I looked at her, stupid-like, she
says, 'He's killed that preaching gentleman as used to try and get all
our men to leave off spirits.' And I fell back on the bed, and knowed
nothing for hours."

Grace had listened throughout the pitiful story with calm, patient
interest; she now said soothingly:

"Come, Mrs. Eldridge, it is a fearful blow, but God tempers the wind
to the shorn lamb, does he not? Tell me, you have not tasted anything
since yesterday; is it not so? You must be faint, and, if we would bear
up against sorrow, we must not lose our health. I have brought you
money, but I think it is better I should send for some things for you,
as you will hardly care to go out and be seen just now."

"Indeed and indeed it's true," sobbed the poor creature; "but you are a
world too good, miss."

"I will read to you while you are waiting; it will soothe you," said
Grace, as she went to the door, and called a girl from one of the
multitudinous cavities of this warren-like house. She gave her money
and instructions, and turned back into the room. The child in the
cradle awoke. Grace took it up. The mother shuddered, saying: "Better
it should die, lady, than live to be like its father."

The girl looked curiously down at the infant's poor, pinched face, and
then answered:

"Let God settle that; it is not for you or I to question his doings
towards children. I remember my little brother when he was like this."

"Ah! miss, no doubt he had a different father."

Grace turned pale, and did not answer. The woman was silent, but seemed
merged in her own grief again. Then, with the child on her lap, the
young girl began to read out of a Catholic Bible she had in her pocket.
She thought Mrs. Eldridge would never know the difference, and she
preferred her father's gift to herself to all the Bibles she had had
during his pastorship. The poor woman seemed entranced. When Grace
paused, she said:

"Them visiting ladies never does that, but they brings tracts and
groceries. But how peaceful-like that do sound jest like our parson's
daughter as used to read to mother at home."

"How old are you, Mrs. Eldridge?" asked Grace.

"Going twenty-four, miss. But, ah! I was a different woman when I got
married. If you had a-seen me then, lady, you would not believe it was
me."

And, in truth, the poor, wasted face looked old, and hungry, and
thin, as if the spirit had aged so that it grew jealous of the once
comely mask without, and withered it remorselessly with watching, and
weepings, and sharp care. The little messenger came back to the door,
bearing with her creature comforts, whose taste had long been unknown
to the drunkard's wife. Then Grace rose to leave her, saying, "You
shall not want, my poor friend; and whenever you wish to see your
husband, I will try and manage it for you. If there is any possibility
of saving him, it shall be done. While there is life, there is hope--of
the soul as well as of the body. He might repent and be a help and an
example to you. And then, no doubt, his wicked companions tempted him
much, and the sin was perhaps not all his own. So look to God, and try
and bear up, and I will come again."

She left the house with a pure joy at her heart, praying to God that
he would keep her for ever in the path on which she had entered, and
feeling that, in her weak measure, she had been permitted to bring
herself a little nearer to the ideal of her dead father's life. She had
laid upon his tomb a garland worthy of him, she had said words his
spirit would have approved, and done a deed such as he himself would
have bidden her do.

Back again to the dark, silent chamber of the dead she went, and found
her watchful lover there; but she did not tell him that she had sought
out the murderer's wife. That day came various torturing details, but
she allowed Oakhurst to spare her much of their sorrow, and throughout
the legal proceedings she never had to appear. The murder caused some
stir, as the victim was an American citizen and the father of the young
heir of the Howards. George Charteris visited his cousin, and offered
her his services in every way, professional or friendly, that she might
choose. She was touched by his ready sympathy, but wisely refused his
_professional_ assistance.

"You see, George," she said, "it would seem ungenerous to have one so
nearly related to him to plead against his murderer; besides, I would
rather save the unhappy man from his due punishment, if it can be done."

"What, Cousin Grace!" he echoed, unable to understand her.

"It seems strange to you, I know; but I have not lived with my father
all my life without knowing well how full of Christian charity he
always was when any personal injury was done to him, and I am following
his will, no less than the Christian precepts, when I say I would spare
his unhappy murderer as much as lays in my power."

"My dear child, this is perfect quixotism. A fellow who should have
been hung long ago!"

"I know you think differently; it is natural you should. You judge
things by another standard, and from another point of view. Looked at
in the light of the Gospel, things are very different, dear cousin.
Do not let us speak about it. If it is romance to you; it is life and
truth to me."

"For George's sake! Think what it will be when he learns it by-and-by!"

"You will not tell him now?" she asked in sudden alarm, clasping her
hands. "Oh! do not, do not! My mother gave me that boy to watch over
and guard from sin with my very life, but God has willed that his angel
should be alone to watch him; yet I must ask you, if you have any
influence, do not breed thoughts of wicked revenge in his mind--oh! do
not, for, if you do, not only he will suffer, but it will fall back
upon you all as a curse. God has made this to happen in his childhood,
as if on purpose to hide it from him; do not, for pity's sake, run
counter to the evident decrees of Providence."

Reluctantly George Charteris promised his cousin he would exert his
influence to keep the father's murder a secret from the child. And so
passed the terrible weeks of waiting, Grace ministering almost daily
help to the wretched murderer's wife, and Edmund seeking to soothe her
whom he loved so tenderly and so reverently. A priest was found to give
a quiet blessing to the unconscious form they both had loved so well,
and then the dark earth hid the body away, and sowed one more seed for
the mystic coming harvest, which shall clothe the valley of judgment
with such marvellous blossoming beauty.

When the final conviction of the prisoner and his sentence of capital
punishment were made known, Grace was the first to break the news to
the wretched wife, and the only one to soothe these dire tidings with
suggestions of hope and mercy. The poor woman still refused to visit
her husband, and it was more the shame of his crime, and the ignominy
of his approaching death, than any spark of feeling left within her
bosom for the man who had wooed and won her, that tortured her heart
and bowed her head. Grace tried repeatedly to soften her, to melt the
terrible callousness which was alive only to the earthly aspect of her
grief; but for many weeks she tried in vain. The wild, horror-struck
eyes of the unfortunate creature would fasten themselves upon her as
she spoke--burning orbs, with unspeakable defiance in them, as if, from
this day forth, the felon's wife felt herself to be a hunted creature,
with the brand of her husband's sin undeservedly scathing her future
life and that of her unconscious child.

When Grace hinted of a possible pardon, the poor thing stared with a
frightened expression that only seemed to say: "And I must be his slave
again," as if the thought of her own bondage were the only thing on
earth that could move her. But at last, being appealed to in the name
of her own self-respect, she seemed to have a dawning sense that her
present course was hardly the one to elevate her once again into the
sphere of tranquil content whence her husband's degradation had, three
short years ago, so fatally withdrawn her. The dikes of her soul burst
suddenly, and the flood of sweet memories of past days, and of the
happy hours spent in the old farm-house, of the flood of womanliness
and pity, of the sensibility of the mother, of the forbearance of the
Christian, broke over her in saving waves, each teaching the same
lesson in their infinite variety of tenderest human voices. She rose,
took her child in her arms, and followed her young protectress nearly
as far as the prison. Grace would go no further, but agreed to wait
till the interview with the condemned man was over. The woman came
out weeping and softened. Her husband was at least not obdurate, and
expressed sincere regret for what he had been led to do. He bade his
wife implore of the unknown lady who had so generously befriended
them to accept the blessing he was not worthy to give, but which
nevertheless was the last and only tribute a dying man could offer.
Grace shuddered as this message was conveyed to her through tears and
sobs, but her companion was too greatly busied with her own griefs to
notice it.

One evening, as Edmund Oakhurst sat, with his promised wife, in the
room the presence of the dead had hallowed to their simple, trusting
hearts, he was astonished at her unusual agitation, and at the remark
she quietly made as the expression of it.

"Edmund, I am going to get a reprieve for Eldridge, and that may lead
to a commutation of sentence. He is very penitent, I hear, and, for his
wife's sake, I should wish it."

"But, Grace," replied her lover, with characteristic common sense, "if
he is penitent and well-prepared, it would be safer even for his own
soul's sake that he should suffer the full penalty of the law."

"We are no judges of that, Edmund," she answered, her bright eyes
turning, with suppressed enthusiasm, towards the open window, all
bathed in wintry sunlight. "God, I think, must mean otherwise for him,
or else he would never have put this idea in my mind. I have thought
of it ever since he lay there" (pointing to the centre of the room,
where the dear dead had rested), "and his spirit seemed to whisper it
constantly to my heart, as if it were some message of God's mercy, of
which he vouchsafed to make us the bearers to the rulers of earth."

"Grace, I thought your training would have led you a different way. I
thought you would be the first to see God's hand in the established
law. Darling, this is sentimentalism. You can forgive the wretched man,
and pray for him, and help the forsaken ones he leaves behind, without
hindering the law in its operations. You will have fulfilled the
Christian duty of forgiveness, without interfering with another sphere
of equally binding duty on the community."

"I think you might be right in an ordinary case, Edmund, but God seems
to put this beyond common rules, to me."

"Is that not pride, Grace?"

"I trust not," she replied, gently but firmly; "it is a call, a command
from God, just as my father's conversion, and my still more unexpected
one, were calls from on high--direct calls that took our hearts by
storm."

"Grace, dear, I cannot help thinking it presumptuous in you to dream of
these things; you make them miracles almost!"

"Surely not, Edmund. Supposing a king were to send for his servant,
and give him some important order to transmit, which, in the ordinary
course of things, should have been conveyed through his prime minister;
do you think the servant would be justified in feeling proud, or the
person who received the order in feeling hurt, at the unusual way in
which the king had been pleased to act?"

"Grace!" exclaimed Edmund, "you talk just as your father used! He
always made me feel that he was right. I will not attempt to influence
you any longer; I will leave the matter in the hands of God, and pray
that you may be guided by him. If I were you, I would speak with a
priest, though!"

"I have, dearest," answered Grace, looking less rapt, and perhaps
mingling with her high thoughts a little unconscious human spice of
innocent triumph.

"Oh!" said her lover, and, smiling, he relapsed into silence. After
incredible efforts and unflagging energy had been spent upon the task,
Grace succeeded in getting her father's murderer first reprieved,
then re-sentenced to transportation for life. The shock of this news,
the utter stupor of gratitude into which he was thrown, even though
the name of his benefactress still remained a mystery to him, wrought
a miracle in his nature, and sobered him for life. Faith came to
the help of solemn thankfulness, and the husband and wife secretly
became Catholics before leaving England. Grace, for some inexplicable
reason, positively refused to see Eldridge, even at his wife's most
earnest request. The fact was that she had once been face to face with
him, in days when neither dreamed of the strange relations they were
fated to bear to each other, and she feared, in her humility, lest he
recognize her now. But Edmund, fully aware as he was of how matters
stood, resolved that, without wounding his betrothed's sweet lowliness,
he would yet reveal to the recipients of her charity the inestimable
sacrifice she had made of her natural feelings for the sake of the
"new commandment" of love and forgiveness taught by Christ's Gospel.
So while the four stood in a group just before the departure of the
convict-ship--Grace far apart with the mother, and her back turned to
the convict--he slipped into the hand of the murderer a folded paper,
saying something under his breath of its being of some little pecuniary
use to them in their new home, and adding with a half-smile:

"_She_ knows nothing of it, but her name is written inside. Do not open
it till you are on board."

Grace, meanwhile, was comforting the mother, whose little boy was in
her arms for the last time, as Grace had wished to have it brought up
under her own care.

"I have a little brother, you know," she said, "and, while I cannot
fulfil my mother's trust with regard to him, I will lavish all my care
on your child, and, please God, in a few years, when your husband earns
his freedom, you shall see the boy again in my country, where nothing
but good will ever be known of any of you."

So the ship sailed, and the convict's hand clasped the paper nervously.
The mother was holding out her arms to her little boy, who struggled
and cried in Grace's embrace. The man, standing on the deck, touched
his wife's shoulder, and passed the paper to her. Had any one been
close enough, he might have seen the swarthy cheek pale to a sickly
hue, then flush as suddenly again. Those on shore only saw his face
swiftly hidden in his hands, and his whole frame rock violently.
Simultaneously the woman dropped on the deck, and Grace thought she
must have fainted with the grief of leaving her child behind. Indeed,
she was too much occupied with the little one to notice the ship
minutely. The poor babe wailed and then struggled by turns, and it was
no easy work to keep it quiet till the small party could find a coach
to take them home. Edmund took care to look unconcerned and innocent,
and, thanks to his betrothed's sweet unsuspiciousness of disposition,
as also to the circumstances we have mentioned, his secret was kept
until a passionately grateful letter from the poor convict reached her
in her own home across the ocean. Edmund was her husband by that time,
and she could not find it in her heart not to forgive him!

But we are slightly anticipating.

A few days after the departure of the convict-ship, George Charteris
called on his cousin, to report to her about certain arrangements which
he had volunteered to take on his own hands. He had now completed
them, and had found a responsible and aged companion for Grace on her
homeward voyage. The old lady was going out to some relations settled
in Virginia, and was delighted to find a young girl of refinement and
of good family to bear her company on her somewhat tedious journey.

Edmund had begged Grace Seymour to consent to be married before they
left England; but the girl had some unaccountable longing for her own
land, which, though he smiled at as childish, he nevertheless was too
chivalrous to combat. He was to follow speedily, with George Charteris
as groomsman, and an older friend, a priest bound for some of the
Indian missions.

So the ocean was crossed once more, and in her own home, the beautiful
marriage-gift she brought her husband, Grace Seymour was married. Mr.
Ashmead, whom, with characteristic courtesy, she would not exclude from
her quiet, unattended wedding, told her solemnly, as he walked by her
side to her mother's grave under the thick-shaded elms, that he had
had a secret once, which he wished to tell her now.

In grave wonderment she turned her eyes upon him. "My child," he said
sadly, but with no shame flushing his clear cheek, "I once dreamt to
have you for my own, and I waited from the moment I saw you first,
standing here, bending down to look into the unfilled grave, till I
saw your mind unfolding and blossoming, as in a cloistered garden, all
alone; but when I knew that your faith was disturbed, my heart bled for
you and for myself, for I saw that I had no spell wherewith to give
you back what you had lost. And since the day your father left us,
the dream faded as a thing that God had ordained not to be. So now,
though our faiths are widely different, and though the memory of those
times is very dear to me still, I can take your hand in all a father's
freedom, and give you and your husband a father's blessing. Let us be
friends for ever, Grace, will you?"

She had listened to him with a bright blush and attentive expression;
she now took his hand, and said earnestly: "Yes, Mr. Ashmead; God bless
you!"

The years sped on. Edmund Oakhurst soon owned estates that would have
thrice bought the old homestead of his wife's early days; his fields
were the fullest, his experiments the most successful, his men the best
cared for, his profits the largest, his prosperity the most steady, in
the whole country around. People left off calling him the "Britisher,"
and spoke respectfully of him as the "Squire"; even his religion was
favorably regarded in consideration of his position and his well-known
generosity. Children like himself rose up around him, and the convict's
child seemed only like the elder brother of the rest. Things gradually
changed, and Catholic schools and colleges made their appearance in
the land. Oakhurst thought it more prudent to send his sons and his
so-called nephew to American centres of Catholic education, rather
than to the more advanced universities of France; but he reserved
for home-teaching the nameless refinement he wished to stamp on his
children. His wife was the worthy successor of her mother, whose sweet
presence had once been so dear to the villagers of Walcot; only _her_
silent influence was now directed to that end which, after death, had
become that of her mother too.

When, fifteen years later, the man who had left England a convict
landed in America an emigrant, he found his oldest boy studying for the
priesthood, and fast and enthusiastically outstripping his companion
and rival in theological learning, Oakhurst's own second son. Again
another change and another joy had been added to Grace's life, when her
brother, on attaining his majority, came over with his uncle, George
Charteris, now a tolerably well-behaved married man, and paid her a
long visit within the walls of the old home, untouched and unchanged
from what he recollected, save by accumulation of mosses, and a denser
growth of creepers round the gables and the porch.

They have all gone to their rest now, these friends with whom we
have been treading the past--all, save the sons of Grace and Edmund,
and their only daughter, who afterwards married George Howard's son
and heir. The old name that had been alternately the watchword of
Catholicism and Low-Churchism in Gloucestershire veered round again
in their persons to its first allegiance, and contributed unwavering
steadfastness to the sum of heroic courage shown forth by that army
whose chiefs in England are called Newman, and Manning, and that modern
S. Bernardine of Sienna, Frederick Faber.

Walcot, too, though of Puritan breeding, knows the sound of Catholic
bells now, and the priest's house is the unchanged old Seymour cottage,
while the pastor himself is the English convict's child.

Edmund Seymour's sacrifice had sown the first grain of which Grace
Oakhurst's children reaped a hundred-fold.

FOOTNOTES:

[275] Isaias xxxviii. 10, 13.




THE PRINCIPLES OF REAL BEING.


III.

INTRINSIC PRINCIPLES OF PRIMITIVE BEINGS.

We have shown in a preceding article[276] that every primitive being
proceeds from three extrinsic principles--the _final_, the _efficient_,
and, if we may so call it, the _eductional_ or _pro-material_
principle; that is, the term out of which the being is educed, which
term, as we there remarked, holds the place of the material principle
still wanting.

We are now ready to prove that every primitive being has also _three
intrinsic principles_, not more, and not fewer--a truth the knowledge
of which is of the utmost importance in philosophy, as it enables the
student to point out without hesitation everything that may enter into
the constitution of primitive beings, with the gratifying certainty
that, when he has once reached the said three principles, his analysis
is perfect, and can go no further. But as our proposition is altogether
universal, its demonstration will need the employment of arguments
drawn from the most abstract of all philosophical notions; and our
readers must bear with us if we fill a portion of the following pages
with dry, though not abstruse, reasonings. The determination of the
first constituents of things needs precision, not ornament, as it
is nothing more than the drawing of the outlines by which the whole
building of metaphysics is to be encompassed.

Our first proof is based on the following consideration. Of every
existing being two things are cognizable: the first, _that it is_, the
second, _what it is_. In other terms, all complete being is knowable
both as to its _existence_ and as to its nature or _essence_. But
while the existence of any given being is simply _affirmed_ as a
fact, the essence is _understood_ as an object. Now, nothing can be
understood which does not present itself to the intellect under the
form of an intelligible ratio; for to understand is to see a relation
of things, as _intelligere_ is nothing but _inter-legere_,[277] "to
read between"--a phrase which clearly implies two definite terms,
between which a definite relation is apprehended. Accordingly, nothing
is intelligible, except inasmuch as it implies two correlatives;
and, therefore, since every essence is intelligible, every essence
implies two principles conspiring through mutual relativity into an
intelligible ratio. These two principles of a primitive essence are
themselves intelligible only as correlated; for the constituents of
a _primitive_ essence are not other essences, as is evident; and
therefore cannot have a separate and independent intelligibility.
They are therefore absolutely simple and unanalyzable, and of such
a relative character that they cannot exist, or even be conceived,
separated from one another. The same is true of existence also,
which has no separate intelligibility, as it is utterly simple and
unanalyzable, and cannot be conceived or affirmed, except with
reference to the essence to which it may belong. It follows, then, that
every primitive being can be resolved into three simple principles,
of which two constitute its real essence, whilst the third--viz.,
existence--completes the same essence into real being. Such is our
first proof.

A little reflection will now suffice to determine the general nature of
the two essential principles just mentioned, and to obtain at the same
time a second proof of our proposition. Existence is the actuality of
essence. Now, actuality can spring only from actuation; and actuation
necessarily implies an _act_, which actuates, and a _term_, which is
actuated. Therefore the two constituents of any primitive essence must
be a real act whose intrinsic character is to actuate its term, and
a real term whose intrinsic character is to be actuated by its act;
whilst the actuality of the essence follows as a simple result from the
mutual conspiration of these essential principles. Accordingly, every
primitive being involves in its constitution three principles--viz., an
_act_, its _term_, and the _actuality_ of the one in the other. This
last is called the _complement_ of the essence.

Readers accustomed to intellectual speculations will need no additional
evidence to be satisfied of the cogency of the two preceding proofs.
But those who are less familiar with philosophy may yet want some
tangible illustration of our reasonings before they fully realize the
nature of the three principles and of their relations. We hope the
following will do. Physicists show that if a material point moves for
a time, _t_, with a uniform velocity, _v_, through a space, _s_, the
relation of the three quantities will be expressed by the equation--

                            _s_ / _v_ = _t_

It is plain that the three quantities, _s_, _v_, _t_, are the three
intrinsic principles of movement. In fact, the velocity, _v_, is the
_act_, or the form, of movement; whence the epithet of _uniform_
applied to all movement of constant velocity; the amount, _s_, of
space measured is the _term_ actuated by the said velocity; the time,
_t_, is the duration of the movement, that is, its _actuality_;
for as movement is essentially successive, its actuality also is
successive, and constitutes a length of time. Here, then, we have most
distinctly the three principles of movement. Let us remark that the
first member of the equation is the _ratio_ of the term to its act,
and therefore represents the essence of movement; whilst the second
member exhibits the duration of its existence. The sign of equality
between the two members does not mean that the essence of movement
is the same thing as the existence of movement, but only that both
have the same _quantitative value_. For it should be remarked that,
although a ratio is usually defined as "the quotient of a quantity
divided by another of the same kind," nevertheless the quotient is not
exactly the ratio, but its result or value; and is not the equivalent
of the ratio in quality, but in quantity only. In pure mathematics,
which are exclusively concerned with quantities, the distinction
between the ratio and its value may not be important; but when a ratio
is viewed in its metaphysical aspect, the distinction is of great
consequence. For a metaphysical ratio is not looked upon as the ratio
of two quantities, of which the one is the measure of the other, but as
the ratio of two realities, of which the one actuates the other, and
which, though belonging to the same kind of being, are, however, of a
relatively opposite character, as is evident from the very example we
are considering. The space, _s_, and the velocity, _v_, are, in fact,
conceived as quantities of the same kind, only because velocity is
mathematically expressed in terms of the space measured through it in a
unit of time; yet velocity is certainly not space, but is that by which
matter is compelled to move through space; so that while the extent of
the space measured in a unit of time corresponds to the velocity with
which it is measured, velocity itself has no extension, but intensity
only. Hence the ratio of space to velocity, metaphysically considered,
is a ratio of extension to intensity, or of potency to act, as we shall
presently explain.

The third proof of our proposition is very simple. The intrinsic
principles of being must correspond to its extrinsic principles, each
to each respectively. For were any of the extrinsic principles not
represented in the principiated being by something real proceeding from
it, and corresponding to it, such an extrinsic principle evidently
would principiate nothing, and would be no principle at all. Now, we
have seen that the extrinsic principles of primitive being are three.
It is evident, therefore, that its intrinsic principles likewise
must be three. The extrinsic principles, as before stated, are God's
volition of bringing something into existence, the term of its
eduction, and the creative power exerted in its production. Hence it
follows that every thing created must contain within itself an _act_
as the product of the Creator's action, a _term_ as an expression of
the term of its eduction, and an _actuality_ as the accomplishment and
fulfilment of the volition of bringing it into existence.

We may here remark that the _act_ of the created being is produced
_by_ God as its efficient _cause_, proceeds _from_ God's omnipotence
as its efficient _principle_, and is produced _through_ action as the
proximate _reason_ of its causation and principiation.

The _term_ of the created being, on the contrary, comes _out of_ mere
nothingness, acquires its reality _through_ the mere position of an
act, is not made, but actuated, and therefore has no efficient cause,
but only a formal principle, the reality of which is the sole reason
why the term is called real, and the disappearance of which would
leave nothing behind. As a spherical form, by the necessity of its
own nature, gives existence to a geometric centre, without need of an
efficient cause, so does the essential act to its essential term. Let
the spherical form be annihilated, and the centre will be gone; let
the essential act vanish, and the essential term will have vanished
together with it.

Finally, the _actuality_ of the created being proceeds from the act
and the term as making up its formal source, or the _principium
formale quod_; while the formal reason, or the _principium formale
quo_, of its proceeding is the actuation of the latter by the former,
and the completion of the former in the latter; for to actuate a term
is to give it actuality, and to be actuated is to become actual; and
therefore the result of such an actuation is the actuality of the act
in its term, and of the term in its act, or the complete actuality of
the created essence and of the created being.

Thus the whole being, by its act, its term, and its complement, points
out adequately and with the utmost distinction the three extrinsic
principles whence it proceeds.[278]

The fourth proof is as follows: Every created being possesses an
intrinsic natural activity and an intrinsic natural passivity. It
possesses activity; for every creature must have an intrinsic natural
aptitude to reveal, in one way or another, the perfections of its
Creator, as such is the end of all creation; but to reveal is to
act; and, therefore, every creature possesses its intrinsic aptitude
and determination to act--that is, _activity_. It also possesses
passivity; for all contingent beings are changeable, and therefore
capable of receiving new intrinsic determinations; and such an
intrinsic capability is what we call _passivity_, or _potentiality_.
The consequence is, that every creature possesses something by
reason of which it is active, and something on account of which it
is passive; which amounts to saying that every creature possesses
its intrinsic principle of activity, or, as it is styled, its _act_,
and its intrinsic principle of passivity, or, as we call it, its
_potency_ or its _potential term_. Hence the well-known fundamental
axioms of metaphysics: "Every agent acts by reason of its act," and
"Every patient suffers on account of its potency."[279] Now, since the
same being that can act can also be acted on, it is evident that that
by reason of which it can act, and that on account of which it can
be acted on, are the principles of one and the same actual essence,
and therefore conspire into one formal actuality, which completes
the essence into being. Accordingly, in all creatures, or primitive
complete beings, we must admit _act_ and _potency_ as the constituents,
and _actuality_ as the formal complement, of their essence.

These four proofs more than suffice to show that all primitive complete
beings consist of _act_, _term_, and _complement_ as their intrinsic
principles. But, as I am satisfied that on the right understanding
of such principles the soundness of all our metaphysical reasonings
finally depends, I think it necessary, before we proceed further,
to make a few considerations on their exact notion, character, and
attributions.

The _term_ of a primitive being owes its reality to its act. Before
its first actuation, it had no being at all; it was only capable
of acquiring it, and therefore was, according to the language of
the schools, a reality _in mere potency_; since everything that has
no being, but can be actuated into being, has received the name of
_pure potency_.[280] Now, pure potency, though it is nothing real, is
infinite and inexhaustible; not that nothingness can have any such
_intrinsic_ attribute, but simply because no limit can be assigned to
the possible eduction of beings out of nothing through the exercise of
God's infinite and inexhaustible power. And it must be added that such
a potency is thus infinite not only with regard to the substances that
can be created out of nothing, but also with regard to the accidents
which can be produced in those substances, and with regard to the modes
resulting from the reception of such accidents. This being admitted, it
is evident that, when the term of a created being acquires its first
reality, a pure potency is actuated by an act; but is not actuated to
the full amount of its actuality, which is infinite and inexhaustible.
Indeed, no act gives to its potency the plenitude of all being; but
every act gives that being only which corresponds to its own specific
nature. And therefore the term of a primitive being, though actuated in
its first actuation as much as is needed to make it the real term of
a determinate essence, remains always capable of further and further
actuation; in other words, such a term is still, and always will be,
entirely _potential_ in regard to all other acts compatible with the
nature of the first by which it is actuated.

Hence we come to the conclusion that every created being, for the very
reason of its having been educed out of nothing, retains potency,
as the stamp of its origin, in its essential constitution. _All
creatures_, then, _are essentially potential_, and therefore imperfect;
as potency means perfectibility. _God alone is free from potency_, as
he is the only being that did not come out of nothing.

A second conclusion is that the essential term of a created being
may be considered under two aspects--viz., as to the _reality_ it
borrows from its act, and as to the _potentiality_ it inherits from
its previous nothingness. Hence such a term must be called a _real
potency_; the word _real_ expressing the fact of its actuation, and
the word _potency_ expressing its ulterior actuability. Reality and
potentiality constitute _passivity_.

It is not unusual to confound substance with the term actuated by a
substantial act. Of course, the term cannot be thus actuated without
the substance becoming actual; but, though this is true as a matter
of fact, it does not follow that substance can be confounded with its
intrinsic term. Sphericity actuates a centre; and yet the centre thus
actuated is not a sphere, but only the intrinsic term of sphericity. In
like manner the act actuates its potency; but this potency is not the
substance itself; it is only one of its constituents.

The potential term, such as it is found in material substance, is
called _the matter_. Hence all that plays the part of potency in
any being whatever is called its _material_ constituent, although
such a being may not contain matter properly so called. Thus we say,
for instance, that the genus is the _material_ part of an essential
definition, because the genus is potential respecting some specific
difference, by which it may be further determined. In such cases the
word _material_ stands for "that which receives any determination,"
whether it receives it in fact or in thought only. In English, the
words _material_ and _immaterial_ are sometimes used in the sense of
important and unimportant. This meaning may be perfectly justifiable,
but is not adopted in philosophy.

With regard to the _act_ by which the essential term of a being is
first actuated, it is necessary fully to realize the fact that this
act is neither God's creative power nor God's creative action, but
something quite different. It is true that all actions are measured or
valued by their effects, that is, by the acts in which they end; thus
we measure the amount of motive action by the quantity of movement[281]
produced. Nevertheless, it is quite evident that the production of a
thing, and the thing produced, cannot be confounded with one another.
And, since action is nothing but the production of an act, the action
and the act produced cannot be confounded with one another, even though
they are represented by one and the same word. Thus the action of a
painter is not the painting (substantive), although such an action is
also called "painting" (participle). Again, the momentum of a falling
drop of rain is not the action of the earth, although it is directly
from it. And in the same manner the act produced by the Creator is not
his creative action, though it is directly from it. Still less can we
confound the act produced with the power by which it is produced; for
though every effect is virtually contained in its efficient power,
we know that it is not contained formally; otherwise the painting
should pre-exist within the painter, and the momentum of the falling
drop within the earth. As, then, the momentum of the falling drop has
no formal existence in the earth, but only in the drop itself while
it is falling, so also the act which proceeds from God has no formal
existence in God, but only in the term actuated. To say that a created
act is God's creative action or creative power, is no less a blunder
than to say that a circle described on a blackboard is the power or the
action of describing it.

The act which actuates its essential term, in the case of material
substance, is called _the form_. Hence all that plays the part of an
act in any being whatever is called its _formal_ constituent. Thus we
say that the specific difference is the _formal_ part of the essential
definition, because the difference is conceived as actuating the genus
into species. In such cases the word _formal_ stands for "that which
gives any determination," whether it gives it in fact or in thought
only.

Finally, the _actuality_ of the created being corresponds, as we
have already explained in the preceding article, to the finality
of creation, inasmuch as it perfects the essence into being. This
actuality has received different names, according to the different
light in which it can be viewed and the different connotations of which
it affords the ground. It is called the _complement_ of the essence,
its _formal existence_, its _formal unity_, its _individuality_. It
is called "complement" of the essence, inasmuch as it satisfies all
its requirements, and completes it into actual being; its "formal
existence," inasmuch as it is the formal result of active and passive
actuation; its "formal unity," inasmuch as it arises from two
principles conspiring into unity of essence, and therefore of existence
also; its "individuality," inasmuch as it is the unity of a _concrete_
being; for individuality is nothing but "that on account of which a
thing is formally _one_ in its concrete being."

Some philosophers of the Scotistic school hold that "individuality"
and "formal unity" are different things. They say that formal unity
is not individual, but universal; because it does not include in its
conception the individuative notes. They accordingly teach that the
universal is to be found to exist _formally_ in the individual; whence
they have been surnamed _Formalists_, or _Ultra-realists_.[282] But
it is not true that the formal unity does not include in itself the
individuative notes. In fact, all existing essence contains in its own
principles the adequate reason of its individuation, and therefore it
cannot, by the real conspiration of its principles, be formally _one_
without being _individual_ also. Accordingly, formal unity, though
universal in our conception, is individual in the thing itself.

It is evident that the actuality resulting from the act _giving_,
and the term _receiving_, existence, exhibits itself as existence
_given_ and _received_--that is, as _complete_ real existence. On
the other hand, all real result has a real opposition to the formal
principles of its resultation; for all that really proceeds has a real
relative opposition to that from which it proceeds. A real relative
opposition is therefore to be admitted between the real essence and
its formal existence; and consequently essence and existence must be
considered as really distinct. Not that the essence of a real being
does not imply its existence; but because in the essential act and the
essential term existence is contained only radically or virtually, not
formally, in the same manner as the conclusion is virtually contained
in the premises from which it follows, or as equality is contained
in the quantities from whose adequation it results. Hence, as in the
logical order the formal conclusion is distinct from the premises in
which it is virtually implied, so also in the real order is the formal
existence of any being to be distinguished from the real principles
of the essence in which it is virtually implied. As, however, the
act and the term, notwithstanding their real relative opposition and
distinction, identify themselves really, though inadequately, with the
_essence_ of the actual being, so also the actuality of the being,
though having a real relative opposition to the act and the term from
which it results, identifies itself really, yet inadequately, with the
complete _being_ of which it is the actuality.[283] Whence we conclude
that every primitive being, though strictly one in its physical entity,
consists of three metaphysical constituents _really_ distinct from one
another on account of their real relative opposition.

We must here notice that the last of these three
constituents--actuality--is scarcely ever mentioned by the scholastic
philosophers. They, in fact, consider all natural beings as constituted
of _act_ and _potency_ only. It may have appeared to them that by
simply stating the fact of the concurrence of act and potency into
one actual essence, the fact of the unity and actuality of that
essence would be sufficiently pointed out. They may have had another
reason also for omitting the mention of our third principle; for in
speculative questions it is the essence of things, and not their
existence, that comes under consideration; and essence, as such,
involves two principles only--viz., the _act_ and the _term_, as we
have stated above. It is obvious, then, that in their analysis of
the "quiddity" of beings, they had no need of mentioning our third
principle. A third reason may have been that the act and the potency,
or the form and the matter, in the opinion of those philosophers,
were two things separable, as the Aristotelic theory of substantial
generations implied; whereas the actuality of the being was not
considered as a third thing separable from either the form or the
matter, and therefore was not thought worthy of a separate mention.

But, the reality of this third principle being universally admitted,
there can be no doubt about the convenience, and even the necessity,
of giving it a distinct and prominent place in the constitution of any
complete being. This has been already shown in the preceding pages;
but, for the benefit of those who have never paid special attention to
the subject, we will give a summary of the principal reasons why in
metaphysical treatises the actuality of being should be methodically
granted as distinct a place among the intrinsic principles of things as
is allotted to the essential act and its term.

First, then, all being that has existence in nature is something
complete, not only _materially_--that is, by having its term--but also
_formally_, by having its own complete constitution or actuality.
The difference between material and formal completion will be easily
understood by an example. The sculptor carves the marble and makes a
statue. The marble is the _material_ term, and the figure resulting
in the marble is the _formal_ term, of his work. Hence the work of
carving is _materially_ complete in the marble and _formally_ complete
in the figure,[284] which is the actuality of the statue as such.
And it is evident that, in speaking of a statue, such a figure is as
worth mentioning as the marble and the carving. And therefore, as in
the analysis of being we give a prominent place to the term which
completes the act, we should do the same with regard to the actuality,
which completes the essence. A writer in the _Dublin Review_, who
has cleverly treated this subject, makes the following remark: "The
constituents _actus_ and _terminus_, or _forma_ and _materia_, are
recognized in the schools. The third constituent is not expressly
mentioned there. But you hear of _essentia_ and _esse_; and _esse_ is
the _complementum_. I have a fancy that the much-canvassed distinction
between the ἐνέργεια and the ἐντελέχεια of Aristotle is really this,
that ἐνέργεια is the _actus_, and ἐντελέχεια the _complementum_."[285]
This remark is very judicious; for it is as certain that the complete
being consists of essence and existence as it is certain that the
essence consists of act and term; and, moreover, there is no less a
distinction between the essence and its existence than between the act
and its term. Hence the same reasons that led metaphysicians to give
a conspicuous place to the act and its term in the analysis of the
essence, show that a similar place should also be given to essence and
its actuality in the analysis of the being.

In the second place, the formal complement of being is the only ground
on which many different and opposite things can be predicated of one
and the same being; as, for instance, activity and passivity, action
and passion, to be, to be one, to be good, etc. It is, therefore,
important not to leave in the shade that principle, without which no
unity of being can be conceived.

Thirdly, an explicit knowledge and mention of such a complement is
indispensable, in a great number of cases, when we have to explain how
accidental modes _not received_ in a substance can _intrinsically_
belong to that substance--a thing which will never be radically
explained without an explicit reference to the formal complement of the
being in which those modes are to be found.

Fourthly, in the intellectual as well as in the sensitive nature the
appetitive faculty cannot be accounted for, nor distinguished from the
cognoscitive, unless we have recourse to this same formal complement,
which constitutes the _affectibility_ of the same natures--a truth
which we must here simply state, as its demonstration belongs to
special metaphysics.

Fifthly, it is unwise to expose the reader to the danger of confounding
things having a metaphysical opposition to one another; for instance,
the uniting with the union accomplished, the constituting with the
complete constitution, the actuation with the actuality. But if the
actuality is kept out of view when we give the principles of beings,
such confusion will be almost unavoidable. I believe that it is owing
to the omission of this third principle that even great philosophers
have not unfrequently mistaken attitudes for acts, and actualities for
forms.

Sixthly, after we have analyzed a primitive complete being, and
found it to consist of three intrinsic principles, it is nothing
but reasonable to keep them all equally in sight, and to make them
all serve in their turn for the simplification of metaphysical
investigations; especially as the distinct recollection of the act, of
its term, and of the actuality of both will also draw the student's
attention to the corresponding extrinsic principles--viz., to the
creative power from which that act proceeds, to the nothingness out
of which that term was educed, and to the last end for which that
actuality obtained a place in the real order of things.

Lastly, by the consideration that these _three_ intrinsic and
relatively opposite principles constitute _one_ primitive complete
being, it becomes possible to account philosophically for the known
fact that every creature bears in itself, _in vestigio_ at least, as
S. Thomas puts it, a more or less imperfect image of God's unity and
trinity--a topic on which much might be said, were this the place for
discussing the analogy between beings of different orders.

_A few corollaries._ From the resolution of complete beings into
their intrinsic principles, and from the different character of these
principles and of their principiation, a number of useful corollaries
can be drawn, among which the following deserve a special attention:

1. It is a great mistake, and one which leads straight to pantheism,
to assert, as Gioberti did, that creatures are not _beings_, but only
_existences_. For if creatures have their own actual essence, they
are not _mere_ existences, but complete beings; and, if they have
no essence, they cannot exist; as all existence is the actuality of
some essence. Hence to assert that creatures are not beings, but only
existences, amounts to saying that creatures have no essence, and that
their existence is the existence of nothing--that is, _non-existence_.
Moreover, mere existence is a simple actuality, and does not exhibit
an intelligible ratio; hence, if creatures were mere existences, they
would be intrinsically unintelligible, not only to us, as Gioberti
pretends, but to God himself, who certainly does not understand what is
intrinsically unintelligible. There is no need of insisting on such an
unavoidable conclusion.

That the same assertion leads straight to pantheism is likewise
evident. In fact, the absurdity of admitting existences which would be
existences of nothing could not be escaped but by trying to pin them
on the substance of God himself, and by saying, with the pantheist,
that all such existences are nothing but divers actualities, or
attitudes, or forms assumed by the divine substance. Thus, to escape
one absurdity, we would fall into another.

2. Inasmuch as the actuality of a given essence makes a given thing
formally complete, one, and perfect according to its entitative degree,
it is to such an actuality that everything owes that it is formally
good, and that it answers to the finality of its creation. Such a
goodness implies two things: the first, that every creature is good in
its _absolute_ being, for it is in such a being that God's design is
fulfilled of communicating his goodness outside of himself; the other,
that every creature is good in its _relative_ being also--that is, in
its intrinsic aptitude and determination to manifest God's perfections
in a manner and degree proportionate to the kind and degree of its
entity. Accordingly, every created being is good not only as it is
a _thing_, but also as it is _a principle of action_. In the first
capacity it fulfils the immediate end of its creation, and in the
second it fulfils by its action the ultimate end for the sake of which
it has been made to exist.

3. Hence we further infer, that the essence of every created being is
its _nature_ also. For _nature is a principle of motion_, according to
Aristotle, whether motion is taken as the action proceeding from that
nature itself, or as the reception of an action proceeding from an
extrinsic agent. Now, we have seen that all creatures are manifestative
of God's perfections, and therefore that they have in themselves an act
which is a principle of action; on the other hand, we have also seen
that every creature has its potential term, and therefore passivity,
or receptivity of new determinations. Accordingly, every created
being, by the very nature of its essential constituents, is a complete
principle of motion. Essence and nature are, therefore, the same
thing in reality, though they are distinguished from one another in
our conception. S. Thomas considers that these three words, _nature_,
_essence_, and _quiddity_, apply to one and the same thing viewed under
three distinct aspects; the word _nature_ meaning the essence of the
thing as connoting operation, since there is no natural being without
active power; whereas the word _quiddity_ means the same essence viewed
as an object of definition; and the word _essence_ is used to express
the fact that in it and through it a thing has its own being.[286]
Whence it follows that a complete being is no sooner endowed with
existence than with activity, and is no sooner a being than an
individual nature. And therefore a complete being and a concrete nature
are really one and the same thing. Malebranche's theory, denying that
creatures have any true causality, is therefore utterly untenable, as
it cannot be reconciled with the first principles of metaphysics.

4. The entity of the active power contained in the nature of any
being cannot be anything else than its essential act; that is, the
very act produced by God in its creation. In fact, we have just
seen that in all creatures the essence and the nature are the same
reality, and that the constituents of the nature are nothing but the
constituents of the essence. Accordingly, the nature of every creature
consists of an essential act and an essential term; the one being its
principle of activity, as the other is its principle of passivity.
"The form," says S. Thomas, "is that by which the agent acts," and
"By what a thing is, by that it acts," and "The principle of being is
the principle of acting," and "Every agent acts inasmuch as it is in
act." These axioms are accepted by all real philosophers. Hence the
active principle of any complete being, and its essential act, are the
same thing in reality, though they are distinguished from one another
in our conception, in the same manner as are nature and essence; for
the _essential act_ connotes the intrinsic term of the essence, to
which the act is essentially terminated, whilst the _active principle_
connotes any extrinsic term to which the action proceeding from the
same act is, or can be, accidentally terminated. This is what S. Thomas
means when he says that "a natural form is a principle of operation,
not inasmuch as it is the permanent form of the thing to which it gives
existence, but inasmuch as it has a leaning towards an effect."[287]
Such a _leaning_ (_inclinatio_) should be taken to mean a natural
_ordination_ or _determination_ to act.

Philosophers agitate the question, whether created substances act by
themselves immediately, or by the aid of accidents. The Scotistic
school holds the first opinion, whilst the Thomistic supports the
second. For reasons which it would take too long to develop in this
place, we are inclined to believe that natural accidents are not
active, and that their bearing on the action of substance is not of an
efficient, but of a formal, character; by which we mean that accidents
have no play in the production of effects, except inasmuch as their
presence or absence entails a different formal determination of the
conditions in which the agent is to exert its power. It is true,
indeed, that created substances never act independently of accidental
conditions; but it is true, at the same time, that they always act
by themselves without the aid of accidents, inasmuch as the active
power they exert is so exclusively owned by them that it cannot even
partially reside in any of their accidents.

As the active principle is really nothing else than the act by which
the agent is, so also the passive principle is really nothing else
than the essential term by which that act is completed. Here again
the same reality presents itself under two distinct aspects; for the
phrase _essential term_ connotes the essential act by which the term is
essentially actuated, whilst the phrase _passive principle_ connotes
any accidental act by which the same term is liable to be accidentally
actuated.

5. Since a being possessing its three intrinsic principles is so fully
and adequately constituted as to require nothing additional to exist,
it is obvious that such a being contains in its perfect constitution
the sufficient reason of its aptitude to exist _non in alio et non
per aliud_, but _in se et per se_; that is, in itself and by itself.
Now, to exist in itself is to be a _substance_, and to exist by
itself is to be what philosophers call _suppositum_--_i.e._, a thing
having separate subsistence; and, therefore, such a being, if simply
left to itself, will be both a substance and a suppositum. In fact,
the essential act of a created being, though always needing positive
conservation on account of its contingency, needs no termination to, or
sustentation from, a subject, as it already holds under itself its own
intrinsic term, by which it is sufficiently terminated and sustained.
And in the same manner, the essence of a complete being needs no union
with any extraneous nature to be made completely subsistent, as it
is already sufficiently complete on account of its formal actuality
and individuality. Thus it is manifest that _nothing positive is to
be added_ to a complete being in order to make it a substance and a
suppositum; it suffices to leave it alone without further sustentation
and without further completion. By the first of these two negations,
the being will exist _non in alio_, but in itself; and by the second it
will subsist _non per aliud_, but by itself. Hence it is that the first
negation is called _the mode of substance_, and the second _the mode of
the suppositum_.

6. To be, to be true, to be one, to be good, to be a thing or a being,
are convertible expressions so far as their real objective meaning
is concerned, and are distinct only on account of their different
connotations. A thing is called _a being_, inasmuch as it has
existence. It is called _true_, inasmuch as its act suits its term,
and _vice versa_. For the objective truth of things--_i.e._, their
metaphysical truth--is nothing but their intelligibility; and the whole
intelligibility of a being consists in the agreement of an essential
act with its essential term; that is, in this: that the one adequately
satisfies the wants of the other, and thus constitutes with it one
perfect intelligible ratio or essence. Hence the termination of the
proper act to the proper term makes a thing objectively true; just as
the application of the proper predicate to the proper subject makes
true a proposition. This objective or metaphysical truth is perfectly
independent of our knowledge of it; it has, however, the reason of
its being in God's intellect, in which the archetypes of all that is
intelligible are contained, and to which the whole ideal order is to be
traced as to its original source. A thing is called _one_ on account
of the formal unity of its essence and of its existence. It is called
_good_, objectively and metaphysically, inasmuch as it is materially
and formally complete in the manner above described, and consequently
perfect, so as to require no further intrinsic endowment to exist.

The objective goodness of any being arises from its truth; for it is
the mutual fitness of the essential act and of the essential term that
accounts for their mutual agreement in unity of existence; whence it
follows that the being will naturally exist in itself, and subsist by
itself, without any further addition, as though finding rest in its
own reality. But, that in which anything finds rest is its own good;
and therefore everything that exists in itself completely is good
to itself, while its act and its term, as the intrinsic factors of
such a goodness, are good also, but only of an initial and relative
goodness--viz., so far as the one is good to the other. Lastly, the
word _thing_ expresses the whole being as it is in its concrete
essence--that is, the whole reality implied in its three intrinsic
principles. _Thing_ in Latin is _res_; and _res_, as well as _ratio_,
are connected with the verb _reor_ (to judge) in the same manner as
_pax_ (peace) and _pactio_ (compact) are connected with the verb
_paciscor_ (to make a compact); and accordingly, as peace implies the
compact, of which it is the result, and by which its conditions are
duly determined, so also _res_ implies the _ratio_, of which it is the
concrete result, and by which it is confined between the bounds of a
determinate quiddity. Whether the English words _thing_, _thought_, and
_to think_ bear to one another the same relation as the Latin _res_,
_ratio_, and _reor_, we are not ready to decide.

7. The verb _to be_ has not exactly the same meaning, when applied
to a complete being, as when applied to its constituent principles.
Of the complete being we say that _it is_ simply and completely. Of
the essential act we also say that _it is_, but not absolutely nor
completely, because it has no existence apart from its term; existence
being the result of the position of the one in the other. Of the
essential term we should not say precisely that _it is_, but rather
that _it has being_. This adjective predication is here employed,
because the being of the term is wholly due to its act, without which
the term would be nothing, as we have already shown; and therefore the
term _is not a being_, but only _has the being_ borrowed from its act,
just as the geometric centre has no being but that which it receives
from the circumference. Of the complement we do not say that _it is_,
or that _it exists_, because the complement is the formal existence,
not of itself, but of the being of which it is the complement, and
therefore must be predicated of the existent being, not of itself. Thus
we cannot correctly say that _loquacity talks_, nor that _velocity
runs_: and for the same reason we should not say that _existence
exists_; for as it is _the woman_ that talks by her loquacity, and _the
horse_ that runs with its velocity, so it is _the complete being_ that
exists by its own existence.

Nevertheless, the verb _to be_, when used in a logical sense to express
the existence of an agreement between a predicate and a subject, or
any other mental relation between objects of thought, applies equally
to all things conceived, whatever their degree of reality; because,
inasmuch as such things are actually known, they are all equally actual
in our intellectual faculty.

And now, with regard to the essence itself of a complete being, the
question arises whether it should be held _to be_, or to _have being_,
in the sense of the distinction already made. S. Thomas seems to
hold that the essence of creatures cannot be said _to be_, but only
_to have being_; for he teaches that in creatures the essence is to
its existence as a potency is to an act. If this doctrine were to
be applied to _possible_ essences only, we might admit it without
discussion; but the holy doctor seems to apply it to the _actual_
essence also; for "_to be_," says he, "is the most perfect of all
realities, because it performs the parts of an act with regard to them
all; as no thing has actuality but according as it is; and therefore
_to be_ is the actuality of all things, even of the forms themselves;
and for this reason existence is not compared to any existing thing as
a recipient to that which is received, but rather as that which is
received to its recipient. For when I mention the existence of a man,
or of a horse, or of anything else, _existence_ stands for something
formal and received, and not for that to which it belongs."[288]

It is clear, however, that the actuality of anything is not an act
really received in the essence of the thing as in a potency. For,
according to S. Thomas himself, nothing is educed from potency into
act, except through an act which is not originated by that potency;
and therefore _no potency contains in itself the formal reason of its
actuation_, but all potency is actuated by an act originated by an
extrinsic agent. Now, such is not the case with _real_ essences; for
every _real_ essence contains in itself all that is required to give
rise to its actuality, as we have proved; and consequently, as soon as
the essential act actuates the essential term, the actuality of the
essence springs forth by spontaneous resultation, as the consequence
from the premises, with no need of an extrinsic agent producing a new
act. Granting, then, that existence is something _formal_, as S. Thomas
truly says, yet it does not follow that it is _an act received_; it
is only a _resulting actuality_. And therefore the real essence is
not the potency of existence, but its formal reason. Existence is the
complement of real essence, and presupposes it; and consequently gives
it nothing but the real _denomination_ of existent--and, perhaps,
this is all that S. Thomas intended to teach, though his words seem to
imply a great deal more. For, on the one hand, he very often employs
the word _potentia_, not in the sense of passive potency, but in
that of virtuality; and, on the other, he frequently gives the name
of forms to those formalities from which things receive their proper
denomination, and considers them as received in the things to which
they give such a denomination. But in such cases their reception is of
course only logical, not real, and accordingly the thing denominated by
them is only a logical, not a real, potency, as it already possesses
the reality of that by which it receives its special denomination. Thus
we say that in man rationality is to animality as act is to potency;
but this is true in a logical sense only, because man's animality
implies in its constitution a rational soul, and therefore is already
in possession of rationality.

To conclude: the essence of all actual beings is to be said _to be_
or _to exist_ rather than _to have being_ or _to have existence_; and
in the same manner the essence of a possible being is to be called a
potency _of existing_ rather than _of receiving existence_, so far, at
least, as it is considered in connection with its intrinsic principles.
The reader, if not accustomed to metaphysical investigations, will
think that we, in this last question, have only amused ourselves
with splitting hairs; to correct such a judgment, he has only to ask
himself whether between _being rich_ and _holding borrowed riches_ the
difference be important or trivial.

                            TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[276] CATHOLIC WORLD, Feb., 1874, page 578.

[277] S. Thomas says _intus-legere_, "to read within," which amounts to
the same.

[278] This third proof and the following apply to created beings
only; but creatures, as we hope to explain later, inasmuch as they
are _beings_, are so many imperfect likenesses of their Creator, and
unmistakably show that he himself is an infinite Act actuating (out
of himself, not out of nothing) an infinite Term, and possessing an
infinite Actuality. And accordingly, what we have said of the intrinsic
constitution of a created being must be true, in an eminent manner, of
the Creator also.

[279] _Omne agens agit in quantum est in actu; et omne patiens patitur
in quantum est in potentia._--S. Thomas, _passim_.

[280] Pure potency is _quod potest esse et non est_, according to S.
Thomas, _Opusc. De Princ. Naturæ_.

[281] We say _movement_, not _motion_, though we know that these two
words are considered as synonymous. Motion corresponds to the Latin
_motio_, whilst movement corresponds to the Latin _motus_. _Motio_
means the motive action--that is, motion properly--both as proceeding
actively from the agent, and as passively received in the patient;
_motus_, on the contrary, signifies the result of the _motio_ given
and received; and this result is movement. As in philosophy we have
to distinguish between action and its result, we must keep up a
distinction between the words also. Very probably movement and motion
would never have been accepted as synonymous, had the verb _to move_
exclusively retained its original active signification; but, as people
imagined that movement was a kind of action, they thought it right to
say not only that the horse moves the cart, but also that the cart
_moves_, instead of saying that it is moved. Even Newton has been so
misled by the popular use of this verb as to write more than once
_corpus movet_, instead of _corpus movetur_. It was but natural that
"movement," too, should be transformed into "motion." Are we too late
to restore to these two words their distinct meanings?

[282] See Kleutgen, _The Old Philosophy_, diss. 2, c. 4.

[283] We cannot here explain the different kinds of identity; but we
hope we shall take up this matter in one of our future articles.

[284] The same distinction may be very properly expressed by saying
that the carving is _materially_ terminated to the marble, and
_formally_ to the statue.

[285] _Dublin Review_, January, 1873, pp. 70, 71.

[286] Nomen naturæ videtur significare essentiam rei secundum quod
habet ordinem vel ordinationem ad propriam operationem rei; quum nulla
res propria destituatur operatione. Quidditatis vero nomen sumitur
ex hoc quod per definitionem significatur. Sed essentia dicitur
secundum quod per eam et in ea res habet esse.--S. Thomas, _De Ente et
Essentia_, c. 1.

[287] _Summa Theol._, p. 1, q. 14, a. 8.

[288] _Esse_ est perfectissimum omnium; comparatur enim ad omnia ut
actus; nihil enim habet actualitatem nisi in quantum est; unde ipsum
_esse_ est actualitas omnium rerum, et etiam ipsarum formarum; unde
non comparatur ad alia sicut recipiens ad receptum, sed magis sicut
receptum ad recipiens. Quum enim dico _esse_ hominis, vel equi, vel
cujuscumque alterius, ipsum _esse_ consideratur ut formale et receptum,
non autem ut illud cui competit esse.--_Summa Theol._, p. 1, q. 4, a. 1.




THE JANSENIST SCHISM IN HOLLAND.

JANSENISM IN THE CHURCH OF UTRECHT.


             FROM LES ETUDES RELIGIEUSES. BY C. VAN AKEN.

                               CONCLUDED.


II.

Such was the system of Jansenius, at least as to its main points; its
five famous propositions forming the most important conclusions of the
system. If they are not all to be found, _in so many words_, in the
_Augustinus_--which neither pope nor theologian has ever pretended
they are--they are the soul of the book, in the words of Bossuet. This
soul, this breath of error, is revived in Quesnel and in the false
Synod of Pistoia. Now, are the proofs called for of its existence in
the pretended church of Utrecht? Then we have only to let the hierarchy
intruded in Holland speak for itself through its letter addressed to
Scipio Ricci. So far as I know, this letter has never before been
published. We give it as faithfully transcribed from the original in
the archives at Florence:[289]

  "MONSEIGNEUR:

  "We have just read with astonishment a bull of Pope Pius VI., in
  which the Synod of Pistoia, held by you in 1786, is condemned, and
  your episcopal administration calumniated, upon grounds which are
  incomprehensible. Conduct such as this in regard to a bishop and an
  ecclesiastical assembly of the highest repute in the church, and
  the spirit of partisanship which characterizes the bull generally,
  have certainly not been imitated from the great Doctor of Grace,
  S. Augustine, whom the latter seems intended to honor, since it is
  dated on his feast.

  "Your synod, monseigneur, was for years, as the public well knew,
  under examination by Roman censors; and it is evident that they
  would not have occupied themselves with it for so long a time[290]
  if, instead of laboriously seeking for pretexts to condemn it, they
  had sought in it for that truth which is everywhere displayed in
  it with clearness, dignity, and unction. We need not, therefore,
  have expected a confirmation of this synod as the result of such
  an examination. We are no longer in the days when the popes used
  the authority of their see only for edification, and not for
  destruction. Your synod, monseigneur, reveals nothing which is
  unworthy of the full approbation of the head of the church, and
  which would not have been cordially received by the popes of former
  times. But God permits that those of later times should be swayed
  by prejudices and by the dominating influence of a court which,
  although foreign and even contrary to the divine institution of the
  Holy See, pretends, nevertheless, to identify itself with the chair
  of S. Peter, and has consequently taken upon itself to dictate the
  bulls of the popes conformably to its own interests--interests
  often greatly opposed to those of the church and of the Holy
  See.[291] It finds that these human interests have not been made
  much of by the Synod of Pistoia, which kept in view only the good
  of souls and the disinterested exercise of the functions of the
  pastorate. It could not, therefore, approve this synod, since its
  decrees preach the new covenant, of which we are ministers, in the
  spirit and not in the letter. The ancient one, in which the spirit
  was sacrificed to the letter, and in which God was honored by the
  lips, while the heart was far from him, is the only one in accord
  with the political maxims and views of a court entirely devoted
  to the _éclat_ of the pontifical throne, and to the externals of
  religion. The fathers of the synod, most reasonably convinced
  that the true and only object of the ministry established by
  Jesus Christ is to give to God adorers in spirit and truth, have
  endeavored, so far as these evil times permitted, to bring back
  Christian worship to its primitive purity and simplicity. But this
  could not be suffered by a court which applies itself exclusively
  to fostering abuses in ecclesiastical discipline and in the
  administration of the sacraments, and to all the new devotions and
  superstitions[292] which give a false idea of Christian piety,
  and cause the faithful to forget the true spirit of Christianity;
  not reforming, as it ought, this Judaical worship, but making its
  profit of it, and taking it under its protection, on all occasions.

  "In the synod you held, monseigneur, there were useful reforms
  proposed, and even commenced. Still greater ones were desired. If
  the wise regulations made in it were put in practice and everywhere
  adopted, as they deserve to be; if its wishes were attended
  to, true piety would flourish again, the church would possess
  good ministers, their labors would produce abundant fruits, the
  observance of the canons would restore the salutary discipline of
  the early days, the hierarchical order would enjoy all its rights,
  its head, the Holy See, would be listened to and respected, but
  the Roman court would become nothing. It is this, monseigneur,
  which excites its resentment against you and your synod. It is the
  court alone which has produced this extraordinary bull, which is
  an injury to the chair of S. Peter, more even than to the Synod of
  Pistoia, and the Pope has been dishonored by causing him to adopt
  it.

  "It was already sufficiently a scandal that Rome alone gave no sign
  of approving this synod, while it was receiving praises everywhere
  else; that she alone seemed to take no interest in the good
  results of which it was susceptible, and appeared even aggrieved
  and offended at that which gave joy to all true children of the
  church.[293] But this was not enough for the jealous and vindictive
  policy of the Roman court. It wished to brand, by a public and
  solemn censure, the acts of the Synod of Pistoia; and although it
  must have been infinitely painful to the censors to find no matter
  for condemnation, yet, by condemning, at whatever detriment to
  itself, that which all the world approved, it has capped the climax
  of scandal--_scandali mensuram implevit_.

  "Injustice vainly attempts a disguise: it often betrays itself
  by the clumsy precautions it takes to disguise itself. This,
  monseigneur, is what we see in the bull of August 28, in which God
  permitted that its compilers should, against all prudence, depart
  from their ordinary method of making qualifications _in globo_,
  so convenient, and even so necessary, where there is question of
  condemning good books. By applying to each of the propositions
  censured by them particular qualifications, they have thought
  to give to their censure an appearance of greater rectitude and
  equity, and by this very means they have rendered evident to all
  the spirit of deception and bad faith which characterizes them.
  In fact, monseigneur, if the use of this kind of censure be even
  just and equitable in itself, it would be impossible to abuse it
  more grossly than they have done in the matter of your synod.
  Every one knows that, when propositions are bad and condemnable,
  they are so in themselves and in the sense they express. It is,
  then, in themselves and in reference to this sense that they
  should be condemned.[294] This, however, is not what has been
  done in regard to the greater number of the propositions drawn
  from the Synod of Pistoia. They are not condemned in themselves
  nor in their proper sense, but relatively to the imaginary sense
  attributed to them. The truths they express are passed over, in
  order to condemn the errors they do not express; and while it
  would be against all evidence to attribute to them an erroneous
  sense, to which the words are repugnant, they are nevertheless
  condemned conditionally--that is to say, by virtue of a gratuitous
  and often absurd supposition that this erroneous or in some
  wise reprehensible sense may be conveyed therein. They dare not
  condemn Jesus Christ, or, what is the same thing, the truth in its
  own name; but they give him the name and the dress of Barabbas,
  in order to have the right of sending him to punishment as a
  malefactor--_Et cum iniquis reputatus est_.

  "We have just said, monseigneur, that the bull violated grossly in
  your regard good faith and justice by this indirect and captious
  manner in which it condemns the greater number of the propositions
  drawn from your synod. But there are others, in the censure of
  which the interests of the faith and of the teachings of the
  church are equally disregarded. They do not hesitate to sacrifice
  these to the pernicious opinions of obnoxious theological schools,
  the defence of which is taken up against your decrees, under
  the pretext that the Holy See tolerates them under the name of
  Molinism--a _Pelagian doctrine_[295] rejected by all tradition.
  Thus error, or rather a number of most dangerous errors, is put
  on a level with truth; and the hand of Pius VI. is made use of to
  replace beside the ark that idol of Dagon so often overturned to
  its base by the censures of the church and the writings of her
  doctors. What idea have they, then, of the teachings of the church,
  and of the rights of bishops and their co-laborers in reference to
  this doctrine? Because Paul V. did not choose to do in regard to
  the doctrine of Molina _that which his successors did in regard to
  the doctrine of S. Augustine in their bulls against Jansenius and
  Quesnel_;[296] because they have not published, with condemnation,
  the system of equilibrium, of _gratia sufficiens_, of the state
  of pure nature, of the _scientia media_, of limbo, etc.; and have
  allowed to be taught the sufficiency of attrition without the
  love of God, and the ignorant devotion to the Sacred Heart to
  be practised, shall pastors no longer be permitted to oppose to
  these novelties the principles and the language of Scripture and
  tradition? And shall they no longer warn the faithful of the snares
  spread for their faith and piety, because those who spread them
  have not yet been declared heretics by the Sovereign Pontiffs?

  "They have not contented themselves, monseigneur, with making a
  crime of your private sentiments, however irreproachable, but
  have quarrelled with you for having, in your synod, adhered to a
  doctrine so authoritative, so precious in all churches and all
  states, as that contained in the four articles of the assembly of
  the clergy of France in 1682. They have so poor an opinion of the
  present clergy and of the Gallican Church itself as to imagine that
  this clergy would feel offended at the praises you give to the
  celebrated declaration of that assembly, and to take the insertion
  you have made of it in the acts of the Synod of Pistoia as an
  injury. But if the synod does an injury to the French clergy by
  adopting its maxims, what does the Pope's bull do, which rejects
  and condemns them?

  "You may be sure, monseigneur, that a bull like this--a censure as
  manifestly unjust at bottom as singular and indecent in form--is
  not likely to shake or diminish in the least either our attachment
  for you or our esteem and admiration for the acts of your synod,
  _in the doctrine of which our clergy recognize their own_, through
  the chapter of Utrecht, whose act of adhesion was sent to you
  in November, 1789,[297] shortly after the French publication of
  the synod. The efforts which are now being made to cry down its
  results, and to render them abortive, are so much more a motive for
  our confirming this adhesion, and of renewing to you the expression
  of our interest in your cause, afflicted, as we are, to the bottom
  of our heart, that our Holy Father, Pope Pius VI., who ought to
  show us the example of like sentiments, shows himself in his bull
  entirely opposed to them. We sympathize with you, monseigneur, no
  less in the personal offence that has been offered you than in the
  annoyances which cannot fail to arise to you as well as to the
  faithful clergy of your ancient diocese. But God, who has enabled
  you long to foresee these things, and who has already prepared you
  for them by preliminary trials, will give you grace to bear all
  this with continued courage and confidence in his protection and
  assistance.

  "Considering the affair in itself, nothing can be weaker than the
  attack that has been made upon you by this bull, which is more
  likely, in view of its whole contents, to justify your doctrine
  than to render it an object of suspicion. But if we pay attention
  to the fact that it is the very purity of this doctrine, and
  your enlightened zeal for the house of God, that have drawn upon
  you this unjust treatment; that it is the testimony you render
  fearlessly and without disguise to the most important truths, so
  combated in our days, of dogma, of morals, and of discipline in the
  church, which renders the Synod of Pistoia odious to the enemies of
  these truths, nothing can be grander nor more worthy of a bishop
  than the cause you will have to defend. Consequently, nothing can
  impel us more to invoke upon you, monseigneur, by our prayers,
  and upon all those whom divine Providence will associate with you
  in the same defence, the lights and graces of the Holy Ghost.
  Ask them also for us, who long preceded you in the same career of
  tribulations and trials, and whose cause has not been separated
  from yours, since it has been attempted to injure your synod by
  comparing it, in the new bull, to our council--a comparison most
  just and natural, and which cannot but do honor to both.

  "We are, with respect and tender attachment in our Lord Jesus
  Christ, monseigneur, your most humble and obedient servants,

              ✠ GAULTH. MICH.,
                        _Archbishop of Utrecht_.

              ✠ ADRIEN JEAN,
                        _Bishop of Harlem_.

              ✠ NICHOLAS,
                        _Bishop of Deventer_.[298]

  "UTRECHT, October 31st, All-Saints' Eve."


This letter renders evidence against the clergy of Utrecht that may
justly be called crushing, and would be sufficient in itself to
close the debate. It sheds light, also, on the whole history of the
schismatical church of the United Provinces. Now, to complete the
demonstration entered upon, let us retrace our steps, and make research
into the origin and the peculiar character of the Jansenism of Holland.


III.

In the beginning of the XVIIth century the University of Louvain
was in a most flourishing condition; the purity of doctrine that
prevailed there, its attachment to the Holy See, and the example of
loyal and perfect submission it had recently given before the world
by repudiating the errors of Baius, gained for it the respect and
good wishes of all Christendom. Some of its professors, however,
had not entirely renounced Baianism; and unhappily, in their case,
distinguished talents were joined with uncommon activity. The most
eminent of these men was Jacques Janson, who was the professor and,
as it were, the father of Jansenius. He made the third of the party
of whom the future Bishop of Ypres and the Abbé de Saint-Cyran were
the other two. Louvain then became the centre of a set of ideas of
which the doctrines of Baius formed the basis, and which were ripened
and developed by Jansenius during nearly thirty years, to be finally
brought forth in his famous _Augustinus_. It was also at the school of
Jacques Janson that Philip Rovenius and several eminent individuals
among his clergy received their theological training; they therefore
drank of Jansenism at its very source.

The _Augustinus_ was issued in 1640 from the press of Jacques Zegers,
of Louvain. Immediately, Philip Rovenius, Archbishop of Philippi, _in
partibus infidelium_, and Vicar Apostolic of the United Provinces; Jean
Wachtelaer, his vicar-general; Baudoin Catz, afterwards the successor
of Jacques de la Torre; Leonard Marius, professor in the College
Hollandais at Cologne, and several besides, gave a public and entire
approval to the book of Jansenius, coupled with the most flattering
praises. There was at once in Belgium, as well as in Holland, and on
the part of many virtuous and well-meaning priests, an infatuation,
an enthusiasm, exhibited for the _Augustinus_, of which the reception
given almost in our day to the first volume of the _Essai sur
l'Indifference_ will give only a faint idea. But Holland distinguished
herself in this concert of praises; S. Augustine himself, people said,
had spoken by the mouth of Jansenius; Jean Wachtelaer averred that the
Netherland priests were never wearied with reading and meditating
this incomparable work; Rovenius went further, and formed a league
with the Canon of Furnes, a nephew of Jansenius, and several other
partisans of the new doctrines, to prevent the Council of Brabant from
putting in execution the first measures taken by the Holy See against
the _Augustinus_. These were the circumstances that preceded the bull
_In eminenti_, published at Rome on the 19th of June, 1643, in which
the famous work was proscribed as containing propositions previously
condemned;[299] we are thus made aware of the sentiments of the clergy,
and the spirit in which the young Levites of the United Provinces were
formed. Rovenius submitted to the pontifical definition; in his book
on the Christian Republic,[300] printed at Anvers, in 1648, he even
renders solemn homage to the infallibility of the Vicar of Christ. This
important doctrine was then, as always, held in honor at the University
of Louvain. Rovenius had learned it there, and to this powerful
preservative he owed the honor and fidelity that attended his last days.

The clergy of Holland seemed at first to imitate the humble obedience
of its chief; but it soon became evident that this submission was
neither as general nor as perfect as was desirable. Left to its ancient
traditions of respect for the Holy See, the Church of Holland would
perhaps have escaped shipwreck; but it shortly received as vicar
apostolic a man of whom Sainte-Beuve has truly said that he was "the
great auxiliary of Port Royal in Holland."[301] Jean Neercassel,
priest of the Oratory, had had a share in the government of the mission
since the year 1652. Consecrated Bishop of Castoria, _in partibus_, in
1662, he shortly after became, by the death of Baudoin Catz (1663), the
sole vicar apostolic in the United Provinces, and continued so to be
for the long period of twenty-three years. The illustrious Archbishop
of Malines, who knew, by a painful but glorious experience, how greatly
firmness and devotion on the part of a chief pastor were needed in
those sad times, said: "I shall always commiserate those bishops
who are even on terms with a single one of these innovators."[302]
Neercassel invited these innovators all to Holland, and made it a
place of refuge for them. Arnauld, du Vaucel, Gerberon, Quesnel, and a
multitude of apostate monks and fugitive priests, all in revolt against
the decisions of the church, cast themselves upon the poor mission
as upon a prey provided for them. From Arnauld's correspondence, and
the papers found on Gerberon, Quesnel, and others, we see that the
direction of the most important affairs of the vicariate apostolic then
passed into the hands of the patriarchs of Jansenism. In this school,
the clergy of the Netherlands learned the wretched distinction between
_right_ and _fact_ (le _droit_ et le _fait_). As this distinction tion
forms one of the bases of the resistance offered by that clergy to
the definitions of the Holy See, it would be proper to give a brief
explanation of it.

The five famous propositions having been referred to the tribunal of
the Sovereign Pontiff by eighty-five French bishops, the so-called
disciples of S. Augustine sent a deputation to Rome to defend the sense
of Jansenius. They prepared, on this occasion, the celebrated _Ecrit
à trois Colonnes_, in order, said they, "to show fully the state of
the controversy, and to furnish the Pope with the means of knowing
exactly upon what he had to give judgment." For each proposition
there is distinguished, 1st, the sense of Luther or of Calvin, which
is condemned; 2d, the natural sense, _prout a nobis defenditur_, the
sense of Jansenius--in a word, that said to be the sense of the church
and of S. Augustine;[303] 3d, and last, the Pelagian or semi-Pelagian,
which is rejected like the first. At this time, then, the party
acknowledged, in an official and authentic document, that it defended
the five propositions in the sense of Jansenius, and that this sense
was the only natural and legitimate one. The whole question was to know
if this sense were heretical or not. It was upon this point that the
Pope's decision was invoked both by the bishops and by the partisans of
Jansenius.

The decision was given the 31st of May, 1653, in the bull _Cum
occasione_, which condemned the five famous propositions. The church
evidently aimed a blow at the spirit of the book, which alone conveyed
the error. The Jansenists understood it as every one else did at the
time, and were confounded by it. But in their farewell audience, the
deputies of the party asked the Pope if he had been understood to
condemn the opinion in regard to efficacious grace by itself--the
doctrine of S. Augustine. Certainly not, replied the Holy Father. The
whole of Jansenism was embraced in this equivocal question; for the
Jansenists reasoned thus: the _Augustinus_ contains nothing but the
pure doctrine of S. Augustine; we can therefore submit to the bull
without rejecting the sense of Jansenius.

To prevent and eliminate in advance every pretext for disobedience,
Pope Alexander VII., in 1665, ordered, in a new bull, that the
condemnation of the five propositions in the sense of Jansenius should
be subscribed to; he directed at the same time, according to the
ancient usage of the church, that the signature should be attached to a
formula in these words: "I,----, submit to the Apostolic Constitution
of Pope Innocent X., dated the 30th of May, 1653, and to that of the
Sovereign Pontiff Alexander VII., dated the 16th of October, 1665; I
condemn and reject heartily and in all sincerity the five propositions
taken from the _Augustinus_ of Cornelius Jansenius in the same manner
as they are condemned by the said constitutions; I condemn them in
the sense of that author; thus I swear. May God help me and this holy
Gospel!"

Then it began to be said in the camp of Jansenius: The pope and the
bishops may well decide if the propositions are heretical; it is a
question of _right_. _Créance au droit!_ But _are_ the propositions
taken from the _Augustinus_, and do they convey its sense? That is a
question of _fact_, in regard to which the church might be mistaken.
Nevertheless, _respect au fait_! After this, it was signed, excluding
(_en exceptant_) the sense of Jansenius. The more determined refused
their signature; after the time of Pierre Codde, the successor of
Neercassel, this was the general rule.

No one, in my opinion, has more fully set forth the state of
this question than the author of the _Provincial Letters_, whose
genius demonstrates conclusively the absurdity of this celebrated
distinction.[304] He thus expresses himself in a passage wherein he
maintains his opinion against Arnauld, Nicole, and others: "The whole
dispute is in ascertaining if there be a fact and a right disconnected
from one another, or if there be only a right; that is, if the sense
of Jansenius ... does nothing but indicate the right. The Pope and the
bishops are on one side, and they claim that it is a point of right and
of faith to say that the five propositions are heretical in the sense
of Jansenius; and Alexander VII. declares in his constitution that, to
be in the true faith, we must say that the words, 'sense of Jansenius,'
express only the heretical sense of the propositions, and that thus _it
is a fact which carries with it a right_, and makes an essential part
of the profession of faith; as if we should say: The sense of Calvin on
the Eucharist is heretical, _which is certainly a point of faith_."[305]

Nothing could be better said. But what is the conclusion? It is this,
and Sainte-Beuve himself says the same in other words:[306] the church
must be denied all infallibility on the question of right; we must
allege that she can be mistaken even as to the true and natural sense
of her own decrees, if we would maintain that she could err as to the
fact in Jansenius. In a word, we must either completely break with the
church, or condemn the sense of Jansenius.

M. Réville seems to know very little of the question of fact as regards
Jansenius. One might say that, to form his opinion on this point, he
had consulted only a report of the Jansenist Bishop of Utrecht, which
contains an account of the latter's interview in 1828 with the Papal
nuncio, Mgr. Capaccini. In this, the representative of the Holy See is
made to use absurd and ridiculous language; the author of _Port Royal_,
who was not any too well versed in theology, had a better knowledge
of the question than this nuncio. How could M. Réville regard this as
a serious relation? Has a witness who could neither understand the
Catholic theologians nor Pascal himself the right to be believed on
his word when he reports, word for word, a long conversation with his
opponent, a kind of diplomatic passage-at-arms, wherein it was greatly
to his interest to make the best figure for himself? And, besides, what
guarantee of exactitude have we in a relation published for the first
time twenty-three years after the interview, and six after the death of
Cardinal Capaccini, the only person able to rectify the assertions of
his interlocutor?[307]

That a Protestant or a free-thinker should encourage the "Friends of
Holland" in resisting the Holy See, that he should even go so far as
to do honor to that resistance, I can conceive; but that he should
share in the inveterate obstinacy of the Jansenists concerning fact
and right defies logic and common sense. M. Réville seems likewise to
confound the bull _Unigenitus_ with that of Alexander VII. concerning
the formulary. This leads us to speak of the second point on which the
opposition of the clergy of Utrecht to the Holy See is founded.

The Jansenist discussions on _le fait_ and _le droit_ were still
proceeding, when the patriarch of the sect, the ex-Oratorian, Pasquier
Quesnel, threw off the mask, and in his _Réflexions Morales_ renewed
the principal dogmas of Baius and Jansenius.[308] Pope Clement XI.
ordered the book to be examined; he proceeded in this affair, says
Döllinger, "with perfect prudence and deliberation. The Jesuits had
been charged with being bitterly opposed to the _Réflexions_; he
chose examiners from religious orders whose teachings had the least
affinity with those of the Society of Jesus. He himself presided at
twenty-three sessions of the examiners, and the discussion lasted
for nearly two whole years.[309] Finally, on the 8th of September,
1713, the bull _Unigenitus_ appeared, condemning one hundred and one
propositions taken from Quesnel's book. Among them are some which at
first sight appeared inoffensive; but they cunningly convey Jansenist
error, and intimately coalesce with the system; in others, expressions
are skilfully worded to infect the reader with prejudices against
the teachings or the general discipline of the church; many clearly
announce the dogmas of Jansenius."[310]

Here, seeing that the one hundred and one propositions were found
word for word in the condemned book, the distinction of right and of
fact (_du droit et du fait_) was impossible. Quesnel, on hearing of
the decree condemning it, exclaimed: "The Pope has proscribed one
hundred and one truths!" The whole party echoed this exclamation, and
our Netherland sectaries followed the impulse given by the patriarch
of Jansenism. This, then, in two words, is the attitude of Jansenism
in Holland: it refuses to condemn the sense of Jansenius by signature
to the formulary of Alexander VII.; it refuses adherence to the bull
_Unigenitus_. All the efforts made by the Holy See to bring back the
Jansenists of Utrecht to Catholic unity have failed, from a persistence
in this double refusal. Among these efforts at reconciliation, there is
one which deserves special mention.

In 1826, Mgr. Nazalli, Papal nuncio, opened a conference with the
Holland Jansenists. He announced to them that Rome exacted of them
nothing more than an adhesion pure and simple to the constitutions of
Innocent X., Alexander VII., and Clement XI., and he proposed for
their signature the formula previously referred to, with the following
addition: "I moreover submit, without distinction, reticence, or
explanation, to the constitution of Clement XI., dated September 8,
1713, and beginning with the word _Unigenitus_; I accept it purely and
simply, and thus I swear. May God help me and this holy Gospel!"[311]

The bull _Unigenitus_ was, even under the Gallican point of view,
obligatory on all Catholics, since it had been accepted by the entire
episcopate with that _moral unanimity_ of which so much was said about
the time of the last council. However, the schismatic archbishop and
bishops of Holland declined the overtures of the Sovereign Pontiff.
Their reply is a true model of Jansenist style; every member of a
phrase hides a restriction or an equivocation:

"We replied frankly (_honnêtement_) that none of the bishops or
clergy would hesitate to recognize with sincerity, by means of an
unequivocal declaration in _general_[312] terms, all that the Holy See
_might_ exact on their part, and that they would have no difficulty
in declaring, for example, that they agree, and that they even swear,
if needs be, to accept, without any exception whatever, all the
articles of the Holy Catholic faith: not to maintain nor to teach,
now or hereafter, any opinions but those which have been established,
determined, and published at all times by our holy mother, the church,
_conformably to Scripture, tradition, the acts of œcumenical councils,
and, lastly, to that of Trent_; that, besides, they especially
reprehend, reject, and condemn the five propositions which the Holy
See has condemned, _and which are pretended to be found in the book of
Jansenius, known as the Augustinus_." All the rest is in this spirit.
But what follows was quite unforeseen:

"We therefore leave it to the decision of the world whether a
declaration so frank and so sincere ... does not offer incontestable
proof of entire submission to the Holy See; and whether the general
terms in which it is conceived do not embrace all the specialties of
which acknowledgment can reasonably be expected from us, but into the
details of which we are not permitted to enter by citing bulls which
we cannot in conscience accept--bulls which have not been recognized
by the government, and which we are therefore not permitted to mention
without incurring grave penalties.... It is, in fact, sufficiently well
known that the said constitutions (of Innocent X., Alexander VII.,
and Clement XI.) are not only not adopted nor obligatory in several
countries, but that they cannot be adopted or enforced in a country
where they have never received the _placet_ of the government, and
where their acceptance as such is interdicted under threat of severe
punishments. In the northern countries, to the jurisdiction of which
the clergy of Utrecht belonged, such acceptance was strictly forbidden
by the edicts of the 24th February and 25th May, 1703, the 14th
December, 1708, and of the 20th and 21st September, 1730--edicts in
which the principle was established _that it belongs to the sovereign
alone to permit the publication and execution of such bulls_, and that
without his _visa_ or _placet_ neither is permitted."[313]

Can one imagine baser or more servile language? In presence of a
heterodox power, the pretended successors of S. Boniface, of the
martyrs and victims of Calvinist persecution, dare to take sides
with power, and to concede to it a right to dominate over faith and
ecclesiastical discipline! At that very time William I. was oppressing
his Catholic subjects, and endeavoring to deprive the bishops of
the right of bringing up in their seminaries young aspirants to the
priesthood. Need it be added that no law in vigor in 1826 interdicted
the acceptance pure and simple of the Apostolical Constitutions of
Alexander VII. and Clement XI.?

The Revolution had overridden ancient laws, and not a single Catholic
was molested on account of his adhesion to the decrees of the Holy
See. But the worship of the state as God makes progress in proportion
as respect for the church is banished. For a bishop especially
independence is impossible; when he refuses to walk in the royal way of
submission to the Vicar of Christ, he becomes, by a just punishment,
the plaything of a party or the slave of the secular power.

And this is the church which the neo-Protestants declare is calumniated
when the accusation of Jansenism is brought against it; the church
which, infected with this poison at the very sources whence it poured
itself abroad on the world, has always kept its arms open to receive
the followers of Jansenius; which has always shown its readiness to
sign formularies like those of Quesnel and Ricci, and has obstinately
rejected the profession of Catholic faith; this, in fine, is the church
which precipitated itself into schism in order to remain faithful to
the errors of Jansenius, and of Saint-Cyran, and of Quesnel!

FOOTNOTES:

[289] Ricci Collection, vol. xcvii., No. 226. I have done nothing but
add explanatory notes and underline the more important passages.

[290] When the popes hasten to condemn an error, they are accused of
acting precipitately or from the influence of some passion; when they
take their time, they are still found fault with.

[291] This distinction between the court of Rome and the Holy See,
when there is question of solemn acts of pontifical authority, is
highly ridiculous. The so-called "Old Catholics" of Germany have never
committed the error of imitating the Jansenists in this.

[292] Evidently an allusion to the decrees of the synod concerning the
devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, the _cultus_ and invocation of
the saints, etc.

[293] Aside from the Jansenists of Holland, who always took good
care to be on good terms with their Calvinist government, we find
none in communion with Ricci except a small number of worshippers
of power in Tuscany, Austria, Portugal, and Spain. As to the French
constitutionals, their approbation was a just chastisement for the
Jansenists. De Potter, after stating that Ricci received on all
sides the most flattering adhesions, cites as authorities only the
schismatics of Utrecht and Prof. Le Bret, of Tübingen.

[294] From the time of Arnauld, the Jansenists, in order to maintain
their doctrine intact in the _sense of Jansenius_, the spirit of
(_à l'âme de_) his book, pretend to interdict the church from the
condemnation of errors according to their sense in a system and in
a book--that is to say, in an assemblage of propositions--as if the
grammatical construction alone of every phrase completely determined
the sense conveyed. In this time especially, when there is question of
delicate matter treated by men who are constantly crying out, "Truth,
truth!" but who ever have equivocations on their lips, no one, not
even Sainte-Beuve, the titled panegyrist of Port Royal, has dared to
exculpate the Jansenists for their indirect and tortuous course since
1653.

[295] This is a characteristic complaint in the camp of Jansenius.
Between the Molinism which the church tolerates and the Jansenism she
rejects there are other opinions tolerated, especially the Catholic
doctrine professed by the Thomists and Augustinians in common with the
disciples of Molina.

[296] After this declaration, if Döllinger still pretends that his
friends in Holland are not Jansenists, he ought to maintain that
neither Quesnel nor Jansenius ever were. _O science Allemande!_

[297] We find also in the Ricci archives (vol. xci. part 11, No. 136)
the letter accompanying this act of adhesion. It bears the signature
of "Gabriel du Pac de Bellegarde, ancien comte et chanoine de l'église
primatiale de Lyon." It begins thus: "Monseigneur the Archbishop
of Utrecht, messeigneur's his suffragans, and the messieurs of the
Metropolitan Chapter of Utrecht, have given me, monseigneur, the
honorable and agreeable commission of addressing to you _the act of
adhesion to your holy synod of 1786_."

[298] Gautier Michel van Nieuwenhuizen, Adrien Jean Brœckman, Nicholas
Nelleman.

[299] The bull is dated March 6, 1641--that is to say, 1642, the year
beginning March 25--and was received in the Low Countries in 1643. The
last signature of the clergy of Utrecht in favor of the _Augustinus_ is
dated Feb. 10, 1642.

[300] _Reipublicæ Christianæ_, _libri duo_, p. 102 _et seq._

[301] _Port Royal_, vol iv. p. 20, in note.

[302] Archives of Malines, MS. volume entitled _Monumenta originalia et
authentica de Jansenismo_, No. 32. The more I study facts by the light
of these and several other documents preserved in the same archives,
the more I am persuaded that historians have greatly overlooked the
credit due to Humbert de Precipiano, while exalting that of his
successor, the Cardinal of Alsace. Humbert de Precipiano inflicted
terrible blows upon Jansenism in the Low Countries; he died just as the
triumph for which he had prepared the way began.

[303] They added: "We are prepared to prove by Scripture, the councils,
the testimony of the fathers, and especially by the authority of S.
Augustine, that the doctrine set forth in this second column is the
true doctrine of the church." This promise was not carried out until
after the condemnation of Quesnel's _Réflexions Morales_; the monstrous
book of the _Hexaples_ is the principal effort the Jansenists have
attempted with this view.

[304] In the _Provinciales_, xvii. and xviii., Pascal himself
defended the distinction between faith and right. (See Maynard, _Les
Provinciales_.)

[305] _Œuvres_, ed. Bossutel biblioth. Mazarine, T., 2199.

[306] _Port Royal_, vol. iii. p. 92 and further.

[307] The French account of this interview was communicated, it is
said, by the archbishop himself to Dr. Tregelles, who translated it
into English, and inserted it in the _Journal of Sacred Literature_,
No. 13, 1851. Neale reproduces it in his history. A Dutch translation
was published at Utrecht in 1851--_Jaarbocken van Wetensch. Theol._,
p. 749, etc. Capaccini died June 19, 1845, only a few months after his
elevation to the cardinalate.

[308] See above, our general analysis of the Jansenist system.

[309] An author, unfortunately too well known, but who had before him
all the original documents of this celebrated case, states in his
_Breve Istoria delle Variazioni del Giansenismo_ (see also _Analecta
Juris Pontificii_, 4th series, vol. ii. p. 2, col. 1251) that the Pope
consulted with all the cardinals of the Holy Office, one after the
other; that he himself took note of all the votes, which are still
preserved. "The opinions of the Pontiff alone," he observes, "fill more
than six large folio volumes."

[310] _Handbuch_, ii. 2, p. 827. _Cours_, manuscript of 1855.

[311] _Declaration_ addressed by the Archbishop of Utrecht and his
suffragans to the Catholic world in 1826. This document is written in
Latin; parallel with it is a French translation, from which this is
taken.

[312] This word is italicized in the _Declaration_.

[313] _Declaration_, pp. 17, 19, 21.




A LOOKER-BACK.

    "For as he forward mov'd his footing old
    So backward still was turn'd his wrinkled face."--_Faerie Queene._


II.

Leaving Christ's Hospital, and rambling on, one soon comes to a
church partly covered with ivy, in a yard filled with shrubbery and
autumn flowers. It is S. Sepulchre's, the burial-place of Captain
John Smith, the Virginia pioneer. It is almost a sacred duty to pay
a passing tribute to his memory, notwithstanding a lifelong grudge
against him for not rounding off his romantic career by wedding the
dusky Pocahontas. The clock of this church has the sad distinction
of regulating the hanging of criminals at Newgate. The tower has
four pinnacles, each one bearing a vane with its own notions as to
rectitude, which has given rise to the saying that "unreasonable people
are as hard to reconcile as the vanes of S. Sepulchre's tower, which
never looked all four upon one point of the heavens."

In old times, the bell of this church was tolled as criminals passed
to Tyburn, and the bell-man cried: "All good people, pray heartily
unto God for these poor sinners, who are now going to their death;"
for which he received the sum of one pound, six shillings, and eight
pence. A hand-bell was likewise rung for them to stop for a nosegay of
flowers. It must have been a great consolation to them! And yet who
knows but such silent messengers of God might not have spoken to many a
heart inaccessible to human tongue?

In the XVIIth century a legacy of fifty pounds was left to S.
Sepulchre's on condition that, before execution-day, some one should go
to Newgate in the dead of night, and give twelve solemn tolls with a
hand-bell by way of calling attention to the following appeal:

    "All you that in the condemned hole do lie,
    Prepare you, for to-morrow you must die:
    Watch, all, and pray, the hour is drawing near
    That you before the Almighty must appear:
    Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
    That you may not t' eternal flames be sent;
    And when S. Sepulchre's bell to-morrow tolls,
    The Lord have mercy on your souls!
                      Past twelve o'clock!"

Plucking an ivy-leaf from the wall of S. Sepulchre's, our pilgrim
kept on his way. West Smithfield at the corner of a street brought
our friend Fox and his martyrs to mind, and he turned down towards
the square where John Rogers met his fate. A tablet of Scotch granite
fastened to the wall of S. Bartholomew's Hospital marks the spot. This
tablet is protected by a grating, the upright rods of which terminate
in gilded flames of most portentous brightness. He did not see any such
tablet around London recording the numberless Catholic martyrs of Henry
VIII. and Queen Elizabeth's time.

No dispassionate reader of history can regard the church as
responsible for the sufferings of the so-called "Marian Martyrs."
But let us thank God that such severe penalties are now obsolete in
Catholic and Protestant lands alike!

Smithfield was the ordinary place of execution before Tyburn was used.
The patriot Wallace was executed here on S. Bartholomew's eve, 1305.
Shakespeare makes Henry V. say: "The witch in Smithfield shall be
burned to ashes." In Henry VIII.'s time, poisoners were here boiled to
death, as the old chronicles of the Grey Friars testify. Here is one
quotation: "The x day of March was a mayde boyllyd in Smythfelde for
poysing of divers persons." Evelyn records as late as 1652: "Passing by
Smithfield, I saw a miserable creature burning, who had poisoned her
husband."

But there are pleasanter memories connected with Smithfield, or
Smoothfield, as it was originally called. It was once a famous
tilting-ground. Froissart tells us how in 1393 "certain lords of
Scotland came into England to get worship by force of arms in
Smithfield." Here Edward III. celebrated the victories of Cressy and
Poitiers by jousts and feats of arms; and Richard II., at the time of
his marriage, ordered here a tournament of three days.

Passing through Smithfield market, one soon comes to the Charter House
(a corruption of the French word Chartreuse), the old monastery of
the Carthusians. The arched gateway is the original entrance into the
realm of silence of those old monks. Over it two lions grotesquely
carved support an en-tablature. The lion is typical of solitude and the
wilderness, and is often found represented beside the hermits of the
desert. A porter leads the way at once to the chapel by a passage paved
with tombstones and hung with memorial tablets. One familiar name on
the wall makes the heart leap, though a modern name:

                    GULIELMUS MAKEPEACE THACKERAY,
                       CARTHUSIANI CARTHUSIANO.

                              H. M. P. C.

                  Natus, MDCCCXI. Obiit, MDCCCLXIII.

                     Alumnus, MDCCCXXII-MDCCCXXVI.

Beside this white marble slab is one precisely like it in memory of
John Leech.

The Elizabethan chapel is solemn and interesting with its dark oaken
pews, its arched roof, on the keystones of which are carved the Charter
House arms, and the monumental tombs here and there. A bright coal-fire
in an open grate gives it a comfortable, homelike aspect that must be
grateful to the aged pensioners. And there are hassocks of straw for
them all to kneel upon. Over one of the doors is an arch of modern
stained glass, but with colors of unusual richness, or seemed so,
coming in from the neutral tints of a dense fog. There is Magdalen with
her golden hair, and the other Maries, with beautiful faces and purple,
red, and amber robes.

At the north of the chancel is the tomb of Thomas Sutton, the founder
of the Charter House Hospital, in the style of James I.'s reign. He
lies, cut in marble, on a marble tomb, with ruff and long gown, and
hands folded palm to palm as peacefully as if they never itched to
acquire riches. Two men in armor support an inscription attesting his
beneficence. Some persons of a qualifying turn do say that he was, like
many others who are very charitable with their money when they see the
impossibility of keeping it any longer in their grasp, guilty of what
has been called the "good old gentlemanly vice of avarice," and was
the original of _Volpone the Fox_. However that may be, the many who
are sheltered here have reason to roar as loudly as they can, and as
we are told they do, on the 12th of December, with cracked voices and
half-palsied tongues, the chorus of the Carthusian melody:

    "Then blessed be the memory
      Of good old Thomas Sutton,
    Who gave us lodging--learning,
      And he gave us beef and mutton."

Catholics, however, cannot forget that when young he took part in the
Italian wars, and was present at the sacking of Rome. At a later period
he commanded a battery as a volunteer at the siege of Edinburgh, when
that city held out for poor Queen Mary. And he aided in the expedition
against the Spanish Armada by fitting out a ship named Sutton for
himself, which captured a Spanish vessel worth twenty thousand pounds.
When he came to London to reside, it was reported that his purse was
fuller than Queen Elizabeth's exchequer, and in time he became the
banker of London, and had the freedom of the city.

On the 12th of December there is a great festival here in honor of
the _Fundator_, and before it is over the pensioners and school-boys
assemble in the chapel, which is lighted, as Thackeray tells, "so the
founder's tomb, with its grotesque carvings, monsters, and heraldries,
darkles and shines with the most wonderful shadows and lights."

At the south end of the chapel is a fine statue of Lord Ellenborough by
Chantrey, in a sitting posture, robed as chief-justice. He was buried
here at his own request, having been educated in the Charter House,
and one of its governors.

As at Christ's Hospital, the visitor is allowed to wander alone through
cloisters and quadrangles, as hushed and peaceful as when occupied
by the Carthusians themselves. The pensioners (the school has been
removed) seem to lead a kind of friar-life here, and in their seclusion
ought to taste something of the peace of the cloister. They only lack
the consecration of religion. One of them in cloak and cap came up,
bowing with remarkable flexion of body considering his years, and
politely offered to show the way with quite an air of proprietorship.
His manner was gentlemanly, and he looked as if he might be some
"disabled invalide from the campaign of vanity." In these days, when
old people are apt to be regarded as unduly persistent about living, it
is delightful to feel there are places of refuge for them like this,
which confer a kind of dignity on fallen fortunes and declining life
which is always a certain going down in the world.

We wonder if there is any service in the English ritual when these old
gentlemen take shelter here. There surely ought to be. Some _Vade in
pace_ ought to follow them under these arches, dying away little by
little with the hours and fragrance of life, and leaving behind silence
and repose of soul.

There is a touching custom here of giving the bell at night a number of
strokes corresponding to the number of pensioners; and when one of them
dies, his decease is notified by one stroke less than on the preceding
evening. It was at the evening hour, as the chapel-bell began to toll,
that Col. Newcome lifted up his head, said _Adsum_ with a smile, and
died.

A bell like this must always have a knell-like solemnity of tone. It is
a kind of curfew-bell, reminding the brothers that the evening of life
has come, and its fires must be put out before lying down to rest. We
can fancy them counting the strokes one by one every night, to learn if
some light is for ever extinguished. The thought often occurs how we
old people will find heaven--whether a place all youth, and freshness,
and beauty. Are there to be no shades and gradations in Paradise, no
stars differing from one another in glory, or faces in sweetness and
serenity? Are the very angels that are to minister to us there all so
full of grace and loveliness, and perfection of form, and crowned with
everlasting youth? "Will there not be some comforting ones, shabby and
tender, whose radiance does not dazzle nor bewilder; whose faces are
worn perhaps, while their stars shine with a gentle, tremulous light
more soothing to our earth-bound hearts than the glorious radiance of
brighter spirits?" Who that is old and sorrow-stricken, or belongs to
the poor and unloved ones of this world, does not feel the need of some
such spirits to greet him there--need of some shadowy, sequestered
spot where the brightness and love of that ineffable region will be
tempered for us who have had but little cheer on earth, at least till
our unaccustomed souls are fitted for loftier heights?

Many such--perhaps too human--dreams of heaven flitted across the
mind while sitting on a bench beside some old graves in a yard at
the Charter House that gloomy afternoon. Weary with climbing old
staircases, going through old passages and old halls, where one only
breathed the atmosphere of old times, perhaps the soul had become
infected by the gloom of the place.

Borders of dull chrysanthemums grew along the gravelled
walks--apparently a favorite flower in England, for they are to be
found everywhere. A few trees with blighted leaves, instead of bright
autumn foliage as in America, stood around with nothing in the world to
do but look well, any more than Voltaire's trees, but, like many poor
mortals, did not succeed very well. They looked weary of the struggle,
and had a certain bowed, resigned look that was pathetic. How could
anything look fresh and vigorous in that field of death? One cannot
imagine the place peopled with boys full of life and fun, as it used to
be.

The land on which the Charter House stands was a graveyard at the time
of the great plague, five hundred years ago, being consecrated to that
purpose by Bishop Stratford, of London, in 1348. Distressed that so
many of his flock should be buried out of consecrated ground during
the prevalence of the plague, he bought three acres of land called "No
Man's Land" for a burial-ground, and erected a chapel thereon, where
Masses could be said for the repose of the dead. The place became
known as Pardon Churchyard and Chapel. We read of an early instance of
lynching on No Man's Land previous to this time. A wealthy merchant,
one Anthony of Spain, so exasperated the public by an excessive duty on
wine that a mob dragged him barefoot to this spot, and here beheaded
him, in November, 1326--doubtless on just such a dismal, foggy day as
this, supremely adapted to give one desperate views, and aggravate the
natural ferocity of the human animal.

The plague continuing to increase, the churchyard was enlarged through
the charity of Sir Walter Manny, of knightly fame, who purchased a
piece of land adjoining. An old ballad says:

    "Thou, Walter Manny, Cambray's lord,
    The bravest man those times record,
    Didst pity take on the wand'ring ghosts
      Of thy departed friends,
    Didst consecrate to the Lord of Hosts
      Thy substance for religious ends."

The next Bishop of London, Michael de Northburg, when he died, in
1361, bequeathed two thousand pounds, with all his leases, rents, and
tenements, towards the foundation of a Carthusian monastery at Pardon
Churchyard, together with an enamelled vessel of silver for the Host,
another for holy water, a silver bell, and all his theological works.
Sir Walter Manny, desirous of co-operating in this work, petitioned
for a royal license to build a monastery here, to be called "The House
of the Salutation of the Mother of God," and gave to it the land he
had bought for a graveyard, consisting of thirteen acres and one rod.
Sir Walter's charter was witnessed by the Earl of Pembroke, Edward
Mortimer, Earl of March, and others. The monastery was completed in
1370, and was the fourth of the Carthusian Order in England.

The London Charter House was furthermore endowed by several other
persons. Two hundred and sixty marks were bestowed in perpetual
frank-almoign to build a cell for a monk who should offer daily
suffrages for the souls of Thomas Aubrey and Felicia his wife, as
well as all the faithful departed. Richard Clyderhowe, in 1418, gave
up, "from reverence to God and the Blessed Virgin Mary, and for the
health of his own soul and that of his wife Alicia, who was buried in
the church of the convent, a lease of land he held in Rochester, that
these religious might, in their orisons, remember him, his soul, the
soul of his wife, the souls of his relations, children, and all his
benefactors, and devoutly recommend them to God."

It is pleasant to find the Charter House interchanging charitable
offices with its neighbor, the priory of S. John of Jerusalem. They
exchange lands, and the prior of the Charter House offers a trental of
Masses "that the soul of Brother William Hulles, Prior of the Hospital
of S. John of Jerusalem, might the sooner be conveyed, with God's
providence, into Abraham's bosom."

In the XVth century the Charter House became, for the space of four
years, the residence of Sir Thomas More, who here gave himself up to
devotion and prayer without taking upon himself any vow.

This monastery flourished about three centuries with a constant
reputation for strict observance of the rules of the order and for
holiness of life. It was during the time of Prior John Houghton, in
1534, that it was visited by the royal commissioners appointed by Henry
VIII. to inspect all the monasteries of the kingdom, and draw up an
account of their rules, customs, and revenues.

Most of the monks refused to subscribe to the king's supremacy, and
the prior and procurator were committed to the Tower. They afterwards
yielded to advice which they respected, but, suspected of disaffection,
were summoned to renew the oath, and the prior was arraigned for
speaking too freely of the king's proceedings, and, with two other
Carthusians, was condemned to be hung, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn
for refusing to acknowledge the king head of the church in England.
As they were leaving the Tower to be executed, they were perceived by
Sir Thomas More, imprisoned there for the same reason, who said to his
favorite daughter, as if envying them: "Lo, dost thou not see, Meg,
that these blessed fathers be now as cheerfully going to their deaths
as bridegrooms to their marriage?" This was not long before his own
martyrdom. There is at the South Kensington Museum a painting of Sir
Thomas and his daughter, depicting this very scene. He stands looking
down through the grated window. Margaret, tall and stately, with her
father's left hand in hers, has her deep violet eyes raised steadfastly
to heaven with the most appealing expression; her whole face calm and
holy, but inexpressibly sad.

The heads of these monks were suspended over London Bridge--a bridge
built, too, by religious--and Prior Houghton's mangled body was hung
up over the gate of the Charter House. The next month three more monks
of this house were executed for a like reason, and the remainder were
called upon three times in one year to take the oath of supremacy--a
proof that they were regarded as specially loyal to the pope. Of the
ten who had subscribed two years before, nine now refused, and were
committed to prison at Newgate, where they were chained in a filthy
dungeon and starved to death. Their end was announced to Cromwell as
"by the hand of God." Their keeper, Bedyll, gave him a list of these
poor martyrs, adding: "There be one hole." This _whole_ one survived an
imprisonment of four years, only to be executed at last.

All this did not take place without some supernatural manifestations
to fortify the poor monks. It is recorded that "unearthly lights were
seen in their church," and, at the burial of one of their number, all
the lamps of the church were miraculously lighted, and one of the
deceased brethren appeared to the monk who had nursed him in his last
illness, saying that "the angells of pease did lamment and murn wᵗowt
measur," and that my "lord of Rochester" and "oʳ Father" (Houghton)
were "next unto angells in hevyn."

The remainder of the English Carthusians went to Bruges, where
they remained till the accession of Mary, who, at the suggestion
of Philip, it is said, invited them back, and gave them the old
Carthusian monastery at Shene, near Richmond. They were exiled again in
Elizabeth's reign, and returned to Belgium.

The south wall of the present chapel formed part of the old church in
which were buried Sir Walter Manny, and Margaret his wife, and many
other knights and dames. Prior Houghton's remains are supposed to be
buried somewhere within the wall now marked by a cross and a huge I.
H. It is recorded of him that he was so meek and humble that if any
one addressed him as "my lord," or with any unusual deference, he
immediately rebuked him, saying: "It is not lawful for poor Carthusian
monks to make broad their phylacteries, or to be called rabbi by their
fellow-men."

The Charter House was given to John Bridges, yeoman, and Thomas Hale,
groom, as a reward for the safe keeping of the king's tents and
pavilions which had been deposited here, but it afterwards passed
through several hands. While owned by Lord North, Queen Elizabeth
spent four days here, which so diminished his lordship's resources that
he was obliged to live in retirement the rest of his life. James I.
also passed a few days here when it was in possession of Lord Thomas
Howard, in order to show his respect for a family that had aided and
suffered for his mother. While here, he knighted more than eighty
gentlemen--let us hope less awkwardly than he knighted Sir Richard
Monopilies, of Castle Collop!

The Charter House was finally purchased by Thomas Sutton, the founder
of the hospital. It is delightful to step from the noise and bustle
of the streets into these secluded courts with grass-plots to refresh
the eye, lime-trees to give shade, here a fountain in the midst of a
garden, and there some old tombs, perhaps of the monks; on this wall
some holy symbol left here ages ago, but not in vain, for it still
speaks to the heart; and scattered around are seats for the pensioners
to enjoy the sun and air.

The kitchen fireplace is capacious enough to roast fifteen surloins.
What extensive means are always used to provide for the body which
perisheth! If at least equal provision were made, as in the times of
the old monks, to supply the needs of the soul! Does that get its three
meals a day, and now and then a lunch or some refreshing draught? Are
there none who labor day after day to supply the soul's hunger, as
multitudes do to satisfy the cravings of the body? Yes, thank God!
there is still an army of such spiritual people in the cloister and
in the world, who only live to feed their higher natures. If they
care for the body, it is merely enough to enable it to serve the
soul. The world may call them "drones," but they are necessary in
order to preserve the moral balance of the world, as an offset to the
materiality of the day. Yes, the hermit, the contemplative, contributes
in his degree to sustain the world, and this is why the suppression of
such a class is an irreparable loss to society.




A BLOCK OF GOLD.


"France paid the Prussian indemnity like a proud debtor; it seemingly
did not cost her any trouble to do so. Few nations could do as France
has done within the past two years; none have ever excelled her in
cancelling a monetary obligation." One hears such remarks occasionally;
they were quite common a few months past. But what was the French
indemnity? Five milliards of francs--that is, five thousand millions of
francs, or one thousand millions of dollars in gold! To think of the
sum is to make one feel covetous of a chip of the block; to see the
whole sum in one block of gold is almost enough to make one cry out
with Timon--

           ... "Thou valiant Mars!
    Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer."

"_Ce que c'est que cinq milliards en or monnaye!_"

Well, we did not exactly know what five milliards of francs in gold
or copper were. The cool February evening in the year of grace 1873,
we were accosted in front of No.--Boulevard St. Denis by the above
question. At the same time a polite French boy hands us a handbill,
which told us that _un bloc d'or_, eight metres long, five metres
high, and three and two-third metres deep, could be seen for fifty
centimes--ten cents. This cube of one hundred and fifty metres
contained one hundred thousand _rouleaux_ of fifty thousand francs
each; each one of the rolls--_rouleaux_--contained two thousand five
hundred pieces of twenty francs, and the whole two hundred and fifty
million (250,000,000) pieces.

We paid the admission fee, and were ushered into the room where the
gilded cube stood. A stout lady sat near the door knitting; the master
of ceremonies was young and thin. We were the only visitor at 8 P.M. on
the evening of February, 1873. We surveyed the cube, and admired the
ingenuity displayed in its make-up; but it occurred to us at the time
that, as a speculation, it was a failure. People, I thought, who have
to pay a large debt don't care about being told the length, breadth,
and height of their indebtedness; that it would be, perhaps, a success
at Berlin. We thanked the thin master of ceremonies for his attention,
respectfully bowed to the stout woman plying her knitting-needles; and
walked along the boulevard with our back to the Pont St. Denis, asking
ourselves what we could or would do with one or five milliards of
dollars.

The other day we saw an old copy of the New Orleans _Propagateur
Catholique_. It contained an article on the five milliards, which
it credits to the Christian Brothers--_Les Frères des Ecoles
Chrétiennes_. It recalled our ten-cent investment of last February, and
is so interesting, especially to all who are mathematically inclined,
that we translate it.

In bank-notes of one thousand francs, the weight of each note being
estimated at two grams,[314] the five milliards in paper would weigh
ten thousand kilograms;[315] in gold, one million six hundred and
twelve thousand nine hundred; in silver, twenty-five millions; in
copper, five hundred millions. It would take one hundred men to carry
the five milliards in bank-notes of one thousand francs each, allowing
one hundred kilograms to each man; sixteen thousand one hundred and
twenty-nine, in gold; two hundred and fifty thousand, in silver; five
million, in copper. It would take a man to count the five milliards, at
the rate of ten hours per day, and counting every minute sixty notes of
one thousand francs--fifty pieces of twenty francs, sixty pieces of one
franc, sixty pieces of five centimes--to count the notes, four months
and nineteen days; the gold, nineteen years and ten days; the silver,
three hundred and eighty years, six months, and eight days; the copper,
seven thousand six hundred and ten years, four months, and seven days.

To remove this great sum of money in bank-bills one wagon would
suffice, it being capable of bearing ten thousand kilograms; in
gold, one hundred and sixty-one and one-third wagons; in silver,
two thousand five hundred; in copper, fifty thousand. Allowing ten
metres[316] to each wagon, those carrying the gold would extend sixteen
hundred and ten metres; the silver, twenty-five thousand metres; the
copper, five hundred thousand metres.

Placing the notes of one thousand francs one upon another, and giving
each one a space of one tenth of a millimetre,[317] they would ascend
to a height of five hundred metres. The diameter of the five-franc
piece being equal to thirty-seven millimetres, the five milliards
placed in the same direction, side to side, would form a chain
thirty-seven millions of metres in length--almost the circumference of
the earth, which is forty millions. With one-franc pieces placed as
the preceding, they would encircle the globe twice and seven-eighths;
with fifty centimes--ten-cent pieces--four times and one-half; with
sous--cents--sixty-two times and one-half!

The Franco-Prussian war did not commence till July, 1870. Inside of
three years the greatest of modern battles have been lost and won, and
the heaviest fine ever laid upon a nation paid, and without interfering
with the commercial classes or any important interest or branch of
business in the fair land. Great in science, in war, in religion, she
has given the world a proof of her magnificent resources, and that her
children are still proud of _la belle France_, and filled with the
"_sacré amour de la patrie_."

FOOTNOTES:

[314] Nearly equal to fifteen and one-half grains Troy.

[315] Equal to two pounds three ounces and 4.65 drams.

[316] The metre is equal to 39.37 inches.

[317] The thousandth part of a metre.




VIGIL.


    Mournful night is dark around me,
     Hushed the world's conflicting din;
    All is still, and all is tranquil,
     But this restless heart within!

    Wakeful still I press my pillow,
     Watch the stars that float above,
    Think of One, for me who suffered--
     Think, and weep for grief and love!

    Flow, ye tears! though in your streaming
     Oft yon stars of his grow dim;
    Sweet the tender grief he wakens,
     Blest the tears that flow for him!

                                        R. S. W.

LENT, 1874.




NEW PUBLICATIONS.


  LOUISE LATEAU OF BOIS D'HAINE: HER LIFE, HER ECSTASIES, AND HER
    STIGMATA. A Medical Study. By Dr. F. Lefebvre, Professor of
    General Pathology and Therapeutics in the Catholic University of
    Louvain, Honorary Physician to the Lunatic Establishment in that
    town, Titular Member of the Royal Academy of Medicine of Belgium.
    Edited by J. Spencer Northcote, D.D. London: Burns & Oates. 1873.
    (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication Society.)

We enjoy very much the chagrin and discomfiture of sceptical
physicians, scientists, and other materialists, both learned and
vulgar, in view of the great number of preternatural facts, both divine
and diabolical, which have been thrust upon their unwilling sight
during this present half-century. Heaven and hell appear to rival each
other in startling the shallow self-complacency and incredulity of the
hard-headed set who have filled the world with their boastful pretence
to have overcome the superstitions of ages by their experiments and
inductions. They have tried hard to ignore all the supernatural or
preternatural facts and phenomena of the mystic order which have
multiplied around them and challenged their investigation. But this
proves to be a signal failure. Especially when men who belong to their
own professional fraternity, whose learning and ability in their own
class of sciences are undoubted, exhibit the results of careful study
and investigation by means of experiment and induction from observed
facts, as proving, on their own principles, the folly of their stubborn
unbelief, do they cut a very sorry figure by persisting in ignoring
and giving the _transeat_ to that which will not be ignored or passed
over. The puerile banalities in vogue, such as "manifest imposture,"
"unscientific absurdity," "something which no intelligent person can
believe," merely show to what straits the individuals are reduced
who are forced to use them. They are like allusions to the color of
an opponent's hair, or the shape of his nose, or the behavior of his
relatives.

The effort at some kind of scientific explanation of the strange
phenomena of spiritism, or the wonders of the divine mystical order
which the former class of manifestations ape, which is occasionally
attempted, fares no better. It breaks down at a certain point. Up
to that point there is a common ground of physiology, psychology,
and the higher spiritual science; and many things which appear to be
beyond natural power or law may be explained and accounted for without
supposing preternatural causes. But, ill-defined and uncertain as the
boundary line may be, there is one, and one cannot pass it very far
without being aware of the fact. We do not complain of scientists for
being critical and difficult in respect to facts and evidence. We do
not, in reference to the present case, inculpate their refusal to
believe on motives of pure faith. The charge against them is that they
are recreant to their own avowed method of investigation by experiment,
observation, and induction.

No one can prove this so conclusively, or rout them so completely on
their own ground, as one of themselves, who is conversant with physics,
and at the same time has some logic, philosophy, and sound theology
in his head; in a word, is, what they are not, a completely educated
man. The volume before us is a specimen of what we are speaking of. We
need not enlarge on the case of Louise Lateau, of which we have spoken
before, and which is generally known. Sufficient to say that the book
before us is a treatise on her remarkable ecstasies and stigmata by
a physician, and written after the method of medical science, which
establishes beyond a doubt their miraculous cause and origin.

  THE HOLY MASS: The Sacrifice for the Living and the Dead. By
    Michael Müller, Priest of the Congregation of the Most Holy
    Redeemer. New York and Cincinnati: F. Pustet. 1874.

This is a work written in the true spirit of S. Alphonsus. It is
not a reprint of the work entitled _The Holy Eucharist our Greatest
Treasure_, by the same author, but an entirely new treatise. Its
theology is sound and solid, its spirit most devout, and its style
simple and popular. It is surprising that so hard-working a priest as
F. Müller has been able to write so many excellent and edifying books,
in a language, too, which is to him a foreign tongue. Every pious
Catholic who reads this book will be charmed with it, and will find it
most instructive and profitable. We are happy to be able to give it
our unqualified commendation, and to recommend it in the most earnest
manner to all the faithful, as well as to Protestants who are seeking
for the truth.

  THE LIFE OF THE VEN. ANNA MARIA TAIGI. Edited by Edward Healy
    Thompson, M.A. London: Burns & Oates; New York: F. Pustet. 1874.

Mr. Thompson's biographies are of the first class in every respect.
This one has a special interest on account of the relation which the
life and prophecies of the venerable Roman matron sustain to recent
and pending events of the greatest moment in human history. It is
unfortunate that a most meagre and imperfect life of Anna Maria Taigi,
which contains serious misstatements, afterwards discovered and
regretted by the author, Mgr. Leuquet, has been already translated and
circulated in this country. That life states that its subject fell
into a grievous sin against her marriage vows, and remained without
confession for a considerable time afterwards. This is proved to be
false, and the fact is fully established that Anna Maria was pious and
irreproachable throughout her whole life, and especially so during her
whole career as a wife and the mother of a large family.

Apart from her supernatural gifts, the sanctity and virtue displayed by
this wonderful and admirable matron, in a laborious and humble sphere,
present a most beautiful picture and a most engaging example to woman
in the married state.

The extraordinary graces granted to Anna Maria Taigi, her supernatural
knowledge, and her remarkable predictions, have made her name famous
throughout the world. This part of his subject Mr. Thompson has treated
fully and judiciously. The exact fulfilment of the predictions she is
known to have made of events already passed, especially those relating
to Pius IX., who was elevated to the pontifical throne nine years
after her death, has awakened a most intense curiosity respecting some
others attributed to her regarding the present time and the approaching
future. These are under the hands of the commission engaged with the
process of her beatification, and have not been officially published.
Those which are certainly known are inserted in the _Life_, and others,
which are probably genuine, are added in the appendix.

The appendix closes with the following very apposite remarks, extracted
from an extremely able and interesting article on modern current
prophecies which appeared some time ago in the _Civiltà Cattolica_:

  "It cannot be denied that the agreement of so many and various
  presages in divining events the expectation of which is in the
  hearts of the greater number of Catholics, possesses a persuasive
  force, and is a kind of seal of high probability, if not certainty.
  Wise Christians are unanimous in admitting that the church is a
  prey to a diabolical and universal persecution hitherto unexampled;
  wherefore God must come to her aid with succors proportioned to
  the need, that is extraordinary. We find ourselves in this extreme
  case: that the salvation of society, no less than of the church,
  requires an unaccustomed intervention of Omnipotent power. If this
  be so, how should we not believe that come it will?"

  PLEADINGS OF THE SACRED HEART OF JESUS. From the French, with
    Introduction by a Catholic Priest. New York: The Catholic
    Publication Society. 1874.

This little work bears the imprimatur of Cardinal Cullen. The
introduction states the devotion to the Sacred Heart succinctly. The
work itself consists of a reading for every day in the month. Each
reading contains an instruction followed by a "reflection" and a
"practice," together with a suitable example. Everything is excellent.
We most warmly recommend the book to all who have or wish to acquire
true devotion to the Sacred Heart.

  LENTEN SERMONS. By Paul Segneri, of the Society of Jesus. Vol. II.
    New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1874.

The present volume seems to us to contain a better selection of sermons
than the one published two years ago. Those on "Avoiding the Occasions
of Sin," on "Gaining a Brother," on "The Love of God in Afflicting
us," on "The Cure of Disquieting Thoughts about Predestination," and
"Encouragement to the Greatest Sinners to become the Greatest Saints,"
are perhaps especially remarkable. A translation necessarily labors
under some disadvantages, but we think that the work has really
been well done in the present case, and that small blemishes and
misconceptions of the author's meaning are not more frequent than must
always be expected when a work is rendered from one language into
another. The English style of the book is good.

All those who have the first volume will, we think, desire to supply
themselves with the second; and those who get the second will no doubt
send for the first also. Another volume, to complete the set, will, we
believe, be prepared.

  THE DOVE OF THE TABERNACLE; or, The Love of Jesus in the Most Holy
    Eucharist. By Rev. T. H. Kinane, C.C., Templemore. With a Preface
    by His Grace the Most Rev. Dr. Leahy, Archbishop of Cashel. New
    York: P. M. Haverty. 1874.

Though several very good manuals of devotion to the Blessed Sacrament
have lately appeared, this little book will not be a superfluity. It
seems to us the most practical of them all, and the best calculated to
induce the faithful to frequently hear Mass and worthily receive Holy
Communion. In these latter days of the world and of the church, the
sacraments are more than ever the special channels of God's grace, and
every word tending to increase devotion to the Most Holy Eucharist is
peculiarly valuable.

  MEMORIAL OF THOMAS EWING OF OHIO. New York: The Catholic
    Publication Society. 1873.

Without being a formal biography, this book presents us with the
leading and many of the minor incidents in the life of an eminent
statesman and jurist covering a period of over fourscore years. The
scope of the work embraces an autobiography, a brief biography by the
Hon. Henry Stanbery, and a judicious collocation of original letters
and selections from current journals, thus enabling the reader to trace
with little difficulty the various stages of a remarkable career, and
form an estimate of an equally remarkable character. The value of the
volume is enhanced by some delicate sketches, original and selected,
prepared by the daughter of the subject, and editor of the _Memorial_,
Mrs. Ellen Ewing Sherman, wife of Gen. W. T. Sherman.

The life of Thomas Ewing furnishes a very interesting study to
the rising youth of our country, showing, as it does, how great
difficulties may be overcome by industry and perseverance, how purity
of character and a noble ambition win enduring fame, and, above all,
how one who was singularly free from the corruptions of worldly
prosperity, and undebased by the temptations of power, found at last
the grace and strength which the sacraments of the church impart.

The child of an industrious frontiersman, whose first lessons were
conned by the light of a pine knot, and whose primary education was
paid for by his labor as a salt-boiler in Virginia, Mr. Ewing rose to
the first rank at the American bar, was twice elected United States
senator, and made a member of two successive Cabinets. Without wealth
or friends, but with what to him was better, brains, industry, and an
unstained reputation, he ascended to some of the highest positions in
the land, and left them with ever-increasing honor. As a lawyer, he
stood at the head of his profession before half his life was spent; in
the Senate, he was the compeer of Webster✠ Calhoun, Clay, and Benton;
as Secretary of the Treasury under Harrison, and of the Interior under
Taylor, his foresight, honesty, and executive ability were freely and
fully acknowledged by his associates.

But great as was his life--if genius and goodness constitute
greatness--he was even greater in his death. For nearly forty years
he had been contemplating the possibility of becoming a Catholic;
for, though entertaining a profound respect for Christians of all
denominations, he could not satisfy his acute and logical mind with
the teachings of any of the sects. It was, however, only a week before
his death that the grace of communion was vouchsafed him, and then, at
his own request, he was admitted into the church, and shortly before
his death received the last sacraments from the hands of the Most Rev.
Archbishop Purcell, of Cincinnati. His long years of conscientious
study and examination, his sincere prayers and unostentatious charity,
were at length rewarded, and he was made a child of the church to
which his beloved wife (long since deceased) belonged, and of which
his children are faithful members. In these days of doubt and official
dishonesty, few better examples could be held before the coming
statesmen of the country.

We cannot close this notice without calling attention to the very
elegant manner in which the _Memorial_ has been brought out. The paper
is superior, the type large and distinct, the illustrations excellent,
and the binding in rare good taste.

  THE WORKS OF S. AUGUSTINE. Vol. IX. On Christian Doctrine, The
    Enchiridion, etc. Vol. X. Lectures on S. John, Vol. I. Edinburgh:
    T. & T. Clark. 1873. (New York: Sold by The Catholic Publication
    Society.)

We have expressed our opinion so fully of the value of the previous
translations in this series, that we only deem it necessary to say that
the high reputation already achieved is well sustained by the present
issues.


BOOKS AND PAMPHLETS RECEIVED.

  From DICK & FITZGERALD, New York: The Only Complete Ready Reckoner.
    18mo, pp. 213.

  From P. O'SHEA, New York: The Pride of Lexington. By William Seton.
    12mo, pp. 365.

  From KELLY, PIET & CO., Baltimore: In Six Months. By Mary M.
    Meline. 18mo, pp. 299.

  From BURNS & OATES, London (Sold by The Catholic Publication
    Society, New York): True to Trust. 12mo, pp. 344.

  From SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG & CO., New York: My Kalula. By Henry M.
    Stanley. 12mo, pp. xiv.-432.

  From THE SOCIETY: Proceedings of the Fifth Annual Session of the
    American Philological Society, held at Easton, Pa., July, 1873.
    8vo, paper, pp. 34.

  From THE SECRETARY OF THE INTERIOR: Annual Report of the Operations
    of the Department for the year 1873. 8vo, paper, pp. 36.

  From J. R. DALY & CO., St. Louis: Response of the Hon. John Manvers
    to a Resolution of the National Labor Council; also, An Address
    by the Hon. R. F. Wingate on American Finance. 8vo, paper, pp. 32.

  From P. F. CUNNINGHAM & SON, Philadelphia: A Sermon by the V. Rev.
    James O'Connor, D.D., preached at the Month's Mind for the V.
    Rev. Edward McMahon, Nov. 12, 1873. 8vo, paper, pp. 15.

  From T., New York: Truth. 12mo, paper, pp. 46.

  From THE AUTHOR: Speech of Alderman Samuel B. H. Vance in Relation
    to the Nomination of Police Justices for the City of New York.
    8vo, paper, pp. 21.

  From HURD & HOUGHTON, New York: Cæsarism. By "Burleigh," of the
    _Boston Journal_. 8vo, paper, pp. 36.

  From MASTERS, LEE & STONE, Syracuse: College of Fine Arts of the
    Syracuse University. 8vo, paper, pp. 11.





  TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES


  P. 288 sentence ends abruptly with no
  continuation on following page. See
  https://archive.org/stream/catholicworld18pauluoft#page/286/mode/1up.

  Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical
  errors.

  Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.

  Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Catholic World, Volume 18,
October, 1873, to March, 1874., by Various

*** 